Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  “No, I was in her room at four, so I just came down and prepared her tea myself.”

  “It won’t happen again,” Blythe said contritely. She had so wanted to be dependable, to fulfill her duties to her mother-in-law so Malcolm would be pleased.

  “Fortunately, I was here … today. But you must make sure to be here when she needs you while I’m away.”

  “Away?” Blythe was stunned. Then she looked at the trunk by the door. “Are you going away?”

  “Yes. I’ve decided to go to Massachusetts, to Milford. I’m catching the early train to Richmond in the morning, then on to Boston. I’ll be seeing Jonathan.”

  “Jonathan! Oh, Malcolm, I’m so glad for you. I know how eager you must be to see him!” Blythe clasped her hands together with delight. Then she saw Malcolm’s expression. He looked neither eager nor happy.

  “You are happy, aren’t you?” she persisted.

  She saw the familiar tightening of his cheek muscle. “I’m not sure. I’m afraid he won’t know me.”

  “But you’re his father! Surely, he remembers. My mother died when I was very small, but I remember—” she said and moved to touch Malcolm’s arm.

  He flinched and shook his head slowly. “Well … we’ll see.”

  “Will you bring him back to Montclair?”

  A shadow darkened Malcolm’s expression. “To what?” he asked. “What do I have to offer him now?”

  “But a little boy should be with his father.”

  “His uncle—Rose’s brother—has been like a father to him all these years I’ve been gone.”

  “But that’s not the same.”

  Malcolm shrugged, and his broad shoulders sagged visibly.

  Sensing his fear of disappointment, of what might await him in Massachusetts, Blythe spoke impulsively out of a heart longing to comfort him. “Malcolm, would you like me to come with you?”

  He gave a short laugh. “Do you honesdy think I could show up at Rose’s family home with a new bride?”

  Blythe felt the stinging rebuke as if it had been delivered by a slap of his open hand, but she masked the pain. “No, I suppose not. I didn’t think—” she said quietly, then started toward the staircase. “I’ll go up and explain to your mother why I was late, tell her about my tea with the Camerons.”

  But Malcolm’s words halted her. “There’s no need for you to do that. She was restless while you were gone, so I sat with her and we talked. Then when I gave her tea, she took her laudanum, and I stayed with her until she fell asleep. You’ll only disturb her if you go in now.”

  Her foot on the first step, Blythe’s hand gripped the banister tightly. A sense of hopelessness dropped like a leaden weight upon her. What Malcolm was saying was that she wasn’t needed … not by him nor by anyone else at Montclair.

  chapter

  14

  BLYTHE STOOD at her bedroom window, looking out into the starless night. It was the second week of Malcolm’s absence and she was achingly lonely.

  The house was quiet, Sara settled for the night and Mr. Montrose, shut up in the library, either lost in his memories, reading, or playing endless games of “Patience.”

  Bravely, Blythe battled self-pity. Today was her seventeenth birthday, and no one knew or cared. Pa had never forgotten her birthday. She fingered the gold locket he had given her two years ago. Inside, were pictures of himself and her beautiful young mother. These were only copies from the daguerrotype they had had taken on their wedding day. Both looked heartbreakingly young and happy, smilingly unaware of what life held for them.

  And what does life hold for me? she asked herself. What is to become of me? Would her life go on and on in the same dreary pattern of days here at Montclair? Unchecked, two tears rolled out of her eyes and down her cheeks.

  Ever since the afternoon she had spent with the Camerons, after glimpsing the gracious kind of life they led even in their reduced financial circumstances, Blythe could picture what life at Montclair must have been. She also realized how different she was from Kate Cameron and Dove, and probably Rose, too.

  Blythe envied these women their inborn elegance, their poise, their easy confidence in their position. She was overwhelmed with all the things she did not know, the things instinctive in any true lady. Seeing the contrast, it was no wonder that Malcolm could not love her.

  it wasn’t just his obsession with the past, his continual mourning, that bothered Blythe. Somehow she knew she must change, must become like the other women in his life—not to replace Rose, but to earn her own right to his love and to give him back some joy, some reason to hope again. Surely they could build a life together … with Jonathan … and, perhaps someday, children of their own.

  Finally, Blythe went to bed, the bed in which she had slept alone ever since her arrival at Montclair. Before she turned down the covers, she knelt at the foot and prayed, “Dear Lord, show me how to make Malcolm happy. Help me be a good wife, and à good mother to Jonathan if Malcolm brings him here. And bring Malcolm home soon.”

  The next morning, Blythe awoke to sunshine, and her natural good spirits and optimism returned. She was cheerful as she took Sara’s breakfast tray up and helped her get settled on the sunny balcony opening off her bedroom. She listened to her mother-in-law’s complaints with patient good humor.

  As Blythe was coming downstairs, Mr. Montrose emerged from the library. He gazed at her with a puzzled expression for a moment as if he could not recall who she was. Then he seemed to remember. “Good morning, my dear. I was just going up to read to Sara for a while. But now that you’re here, I’d like to speak to you, if you have time.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Montrose,” Blythe said, setting down the wicker basket she was carrying and following him into the library.

  She was always impressed with the man’s dignity and bearing. Although stooped of shoulder now and walking with the stiffness of premature aging and arthritis, he was still a handsome man. From his portrait on the hall alongside that of Sara, she knew he had been robust, bursting with health and vigor. His thick wavy hair was now snowy, and the face deeply lined. He was meticulously groomed, his thin white shirts always immaculate and his shoes shined, even though his clothes were shabby and worn.

  She could not forget that this man was the father of three brave sons. He had once owned two hundred slaves, acres of productive land, a stable filled with fine-blooded horses, presided over a home known for its lavish entertaining and gracious hospitality. He had served his nation and then his state within the Confederacy, loyally and bravely … and he had lost it all.

  Blythe was reminded of Job, and the verse from the Scriptures flashed through her mind: “I will restore the years the locusts have eaten.” Would the Montrose family be restored, the years of deprivation, poverty, and loss assuaged? Not in Clayborn Montrose’s lifetime, she sadly feared.

  “I was planning to wait until Malcolm returned, but since consulting with Dr. Myles, I decided it would be better to tell you now so that you can help prepare Sara and our son for their parting.”

  “Parting?”

  “Yes, it has come to that, I’m afraid. Sara’s health is deteriorating. Of course, none of us ever entertained the illusion that she would regain the use of her legs. But now the prolonged immobility has caused other problems. No need to explain the details, but the fact remains that eventually she will need round-the-clock attendance. As you undoubtedly have observed, her emotional health is also fragile—” He paused and looked off into the distance, as if trying to recall the Sara of his youth. “She and Malcolm have always been unusually close, and, during his long absence, she … well, she became dependent on laudanum.” He rubbed a blue-veined hand across his forehead as if it pained him to say all this. “A dependency, I might add, that was increased by bouts of despondency … melancholia, I think is the medical term. Dr. Myles believes Sara would be better off in a less isolated environment. That is why I’m planning to take her to Savannah.”

  “Savannah?”
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  “Yes. Her younger sister lives there, and there are many other relatives as well, cousins and so on. We can live nearby, and she will be surrounded with sociability, young people, visits from old friends. It will give her a new lease on life. At least that is what Dr. Myles thinks … hopes … and I concur. Especially, since—if anything happened to me—she would have no one but Malcolm.”

  “But you have me now!” Blythe said. “You know I would help in any way.”

  “Of course, my dear. I’m sure you would. You have shown yourself to be very willing, very helpful, but you must see that this would be a far better plan … for Sara, for me, for all of us. You and Malcolm need to get on with your own lives. Montclair belongs to Malcolm now.” He sighed heavily. “I’m afraid I haven’t the heart for it.”

  Blythe’s own heart went out in compassion to this still proud man.

  “I can’t deal with the new order—all this—” He gestured toward the window where they could see the fields unplowed, left to brush and weeds, the fences unmended. “Every day I look out and feel all the disillusionment and discouragement sweep over me. No, it will take a younger man—someone with energy and enthusiasm and vision to rebuild Montclair.”

  Blythe felt a sinking sensation. Malcolm was not the man Mr. Montrose was describing. In fact, Malcolm’s own view of Montclair and the future was equally as depressing as his father’s.

  “When will you go?” she asked.

  “I talked with Sara’s sister when I was in Savannah a few months ago. There had been some provision made for Sara in her stepmother’s will, only a small sum, but it should provide for her reasonably well for the rest of her life. And of course, she will be near close relatives who would be there to care for her if—”

  He left the sentence unfinished, and with a little thrust of alarm, Blythe wondered about the state of his own health.

  “Malcolm will be sad to see you go. He spoke so affectionately of his parents, of his home here when he was out West with us,” she said softly.

  Mr. Montrose turned, so, she suspected, she could not see the sudden brightness of tears. “Yes, well those were happy days when the boys were young—Malcolm, Bryce, and Leighton, all of them and their friends. Yes, indeed. But that was long ago … and life goes on, however much we would hold on to it.” He lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “If only our minds, our memories would retain what the inscription on the sundial in Noramary’s garden declares: ‘I count only the sunny hours.’”

  Blythe knew he referred to the first Montrose bride, Noramary Marsh, the English beauty who had laid out a garden here like one at her childhood home in Kent.

  A silence fell over the room as Mr. Montrose composed himself. Turning to face Blythe once again, he said, “I think we will take Sara’s maid and Joseph with us. Joseph has been with me since boyhood. All these details will be settled. The move must be made as easy for Sara as possible, of course.”

  Blythe, feeling herself dismissed, stood. “I will do all I can to help.”

  “Yes, child, I know.” Then he looked at her, his gaze seeming to focus clearly on her. “When we are gone … when you and Malcolm are here alone together … try to be happy.”

  It seemed a strange thing for him to say, and Blythe felt her throat constrict. It was as if, in spite of his distracted air most of the time, Mr. Montrose had sensed that there was something wrong, something disturbing about his son’s relationship with his new bride. But there was nothing he could do about it … nothing at all.

  chapter

  15

  AS SOON AS Sara was told about the plans to go to Savannah, she vacillated between excitement and tears. Although Mr. Montrose had assured her that they were only going for an extended visit, day by day she grew increasingly agitated—as if sensing the permanence of the move and all that it implied.

  She had Blythe remove the drawers from her bureau and bring them to her, one after the other, so she could go over the contents. She folded and put some things aside, directing Blythe as to which things should be packed in the deep, hump-backed leather trunk that stood open beside the chaise lounge.

  Then, one morning after Cora had finished her cleaning chores and left the room, Sara whispered, “Blythe, I want my jewel case. We devised a hiding place during the War when we lived in fear that those awful Yankees might come back at any moment. It was a good thing, too, because they raided here several times and ransacked and stole almost everything! Oh, it was dreadful!” Sara paled at the memory. Then she beckoned Blythe nearer. “In my dressing room, under the rug, there are a few loose boards in the flooring. With a litde pressure, one end will tip up. The case is under there.”

  Blythe did as she was told and found a large, square leather box. It was quite heavy, but she managed to lift it out, then wiped off the dust and brought it over to Mrs. Montrose.

  Sara took a tiny key from a chain she wore around her neck under her ruffled peignoir and unlocked the box. She opened the lid then said, in a trembling voice, “Imagine! These might have fallen into the hands of those rascals!”

  With that, she drew out a rectangular dark blue velvet case from the depths of the box and touched a spring lock that flipped back to reveal an exquisite ruby and diamond brooch and matching pendant earrings. The jewels sparkled into Blythe’s dazzled eyes.

  “Have you ever seen such a magnificent set?” asked Sara, watching Blythe’s reaction. “It is called the Montrose bridal set, passed from generation to generation and worn on only the most special occasions … although, I must confess, I wore it often. Clay wanted me to—” The faded blue eyes took on a dreamy quality as if peering into die past. “He loved showing them off, and showing me off as well. Perhaps you wouldn’t believe it now, but I was once very beautiful—” A note of melancholy crept into Sara’s voice, and one thin hand went to her face as if to recall its once smooth, unlined perfection.

  Blythe quickly contradicted her. “But you still are”

  Sara shook her head impatiendy. “I have mirrors, child, and I’m not blind. All that is past, and I hope I am past the vanity of my youth.” She gave a little toss of her head. “You, of course, will now have the privilege of wearing them … one day when Montclair again throws open its doors.”

  This prediction had a particularly hollow ring, Blythe thought. She knew that, given its present condition, its present master, that day might be long in coming.

  Sara closed the jewel case and replaced it. Then, one by one, she showed Blythe her other treasures—a strand of lustrous pearls, earrings with pear-shaped pearls, a filigreed necklace of delicate gold and opals. There were enameled bangles and flower-shaped pins and a mourning set of shiny jets, which Sara held up with a half-jesting remark. “This I should probably wear all the time.”

  Finally, Sara took something from the very bottom of the box, and held it cupped in both hands for a moment before she opened her palm and held it out to Blythe.

  “This, my dear, is the legendary Montrose betrothal ring, crafted to order long ago in Scodand for Montrose men to give to their chosen brides.” Sara placed the ring in Blythe’s hand, and she took it, examining the mellow gold heart-shaped setting in which a deep purple amethyst was held by two tiny sculptured hands. “In those days, there was a betrothal ceremony almost as binding as the wedding service itself. In fact, if a betrothal pact was broken on either side, it sometimes resulted in clan wars or, in later days, a duel or blood feud,” Sara said dramatically.

  “Of course, even in more civilized times, betrothals have been regarded as sacred and, if an official engagement is broken for any reason, it constitutes a betrayal of trust, a blot on the family name. In fact—” Sara warmed to her role as storyteller, her voice growing stronger with the telling—“the story goes that the first bride to come here to Montclair came as the result of a broken engagement—Noramary Marsh. Her cousin, Winifred Barnwell, was Duncan Montrose’s intended bride, but she ran off with her French tutor practically on the eve of the wedding
, it is said. Anyway, I myself never wore that ring. Clayborn gave me this ruby and diamond ring before we were married, and it seemed more suitable … for me.”

  Blythe’s glance moved to the huge glowing red stone surrounded with brilliant diamonds flashing on Sara’s slender finger.

  “But… you surely don’t mean for me to have this, do you?” Blythe asked in awe, looking from the betrothal ring back to Sara.

  “Indeed I do. I notice you are wearing only a simple band. And I know dear Malcolm did not make the fortune he sought in the West and has come back here with no means at all.” She made a hopeless gesture. “And if he came into any money, there is so much that has to be done to refurbish this house, reclaim the land—” Her voice trailed away significantly. “Besides, who is to inherit it, if not you?”

  At this question, Sara’s eyes filled with tears. “Malcolm is the last of the Montrose men. Don’t you realize that with him the family will end unless … unless you have children … a son?”

  “But what about Jonathan?” Blythe asked. “Don’t you think Malcolm will bring Jonathan back with him to Montclair?”

  Sara’s mouth twisted, and she shook her head. “I doubt it. Garnet and I discussed it many times while Malcolm was away … not hearing from him in so long, not knowing if he’d ever return—” She paused for a moment, thoughtfully fingering some of the jewelry as she began to put the pieces back into the box. ‘The Merediths—Rose’s family, her brother actually—are enormously wealthy—own mills. They made a fortune during the War, manufacturing uniforms for the Yankee Army.” Her mouth curled in contempt. “After the War, John Meredith wrote Garnet that it was his sister’s wish that Jonathan come North. Her father was getting on in years, and he had only seen his grandchild once when Rose took him there as a baby.”

  “After Rose died and Malcolm went West,” she went on, “Garnet felt honor-bound to carry out Rose’s wish, so she took the boy to meet his uncle. That was over three years ago. Pm sure Jonathan has almost forgotten his life here, his Southern relatives.”