Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  “Can we go inside?” Blythe was fascinated with the doll-like house.

  “I don’t think so. It hasn’t been used for years—not since before the War, I’m sure. That’s why it’s shuttered and probably locked.”

  They dismounted, and Rod tethered the horses loosely, allowing them to graze.

  Blythe twisted the bottom of her skirt and knotted it to one side so that it wouldn’t drag, then began to explore the grounds. What seemed to have been a planned rock garden was now overgrown, but abloom with colorful wildflowers—purple asters, goldenrod.

  On one side of the cottage was a latticed arbor with clusters of golden grapes hanging from the vines.

  “Oh, look, Rod! Grapes!” she called to him.

  He followed her under the arching shelter. “Scuppernongs,” he told her. ‘They’ve a marvelous flavor. I think they used these to make wine at Montclair.” Rod took out his pocket knife, cut off a bunch, and handed it to Blythe, then cut another for himself. They seated themselves on the bench built around the inside of the arbor.

  “Mmm, delicious,” Blythe murmured as she popped one into her mouth, savoring its tangy-sweet juice. “I suppose it’s all right for us to help ourselves!”

  Rod held up the cluster, spinning it around in small circles so that the sunlight glistened off the rounded orbs.

  “By all means! I even have scriptural permission,” he said, looking at her with one eyebrow raised, mischief in his eyes.

  “Scripture?” She tilted her head to one side and looked skeptical.

  “Certainly. And I quote Deuteronomy 23:24: ‘When thou comest into thy neighbour’s vineyard, then thou mayest eat grapes, thy fill at thine own pleasure; but thou shalt not put any in thy vessel.’ Well, I have no intention of taking any away!” he said in mock seriousness.

  Blythe laughed merrily, the sound of her own laughter startling her. How long had it been since she had experienced anything so delightful?

  “What a pity no one knows about them now. They would make wonderful jelly,” she said, popping yet another into her mouth. She had spoken with her mouth full, and the juice spurted out from between her small white teeth and ran down her chin. “Whoops!” she said, trying to wipe away the juice with her fingers.

  Rod took out his handkerchief and gendy dabbed the trickles of grape juice while, with his other hand, he steadied her chin. The feel of his fingers on her face sent a curious tremor through her.

  For a split-second Blythe looked into his eyes, so close she could see the iris. Then, she deliberately looked away, saying lighdy, “So, then, you are a student of the Bible?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. But don’t give me too much credit. You see, I was in a Yankee prison, captured after being wounded. And the only book in the whole miserable place was the Bible someone had left there. Pd always been a great reader and, until I got my hands on that book, I nearly went out of my mind! Reading it over and over, I memorized parts of it. You might say it not only saved my sanity … it saved my soul.”

  They sat there for a long time, eating grapes and talking easily. Blythe felt relaxed and comfortable, more herself than she had felt since coming to Virginia.

  She leaned back against the latticework, relishing the warmth of the sun casting shadowy patterns on the uneven brick floor of the arbor, the softness of the breeze that stirred the leaves of the grapevines above, the sweet taste of the grapes still on her tongue. Everything shimmered with a very special beauty.

  Time passed. Neither of them was aware of how long they had been sitting there until Blythe noticed the lengthening shadows and shivered in a subde change in the wind.

  “It must be getting late,” she said. “I guess we should be starting back.”

  Rod sighed. “I suppose,” he said reluctandy.

  They rode silendy along the alternate path that led to the road. At the gate to Montclair, Blythe dismounted and handed her reins to Rod.

  “I’ll walk up to the house from here,” she told him.

  “I hate to see this day end,” Rod said.

  “There’s always tomorrow,” Blythe reminded him.

  “Yes … tomorrow,” he agreed, but there was some doubt in his voice.

  They said good-bye and Blythe wondered if he, too, had felt a kind of melancholy after they had ridden away from Eden Cottage. The small deserted house had held such promise of happiness in the past that seeing it abandoned made her feel somewhat sad. Like Rod, she wished the lovely glow of this day would never fade.

  As she came in sight of Montclair, Blythe felt a sudden depression. She was just tired, she tolci herself. All she needed was to get her boots off and make herself some tea.

  Then, just as she neared the porch steps, the front door opened, and Malcolm stepped out.

  chapter

  18

  WITH ONE LOOK at Malcolm’s gaunt face, Blythe’s happy words of welcome died on her lips. He looked pale and deathly tired, his eyes more deep-set than usual, their clear blue darkened to the color of slate.

  Before she could ask, he frowned and spoke sharply. “No, I didn’t bring Jonathan. He’s better off where he is … far better off. What do I have to offer him now?” The question was edged with despair.

  A father’s love, his grandparents, his heritage! Blythe stemmed her spontaneous answer. Even if Jonathan’s wealthy uncle could provide him with many of the material advantages Malcolm could not, nothing could take the place of a parent’s love. Blythe knew that so well herself Even though she hardly remembered her beautiful, dark-eyed mother, her father’s love had warmed, comforted, sheltered her all her growing-up years.

  But Malcolm’s stern expression halted any further discussion. “I’ve been up to see Mama,” he told her. “She’s ready for her tea.”

  He stood there for a moment, looking at her once again as if he were not sure who she was or what she was doing here. Then, abrupdy, he turned and walked toward the library.

  “It’s good to have you back, Malcolm,” Blythe called after him, but he did not reply. Perhaps he didn’t hear me, she sighed, and went down the hall toward the kitchen to prepare Sara’s tray.

  Later, when she knocked at the library door to summon him to supper, Malcolm’s voice sounded strangely slurred as he mumbled that he wasn’t hungry.

  Blythe, sitting opposite Mr. Montrose at the table, found it hard to swallow any food over the hard lump that kept rising in her throat. And her father-in-law seemed quieter, more distracted than usual. When he spoke, however, Blythe realized that he was keenly aware of this new tragedy in his son’s life.

  “What can we do?” he sighed, shaking his silvery head. His thoughts had simply found voice, for he looked at Blythe as though she knew exactly what was on his mind and heart. “We can’t bring back the past, and that’s where Malcolm is living. After the War … after Lee then Bryce … and for months we didn’t know whether Malcolm was alive or dead … I told myself we had to go on. We are here for a purpose. God knows what it is. But we must go on!” He pounded on the table with his fist, nearly toppling the crystal tumbler near his plate.

  Then he leaned forward, his blue eyes riveting on her. “You and Malcolm must have children, fill this house with the sound of happy voices, bring it to life again. Children would give Malcolm a reason to look to the future, to build Montclair again, to pass the heritage on—”

  Blythe bit her lip to keep from blurting out her heartfelt cry. Yes, oh yes! But Malcolm never came near her!

  “I must go up to Sara,” murmured Mr. Montrose.

  He rose, folded his napkin, and left it at his plate. Saddened, she watched as the tall man, his noble gray head bowed, walked away.

  After she did up the dishes and put away the good linen cloth she had used to make the dinner hour special for Malcolm’s return, Blythe took her lamp and slowly mounted the stairs to her bedroom. She paused for a minute outside the closed library door. Hearing nothing, she moved on.

  In the bedroom, she poured water into her
porcelain washbowl, undressed, and bathed. She put on a fresh nightgown and challis-flowered dressing gown, then took down her braids and began to brush her hair with slow, rhythmic strokes.

  Brush in hand, Blythe moved over to the window and knelt down, her chin on the sill. Gazing out into the darkness, she thought of Mr. Montrose’s impassioned words: “You and Malcolm must have children—”

  She knelt a long time by the window. What was it all about? What was the meaning of it? Would she ever know … or understand?

  This was one of those nights when the big bed seemed very lonely. She could not help wondering if Malcolm ever felt this same need to be held, comforted. He must feel this sense of incompleteness. Did it haunt his days and torment his nights? Of course, it must. But it was Rose he longed for, not me, Blythe sighed.

  Downstairs, in the great library, a fire banked against the night chill, Malcolm relived his disastrous experience. He had left for Massachusetts with many misgivings and apprehensions. He had not seen the Meredith family since he and Rose had returned from their European honeymoon in 1858. In the meantime, she had died, killed in the tragic fire started by an accidental overturning of an oil lamp in her room at Montclair one night when she had gathered her servants there to teach them to read.

  These lessons were conducted in utmost secrecy since it was against Virginia law to teach slaves to read and write. Malcolm had hated slavery as much as Rose had. But, until Rose’s outrage forced him to do so, Malcolm would never have faced the issue. Then, when war came, his loyalty to family and state had impelled him to enlist in the Confederate Army. This had caused a bitter estrangement between himself and Rose. When he got word of the accident, he had rushed to her bedside, but it was too late.

  All this, Malcolm knew, would be in the Merediths’minds when he arrived, bringing back all the senseless tragedy of Rose’s death.

  Added to that would be his reason for coming. Jonathan. This matter, too, would be fraught with old angers, for his son had been living with Rose’s brother John, Malcolm’s former classmate at Harvard and close friend. The sword of the states’conflict had severed their old friendship.

  The journey north was slow and tedious. Meeting varying train schedules necessitated overnight stays along the route. To save expense, Malcolm had looked for the most economical accommodations and had often spent the night in shoddy hotels. The cost in discomfort, stress, and sleeplessness was great. Malcolm had forgotten the quickened pace of life in the North and felt affronted by the rudeness he seemed to encounter everywhere. The jostling crowds, the indifference of ticket agents, conductors, hotel clerks added to his disorientation. By the time he reached Boston, he was exhausted. Here he had to change trains again for the trip to Milford, where the Meredith family had lived for generations.

  As the train rattled through the New England countryside, there was a glaring contrast between its unscathed loveliness and the battle scarred, impoverished Southland he had left. When Malcolm arrived in Milford, he found the town enjoying a thriving prosperity, while in his mind were scenes of run-down plantations and deserted farmlands. Mayfield, the scene of many fierce skirmishes and occupations by both armies, had not yet recovered from its wounds. Nor had he.

  As he walked along the tree-lined street of large, impressive homes set on well-kept lawns, his tensions mounted. Malcolm’s heart was hammering, his mouth dry as he stopped before the gate of the Merediths’mellow brick Federal house. Here was Rose’s home where he had first courted and come to love her.

  He looked up at the imposing façade of the house, facing the green perfection of the town common. Its dark shutters framed the sparkling paned windows, hung with starched lace curtains. Seeing it again after all these years brought a rush of memories that left him weak.

  How often he had hurried along this same street when he was visiting Rose from Harvard. For a few minutes Malcolm stood there, gathering his courage to open the gate, walk up the flagstone path to the shiny black door, and lift the polished brass knocker.

  At last, conquering the urge to leave, he thrust himself through the gate with determined stride, walked up to the house, and knocked.

  The door was opened by a rosy-cheeked young maid, wearing a black uniform. She took Malcolm’s hat, asking in a decidedly Irish accent, “Who shall I say is callin’, sir?”.

  Obviously she was new. Always before he had been instantly recognized and welcomed by the Meredith servants.

  “Malcolm Montrose,” he replied.

  At the name, her eyes widened noticeably. “Oh, yes, sir. Mr. John is expectin’you. You’re to come into the parlor, and I’ll be tellin’them you’ve come.”

  Leading the way through the hall, with its plush carpet and dark wainscoting, she opened double doors and ushered Malcolm into the elegantly furnished parlor. He might as well have been an unknown caller, an infrequent guest, a stranger, Malcolm thought with a trace of irony.

  The maid closed the doors quietly behind her, leaving him standing alone in the center of the room.

  Immediately his eyes fell on a portrait of Rose. Evidently it had been painted from a daguerreotype taken on their wedding day. His heart contracted as he beheld her once more in all the innocent radiance of that day, dressed in ivory silk, her dark hair covered with a filmy veil, held by a circlet of rosebuds. She smiled out of the picture, all hope and happiness shining out of those wonderful eyes.

  His throat seemed to swell and his chest tightened until he felt he was suffocating. Unable to bear the pain, he looked away. As he did, he saw another gold-framed portrait of Rose’s brother, John Meredith, resplendent in his blue Union Army uniform—sharply reminding Malcolm that he and his once close friend, his brother-in-law, had more recently been enemies.

  The sound of the door opening brought Malcolm back to the present, and he turned to see his former classmate enter the room.

  Expensively tailored, immaculately groomed, his handsome face smoothly shaven, John Meredith possessed all the poise and confidence that affluence and community status can give a man. Moreover, in the steel-gray eyes and carefully controlled expression, Malcolm could read the damage done to their relationship by time, distance, and conflict. All the camaraderie of their youthful friendship, even the closer ties brought about by his marriage to Rose were gone.

  They met now as two men who had fought on opposite sides of the War that had deeply divided the country both their ancestors had fought to establish. Malcolm knew that the cords that had once bound them were irrevocably unraveled.

  John’s hand, when Malcolm offered his, was a brief handclasp with no warmth. His greeting, a simple, “Malcolm … a very long time. How was your journey?”

  They exchanged a few irrelevant remarks about trains, travel in general, and the weather, then John cleared his throat. “I wanted to be here to greet you before you see Aunt Van and Father, prepare you … if that is the word. Of course they have both aged considerably since you last saw them. But more than that, the tragedy… Rose’s death, … has been a blow from which neither of them, I fear, will ever fully recover. You must expect that there will be some—no matter, how little-deserved—blame attached.” John halted awkwardly. “We know, of course, it was an accident, one of those horrible twists of Fate. But they had both begged Rose to come home and bring Jonathan when the threat of war between our two … regions … was imminent. The fact that she stayed in the South…. Well, there is no use going into the sad outcome. I just wanted to warn you if anything is said inadvertently … you must allow them both the benefit of their years.”

  There was a significant pause before John continued. “They have agreed to receive you … for the sake of the memory of happier days … and, of course, as Jonathan’s father.”

  “About Jonathan—” Malcolm interrupted. “May I see him now?”

  “Jonathan is not here, Malcolm. He lives with my wife, Frances, and me in the country not too far from here, an hour’s drive perhaps. We built a house near the lake. You will,
of course, see him later after dinner with Father and Aunt Van.”

  There was a sound at the parlor door. “Here they are now,” John said and went to admit two elderly people.

  Mr. Meredith, once one of Malcolm’s professors at Harvard, was now bent and fragile-looking, his hair a wispy white aura about his narrow balding head. He leaned heavily on the arm of his sister, Vanessa, who was still ramrod straight, holding herself with the same regal bearing Malcolm remembered, although she, too, was wrinkled and gray.

  Afterwards, Malcolm wondered how he endured the next half-hour. The stiffly polite visit with Rose’s father and the aunt who had reared her after her mother’s death, was agonizing. Malcolm had been acutely aware of their cold reserve.

  Thankfully, dinner was finally announced. But this proved even worse for Malcolm’s already strained nerves. The fine meal was impeccably served by two white-gloved maids and expertly directed by the unsmiling butler standing by the Sheraton buffet. From that post, he orchestrated the passing of the silver platters of well-done roast, the fluted silver bowls of whipped potatoes, peas and pearl onions in creamy sauce. It was tediously long; and as course followed course, the conversation was stilted at best.

  Malcolm tried to concentrate on the striped wallpaper with its alternating medallions and on the sculptured silver pheasants adorning the centerpiece. As graciously as possible, he answered the few questions targeted toward him, trying not to read into them any implications. Everyone behaved with absolute correctness. After all, the Merediths were guided by the same rules of etiquette, demeanor, and manners that Malcolm had been taught. That is what made it all so unbearable. Though both families had originally come from English nobility, linked by background and tradition, now the only thing that joined them was the common tragedy they had suffered—a tragedy, they all knew, would never have happened had Rose not been so foolish as to fall in love with a Southerner.