by Jane Peart
What she enjoyed about being with Rod was he reminded her of Malcolm—the “old Malcolm” she had known at the ranch. His voice held the same gentle, teasing quality Malcolm’s used to have, and he treated her with the same quiet courtesy. Rod possessed all the qualities she had loved in Malcolm—the sensitivity, awareness of life, the sense of humor that had seemed to vanish since they left California.
The sound of hoofbeats on the drive broke into her thoughts. She dropped her needlework and ran to the window, surprised to see Rod, as if summoned by her thoughts, cantering up to the front of the house. He had another horse on a lead.
She hurried out onto the porch to greet him as he dismounted.
He gave her a challenging grin. “Think you’re ready for a new mount?”
“Well—” She walked slowly down the steps, admiring the sleek thoroughbred. “She’s a beauty, but—”
“The students this year are all inexperienced riders and need the slow practice in the ring before taking on a horse like Treasure. She’s a little too lively for a beginner, but she needs exercise. I think you can handle her.”
Blythe offered her hand to the animal, who shied nervously before stepping nearer to nuzzle the outstretched palm, searching it for a tidbit of sugar. Still, Treasure’s ears twitched, and her tail swung like a metronome.
“Lively, you say? A little nervous?”
“Just needs a pair of firm, gentle hands.” Rod smiled.
“If you say so.” Blythe sounded a bit doubtful.
“I do say so.”
“Well, then, I’ll only be a minute.” Blythe smiled, feeling a warm surge of anticipation. What fun to have Rod come today just when she was feeling low, and the prospect of riding through the autumn woods was far too tempting to resist.
She raced to her room, shed her workdress, put on a riding skirt, tied back her hair, and pulled on a pair of boots.
Rod helped Blythe into the sidesaddle, then handed her the reins. With a quick pat of the mare’s neck, he mounted his own horse.
They started off toward the far meadow into the shadowy woods.
It was a glorious day for riding. The sun sparkled from a cloudless sky, and the air held the tangy scent of cedars and late blackberries.
Treasure strained forward until Blythe gave the mare her head. Rod looked back laughing as they gained on him. At the crest of the hill, they reined their panting horses, dismounted, leaving them to rest, and walked over and sat on the rocks overlooking the river below.
Blythe lifted her face to the sun, sighing contentedly. ‘This must be as close to bliss as one can get.”
“Yes—” Rod gazed into the distance. “I never knew how to appreciate all this, never knew how much I loved it… until the War … when I was away. Saw other woods just like this, blown to bits with musket fire. Heard the screams of dying men and horses—” He broke off abruptly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil this lovely day with brutal memories.” He turned an inquiring glance on Blythe. ‘Where were you then?”
“During the War? Well, of course, I was just a little girl. I don’t think I even knew it was going on. You see, Pa had come out west in ‘49, as a very young man. He was from Kentucky, a poor boy from a big family. He went, like so many, to seek his fortune in the gold fields. After my mother died—”
“Tell me about her.”
“I don’t remember very much about her. All I really know is what Pa told me. She was Spanish … a dancer with a traveling troupe. She originally came from a gypsy family who lived in the Sierra Nevada hills near Granada in Spain. She told Pa her stepfather sold her for a lot of money to the musical troupe. That’s not unusual among gypsies, I suppose. Anyway, they taught her to dance. Then they came to America to tour the West.
“I know she was a popular performer. I have her trunk with some old playbills. She was called ‘The Gypsy.” Wore red satin dancing slippers with real silver buckles and a lace mantilla—” Embarrassed, Blythe broke off. “My, but I’m running on! I guess that must seem a strange kind of background—a gypsy dancer and a Kentucky farm boy—for a Montrose bride, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all! I think it’s fascinating,” Rod said. “Rather like a fairy tale.”
“Except fairy tales always end ‘And they lived happily ever after’—” Blythe’s voice trailed away. “Of course, Mama and Pa were happy together. Maybe their story was like a fairy tale … but not mine.”
Blythe clapped her hand over her mouth. She had not meant to say that.
“Aren’t you happy, Blythe?” Rod asked. She looked stricken. “You aren’t happy, are you? Why not, Blythe?”
“The truth is—” Blythe began, then hesitated. Dare she confess her deepest secret … even to Rod?
He reached out his hand, turned her face, and raised it so she had to look at him. His eyes searched hers. “What is the truth, Blythe?”
“Malcolm is still grieving … mourning Rose!” she burst out.
A shadow crossed Rod’s face.
“And what’s more … he blames himself,” she added breathlessly.
Rod frowned. “Blames himself? But why? It was an accident. And he was away fighting at the time.”
“I know! I know! But that doesn’t seem to matter. He is consumed with guilt.”
Rod shook his head. ‘That’s tragedy on top of tragedy! No one was to blame for Rose’s death. To grieve a loved one is enough to bear without adding senseless guilt.”
Blythe stood up suddenly, walked over to the edge of the cliff, her back to Rod so he wouldn’t see her eyes brimming with tears.
He followed her. “Is that what’s making you so unhappy, Blythe? That Malcolm is miserable over misplaced guilt? Is that it? Or is there something more?”
“He still loves her.” Blythe breathed the words.
“Of course, he does,” Rod said quietly. “He’ll always cherish her memory … but you’re his wife now. He loves you—” But his statement lost momentum as she protested.
“No, there’s no room in his heart for me,” she said firmly, sadly. “I mean … nothing to him. I’m not enough. Pm not Rose.”
“You arc you,” Rod replied, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re a beautiful, generous, caring woman. Any man would be a fool not to see that … not to love you.”
Blythe turned to face him, lower lip trembling.
He gazed at the lovely upturned face—not only beautiful but interesting. The strong jaw was softened by the sweet curve of her cheek, the innocent mouth. Her dark eyes, so troubled now, stared back at him. The last of the sunlight burnished Blythe’s auburn hair with gold, and it took all Rod’s willpower not to reach out and touch it.
“Blythe, I hate to see you so unhappy. I wish there were something I could do. If you—if there is ever—anything at all—”
The sympathy in Rod’s eyes, the compassion in his voice moved Blythe deeply. But she knew she must not give way to the emotions colliding within her. It would be disloyal to Malcolm to take advantage of Rod’s obvious desire to comfort her.
“Oh, Rod, there’s nothing you can do. I mean, I spoke recklessly—shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to imply … that is—”
“When will Malcolm be back?” Rod interrupted her determined attempt to remedy her impulsive words.
“By the end of the week… at least, I think he will.” Blythe moved to loosen Treasure’s reins. “It’s getting late.”
“Yes,” Rod agreed and untied his horse, also.
They rode back to Montclair in silence. In front of the house, Rod reached over and took her reins.
“I won’t be over tomorrow. Garnet and her husband are back from Europe for a short visit before going on to New York. But I’m leaving Treasure with you. I’ll take her down to the barn and have one of the boys rub her down and give her a bucket of oats. I thought you might enjoy having her for the next few days.”
Blythe slid out of her saddle, came around to Treasure’s head, stood there stroking the mare’s soft nos
e for a few moments. “You don’t have to do that, Rod.”
“I want to. You need to get out, away from here.” A muscle in his jaw flexed. He glanced in the direction of the old stables, now neglected and run-down. “Montclair used to be known for its fine horses. Owners came from miles to buy foals in the spring…. If Malcolm would only take an interest, maybe—” He stopped mid-sentence, his lips tightened. “I apologize. It’s not for me to say.” He turned his horse. “Well, goodbye for a few days, Blythe. Do remember what I said, won’t you? If ever you should need me … anytime … for anything—”
“Thank you. I’ll remember.”
Watching Rod ride away, Blythe knew she had come dangerously close to confiding everything in him. His warmth and sympathy had almost persuaded her to yield to that sweet temptation.
She entered the house, and its emptiness hit her forcibly, like a blow. The loneliness of the past months engulfed her—a loneliness that seemed to have no end, a longing that promised to go unsatisfied for a long time to come.
Blythe thought of Rod, of that moment that had trembled between them. Her blood tingled, raced through her young body, awakening the yearning to touch and be touched, to hold and be held.
Dear God! she pleaded, drawing in a ragged breath. She should not be thinking of Rod Cameron like this. She shivered, suddenly cold.
Maybe when Malcolm came home, things would be different, better. Please, dear God, make them better. Make him love me.
chapter
21
ALTHOUGH Malcolm had been indefinite about the exact date or time of his return, Blythe became anxious when she had still heard nothing from him by the end of the week. She told herself he had probably remained in Richmond, visiting old friends longer than planned after seeing his parents off to Savannah.
But by the afternoon of the fifth day, Blythe was much too restless to remain at the house and went down to the stables. Treasure whinnied at her approach, just as eager as she to be off and galloping along the woodland paths.
The horse’s hooves clattered over the rustic bridge, then thudded on to the pine-needled trail leading to the little house in the clearing.
Ever since discovering Eden Cottage, Blythe had been mysteriously drawn to it. What if she and Malcolm had come here immediately after their marriage instead of to the big house? Could they have had a chance to get to know each other better? Would he have learned to love her here? Probably not, Blythe sighed. This is where Malcolm had brought Rose, and surely this place held even more sad memories for him than Montclair.
She passed the cottage and rode on, her mind full of troubling thoughts that not even the cool autumn wind on her face could dispel. Suddenly she realized she had come to the property line dividing Montrose and Cameron property, marked by a low, stone fence. Treasure took it easily and, before she knew it, Blythe was close enough to see Cameron Hall. She reined in and looked across the meadow to the sweeping front lawn.
It looked so serene, the rosy stone mellow in the October sunlight. Latte roses were blooming in the well-tended gardens and, on the far side, a group of students in their school smocks were playing croquet on the smooth green grass. It was such a pretty scene that Blythe moved even closer, hidden from view by an oak tree. House and gardens exhibited the care, pride, and hope that was sadly missing at Montclair.
Blythe started to turn Treasure around, but something held her. She slipped down from her saddle, tethered her horse, and crept forward, keeping well out of sight. She drew so near that she could hear the girls’voices, their laughter, the clonk of the mallet as it hit the ball.
As she watched, the front door opened, and Kate, Dove, Rod, and an elegantly dressed couple walked out onto the veranda. The newly-wed Devlins!
Garnet looked like a Paris fashion-plate! The new silhouette coming into vogue was perfect for her figure—the molded bodice and skirt drawn back to cascade in full tiers. Her costume was smoke-blue, kilt-pleated in front, trimmed with braid and tassels. On her elaborate coiffure perched a blue bonnet adorned with a blue-feathered bird.
something made them all laugh just as ah open carriage, driven by a uniformed coachman, rounded the side of the house and came to a stop in front. After good-byes and embraces, the couple descended the steps and got into the splendid victoria drawn by two high-stepping chestnut horses, and with more waves and calls, started down the drive.
Blythe stood looking after them until the spell was broken by the sound of girlish voices. “Mr. Cameron! Mr. Cameron!” She turned to see a cluster of girls gathered around Rod, then burst into giggles as he strode off toward the stables.
Obviously, the young ladies at Cameron Hall admired their riding instructor extravagantly. Not that it would be hard to do, Blythe thought, smiling to herself.
Riding back to Montclair, Blythe kept seeing Garnet in her elegant Parisian outfit, worn with such an air of assurance. Garnet, like Kate and Dove, possessed this inborn grace Blythe envied.
But perhaps she could learn it, Blythe encouraged herself. Perhaps she could yet make Malcolm proud of her, make him glad that he had married her. Maybe she had not been “to the manor born,” but she had the courage to think she could change, learn to do and say the right things, to dress properly. It would take time, of course, but she could try.
Even though remembrances of past failures clouded that hope, Blythe clung to it. What else could she do if not at least pretend to believe a better, brighter day was about to dawn for her?
When Malcolm had been gone a full week—allowing ample time for the journey to Richmond and back and a few days’visit with friends—Blythe was certain he would return on the seventh day.
She rose early to ready the house for his homecoming, cleaning and polishing everything in sight before going out to gather flowers. She had spent hours weeding the overgrown beds and, little by little, some of the flowers were blooming there again. Mixing these with some wild Queen Anne’s lace, she placed the bright bouquets in vases about the house.
In an alcove at the end of the dining room, she set a table for two, realizing, with a kind of rising excitement, that this would be the first time she had prepared a meal for Malcolm alone, the first time they would spend time together at Montclair without anyone else.
Blythe had found herbs growing in the kitchen garden. Delighted with her discovery, she had picked and dried some she recognized. Now she roasted a chicken with basil and Oregano, prepared sweet potatoes, and made biscuits ready to pop in the oven when Malcolm arrived.
As she hurried upstairs to bathe and dress, fresh hope stirred. Maybe Malcolm’s homecoming would be a new beginning for them. Maybe he had missed her, too.
She took extra pains with her hair, brushing it to a gleaming russet, then fixing it with the high-backed tortoise-shell Spanish comb that had belonged to her mother. She fastened a lace collar Sara had given her to her brightest flowered dress arid tucked one yellow rose into her waistband.
She went downstairs and stationed herself at the parlor window to watch for him. It was just dusk, soft lavender shadows cast a lovely haze on the gardens. The crushed shell driveway was a winding white ribbon in the growing darkness as Blythe looked down, hoping to see a hack from the train station coming up to the house.
But when it was fully dark and still Malcolm had not arrived, a knot of fear lodged in Blythe’s throat. What could have happened? Could Sara have fallen ill, and Malcolm remained in Richmond to assist his father? Flashing through her mind were all the possible mishaps that her husband might have encountered.
With a growing dread, she lit the lamp, put some wood in the kitchen stove, and set a kettle of water on to boil for tea. She had lost all appetite for food. The biscuits baked too early had dried up. She threw them out, but removed the chicken from the oven and put it aside to be warmed up later, should Malcolm still come.
Shivering, she put on a shawl. The grandfather clock in the hallway counted out the waiting hours, each one a knell of foreboding.
&
nbsp; At last, convinced that Malcolm would not be home this night, she locked up and slowly climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
Numb with fatigue, she undressed. Before getting into bed, Blythe went to the window and peered out into the relentless darkness. Wordless prayers filled her mind, but hope ebbed away. Malcolm would not come.
She lay in bed rigid, sleepless. The small fire in her hearth sent grotesque shadows against the wall.
Unconsciously, she waited.
It began to rain, and she could hear the rustle of leaves as the heavy drops pelted the tree outside and slashed against her windowpane. Malcolm, Malcolm, where are you?
The clock downstairs struck a mournful midnight. The rain pattered against the windows. The fire sputtered as it burned low.
At dawn, Blythe awoke with a start. She lay there for a moment, listening. The house was soundless, empty.
She rose stiffly, poured water from the pitcher into the washbowl, and splashed her face. The pale light filtering through the bedroom windows did little to lift the heaviness from her heart. Drawing a long breath, she went downstairs.
Trance-like, she moved through the motions of the morning—putting the kettle on the stove, throwing a few sticks of kindling into the fire. She should eat something, but her stomach was in knots.
Instead, she took the shawl from the hook beside the door and went outside, thinking the fresh air might clear her head. From the porch, she could see that the ground was wet after the heavy rains of the night before. She sank down on the top step, hunching her shoulders against the chill, staring down the long drive.
A kind of numbness gripped her. She exhausted all the probable causes of Malcolm’s late return, each one only bringing the panic closer. Although she could not articulate them, her prayers bordered on desperation. She sat there, keeping her vigil, until she was stiff with cold and anxiety. Then, awkwardly getting to her feet, she went back into the house.
