by Jane Peart
In the kitchen annex the kettle was hissing. Blythe removed it from the burner, measured out tea into the brown earthen pot, poured in the boiling water. She got down a cup and filled it with some of the hot liquid.
Blythe did not know how long she had been sitting at the kitchen table when she heard carriage wheels on the driveway, then heavy steps on the porch. The front door opened and, as she rushed into the hall, she saw Malcolm.
He stood in the doorway, supporting himself with one hand braced against the frame. He was hatless, his shirt open at the neck, no cravat. His clothes looked as though he had slept in them; his eyes were dark hollows in his gaunt face.
“Malcolm!” Blythe gasped. ‘What’s wrong!”
He gave a hoarse laugh. “Wrong? What’s wrong? Everything! That’s what’s wrong.”
He started forward, but stumbled and almost fell. Blythe ran to his side, and he leaned against her heavily.
“You look dreadful! Come, let me help you.”
Malcolm made a choking sound that was half laugh, half moan. But, Blythe put her arm around his waist and led him toward the library. There, he slumped onto the sofa, letting his head fall back against the upholstery.
Blythe knelt and pulled off his boots, one by one. Then she tugged off his jacket. By now, she was breathing hard, for Malcolm was a dead weight. Lastly, she lifted his legs onto the sofa, where he slid into a prone position. Quickly she slipped a pillow under his head and, reaching for the afghan, covered him with it.
Malcolm’s eyes were already closed. Blythe stood looking down at him, relieved that he was safely home, bewildered by the condition in which he had arrived.
All through the long day, Blythe asked herself the unanswerable questions—questions to which only Malcolm held the key. She wept, paced, and prayed. But there was no peace for her in prayer, no solace in tears.
Outside, the sky darkened. By late afternoon, it began to rain again.
She positioned herself at the kitchen table, drinking cup after cup of strong coffee to fortify herself against the unknown. Every few minutes, she tiptoed out into the hall, put her ear to the library door, and listened for some sound.
When she heard Malcolm stirring, she hurried back to the kitchen, reheated the coffee and, carrying a steaming mugful, knocked gently at the closed door. Finally, she heard the sound of the key grating in the lock, and Malcolm threw open the door.
It took all the self-control Blythe could muster to remain silent. Malcolm was shockingly pale and, when he took the cup from her, his hands were shaking. This man, who had always maintained an impeccable appearance—even at the ranch—was now unkempt, his two-day beard a dark stubble on his chin, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted.
He glanced at Blythe, then dropped his gaze, a shamed expression on his face. “I owe you an explanation, an apology,” he mumbled.
“You don’t owe me anything!” protested Blythe. “Pm just glad you weren’t in an accident or—”
Malcolm shook his head and his lip curled. “No accident. It was deliberate … if inexcusable.”
Then he launched into a long, rambling story. “After I put my parents on the train to Savannah, I ran into some old friends. Friends? Maybe not … rather, acquaintances, I should say.” He gave a short, harsh laugh, “Very prosperous ones, too, from the look of them. Would you believe even some Southerners profited from the War?”
It seemed one thing had led to another. The friends had asked Malcolm to stay over, wining and dining him much too generously. And there had been card games. He had lost all track of time.
Malcolm shrugged. “As I said, there is no excuse … no excuse.”
“I was worried—” she said quietly.
“Sorry.” He took another sip of coffee. “It won’t happen again.”
But it did.
Within a fortnight, Malcolm left for Richmond, telling Blythe that he must follow up on some business opportunities to restore the plantation to its former productivity. But when he returned four days later, it was with evidence that not only Montclair but Malcolm himself was sinking deeper and deeper into despair and ruin.
chapter
22
THE NEXT TRIP took Malcolm only as far as Mayfield. This time he drove the farm wagon for the purpose of getting supplies for themselves and the sharecroppers, the freed Negroes who worked on the land.
When Malcolm had not returned by nightfall, Blythe was frantic at first. In retrospect, as the hours passed and she sorted out the fragments of their life together, she could begin to see the pattern Malcolm had established, beginning on shipboard en route from California. Drinking and gambling “friends” could be found anywhere. Indeed, she recalled hearing Malcolm tell Pa that, in the Yankee prison, there had been nothing to while away the tedious hours, and so the prisoners had gambled even their rations on the turn of a card. It seemed a strange addiction for a gentleman, but Blythe could no longer deny the truth.
All she knew about drink was summed up in vivid memories of the poor wretches who staggered out of saloons in Lucas Valley or slumped in a drunken stupor against the walls of buildings or stumbled along the wooden sidewalks, as “decent folk” stepped aside in disdain. Young as she had been, she had felt pity rather than condemnation,
Now, she felt an even greater pity, mixed with love and dread. Was Malcolm destined to come to such an end? And if so, what would become of her … of their marriage?
Even when he was at home, Blythe now began to look for signs of his drinking—the unfocused, glazed look in his eyes, the slow response, his keen mind rumbling to grasp even the simplest question. He seemed to be growing old before her eyes, his skin sallow, his dark hair slashed with iron gray. She was appalled and frightened. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for this. Malcolm seemed bent on destroying himself, and, unless she did something to stop him, he would succeed.
In desperation, Blythe decided to go to Kate Cameron for advice. After all, Kate had known Malcolm since boyhood. If anyone could help them, it would be this gracious woman. But Blythe chose a time when she knew Rod would be giving riding lessons. She did not want to encounter him in her distraught state.
She found Kate in her little parlor off the music room, and, against the backdrop of little girls practicing scales, Blythe poured out her heart.
Mrs. Cameron’s thoughtful gray eyes fastened upon her as Blythe confided her darkest fears. From time to time, she nodded, and Blythe had the distinct feeling that here was one who could give her complete attention and understanding to another. It was a sensation of profound relief after all the weeks of lonely silence.
At length Kate spoke. “My dear child, how you have suffered. I only wish I had known—” Her gaze drifted to the tranquil scene through the window and Blythe’s eyes followed hers—the slumbering meadows under a light icing of frost, the undisturbed peace of the countryside while, within Blythe’s heart, there was turmoil and confusion. “The Bible tells us that ‘love suffereth long, and is kind…. Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.’ Occasionally, we find ourselves in circumstances not of our own making. Through no fault of yours, my dear, you are in just such a dilemma—one that will challenge you far beyond your years or experience.” She paused. “If you love Malcolm … and I believe you do sincerely … there is something you must know, though it pains me to tell you—”
The lovely eyes brimmed with tears of sympathy. She reached out and put her hand over Blythe’s tightly clenched ones. “The Montrose men are known for a certain streak of recklessness. Malcolm was his mother’s favorite, though all the Montrose sons were adored and pampered. They got by on their looks and charm … that is, until the War—” Once again, she broke off, remembering.
“Bryce, Garnet’s first husband, seemed to understand that was not enough and matured splendidly before the end. Lee, Dove’s husband, died too young for us to know what he would have become, though we heard he died bravely, leading a cavalry char
ge. That, too, may have been sheer recklessness, however.” Kate sighed.
“At first, when we heard Malcolm had gone West, we all hoped … expected, really … that he would take over Montclair when he returned. We all had to start over, you know. There wasn’t much left for any of us after the War. Why that didn’t happen … well, only Malcolm knows.
“Perhaps he has lost hope. And when hope is gone, life is ended. Hope is necessary if we are to go on living constructively. It is the core of man’s spirit, for it is closely linked to that other essential… faith.”
“Faith?” Blythe echoed. “Faith in God? I think Malcolm believes in God.”
“Yes, but there is a difference between belief m God and faith in God. As Paul says ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’We Southerners had to believe that God would help us put things right… had to have a vision of the future, even though we could not see it. Malcolm seems to have forgotten that.”
When Blythe rose to go, she embraced Kate, dreading the moment of departure. “You are always so serene. What is your secret?”
“God has been very good, and I have learned to trust that his purposes are being fulfilled … even when it appears most unlikely. You know, we must look for the good in every adversity, learn to expect God’s miracles, for He delights in surprising us. Pray to be strong, child. Trust that God is working in your life and in Malcolm’s—”
Blythe bade Kate a tearful farewell.
Mounting Treasure at the side of the front porch, where she had left her, Blythe started down the drive toward the gate. Before she reached it, she heard her name. Turning, she saw Rod cantering up from the riding ring.
“Blythe!” he greeted her as he came alongside. “I didn’t know you were coming over today!”
“It was an impulse,” she told him. “I came to see your mother.”
“If I’d known you were here, I’d have hurried my riders through their paces faster. I’m sorry I haven’t been over to ride with you these last few weeks. We have more students this year, and all of them, it seems, are realizing a lifelong dream to become expert equestriennes!” He sounded amused.
Then his smile faded, and his expression grew serious. “You’ve been crying, haven’t you?” he demanded in a gentle voice. ‘What’s the matter, Blythe? Is something wrong at Montclair?”
At the sympathy in his voice, Blythe blinked back tears. “I didn’t mean for you to see me this way,” she murmured.
He leaned over, placed his large hand over hers where it rested on the pommel. “But I want to know why you’re unhappy. Tell me.”
Blythe shook her head. “I can’t. I mean … I shouldn’t.”
“Is it … Malcolm?”
Startled, she looked at him. “Yes, but—”
“Never mind. I know. I’ve seen him several times in Mayfield. He has—” Rod’s eyes narrowed. “He hasn’t done anything to hurt you, has he?”
“Oh, no! It’s just that—” Her voice broke. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Let me ride home with you.”
“That isn’t necessary,” she protested.
“I insist.” Taking the lead, Rod suggested, “Let’s cut through the woods.”
At the clearing, where a low rock fence divided the Cameron land from the beginning of Montrose property, Blythe halted her horse. “You don’t have to come any farther, Rod. I’ll be fine now.”
“I’ll see you home.” Rod was adamant. ‘Then, if Malcolm’s there … if you need help … you won’t be alone.”
She put a restraining hand on his arm. “No, Rod.”
“But I want to help you.”
“Malcolm is never violent. It’s just… sad.” The tears started to flow again. ‘Things might be different … if he wouldn’t drink.”
“If it were only that,” Rod replied grimly. “Malcolm’s drinking is only a symptom of something much deeper, I’m afraid. It’s his escape from life. It’s not your fault, Blythe,” he said hastily, seeing her stricken look, “but Malcolm feels he has nothing left to live for—”
“You mean since Rose—”
“That, of course, and the War and his venture out West—all failures.”
“You make it sound as if he had more reason for dying than living,” she said, feeling a certain dread grip her, almost holding her breath for Rod’s reply,
“It’s clear that he’s wretchedly unhappy-—” Rod let the words hang between them.
Before they parted at the edge of the woods, Rod took Blythe’s hand. “I don’t like the idea of your being alone over there. It’s neither right nor fair that you should be lonely … I know what it’s like. Until you came—” he began. “What I mean to say is that since my twin brother … was killed, there’s been an emptiness … one I can’t explain—”
At once Blythe’s own loneliness, her soul’s need, her heart’s seeking rushed out to meet his. She closed her eyes, feeling a momentary wave of dizziness.
“Since you came, since I’ve known you—” Rod’s voice deepened.
Suddenly, Blythe felt she should hear no more. She tried to withdraw her hand, but Rod held it more firmly.
Then, very carefully, as if trying to choose only the most precise words and phrases, Rod said, “Blythe, if ever you should need me … at any time … for any reason … I want you to promise me you’ll send one of the farm people to Cameron Hall. I’ll come night or day. You have only to ask.”
Blythe lowered her eyes so as not to read a clear message in Rod’s intent gaze—a message that conveyed more than sympathy for a hurting friend.
“Thank you,” she replied simply. “I have to go now. Malcolm may be home … may need me. Thank you, Rod.” With that, she gave Treasure a little slap with her reins and started toward Montclair, already dreading what might await her there.
It was the War, Rod had said. And Kate had said it, too. The War was responsible for everything—the death, destruction, disease, the madness, the senseless suffering, the devastation of the land. The War she had been too young to know about was slowly, inexorably, destroying her life.
chapter
23
DURING the last week in October, a violent windstorm blew the trees bare of their glory, and a hard rain began to fall steadily, blotting out the remembrance of Indian summer with a veil of daily drizzle.
After his return from the disastrous trip to Richmond and the subsequent one into Mayfield, Malcolm barricaded himself behind the closed library doors.
A succession of dreary days increased Blythe’s feelings of isolation and loneliness. Prevented by the weather from riding, she was confined to the house, where a dreadful personal drama was playing itself out.
In these days her thoughts turned more and more to Rod Cameron. She knew she had seen in his eyes the same strong attraction she felt. She remembered the sudden quickening of her heart. Deprived as she was of the fulfillment she had expected to find in her marriage, Blythe’s vulnerable heart cried out for love. Although she knew it was wrong to feel this way about a man who was not her husband, she questioned whether or not she had a husband in the truest sense of the word.
Blythe spent hours on her knees, praying for some solution to her problem. She must find some way to help Malcolm, to excite him about the possibilities of restoring Montclair … anything.
If proof were needed of the deteriorating state of the house, Blythe had it after the storms of the week. The roof was leaking in virtually every room, and although she had set out as many pots and pails as she could find, there was already extensive damage to floors and walls. Something had to be done.
She broached the subject to Malcolm when he finally emerged from the library for supper. “I spoke to Lonnie,” Blythe told him as she set a dish of chicken dumplings on the kitchen table where they ate now instead of in the dining room, “and she said Will and some of the other men would be willing to repair the roof if you’d get the shingles. You know, they still feel this hou
se belongs to them, too, somehow.”
Malcolm’s response was a harsh laugh. “Do you realize how many shingles it would take to roof a house this size? I know they don’t … but I can’t afford to buy them, anyway—”
“Oh, but we ought to be getting the money from the sale of Pa’s ranch soon, shouldn’t we?” Blythe asked.
Malcolm’s face blanched. He stared down at his plate, then shoved it away and stood up with such haste that he knocked his chair over backward with a resounding crash.
Blythe jumped, dropping her fork, and stared at Malcolm.
“There … isn’t any money,” he said grimly. ‘There’s not going to be any money … any more money, that is. It came weeks ago … and it’s gone … all of it. How do you think I was able to take Mama and Father to Richmond, put them up at the best hotel, buy them tickets on the train to Savannah? And as long as the truth’s coming out… I lost the rest of it in a card game!”
With that declaration, Malcolm picked up the chair, pushed it aside, and strode out of the kitchen. A moment later Blythe heard the library doors slam shut.
Alone at the table, Blythe buried her head in her hands. The utter hopelessness of it all washed over her. Without money or any way to earn it, nothing could be done. In spite of Malcolm’s disclosure, however, she felt no anger, only a soul-deep despair.
She wished they had never come to Virginia. Maybe if they had stayed out West, Malcolm would still be the gentle, soft-spoken man she had grown to love. Now, he was a stranger—the mood swings, the flashes of anger, the quick harsh words, the bitterness. It was a frightening change.
Later, as she lay across her bed in the room where she had slept alone since coming to Montclair, she heard Malcolm moving about below. He was pacing restlessly. It was then she wept, for both of them. But the tears that flowed were comfortless and unhealing.
In the morning Malcolm was gone—where, she did not know. Ironically, the rain had stopped, and a bright sun shone, making everything look fresh and glowing and all the more heartbreaking.
