by Jane Peart
He got to his feet shakily, pulled out one of the kitchen chairs, and motioned her to sit down opposite him.
She sat. Malcolm looked dreadful—drawn and tired, but sober. He was at least sober.
“Blythe, I’ve done you a terrible injustice,” he began, “and I’ve vowed to rectify it. Your father trusted me with your inheritance…. You trusted me … and I’ve betrayed you both.”
When she started to protest, he held up his hand, halting the words that died, unformed, on her tongue. “Just listen to me. Whatever drove me to the gambling tables … pride, greed … it was wrong. Once I began to lose, I became obsessed with the notion of winning it back. Of course, it was the devil’s own lie. A gambler never wins.” He stood, turned, gripping the back of the chair with both hands for balance. “I have lost everything … not only money, your money … but my self-respect. I’ve dishonored my family name. I’ve brought Montclair to the point of ruin.”
His voice broke. Instinctively, Blythe reached out her hand as Malcolm sat down again, clasping his hands together.
“I was desperate. I didn’t know what to do! I tried to blot out all that I’d done in drink. That didn’t work, either. Finally, I’ve come face to face with myself. The havoc I’ve caused. The hurt to innocent people. You, Blythe. You deserve better than … this, what I have come to.”
She started to speak, but again he silenced her with a gesture. “No, don’t sympathize … and don’t pity me. Let me finish. There are things I have to say—things that are important if I’m to go on living … with any kind of honor.”
He swallowed and took a long breath, then looked directly at her. His blue eyes blazed with a frightening intensity. “I promise you, Blythe, that I’m going to make all this up to you. A day of happiness for every day of unhappiness you’ve suffered by my irresponsible behavior. I’ll get back the money I’ve lost … by honest means. No more drinking, no more cards! I promise you that things will be different. I will find a way to bring Montclair back, too. It may take the rest of my life … but I will.”
Blythe gazed into his eyes. It seemed as if she were looking into his very soul. Could she read genuine repentance there … or just regret that he had brought shame to himself, disgraced his family? Suddenly, she knew. This was the real Malcolm—before the War, before Rose died, before his life became a wasteland. She saw the Malcolm who remained uncorrupted—gentle, intelligent, gallant—before tragedy and loss took their bitter toll.
Could she help reclaim that man—whole, healthy, with renewed vigor and pride in himself and his heritage? Hope stirred in Blythe’s heart. Yes! Yes, with God’s help, she could!
That day marked the beginning of a special time at Montclair, and that night Blythe fell on her knees with a thankful heart, praising God for answering all her prayers for Malcolm.
True to his promise, Malcolm began his struggle to regain some semblance of a normal life. He got up early each morning, attempted to eat the hearty breakfast Blythe prepared, and rode out to the fields. There, he talked to the workers and returned to his desk, full of plans and figures for recouping the financial losses Montclair had suffered in the years of neglect.
“I’ll take out a loan,” Malcolm told Blythe with determination. “Our family has been well known here in Mayfield for several generations. I don’t know the bank manager personally—he’s new in these parts, came here after the War—but that won’t matter. The name Montrose still means something,” he said with confidence. “We’ll plant more fields, bring in some cattle, some sheep … like in the old days.” His voice rang with enthusiasm and Blythe felt a lift of hope.
The Malcolm she remembered from the days at the ranch returned. He sought out her companionship in the evening hours rather than secreting himself in the library. They would build a cozy fire in the fireplace of the small parlor, and Malcolm would read aloud while Blythe knitted. He read from one of his favorite books, The Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. He showed her what was written on the flyleaf: ‘To my dear son, Malcolm—a real Knight in Shining Armor, From his loving mother, Sara Leighton Montrose.”
There were precious moments for Blythe—times when Malcolm would lay down his book and open his heart to her, sharing things from his childhood that she had never known until now.
“When Mama was so ill, I used to read to her,” he told her. “Now, I realize she chose books a child would enjoy more than an adult—tales of derring-do and adventure. We read Robinson Crusoe and Robin Hood and then the book that I think was my favorite of all—a translation of Morte D’Arthur by Geoffery of Monmouth, the best-known account of the legend of King Arthur.
“That book made quite an impression on me. As a boy, I persuaded my brothers, Bryce and Leighton, and of course the Camerons, Rod with his twin, Stewart, to play at being knights. We created our own Round Table, drew up a code of honor, strict rules of behavior, and a proscribed requirement to attain knighthood.” Malcolm laughed a little. “Of course, we older fellows put the younger ones through their paces—”
Whenever Malcolm spoke of his friendship with the Camerons, Blythe felt a thrust of guilty pain. She had tried to crush any thoughts of Rod, telling herself that her feelings for him were fueled by loneliness and longing. He had supplied kindness and understanding when she most needed it. But she could not help wondering if he, too, waged a private battle against their unspoken love.
Malcolm went on, “We all took it very seriously, actually. In fact, we carried it too far into real life later on. I know we went to war with the same lofty cause, the same idealism and standards of honor, gallantry, and courage, we had ‘played at’ as boys.
“There was a rude awakening when we learned that war was really—carnage. Oh, there were acts of heroic bravery. I saw them myself. But I also saw the brutality, the ghastly waste—
“Well, for all my striving, I never reached the Holy Grail.” Malcolm gave a wry smile.
“But, Malcolm, there’s the future to think about,” Blythe reminded him. ‘There’s so much joy still to be found in life. At least, that’s what Kate Cameron says, and what I, too, believe.”
Malcolm smiled at her, amusement as well as tenderness in that smile. But Blythe’s optimism remained strong, especially when Malcolm announced he had an appointment with the Mayfield bank manager.
“There should be no problem,” he told her. “Mayfield is growing, the Northerners are flooding in here because of the milder climate. The community is beginning to prosper. If Montclair prospers, too, it will help everyone. We can hire more people to work the land.” He rubbed his hands together with an air of satisfaction.
“I’m sure things will go well, Malcolm,” Blythe agreed.
That night Blythe went to bed and right to sleep without the usual tossing and turning. In the night, however, something disturbed her deep slumber. Half-awake, half-asleep, she thought she heard someone calling her name.
“Blythe!” A tap at the bedroom door.
She sat up.
“Blythe.” It was Malcolm’s voice. The door opened, and a slanted arc of light shone on the bare floor. The tall dark silhouette of Malcolm’s figure holding a lamp in one hand was framed in the rectangle of the door.
“What is it? Is something wrong?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep.
“May I come in? I need … to talk to you. I couldn’t sleep. I need—” He paused.
Wide awake now, Blythe asked, “Would you like me to go downstairs with you, make some hot milk?”
He shook his head and approached her. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he placed the oil lamp on the table beside it. She saw the weary slump of his broad shoulders under the dressing gown.
“Oh, Blythe, I’ve made such a wreck of things,” he confessed, pressing his temple with his fingers. “I’ve hurt so many people, disappointed them, failed them. I can’t stand my own thoughts—” The words ended in a moan.
Blythe sat up, pushed back her hair. Impulsively, she held out her arms
to comfort him. He leaned his head against her shoulder, and she stroked the thick, silky hair. She felt a shudder go through him, then his arms went around her, pulling her closer.
“Oh, Blythe, poor Blythe. It was wrong of me to bring you here, wrong of me to marry you!” he groaned.
“Don’t say that, Malcolm!” she begged, her arms tightening around him. “I’m glad I came, glad you married me! I love you, Malcolm.”
He raised his head then, staring at her with wild eyes. “But you don’t even know me. How can you love me?” He shook his head sorrowfully. The light from the lamp sharpened his features, illuminating the angular planes, making his eyes dark pools of pain.
Blythe brought her hands from his shoulders, placed them on either side of his face, then kissed him full on the mouth. She felt him stiffen, then a second later his arms tightened around her. As he began to respond, Blythe felt her heart swell with surprise and joy. This is what she had longed for, dreamed of, hoped would happen.
“Oh, Malcolm, everything will be better soon. I know it will,” she whispered. Then she threw back the covers. “Come, Malcolm. Stay with me—”
He hesitated only a moment, then he stood, untied the cord of his dressing gown and, as she moved over, got in beside her and gathered her into his embrace.
Blythe lifted herself on her elbow and looked down at Malcolm’s sleeping face. Relaxed, the harsh planes of his face were softened and the mouth so often twisted in a mocking smile rested in a sweet curve. The dark lashes of his closed eyelids shadowed the cheeks and hid the hopelessness that haunted his eyes. Asleep, Malcolm looked young, defenseless, gentle—as if all the horrors, all the disappointments of his existence had been erased.
She longed to touch him, to trace the oudine of his lips that had kissed hers so passionately, to run her fingers through the dark hair with its scattering of silver, but she dared not. She could not risk waking him and perhaps see him regard her as if he didn’t know her, as if this wondrous thing had never happened.
She slipped out of bed so as not to disturb him and went over to the window where a rising moon was transforming Montclair with its shimmering beauty. Was this the harvest moon people spoke of) She watched the pale orb move behind the bare branches of the tall trees outside. Oh, if only harvest could come to this run-down plantation, a new harvest of hope.
Tomorrow, Blythe prayed, would begin a new time of sowing, a new time of reaping. Whatever Malcolm thought or felt or would remember when he awoke, Blythe knew he had placed his stamp upon her—body, mind and soul—and that now she belonged to him forever.
chapter
26
IN SPITE OF his pallor and the wracking cough that persisted, Malcolm looked splendid as he was preparing to keep his appointment with the bank manager in Mayfield.
Blythe had steamed and brushed his gray, broadcloth coat, polished his boots, ironed his best white shirt. As she handed him his broad-brimmed black felt hat, she surveyed him proudly. Malcolm had the unmistakable air of a gentleman.
“How do I look?” he asked, staightening his cravat and touching the jade stickpin in the shape of a four-leaf clover Garnet had given him years ago.
“Very handsome!”
“And prosperous?” he quipped. “You know you have to look as if you don’t need the money when you transact a bank loan.”
“You look like the Master of Montclair ought to look!” she declared, laughing.
Suddenly Malcolm was serious. He pulled Blythe into his arms, hugged her tight, pressing her cheek into the bosom of his ruffled shirt.
“Thank God for you, Blythe! I do need you so.”
Need you! the little hungry part of Blythe’s heart taunted. He had said, need, not love! How long she had yearned to hear him speak those words. But it didn’t matter anymore. She understood why he couldn’t say them to her … yet. They still belonged to Rose.
He held her against him a moment longer. ‘Well, I’m off to slay the dragon like a good knight!” he said heartily.
Blythe had insisted Malcolm take Treasure into town. The mare was a younger, finer-looking animal than the old workhorses Malcolm had sometimes ridden on his rounds of the plantation.
Curried and combed, her mane and tail shiny, Treasure was stamping her feet impatiently in front of the house where one of the Negro boys had brought her. A group of grinning black children stood watching as Malcolm went down the veranda steps.
At the bottom he turned and made a sweeping bow to Blythe, who was standing in the doorway. His jaunty air touched her heart and she smiled and waved back. Then he mounted, and Blythe moved to the top of the steps to watch as he rode down the drive. To her surprise, at the bend, he reined, turned, and took off his hat, waving it high in the air.
Her heart caught. Malcolm was like a cavalier, riding off to do battle. And that’s what it was for him, she knew. A Montrose begging for a loan! Unthinkable! It must have taken all the fortitude he could muster to suppress his pride enough to do this thing … for the sake of honor.
Dear God, Blythe prayed. Be with him … help him today!
All day long, Blythe kept busy. She turned the collar on some of Malcolm’s old shirts, darned socks, rearranged kitchen drawers. Blythe knew it was a half-day’s ride to Mayfield and back, and mentally calculated the time Malcolm would be at the bank, signing papers and doing whatever one must do to arrange for a loan.
The victor should return to a festive meal, she decided, and planned a menu of Brunswick stew concocted of chicken, corn, peas, carrots, and potatoes in a thick, creamy sauce, and an apple cobbler. Preparing the vegetables and fruit and making the crust took most of the early afternoon.
By mid-afternoon, the sun, which had shone brightly for a while, was blocked by scurrying dark clouds. Thus far into the month of November, they had been blessed with good weather, but now it began to rain—at first a fine drizzle, turning rapidly into a steady downpour.
As it grew later and darker, Blythe lighted the lamps and took up a post at one of the parlor windows, peering into the darkness for some sign of Malcolm.
As on coundess other evenings, she heard the grandfather clock striking the hours—six, seven, eight…. She clenched her teeth to still their chattering. “Oh no, dear God! Please don’t let him have stopped somewhere! Don’t let him be drinking again!” she pleaded through tight lips.
The old house moaned as the wind rattled the windowpanes and sudden bursts of rain splintered, staccato-like, against them. A log in the fireplace crackled, fell apart with a sharpness that caused Blythe to start.
She never knew how long she stood there at the window. There was no consciousness of aching muscles strained with tension, or stomach knotted with anxiety. She was frozen like stone, knowing with dreadful certainly that something terrible had happened to Malcolm.
Then, wavering in the dark, blurred by the sheets of rain that misted her view, she saw lights coming toward the house—lanterns swaying and bobbing as they came closer.
She broke and ran out into the hall, flung open the door. The wind tore it from her hand and dashed it against the wall as she pushed out onto the veranda, her skirts whipped by the force of the wind-driven rain. Soaked instantly, she clung to one of the columns.
Three men were approaching on horseback. Straining to see through the rain-veiled darkness, she recognized the figure slumped in the saddle. It was Malcolm! Another man walked alongside, supporting him. A third followed, holding the lantern aloft.
When they reached the foot of the step, she saw Rod in the flickering lamplight, assisted by his Negro groom, Ambrose, from Cameron Hall. Heedless of the rain, Blythe rushed down the steps. To her horror, Malcolm fell forward out of the saddle. Seeing that his face was bruised and bloodied, she stifled a scream.
“What happened?” she asked Rod.
“Later. Let’s just get him inside, get these wet clothes off him, put him to bed.” Rod’s voice was calm, but urgent.
The black man and Rod carried Malcolm int
o the house. Blythe, still in shock, followed blindly.
In the front hall, the three men halted.
Rod turned to Blythe. “We’ll put him to bed,” he said, then hesitated, waiting for her instructions.
Blythe felt a hot flame of embarrassment burn her face. Now, there would be no more secrets. Rod would know how it was between her and Malcolm.
“In the library,” she said quickly. “He sleeps in the little room off the library.”
When they disappeared down the hall, she stood absolutely still for a long moment, wringing her hands. She had heard it said that people did such things under stress, and she was doing it now. Then, instinctively, she rushed upstairs for extra quilts. Then, she hurried into the kitchen to fill the kettle with water and put it on to boil. The men would be needing something hot to drink.
When Rod, followed by Ambrose, stepped into the kitchen, Blythe handed them mugs of the freshly brewed coffee. The black man discreetly retreated to a corner, leaving Rod to talk with Blythe alone.
“Is he all right?” she asked numbly.
“For now. He’ll sleep, but—” Rod paused—“I’d send for Dr. Lynn in the morning.”
It took effort to force the next question past her lips. “Is he … drunk?”
Rod shook his head. “He may have been drinking, but I’m afraid it’s worse than that. When we found him, his pulse was very weak.”
“Found him? How? Where?”
“Actually, it was Treasure who alerted us to trouble. She came galloping, riderless, into our stable yard, and Ambrose rushed to the house to report to me. At first, I was terrified that something might have happened to you. But when I saw the man’s saddle … well, I knew Malcolm must have been riding and that he was in some kind of trouble. Ambrose and I went out to look for him—”
“Oh, Rod!”
“He was lying, face down, in a ditch by the side of the road, not far from Cameron Hall. He was on his way home, Blythe.”
Rod went over to the stove, refilled his mug from the blue enameled coffeepot, then took a seat at the kitchen table.
