by Jane Peart
Her knees trembling, Blythe sank into a chair across from him.
“The rain must have blinded him,” Rod began. “It was very dark and windy. A tree branch had fallen across the road in front of him. We assume Treasure shied, reared, and threw Malcolm into a ditch. That’s where we found him. He was unconscious, bleeding from the head…. He’s very ill, Blythe.” Rod measured her reaction. “He’s never fully recovered from his prison experience, you know. Pneumonia weakened his lungs.”
“Yes, I know. He was quite ill when he came to our ranch.” She bit her lip, recalling that day when the old miner had brought Malcolm to them—feverish, weak, “dying,” Pa had said.
“Well, the doctor will know more,” Rod said, staring down into his mug. Then he lifted it and drained it in a single gulp. “I’ll send one of our boys to Mayfield first thing in the morning with a message for Dr. Lynn to come out,” he said, rising and donning his heavy coat.
“Thank you, Rod,” Blythe replied quietly, “for … everything.” The words seemed inadequate, but she did not trust herself to say more.
At the front door, Rod paused. “I’ll bring Treasure back tomorrow.”
“No, Rod. Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I won’t be riding her anymore,” Blythe said firmly. “Malcolm will be needing me now.”
A look passed between them that needed no words. It spoke of a love that strengthened, comforted, endured, and, in the end, relinquished.
“Good night then, Blythe,” Rod said finally, “and God bless.” Then he disappeared into the rainy night.
All that long night, Blythe sat at Malcolm’s bedside, wringing out cloths with cool water to press against his face and brow as he tossed restlessly on the pillow. At times, he mumbled incoherently, and she soothed him as she might a fretful child.
Toward morning, he opened his eyes. They were glazed and bright with fever, and his skin was hot to the touch.
He recognized her immediately, then a kind of anguished memory seemed to come over him. “Blythe! Blythe, I’m sorry … so sorry.”
“Hush, Malcolm, hush.”
“I’ve failed you again, Blythe.”
“You haven’t failed me, dear. Hush now and rest.”
He began to cough, a hoarse, rasping cough that seemed to wrack his whole body. It left him weak, gasping for breath. She watched him fearfully, then pressed the folded damp cloth again on his forehead.
He closed his eyes wearily. ‘They turned me down, Blythe. Can you believe that? ‘No collateral,’the man said. Montclair … not acceptable as collateral.”
“Don’t exert yourself. It will only make you worse. Please, Malcolm, it doesn’t matter. We’ll manage.”
He struggled up, his eyes flashing. “But it does matter!” he protested. “To be turned down—like that! Me, a Montrose! Is the word of a gentleman no longer enough?”
“Please, dear, lie back. You must rest. The doctor is coming in the morning. You must get well first. Then we can talk about … other things.”
Exhausted, Malcolm fell back against the pillows. “Don’t worry, Blythe. I told him I didn’t need his money! I still have another card to play…. Card? Hai My luck hasn’t entirely run out. I told him—” Malcolm started to laugh, but the laughing caused a fit of coughing.
This time the paroxysm lasted so long that Blythe was terrified. By the time it was over, Malcolm was too weak to utter another word. She held his hand, continuing to stroke his forehead until he drifted off to sleep.
But Blythe’s heart was stone cold within her. Malcolm’s mention of cards had pierced her heart like a knife. Had he been gambling to raise the money needed to restore Montclair? And if so, what had he used for stakes?
When the doctor emerged from Malcolm’s room the next morning, the expression on his face sent slivers of fear through Blythe’s body. She wiped her clammy hands on her skirt.
“He has a slight concussion,” Dr. Lynn began, studying her as if to decide whether or not she was prepared to hear the worst. “He may seem confused, not make much sense when he tries to talk.” Then, averting his eyes from Blythe’s anxious face, he spoke with deliberation. “Your husband, Mrs. Montrose, is a very sick man. I have to tell you the truth. His lungs are filling with fluid.” The doctor shook his head as he repacked his valise. “All you can do is watch and pray. I don’t want to give you any false hope. His condition had deteriorated even before this accident—”
Blythe felt a sickening terror—Malcolm was going to die!
When Doc Sanderson had told her Pa hadn’t long to live, Malcolm had been there to support her, along with an entire community of caring people. But this time was different. This time, she would have to walk through the valley alone.
chapter
27
THE ONE PERSON Blythe knew she could trust—the one to whom she most wanted to cling for support and strength was forbidden to her. The two hearts who could best comfort each other were bound by that unspoken code of honor they had siletly pledged to live by. Blythe knew she could depend on no one except God, and she thanked Him daily for her new faith in His power to sustain and uphold her.
Lonnie became her steadfast help in nursing Malcolm, spelling Blythe for times of necessary rest, staying longer than her other chores required to assist Blythe with the new tasks the sick man’s needs demanded. Blythe often saw Lonnie’s lips moving in prayer as they lifted or moved Malcolm, and at times she came upon the black woman singing hymns in a high, clear voice—a voice that had risen above the others the night of the tent revival. There was one hymn that Malcolm had come to favor, and Lonnie taught it to Blythe.
When he was lucid, Malcolm told her fragments of his story until she had at last pieced it all together. “When the bank refused to give me a loan, I felt humiliated … angry … determined to show them I didn’t need their money. … I threw aside everything, my caution, my promises to you and myself. I went to the Mayfield Hotel…. Always a card game going on in the Gentlemen’s Lounge…. Stakes were high … more than I could afford.” Here Malcolm’s voice trailed off in self-contempt and loathing. “Sorry, Blythe. Should have known better.”
“Don’t worry about it now, Malcolm. There are other ways we can get money. We can sell some of the land … the far fields that aren’t being planted now … cultivate smaller acreage, raise a quick cash crop like alfalfa or corn—”
Malcolm closed his eyes. ‘Too late … too late.”
“Don’t tire yourself, Malcolm. We can talk about this when you’re well,” Blythe said, her cheerful attitude masking her anxiety.
But Malcolm was already slipping away, not listening. He was back in that semi-conscious state from which he awakened less and less often as the weeks dragged on.
The day-to-day routine seemed a lonely struggle. Lonnie helped Blythe turn and bathe Malcolm, change his linens. But it was she who kept the night vigil, coaxed him to take a little nourishment, and when he was wakeful and restless, read to him by the hour.
His most frequent request was Idylls of the King, and Blythe soon became as familiar with the adventures of Sir Gawain and Galahad as Malcolm. But when he awakened during the night, he would ask for a verse or psalm from the Bible that was always kept in the drawer of his bedside table.
The first time she had lifted the Bible from the drawer, she had been startled to see that its covers were blistered, blackened and curled around the edges. When she opened it, she knew the reason. Inside, in a delicate script, was inscribed the name, ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE. This had been Rose’s Bible, somehow salvaged from the devastating fire in which she had died. Malcolm must have kept it all these years. Had he read it? Wept over it? It didn’t matter. Blythe did not feel embittered nor resentful anymore. Rose seemed so much a part of Malcolm, so much a part of Montclair, but it was a benign presence. Blythe did not fear nor was she jealous of Malcolm’s first love.
The Camerons sent over fruit and preserves, Dove’s blanc mange custard, and ca
lf jelly to tempt the sick man’s failing appetite. Blythe assumed Rod brought them, though she was not sure, for Lonnie always answered the door. Once, she saw him ride away as she watched from behind the curtain of the sick room. But she looked at him as if she were seeing someone she had known long ago in another world.
Blythe now slept on a cot at the foot of Malcolm’s bed, alert to his slightest movement or call.
One such night, she awakened and, rousing herself, saw him struggle to sit up. Instandy, she was at his side. It was almost more than she could bear to see those sunken eyes, the dark hollows of his wasted face.
“What is it, Malcolm?” she whispered. “What do you want?” She took one limp hand, stroked it.
“Sing to me…. Sing Lonnie’s hymn.”
Blythe cleared her throat, wishing she had the other woman’s lovely soprano voice, but even though she quavered on the high notes, she tried. “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling,” she sang, “calling for you and for me … calling, Oh, sinner, come home.'”
“Home,” Malcolm murmured, closing his eyes again.
Blythe’s throat tightened but gamely she went on singing, wondering how soon Jesus would call Malcolm home.
On an unusually warm, sunny day for December, Lonnie insisted, “Miss Blythe, honey, you gwine to break iffen you doan git away some. I’s gwine to be right here if Marse Malcolm need anything. Jes’you put on your bonnet and shawl and get out in de fresh air and sunshine. Take a little walk. It’ll do you good and he’p you, too.”
Persuaded, Blythe went downstairs, took the knitted shawl off the hook by the back door, tied her bonnet under her chin, and stepped outside. She walked along the garden path down to the meadow. The air was clear and sharp. Taking several long breaths, she quickened her pace.
Her thoughts still on Malcolm, she walked without any particular direction. Before long, to her surprise, she found herself approaching the rustic bridge.
At once, visions of Rod standing here beside her, stopping just short of telling her he loved her, assaulted her memory. She had turned and fled, hurrying back to Montclair, back to safety. It all seemed so long ago now, as if it had happened to two other people.
She halted, not wanting to go any further, knowing this path led to that clearing in the woods where the little honeymoon house nestled. She did not want to revive any errant desires or regrets. Today was all she could handle. She turned back toward the house as the Scripture verse flashed through her mind, “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
A few yards from the house, she felt a sudden inner compulsion to get back to Malcolm. She picked up her skirts and began to run. Inside the door, she dropped her bonnet and shawl and rushed down the hall.
Lonnie looked up as Blythe burst into Malcolm’s room, and put her finger to her lips, indicating by a nod of her head that Malcolm was sleeping. Then she got up from her place beside the bed and tiptoed toward Blythe.
“I’ll bring you a cup of tea ‘fo I leave fo’the day,” she whispered.
All at once, Blythe felt a leaden weariness, so heavy she wanted to weep. She fell to her knees beside the bed. Dwindling afternoon light lingered in the room and touched Malcolm’s face. It was gray, drawn beyond recognition. Gone was the high color, the healthy glow of the days on the ranch.
Lonnie stole into the room, left the cup by Blythe’s chair, and went out again noiselessly.
Blythe continued to kneel by the bedside. Malcolm stirred, opened his eyes, and gazed at her. There was a look of tenderness on the emaciated face, and when he slowly opened his eyes, for a moment they looked young, eager, alive.
His lips formed a name, and Blythe bent closer … only to hear—“Rose! Rose … forgive me, Rose?” he mumbled brokenly.
“Of course, my darüng,” Blythe whispered, touching his face gently, the source of this present anguish unknown to her.
Then he said, “Sing to me—”
With the greatest effort, Blythe began, “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is calling—”
She sang it over and over until her voice tired and she could force no sound. She leaned against the mattress, feeling overcome with fatigue. Her eyes grew heavy, and she laid her head on the pillow beside Malcolm’s and fell asleep.
She dreamed of Lucas Valley, of that sunny December day when she had stood with him in the little wooden church and vowed to love, honor and cherish “for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health.” She had been so happy that day, so pleased with her mailorder dress and the straw bonnet with its blue ribbons and roses, proud that the tall, handsome man at her side was soon to be her husband.
The happiness of the dream was still upon her as she came slowly awake. She blinked her eyes as the misty memory of the hope and promise of that day lingered.
She lifted her head from the pillow and saw that the room was full of shadows. Suddenly she realized the hand she held was cold. While she had been dreaming of the joys of beginning a life with Malcolm, she had awakened to find it ended.
chapter
28
ON THE DAY of Malcolm’s funeral, the December air shimmered with a kind of sharp brilliance. Malcolm’s casket, draped with a Confederate flag, was carried up the hill to the Montrose family cemetery.
Blythe, slim and erect, in black dress and bonnet swathed in crepe, her face hidden by the thick veil that shadowed it, stood a little apart from the small group gathered around the gravesite. She remained unmoving as the minister read:
As for man, his days are as grass;
As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.
For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone;
And the place thereof shall know it no more.”
Blythe did not know the minister. Kate Cameron had made the arrangements, but somehow his words seemed chilling and abstract. So Blythe was especially glad she had asked Lonnie to sing. As the clear, true voice rang out in the crystal winter air, Blythe rejoiced, knowing Malcolm would have wanted it so.
“Just a closer walk with Thee; Grant it, Jesus, if You please—” The beautiful plea of the believer soothed Blythe’s sore heart.
After the casket was lowered and the shovelful of symbolic earth placed on top, the people began to leave, stopping to offer condolences to Blythe as they filed by.
The mourners were mostly old friends of the Montrose family, obligated by ancient ties and tradition to pay their respects. Still, she accepted their sympathy gratefully.
The Camerons were the last to speak to her.
Kate kissed her cheek. “Won’t you come home with us, Blythe, dear? I hate to think of your being alone in that empty house.”
Blythe shook her head. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Cameron, but I need to be alone for a while.”
“Well, my dear, remember, if there’s anything … anything at all we can do … you have only to send word.”
“I know,” Blythe nodded solemnly.
Kate passed by, and Dove took her place. The two Montrose widows embraced silently.
And then Rod was standing in front of her. His face showed nothing but concern, his emotions in check. Only his eyes revealed how much he cared, how much he longed to comfort her. He took her cold hands in both of his, brought them to his lips, and pressed a kiss on them.
“Whenever you want me to come … I shall be here.”
Blythe was grateful for the veil, glad he could not read the longing in her eyes. She did not trust herself to answer, merely bowed her head, and Rod stepped aside to join the Cameron ladies.
No one lingered. They all hurried down from the windy hilltop to their carriages and horses, eager to be away from this place of sorrow, this reminder of their own mortality in the week before Christmas.
Lonnie wanted to stay overnight with her, but Blythe refused. “You have a husband and children who need you at home. I’ll be fine … really.”
“I lef’ some soup simmerin’on the stove. Now, Miss Blythe, you try to eat, you heah? We can’t hab you g
ittin’sick and po’ly yo’se’f,” Lonnie cautioned, and with one or two anxious backward glances, she finally left.
Blythe walked out onto the front porch, feeling suddenly stifled in the house. As a purple dusk crept along the edges of the fields, a flock of birds triangled against the darkening sky. Somewhere in the woods an owl hooted.
Blythe shivered, drew her shawl more closely around her, and went inside. The minute she closed the door, a wave of dizziness swept over her. Everything swam before her eyes, the floor tilted, and she leaned back against the door to steady herself.
After a few minutes, she drew a long breath and straightened. She had a sour taste in her mouth and her stomach felt queasy. Then she remembered she had not been able to eat breakfast that morning, nor had she had anything to eat this whole, long, stressful day. In fact, despite Lonnie’s scoldings, she had not eaten properly for weeks.
She would make herself some tea, she decided, starting for the kitchen. As she went down the hall, she glanced into the dining room. The long table was laden with covered dishes, cakes, pies that people had brought in the Virginia tradition—gifts of food for the bereaved family. Family? But there was no family at Montclair anymore.
She had sent a telegram to Mr. Montrose in Savannah of Malcolm’s death, and he had wired back saying Sara was prostrate with grief, unable to travel, and he must stay with her. They would come home in the spring. In the spring? Spring seemed a thousand years away.
Blythe felt infinitely weary as she sat sipping tea at the kitchen table. The reality of what had happened was just beginning to penetrate her stunned consciousness. That Malcolm was really gone, that she was now really alone in the world seemed impossible.
Her head throbbed dully, and she rose. She had had almost no sleep for days now. She would go to bed. In the morning, when she was more rested, she would be able to think more clearly, plan what to do next.
So many thoughts tumbled about as she walked through the empty house. She was only seventeen, but she felt old—as old as this house. The portraits lining the wall of the stairway reminded her of the other women who had coirie here as brides. The sense of responsibility weighed heavily. Was it all to end here? For once, she felt a rising sense of relief. At least, her father had not survived to see the sorry state she had come to. He had died, believing she would find a better life in Virginia.
