Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  There was still much to do, Blythe thought as she laid her aching head on the pillow. Malcolm must have a proper headstone, some appropriate epitaph—perhaps something from his beloved Idylls of the King. She must look up a passage from Tennyson’s book tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would feel stronger. Tomorrow—

  But in the morning, when Blythe tried to get out of bed, a terrible nausea swept over her. She clung to the bedpost, hoping it would pass. But it didn’t, and she was horribly sick.

  Spent, she climbed back into bed and curled up under the covers. Her mind went racing back … counting. Slowly, a possibility dawned. Could it be? Was it possible?

  It was awhile before she attempted to get up again. She dragged on her flannel dressing gown and groped her way downstairs to the kitchen. Tea would soothe her jumpy stomach, stop the pounding of her head.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table, her cold hands warming themselves around the hot cup when she heard Lonnie’s voice, her footsteps on the back porch. In another minute, she and Cora came into the kitchen.

  “Yo’feelin’po’ly, Miss Blythe?” Lonnie asked as she hung up her shawl.

  “I’m better today, Lonnie.”

  “Had anything to eat yet?” Lonnie inspected her pale face with a frown.

  “Not yet.”

  “Now what did I say yestiddy?” scolded Lonnie, getting down the cast iron frying pan. “I’ll jes’scramble up some nice eggs—”

  Blythe’s stomach lurched at the thought. “No, no, Lonnie, thank you. Nothing.”

  “Yo’jes’gwine to wither away, Miss Blythe, if you doan eat!”

  “Later, Lonnie, I promise. But now I want you to do something about all that food folks brought. There’s way more than I can ever use. So, you and Cora pack it all in one of the big wicker hampers and take it down back to share with the other families.”

  “Oh, ma’m!” squealed Cora, delighted.

  “Yo’shure?” Lonnie was doubtful.

  “Yes. Now you two go on. I’m going back upstairs to dress. There are things I must attend to.”

  Blythe hoped they would hurry. She needed to be alone to sort out this startling new fact of her life, decide what she must do.

  If she really were carrying Malcolm’s child—Oh, if only Malcolm had lived to know it! A child would have made up for so much he had lost!

  Suddenly the thought overwhelmed her. Their child—if it were a son, and somehow she believed it would be a boy—was heir to Montclair! The future came into focus. Somehow, she must hold on to all this … for the child.

  How to do so was not immediately clear. Perhaps she could sell off some of the land, reinvest it in the farm. She would have to consult with someone who could advise her.

  Already, Blythe felt a renewed vigor. She was young and strong. She had observed her father’s skillful management of the ranch, had helped him keep books. There was no reason why she could not restore Montclair to its former splendor, save her son’s inheritance! With God’s help, she would do it! With God, nothing was impossible!

  chapter

  29

  IN THE NEXT few days, Blythe gave herself to a thorough evaluation of Montclair, the house and property. There was much to be done, and she made coundess lists, wrote down endless questions that must be answered. Preoccupied, she was distracted from the sense of sorrow that might otherwise have overwhelmed her.

  Three days before Christmas, on her way downstairs just a little past eight in the morning, the front door knocker clanged, echoing through the house. Wondering who might be visiting at this early hour, Blythe hurried to answer it and opened the door to a man she had never seen before.

  Dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting coat and a stovepipe hat that he did not bother to remove, he thrust a sheaf of papers at her. “You Mrs. Malcolm Montrose?”

  “Yes,” she replied, puzzled as to who the rude stranger might be.

  He rattled the papers under her nose and, startled by his gauche behavior, she took them.

  “This is a sheriffs eviction notice!” he bellowed. “You have three days to remove yourself from the premises, taking with you only your personal belongings. This house and all its contents, including furnishings, silverware, dishes, cooking utensils, is in the possession of the creditor of the deceased Malcolm Montrose and will be sold to reimburse the rest of his creditors at Sheriffs Auction. Good day to you, ma’am.”

  With that, he spun on his heel, clattered down the porch steps, hopped into a shabby buggy, flicked the reins over a sway-backed nag, and set off in a slow jog down the drive.

  Shocked, Blythe’s eyes raced down die pages. On die last page, in Malcolm’s familiar handwriting, was his signature, signing over Mont-clair and all its possessions to someone named RANDALL BONDURANT.

  Blythe stared down at the paper she held in her shaking hands. She read the words again. Even as they registered in her brain, her heart rejected their meaning. No, it couldn’t be! Malcolm had lost Montclair? To a stranger … in a card game?

  Slowly, the enormity of it pierced her frozen mind. Her first thought was of Malcolm.

  “Thank God, he will never know!” How guilt-ridden he would have been to suffer a sheriffs eviction. Then she thought of Sara and Mr. Montrose. What disgrace to their family name!

  Blythe never knew how long she stood there, locked in disbelief. Stiffly, she turned back into the house. The man had said three days! She looked wildly about at the gold-framed family portraits on the walls. The brides of Montclair stared back at her from the stairwell. Her gaze sought out the lovely furniture, the priceless vases, the Chinese rugs … all to be left here for strangers.

  In the parlor across the hall, the furniture was covered with dustcloths, like gray ghosts. This room had not been in use since the War, Mr. Montrose had told her. Once, this place had been the scene of delightful parties, the kind Montclair had been famous for. The walls had rung with laughter and the gay tap of dancing feet, the rustling of fans and the swish of taffeta skirts, the voices of flirtatious young ladies and handsome young men.

  This room represented the world Malcolm had known—before the War, before Rose’s death, before the Yankee prison and California—before he had returned to the shell of his home, his shattered dreams.

  In panic, she thought of seeking advice from Kate or Rod at Cameron Hall, but quickly rejected the idea. They would be getting ready for their annual Christmas party, a tradition of long standing. Kate had told her about the event, regretting the fact that Blythe, in mourning, could not attend.

  “By that time, I’ll be gone,” Blythe said aloud, her voice resounding in the emptiness.

  She would have to hurry through Malcolm’s things, a task she had put off* as too painful. Now she must make all those decisions—what to take, what to leave behind. Where she would go, she did not know. Shed think about that later. For now, she would simply do what had to be done.

  Blythe let herself into Malcolm’s room. She had not entered it since she and Lonnie had tenderly washed and dressed his body for its final placement in the box made for him out of native white oak, felled by one of the Negro workers and lovingly crafted by the plantation carpenter.

  As she went in, Blythe felt a pang of sadness. In this room, in the weeks of his last illness, Malcolm had given her some of the love she had longed for so long.

  At the foot of the bed was a trunk. Blythe knelt and opened it. To her surprise, there was little there—a few books, his War medals, some faded photographs. It seemed an invasion of Malcolm’s privacy to go through his things like this. But, she reminded herself, at least she would not be leaving them for indifferent strangers. Anything she found that she did not want to keep for his son, she would burn.

  She took up the photographs. One was a group picture of his classmates at Harvard, and there were pictures of his two handsome brothers in Confederate uniform. The baby picture she gazed at longest. This must be Jonathan. He had Malcolm’s hair, but Rose’s marvelous dark eyes. She wondered, fleetingly,
if the child to be born would resemble his half-brother.

  Then, to her surprise, she found a well-worn New Testament. She hadn’t known Malcolm used anything but Rose’s Bible, the one she had buried with him.

  When she lifted it from its resting place, she opened it carefully and read an inscription: Beloved Husband, I hope you will find in this book the love, comfort, and guidance you will need in the days ahead. It was signed, Always, Tour Rose and dated, June, 1861.

  Rose must have given this to Malcolm before he left for the War. As she held it, a slip of paper fell out and Blythe picked it up. The edges were rough, as though it had been ripped from some kind of notebook; the print, faint, but still legible.

  I asked God for strength, that I

  might achieve,

  I was made weak, that I might

  learn humbly to obey.

  I asked for health, that I might

  do greater things,

  I was given infirmity, that I might

  do better things.

  I asked for riches, that I might be happy,

  I was given poverty, that I might be wise.

  I asked for power, that I might

  have the praise of men,

  I was given weakness, that I

  might feel the need of God.

  I asked for all things, that I

  might enjoy life,

  I was given life, that I might

  enjoy all things.

  I got nothing that I asked for—

  but everything I had hoped for.

  Almost despite myself, my

  unspoken prayers were answered.

  I am, among all men,

  most richly blessed.

  —Anonymous Confederate soldier

  Tears blurred the last few lines. Had Malcolm written this himself? Or copied it from someone else? No matter—Blythe’s heart leaped with the joyous conviction that Malcolm had, indeed, known the Lord and, in the end, was reconciled to his tragedy.

  Blythe stayed up all that night, packing and burning papers and letters. She kept his favorite books—The Idylls of the King and a book of Emerson’s essays, a gift of Rose’s to him on their first Christmas, thinking perhaps when she was settled somewhere, she would send it to Jonathan Montrose. The boy would likely cherish something belonging to his father with his mother’s handwriting.

  At dawn, Blythe sat down to her last and most difficult task, that of writing Malcolm’s parents. In carefully chosen words, she presented the situation without blame or bitterness. She wrote tenderly of Malcolm’s last days, of his faith and brave resignation. She felt Mr. Montrose, at least, would read between the lines and soften the blow for Sara.

  Lastly, she wrote a letter to Kate Cameron, which she would post in Richmond, thinking it best to be gone when it was received. In it, she explained why she was leaving and thanked Kate for her friendship and many kindnesses. She started to add that she hoped someday they would meet again, but decided against it. It was better to make Mayfield and the Camerons, along with Montclair, a closed chapter. She did not write a separate note to Rod, but included him, along with Dove, in her closing.

  “I will never forget your gracious warmth, the way you opened your home and hearts to me. God Bless and Keep You All.”

  There was more to do, and time was flying. Blythe put the worn leather New Testament and the poem inside in the pile of things she would pack with her own.

  Searching to be sure she had removed anything of value from Malcolm’s trunk, her eyes fell on a legal folder. She took it out, opened it, and was startled to see her father’s handwriting on the first document.

  Her eyes widened as she read: “I, Jedediah Dorman, do assign the sum of $2500 in gold pieces to Malcolm Montrose when he marries my daughter Blythe, as well äs the profit from the sale of my property, including the house, barn, 60 acres of grazing land and all livestock.”

  Below that simple statement were two signatures—her father’s and Malcolm’s.

  Blythe’s blood ran cold. How clear everything was now. She understood Malcolm’s long indifference now, his reluctance to make her truly his wife. It was not his faithfulness to Rose’s memory alone that had kept him from her side, but the bitter fact that Pa and Malcolm had struck a bargain … and that she was it—a “bargain bride.”

  Attached to this statement was an envelope on which was written: IN THE CASE OF THE DEATH OF MALCOLM MONTROSE, THIS IS TO BE OPENED BY HIS WIDOW, BLYTHE DORMAN MONTROSE.

  With trembling hands, she broke the seal of the heavy parchment envelope and drew out the enclosed letter written in her father’s hand.

  “My dear daughter,

  When you read these words, sorrow will have come upon you. You will know by now the arrangement I have made with Malcolm Montrose. I hope it was a wise one and that you have been happy and well cared for. If for any reason, you find yourself without funds, this will sustain you until you can reach New York City and contact the firm of Cargill, Hoskins and Sedgewick—lawyers who have my Will and instructions.

  Your loving father,

  Jedediah Dorman.”

  Inside was a small suede pouch. Blythe pulled the leather strings and drew in her breath sharply at the contents—three $100 gold pieces.

  Blythe let the pieces slither through her fingers, making a ringing sound as they tumbled one on top of each other into her skirt. They felt cold and hard, and she shivered, pulling the knitted shawl closer around her shoulders.

  Was it possible her father could have foreseen disaster? No! Surely not. He had trusted Malcolm completely—Blythe was certain of that. But Jed Dorman was a prudent man. He had known misfortune as well as fortune. Above all, he had wanted his daughter safe and would not leave anything to chance.

  When Lonnie came up to see if she was all right, Blythe told her the news. “Pm going away, Lonnie, but I’m sure the new owner will need workers. I think you and your families will be safe.”

  Lonnie threw her apron over her face and let out a low, keening wail. “Oh, Miss Blythe! Miss Blythe!”

  “You mustn’t cry, Lonnie. You believe the Lord will take care of you, don’t you?”

  “Ain’t yo’nevah comin’back, Miss Blythe?”

  “I can’t say, Lonnie. Nobody knows the future,” she replied.

  The black woman finally left with two baskets full of food and other household items Blythe thought she and some of the other plantation families could use.

  That night Blythe packed her own things. Along with her “treasures” that had belonged to her mother, Blythe carefully wrapped the Montrose betrothal ring Sara had given her. She had never felt right about wearing it herself. It should be given and received in abiding love, and this had never truly been hers with Malcolm. Perhaps, one day—her Son would give it to someone who would become a beloved bride of Montclair.

  That day dawned bleak and gray. A misty rain fell when Blythe set out to make a last pilgrimage around Montclair. She walked through the garden and paused at the stone pedestal on which the bronze sun-dial rested. Its inscription seemed to belie the tragedy and turmoil, the terrible events that had marked the last few days at Montclair. I COUNT ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS.

  Once upon a time it may have been true. Not now.

  She walked up the hill to the family cemetery. Malcolm’s grave was yet unmarked, but Blythe had left instructions for Kate Cameron to see that a headstone was erected with the inscription:

  God’s finger touched him and he slept.

  Brief is life, but love is long.

  The iron gate opened grudgingly, creaking on its rusted hinges. Blythe stood near the newly mounded grave and said good-bye to the husband she had loved so long and who only lately, she believed, had come to love her. Her glance wandered to the grave next to his, the granite marker over which hovered a brooding stone angel.

  ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE,

  BELOVED WIFE OF MALCOLM,

  MOTHER OF JONATHAN

  Eyes brimming with tears, Blythe turned
and left, regretting anew the fact that Malcolm had not learned he was to be a father for a second time. She had to go away, bear his child alone somewhere, but not on this land, for he had gambled it away. Yet, it was sorrow Blythe felt, not bitterness.

  That night she made a slow tour of the whole house, committing to memory the things she could not take with her—things she would one day tell her son about his ancestral home. She fingered the table, inlaid with delicate-hued marble forming a bird design and thought of the jeweled eyes that had been plucked out and carried away by maurauding Union soldiers. She let her hand trail across the wide banister of the circular stairway and felt the saber scars marring the smooth surface. Pausing before a framed watercolor of Montclair as it looked in 1812, she read the name, Avril Dumont, and wondered if this bride of Montclair had fared well in this house.

  She entered the nursery from the master bedroom, up the tiny narrow stairs. Here, close to their parents, generations of Montrose babies had been nursed by their Negro mammies. Here, all the Montrose children had played, the rocking horse and dollhouse still waiting. But Blythe’s children would never know this room.

  Finally, she closed each door and went into the room that had been hers since coming to Montclair less than a year ago. A mysterious silence had fallen over the house—a sadness that had no name.

  Of one thing Blythe felt sure, however. This house had once known grandeur and would know it again. A Montrose had built it, and a Montrose would live here again. How this would come to be, Blythe did not know, but she was convinced of it.

  Then, at last, there was nothing left to do but wait for the hack Lonnie’s son had been sent to Mayfield to hire. It would arrive the next day to take her to the train station. There, she would board the one morning train to Richmond. Mentally, she calculated the days just passed. Tomorrow would be Christmas Eve.