by Jane Peart
chapter
30
“ALL ABOARD! All aboard for Richmond and points north!” shouted the conductor, swinging down from one of the cars on the train which had arrived at the station with a great shriek, a clanging of brakes on the steel rails, and billows of hissing steam.
Lifting her skirts, Blythe stepped onto the small, square stool giving access to the higher steps of the train and made her way through the narrow passage into one of the coaches. It appeared to be empty. Was no one traveling on Christmas Eve except herself) Tet why should anyone choose to leave the warm hospitality of Tidewater Virginia at this season? she thought miserably.
Blythe found a seat by a window, her nose wrinkling slightly at the acrid smell of soot, coal dust, and stale air. Looking out through the grime-streaked window, she saw a splendid carriage pulling up to the station.
The door opened and an elegantly dressed man alighted. His driver carried handsome leather bags, and the porter quickly tagged them. The conductor seemed to know him, for he tipped his hat and bowed obsequiously as he came aboard.
“Yes, sir, right this way, Mr. Bondurant,” she heard the conductor say.
Blythe froze. Bondurant! Malcolm’s creditor! The man who had won Montclair on the turn of a card!
Instinctively, Blythe shrank back against the scratchy, green covering of the seat and averted her head as the two men passed along the aisle beside her.
Her face concealed by her heavy black veiling, she risked a quick look and caught the fleeting impression of a tall man wearing a tweed cape and trailing the scent of spicy and expensive tobacco
Blythe’s heart sank. How incredible that he, the winner, and she, the loser, should be on the same train!
With a jerking start, a jolt, then the chug of the engine, the train lurched forward, gathering speed as it rolled down the track. Her face pressed against the glass, Blythe watched as the little yellow station grew smaller and smaller, the sign MAYFIELD shrinking until she could no longer read the letters.
The familiar countryside began to rush past and, as each mile took her farther away, propelling her into the unknown, Blythe felt a kind of exhilaration. In spite of her uncertain future, Blythe’s innate optimism buoyed her spirits, and her newly tried faith assured her that all would be well.
When they arrived in Richmond, Blythe saw Bondurant again. With so few passengers, the encounter was inevitable. He was met by a man in a dark uniform, a servant, she assumed. She watched him as he strode through the station with the confident air of one who enjoyed the best that wealth and prestige could buy.
Blythe had a long wait in Richmond, and then again in Washington for the train to New York. The empty terminals spoke visibly of the festive season when families gather to celebrate the birth of the Christ child. Only the unfortunate, the homeless, the bereaved would be alone on such a day, she mused, and now I am all three.
Blythe was unaware of curious stares from the train and station workers required to work on this holiday. Obviously in mourning in her black cloak and crepe-ribboned bonnet, she made a poignandy charming picture, young and beautiful.
Not knowing how to buy a sleeping car ticket to New York, she sat up all night in the sparsely filled coach. It did not matter, for she could not have slept anyway, she knew. There were too many troublesome problems to solve—what to do when she arrived in New York, where to stay, how to assume the care of herself and her coming child.
She would go immediately to the law firm, she decided. There, she could learn the sum of her inheritance and where she could afford to stay until she knew what next step to take. She fought the intermittent panic.
Her heart thumped treacherously as the train slid into the New York station on December 26 with a great puffing of steamy smoke, a grinding of gears.
The conductor, making his way through the car, stopped at her seat. “Could I find you a porter, miss?”
“Yes, please. And then, perhaps, a hack to take me into the city?”
He touched the bill of his cap. “Of course. Follow me.”
Once outside the huge terminal, she was assailed by strange sights, sounds, smells. She had known only the solitude of a convent, the vast stillness of Pa’s ranch in the Sierra foothills, the quiet seclusion of Montclair. This cacophony of milling people, neighing horses, noxious fumes assaulted her senses, and she reeled under the impact.
The porter hailed one of the cabs from the row parked along the curbing, and it came rolling up, drawn by one of the saddest-looking horses Blythe had ever seen. The poor creature was badly in need of currying, its ribs showed through its shaggy sides, and even the harness seemed too heavy for its scrawny back.
When the porter hoisted Blythe’s trunk atop, she tipped him, hoping it was an appropriate amount.
“Where to, miss?” the cabbie asked.
Blythe glanced at the card she held in her hand and read off the address of the law firm.
The brownstone building housing the offices of Cargill, Hoskins, and Sedgewick was impressive. The inner suite boasted dark oak paneling, leather furnishings, and plush carpet. Behind the desk in the reception area, a haughty-looking man in a stiff bat-wing collar peered over his glasses at Blythe.
“I would like to see either Mr. Cargill, Mr. Hoskins, or Mr. Sedgewick,” she said quietly, struggling to present a composed appearance.
“And whom shall I say wishes to speak with—” Here the man paused, his voice edged with sarcasm—“Mr. Cargill or Mr. Hoskins or Mr. Sedgewick?” he mimicked.
Blythe drew herself up and replied coolly, “Mrs. Malcolm Montrose of Montclair in Mayfield, Virginia. I am the daughter of his client, Jedediah Dorman.”
His eyes skimmed her, taking her measure. Then he said, “One moment, madam, and I shall see if one of the gentlemen is free,” With this, the man disappeared down a corridor of closed doors.
Only minutes later, one of them burst open and a portly, gray-haired gentleman came marching toward Blythe, all smiles, hands outstretched in greeting.
“My dear Miss Dorman!” he said heartily.
“Mrs. Montrose,” Blythe corrected.
“Yes, of course … Mrs. Montrose. Come in, come in,” he said, offering her his arm. “I am George Cargill, one of the senior partners.”
Blythe could not resist a glance at the obviously astounded clerk.
Seating her in a comfortable leather chair, Mr. Cargill went behind his massive desk and sat down, folded his plump, pink hands in front of him, and smiled ingratiatingly. “Now what can we do for you?”
“I came directly here after arriving by train from Richmond,” she explained. “I am recendy widowed, Mr. Cargill, and among my late husband’s belongings, I found a letter from my father, instructing me to seek you out if … if I should ever find myself alone.”
“I see. Go on.”
“I also understand my father made a will, drawn by your firm. I should like to know the status of my finances in order to make some plans for the future.”
“Well, naturally. But I’m afraid Mr. Sedgewick handled your father’s account and investments. It is he who has the full particulars regarding your inheritance. Unfortunately, he is out of town, a family holiday, you know—”
With a start, Blythe realized it was the twenty-sixth of December. Christmas had come and gone without her notice. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“We expect him back in the city tonight, so we shall set up an appointment for tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be very happy to meet you and assist you in any way possible.”
“But you can, I hope, recommend a proper place for me to stay. A reasonably priced one?” Blythe suggested, feeling the strain of recent past events.
“Better than that. I will have our own driver and carriage brought ‘round to drive you.”
“Thank you. I am very tired. I have had no sleep since I left Virginia—three days now.”
Mr. Cargill looked aghast. “You did not engage a sleeping car?”
“No.”
>
Mr. Cargill shook his head in disbelief. “My dear lady, with what I know of your father’s holdings and investments, if the railroad company had been aware of your presence on their conveyance, you would have been granted a private compartment!”
In the plushly upholstered carriage on the way to the hotel, Blythe wondered what she would learn about her financial condition in the morning. Mr. Cargill had seemed very sure of himself when he handed the driver a card with the address of the hotel, and they arrived after what seemed a long ride in front of a large building with a lavish façade.
The driver deposited Blythe, with her trunk and reticules, on the curbing, where she was greeted by a doorman who escorted her into an ornately decorated lobby. Even if the cost for a night’s lodging seemed exorbitant to Blythe, she knew the establishment was respectable and a safe place for a woman traveling alone.
She placed a gold piece on the counter, and the desk clerk’s eyebrows shot up. He gave the metal bell an authoritative tap, motioning the bell-cap front and center.
“Take madam’s bag,” he ordered, then with a deferential bow, handed Blythe the key. “Room 210, and we hope you have a pleasant stay. If you require anything further, just ring for room service. There is a steward on each floor.”
She followed the red-uniformed attendant down carpeted halls with her head held high, determined to maintain an air of dignity despite her pounding heart. Only once before had she stayed in a hotel—with Malcolm in New Orleans, on their way to Montclair.
It was not until the maid had left and she was alone in the unfamiliar room, however, that the full weight of her plight struck her.
Blythe walked over and looked out the window. Holding back the heavy draperies, she saw it was beginning to grow dark. The streets below were crowded with carriages, people all hurrying somewhere … home? The fact that she was now completely homeless came down upon her with intensity.
She was alone in the world. Absolutely alone … and with no prospect of anything more … except for the baby that was coming. She squared her shoulders. Whatever lay ahead, she trusted God would be with her, to guide and protect her.
Tomorrow when she knew what her father had left her, she could make plans. Tomorrow.
She slept very little. The unfamiliar surroundings—this room with its high ceilings, heavy draperies, and muffled sounds of the city streets below—kept her tense and restless much of the night. She awoke in starts and, when the first, steely-gray light of dawn crept through the slits between the drawn curtains, she was fully awake.
At the front desk, she asked for a cab to be called. Clutching the card bearing the address of the attorneys, Blythe stepped out onto the steps of the hotel, while the uniformed doorman whisded for one of the high-wheeled, black vehicles. The wind was mercilessly cold, sweeping soot in its gusty drafts. Blythe was grateful for the protective covering of the veil on her bonnet, if not overly warm in her lightweight coat.
When she arrived in the law offices, she found Mr. Sedgewick to be entirely different from the jovial Mr. Cargill. He regarded Blythe impassively as he recited a long list of her father’s investments and what her annual income from the interest on the capital of her inheritance would be. Blythe drew in her breath incredulously.
Her father had left her valuable stocks in thriving enterprises, among them a silver mine in Colorado, railroads and shipping lines.
It seemed impossible. She and Pa had lived simply, much like the other ranch families in Lucas Valley. Why, she had had no idea! If she had only known this before … she could have saved Montclair … saved Malcolm!
Mr. Sedgewick’s voice intruded. “You are a very wealthy young woman, Mrs. Montrose,” he said finally as he closed the folder marked DORMAN.
The enormity of his announcement sank slowly into Blythe’s stunned consciousness. The world that only last night had seemed a frightening place was suddenly transformed. Before her lay endless possibilities.
Even at this very moment, she thought of Rod. Although she had promised herself not to look back, not a day had passed since leaving Virginia that he had not slipped into her mind. What if she returned to Montclair, used her father’s inheritance to pay off the debts, and reclaimed her child’s heritage? What if she and Rod—? She shook her head. It was useless to speculate. Her first duty was to the child she was carrying, Malcolm’s child. She shouldn’t even be thinking of another man just now.
No, it was best to go away. Happiness for herself and Rod, under these circumstances, was impossible. If things had been different—
“So then, Mrs. Montrose, what are your plans?” Mr. Sedgewick asked, leaning back in his leather chair, steepling his fingers and tapping them meditatively.
Blythe could not tell what made her say it, but as soon as the words were spoken, she knew she had made the right decision. “I’m going to England.”
Mr. Sedgewick’s wispy eyebrows rose alarmingly. “To England? But my dear young lady—an Adantic crossing in December? That could be very treacherous.” His eyebrows rose another inch. “Do you have relatives … friends there?”
“No.”
“Then why—?” Mr. Sedgewick frowned. Then, seeing Blythe’s mouth set stubbornly, he changed his tactic. “Would it not be better to choose a milder climate at this time of year? I have friends, an English couple, the Ainsleys, who winter in Bermuda. I could give you a letter of introduction. I’m sure they would be happy to find you a cottage to spend the next months. Then in the spring, when they return to their home in England, you would have congenial traveling companions. England is lovely in April—”
Blythe considered his suggestion for a long minute. Perhaps he was right. Her father had intended her to follow his lawyer’s advice.
“Very well, Mr. Sedgewick, I would be most grateful if you would arrange it for me.”
CHAPTER
31
THE OIL LAMP burned low, sputtering and sending elongated shadows against the rough plaster walls of the room above the barn that had once housed the Camerons’magnificent carriages. Now it served as Rod Cameron’s plantation office and apartments.
Rod sat at his desk, open ledger books before him, tallying the figures for the year’s costs. For the third time, he added a row of numbers, a frown etched deeply in his brow. Then he twisted the pen he held in his fingers and, with a groan, tossed it aside and ran his hand through his thick russet hair.
“Where is she? Where could she have gone without a word to anyone?” His voice, echoing in the cavernous room, mocked him.
Unable to bear the thought of Blythe’s being alone, Rod had ridden over to Montclair Christmas afternoon only to find the place deserted, Blythe gone. Later, her letter came.
How desperate she must have been! But why, after all they had shared, hadn’t she reached out to him?
Everyone in Mayfield knew Montclair had been lost to a stranger who had taken over the property and was even now restoring the house and gardens to its antebellum glory. Why couldn’t it have been Malcolm?
But if it had been Malcolm, Blythe would still be married to him. Impatiendy, he rose and paced the bare-planked floor, the heels of his riding boots cracking like the lash of a whip.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife, the Scripture commanded. Rod knew that full well. Who would have ever imagined he would fall in love with the wife his friend had brought home from California?
But his heart had betrayed him. How long those feelings had existed, he couldn’t be sure. He only knew he loved Blythe deeply, devotedly, completely … and forever.
The setter, who had been asleep at his feet, watched his master hopefully. But Rod did not have a moonlight stroll in mind. He strode over to the bookcase, pulled out a worn book from the shelf, then carried it back to the desk, where it fell open to a marked page. The marker, fragile with age, was a rose.
Immediately, that fall day came vividly to his memory. He had taken a bouquet of his mother’s roses to Blythe. He could still see the golde
n lights in her auburn hair as she bent over the flowers, the image of her face as she breathed in their dewy fragrance.
Carefully, he picked up the bud he had pressed in his favorite book of poetry later that same day. As he touched it, it crumbled, its powdery substance dusting the page, and his eyes fell on two lines he had marked:
Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. O love, what hours were thine and mine.
Rod slammed the book shut and clenched his fist, pounding the table. “She couldn’t have simply disappeared! There must be some way to trace her whereabouts.”
Would she have gone back West, to that little mountain town she had spoken of with such affection? But she had told him there were no relatives there. She was alone in the world.
“Dear God, I must find her!” he prayed aloud. Just then, a thought crossed his mind. “Lonnie!” Surely the black woman knew where her mistress had gone. He would ride over first thing in the morning, question her about Blythe.
“Why didn’t I think of that before?” he groaned. “If I had only said something to her, declared my love. But I thought it wouldn’t be right … proper … to say anything so soon after Malcolm’s death. I thought if I waited. … I thought she knew!”
His heart contorted with a sharp physical pain. Blythe! My beautiful Blythe!
He saw again her tall, slender figure, the fine features, the smooth, peach-blushed complexion, the dark red sheen of her hair … and his longing to see her, hold her in his arms, kiss the soft sweetness of her mouth overcame him.
“I will find her!” he vowed, striking his palm with a balled fist. “If I have to go to the ends of the earth … if it takes me the rest of my life … I will find her!”
Four days past her eighteenth birthday, Blythe awoke from an exhausted sleep and opened her eyes. For a full moment, she lay there, unable to will herself into full consciousness.
