by Jane Peart
"It certainly could have been the same person, Uncle Greg. Mrs. Devlin is still a handsome lady and her accent is . . . well, I thought it strange, but it may be just a regional dialect. She's from one of the southern states, Virginia."
"Yes, now that you mention it, I'm quite sure it was the same one. Come where it's warmer, and we can talk some more," he suggested, leading Jillian into a small parlor, where a fire blazed in the cozy fireplace. There were books galore and tea already set out on a wheeled teacart. "I don't have much company nowadays," Uncle Greg said, motioning Jillian to one of the comfortable chintz-covered chairs. "Oh, the vicar comes by once a week or so. He's quite a local historian."
"That's interesting, Uncle Greg," Jill interrupted, "because that's one thing I wanted to discuss with you—our ancestors, the Marshes, that is. Mrs. Devlin intends to take her granddaughter back to Virginia and has asked me to accompany them when they go. I'm not sure, but I seem to remember that we had an ancestor who was a Colonist, didn't we?"
"Well, not in the strict sense of the word. Most of the Englishmen who went to the Colonies were second sons, you understand . . . the rule of primogeniture existed here for centuries—first-born son inherits everything. So a disinherited second or third son was often tempted to seek his fortune in the Colonies. Some of them managed to get magnificent King's Grants and became prosperous plantation owners." Uncle Greg chuckled. "Most probably the King later regretted his generosity when those same men became leaders in the Revolution!"
"Was it a second son in the Marsh family who went to America?"
Uncle Greg shook his head. "The Marshes were too wealthy, too powerful, owned too much land to leave unless . . . for some reason they had lost their fortunes or came to grief through some other such disaster." He paused, holding out a plate of poppyseed cake. "Here, Jillian, help yourself. It's one of Mrs. Crombie's prize recipes, and she'll be insulted if we don't eat every crumb."
Jill took a generous slice. "But wasn't there a great manor house on the bluffs overlooking the village? And didn't that house belong to the Marsh family at some time?"
"Yes, but it wasn't built originally for the Marsh family. It was once a monastery. You see, during his reign, Henry VIII took vengeance on the Catholic Church for blocking his marriage to Anne Boleyn. The result was the dissolution of the monasteries. Monksmoor Priory was actually taken from a prosperous order of monks and given to Basil Marsh, one of the king's loyal favorites. The Marsh family lived there for generations. Then, if memory serves, the main manor house was sold, and the Dower House was . . . " Here, Uncle Greg's demeanor changed, and a light flickered in his faded blue eyes. "Something quite remarkable has occurred to me. In the late 1880s, the Dower House was dismantled, or at least part of it, and moved, brick by brick, to the United States?" He inched to the edge of his chair. "I'll have to check this out with the vicar, but I do believe he told me something else about that when I first came here to live upon my retirement from the army."
"What, Uncle Greg?" Jillian asked, her own interest piqued by his excitement.
"That Dower House was inherited by a wealthy American widow who had it moved to . . . yes, I'm almost certain the vicar said it was . . . Virginia!"
"Fascinating," Jillian murmured. "And what about Monksmoor Priory? Whatever became of it?"
"I believe there were plans to turn it into a girls' boarding school at one time. But before that could be done, it changed hands again, and then the war came along. No doubt the old house has been abandoned, left to decay. No one can afford to live in a place like that these days. And there are no institutional funds to restore the old homes."
"Is it far from here, Uncle?" Jill asked. "Could I walk there, just to see it for myself?"
"Oh, yes, it's quite a pleasant walk in good weather. Can't say why I haven't been over there myself." Uncle Greg, stimulated by Jill's interest in one of his favorite topics, settled back in his chair. "If you like, after we've had our tea, I'll get out some of the old books and ledgers. You'll be able to see a record of births, deaths, marriages, and other transactions, such as land bought, sold, or . . . " He lowered his voice mischievously—"stolen. There are rogues among the aristocracy, you know, even in a family as prestigious as ours."
Jill and her uncle talked through the afternoon, poring over the old books he had brought down from the attic, their leather binding tattered, the pages yellowed and curled at the edges. While outside, the sky darkened, thunder rumbled, and the rain began to fall in torrents.
By midmorning the next day, the weather had cleared and Jillian set out for Monksmoor Priory or what might be left of it. She walked to the village, past the stone church and the vicarage and followed the narrow country road that led up the hill. At its crest, through the swirling mist, she saw the outline of a building that must be her ancestors' mansion. It had a certain lonely splendor, and Jillian halted, as much to accommodate the sudden rush of emotion she was experiencing as to catch her breath from the steep climb.
In the next few minutes, she tried to imagine what it must have been like for that young woman, Noramary Marsh, whose story Uncle Greg had related to her the evening before, to leave this place in 1745 and board a sailing vessel to travel thousands of miles across the treacherous ocean into an uncertain future. In a strange way Jill felt a bonding with this unknown ancestress. Soon she would be embarking on a new adventure, and she had no idea where it would eventually take her.
On Sunday Jill accompanied her uncle to services at the church.
"You must meet the vicar, my dear. I know he'll want to show you the cemetery with some of the Marsh tombstones, but we'll have to make sure that he knows what time your train leaves," Uncle Greg warned with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Otherwise, he'll keep you overly long, and you'll miss it."
The church was unheated, and the ancient stones seemed to have taken hostage the accumulated winters and held them in a damp chill. Jillian tucked her hands into the sleeves of her coat, feeling the penetrating cold creep all through her.
The service was mercifully short, for on this day, the vicar had chosen to use the brief form of worship. The words referring to Christ "and he had compassion on the multitude" seemed appropriate as the balding minister turned to bestow the final blessing. It seemed particularly appropriate, even prophetic, that the closing prayer was one for guidance for those facing new challenges, for travelers, for the unknown future. Jillian followed along with the other parishioners:
Direct us, O Lord, in all our doings with Thy most gracious favor and further us with Thy continual help; that in all our works begun, continued and ended in Thee, we may glorify Thy Holy Name and finally, by Thy mercy, obtain everlasting life through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
After the benediction, everyone scurried to the exit doors, probably seeking home, hot tea, and a welcoming fire. But Uncle Greg put a restraining hand on Jillian's arm. "I'll have a word with one of the acolytes, and ask him to tell the vicar that we'd like to see him for a few minutes."
He approached the altar where a small, rosy-cheeked boy in starched surplice and red cassock was having difficulty extinguishing one of the tall candles and waited patiently until the task was accomplished. Jillian watched as an animated conversation ensued.
A satisfied smile on his face, Uncle Greg returned to the pew. "He'll give the vicar my message. I asked him to meet us by the gate leading to the cemetery."
Outside, the sky was overcast with a misty shower falling. In all probability, it would soon turn to rain, Jillian predicted. She shivered in her light coat.
Then almost as if summoned, the smiling vicar appeared, his black cape billowing in the sharp wind. "I understand you are interested in viewing some of the epitaphs." He shook his head regretfully as he pushed open the ornate iron gate into the graveyard. "This place was in terrible shape when I came here. I spent many hours scraping off the moss so the names could be seen. Some are very old indeed. Now, I suppose it is the Marsh family stones you want to see?
"
It was with a unique thrill that Jillian followed him down the gravel path to a plot marked by several granite headstones. The vicar and Uncle Greg stood conversing in low tones as she stepped in and out between the markers until she found the ones she was looking for—Simon Marsh, 1718-1756, and Leatrice Emery Marsh, 1724-1768. This would be the older half-brother of Noramary Marsh, the young girl who had been sent to America. Apparently Simon had been buried here with his wife. Alongside these were four other markers, presumably their children—Thomas, Colin, Roger, Matthew. But where was the grave of Simon's stepmother, Noramary's mother, who had died giving birth to her?
Then she saw it, standing a little apart from the others—a stone cherub, its chin resting on one chubby hand while the other stroked the head of a lamb. Moving over quickly to the marker, Jillian read the inscription:
ELEANORA CARY MARSH
Beloved Wife of Norbert Marsh
Born 1712, Died 1732
Too beautiful, Too good, Too young, Too soon
Unexpectedly Jillian's eyes filled with tears and she blinked them away, relieved that Uncle Greg and the vicar were too engrossed in their conversation to notice.
"Well, my dear, we must be on our way if you are to have some lunch before your train leaves," Uncle Greg reminded her.
They thanked the vicar, and Jillian walked back to the cottage with her uncle without further comment, caught up in the overwhelming discovery of this link to her past. Still, it was the future that beckoned now. When she said her good-byes, promising to keep him posted, Jillian found herself looking ahead to the next bend of the road.
chapter
4
WHEN JILLIAN returned to her flat late Sunday afternoon, she found a note from Mrs. Devlin, saying that she would come for her on Wednesday for the drive down to her granddaughter's school.
"I fear we shall have to sit through some dreadful program, as it is Parents' Day, and the teachers take pride in showing off their students' talents, piano recitals and such," wrote Garnet Devlin. "But it will give you a chance to meet Bryanne, and that is our main reason for making the trip."
She ended by stating the time she would arrive, then signed her name. Mrs. Devlin's handwriting was, like her, dramatic, distinctive. Jillian smiled as she refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope.
Jill dressed carefully for the occasion. She had used some of the money Mrs. Devlin had advanced to buy a new blouse, some good gloves, and some grosgrain ribbons to refurbish her hat. This would be an important meeting, and Jillian wanted to make a good impression. She remembered enough about her own teen years to know that Bryanne Montrose would either like her or detest her on sight. Of course, it could be the other way round. There was just as likely a possibility that Bryanne would turn out to be an obnoxious brat, spoiled by a doting grandmother!
Precisely at ten, Jillian's awe-struck landlady knocked at the door of her flat, announcing in hushed tones the arrival of a chauffeur-driven limousine. Mouth agape, eyes popping, she watched as Jillian went downstairs, then out to the sleek, silver-gray Rolls, escorted by Mrs. Devlin's driver, uniformed in a matching gray.
When Jillian climbed into the back seat, she found Mrs. Devlin, exquisitely attired in a suit of Persian blue wool, the jacket fashioned as a Cossack tunic, its high-necked collar and cuffs banded in black astrakhan fur. If it hadn't been in such perfect taste, her outfit might have been considered theatrical, but it suited her. The hat was a darker blue velvet, trimmed with an ornamental silver pin and veiled over a face that, even at close range, seemed scarcely lined.
As the automobile purred down the Devon country roads, Mrs. Devlin outlined the day's plan. "I'm sorry to have to expose you to such a tedious time, but we'll take Bryanne out for tea at the inn afterward. But first I suppose we'll have to endure one of those awful games!"
Jillian's mouth twitched in an effort to suppress her smile. The look of distaste on her employer's face revealed that Mrs. Devlin did not share the British proclivity for active sports. But from Jill's own brief experience at an English girls' school, she knew that physical exercise was considered a necessary part of any young lady's complete education.
The rest of the drive, given to a discussion of the European trip that Mrs. Devlin was planning, passed quickly. Soon they were turning into the long graveled drive leading to Sylvan Court School for Girls.
In spite of Mrs. Devlin's negative comments about the day's activities, Jill was anxious to meet Bryanne Montrose. She was predisposed to like the child, to be her friend and ally, possibly even her protector, for the simple reason that having a grandmother like Garnet Devlin could not be easy!
Jillian would never forget her first glimpse of Bryanne. The young girl had come running down the stone steps from the balustraded terrace where she had evidently been watching for her grandmother's car. She came now, braids flying, hat hanging by its strings and bobbing behind, collar and tie askew, black cotton stockings sagging, but with a sweet smile on her plump face.
"Gramum! Gramum! I'm so glad to see you. I was afraid you weren't coming!"
Jillian's heart tugged at those poignant words. Had Mrs. Devlin disappointed the child before? Jillian would not have been surprised. After all, the woman had confessed to finding these visiting days trying. She glanced at the two of them—the child ready to fling herself into her grandmother's arms in a spontaneous welcome, the woman bracing herself.
Garnet put up both kid-gloved hands to straighten the brim of her hat. "Good heavens, child, do be careful! You nearly knocked me over," she admonished in the wake of her granddaughter's fierce hug. "Here now, let me have a look at you." She gave a disapproving cluck as her eyes moved critically over Bryanne's person. Then the frown disappeared, and she patted the girl's rosy cheek affectionately. "Bryanne, my dear, I want you to meet Miss Marsh, your new governess and our traveling companion."
The girl turned wide, sparkling blue eyes on Jillian. "Oh, that's really keen! I'm ever so glad to meet you. Gramum wrote me about you." She thrust out her hand and grabbed Jillian's, pumping it vigorously. "Does that mean I can leave school, Gramum? This place is such a . . . well, I'd much rather come live with you again . . . and Miss Marsh, too, of course."
"At the end of the term, my dear. That's the best I can do," Garnet said. "I'm making the arrangements now. We'll be going to the south of France when you're finished here. Now, can we take you out for tea, or do we have to . . . I mean, is there a game for us to watch or some sort of program we must . . . " She looked to Jillian for help.
"Oh, there's just to be a recitation and some of the music students will play their instruments and then we'll all sing the school song and then we can go," explained Bryanne breathlessly. "But first, you have to go in and speak to my dorm teacher, Gramum."
Jillian liked Bryanne immediately. Although she sensed that here was a child of enormous inner resources, there was also a vulnerability about her, an almost aching need to be accepted and loved. You could see it in her eyes, in the longing look she turned on her grandmother, yearning for her approval.
Jillian thought again of Garnet Devlin's words on the day of their first meeting: My daughter Faith, tragically lost in the sinking of the Titanic—a loss from which I shall never recover. Was Bryanne somehow expected to take the place of Mrs. Devlin's dead daughter, a daughter whom death had idealized, probably out of all proportion to reality? If so, Jill pitied the child.
After the program in the school auditorium, the three climbed into the waiting limousine, Bryanne on one of the pull-down jump seats. The child kept up a running monologue as they drove to Sylvan Arms Inn.
Mrs. Devlin lifted an elegant brow and, glancing at Jill, rolled her eyes and sighed. Jill, on the contrary, found Bryanne's enthusiasm natural and appealing. It was clear that she was enjoying every minute of her holiday!
In the dining room of the inn, they were served an elaborate tea. It annoyed Jill that Garnet constantly corrected Bryanne's manners, frequently
interrupting the girl's eager narration of incidents at school. Bryanne, obviously wanting to please, punctuated her recital with "Sorry, Gramum." By the end of teatime, Bryanne became noticeably subdued.
Sorry to see the girl's spirits dampened and hoping to make her feel better, Jillian complimented Bryanne on the silver heart locket she was wearing over her school uniform.
The girl brightened immediately. Pulling it forward so Jill could see, she pressed the spring and the locket flew open. "Lynette sent it to me for my birthday. See, I put her picture inside."
"She's very pretty," Jillian said, leaning over to admire the likeness. "Is Lynette a special friend?"
"Oh, no, Lynette is my sister. She's older than me."
"Older than 2, Bryanne," Mrs. Devlin corrected automatically. Turning to Jill, she explained, "Lynette is my other granddaughter. She lives in Virginia. You would never guess these two were sisters, would you? Lynette is the image of her mother at that age."
It was at that moment, Jillian realized later, that she made the decision to become Bryanne Montrose's champion. When the afternoon wore to an end and the girl was returned to her school, Jill relinquished part of her heart along with the obligatory handshake.
"Well?" Mrs. Devlin turned to Jillian as they drove off. "Have you changed your mind, or do you still want to take on this job?"
While the woman's attitude strained Jillian's patience, it strengthened her resolve. Grooming Bryanne to become a debutante seemed irrelevant. More important was giving her the assurance that she was loved and accepted just as she was.
"Oh, yes, I do," Jill replied firmly. "I believe Bryanne and I will be great friends."
