by Jane Peart
When Bryanne retired to her room for the night, she could hardly wait to write her sister:
Dearest Lynette,
Guess what? The most exciting thing has happened! Gramum has decided to take me out of this awful school at the end of the term! I can't tell you how glad I am. But the best part is that she has employed the most darling young woman to be my . . . well, not exactly my governess, I'm much too old for that. . . but as a sort of companion. I'm not quite sure what her title is. But anyway she'll live with us and travel with us when we go to the south of France for the summer. Gramum has rented a seaside villa there. It's not going to be entirely a holiday, she said, as I'll be studying French and botany . . . the flora and fauna of Cote d'Azur, do you suppose? Anyway, I'm delirious with happiness to be out of this prison for good!
Oh, I didn't tell you about Miss Marsh, Miss Jillian Marsh. Don't you simply love that name? Sounds like a Charlotte Bronte heroine. She's very pretty, not governessy at all. Has gobs of soft brown hair, a beautiful complexion, and the most extraordinary eyes with long dark lashes. I know we are going to get on famously. She doesn't treat me like a child at all. Uh-oh, the bell has just rung for lights out. More later.
Love,
Brynnie
chapter
5
Letters between the Cameron twins,
Kitty Traherne and Cara Brandt, 1921 to 1924
Eden Cottage
Fall, 1921
Dear Cara,
I hate letters that start out with apologies. But since I haven't written in a long time, you must be wondering what has been going on here. It has been such a busy summer. I have been helping Lynette get off to her first year at Teachers College, shopping for appropriate collegiate clothes, driving her to Fredericksburg, meeting with her prospective roommate and family, then helping both girls get their room in order, with curtains, bedspreads, and other things to make their "home away from home" cozy and comfortable for the year ahead.
I am so proud of Lynette. She has shown such maturity and responsibility. I think her decision to become a teacher was well-advised. I'm sure you agree. After our experiences during the War, you and I understand how important it is for a woman to prepare herself to be independent, to take her place in the world.
Since you and I have found our own identity, have realized some of our goals and dreams, I want this for Lynette. She has such sweetness and depth of character, in spite of her motherless childhood and with an absentee father.
Of course, I also hope that one day she will find her ideal mate, just as you and I have done. Although your happiness with Owen was sadly brief, you did know that completion that only a truly compatible relationship can bring.
And even though Richard's health remains precarious, I count each day we have together as precious. He is everything I could possibly wish for in a husband. Our life is as nearly perfect as one could imagine. The weather here is still fine—warm, sunny days and crisp nights. So in the mornings, I work in the garden and Richard directs from his wheelchair, enjoying the beauty that surrounds this enchanted place. Sometimes we even lunch out in the grape arbor. Evenings are especially lovely, sitting before ourfireplace as we listen to music on the phonograph, or Richard reads me one of his latest compositions. We talk endlessly and are continually discovering new and delightful things about each other.
Oh, Cara, I feel so fortunate to have found someone like Richard who is so brilliant, so kind, so dear. He stimulates me to be more creative, to think more deeply about life. With each day that passes, I love him more and more and am so grateful to God for sparing his life, despite the cruel injury.
Well, I must not run on so, but I did want to share my life with you. It brings us closer somehow, even with your being thousands of miles across the ocean. Please write and tell me what you are doing, the people you are working with . . . everything! And don't make me wait too long to hear from you.
Ever your loving twin,
Kitty
Paris, France
January 1922
Dearest Kitty,
Now that Christmas is over, Paris is gray and cheerless. Outside it is drizzling—a fine, cold mist. All the beautiful snow that fell on New Year's Eve is lying in frozen, filthy clumps along the edges of the streets and sidewalks.
All the children in the orphanage have some kind of respiratory problems—from sniffles to bronchitis—and I wish I had some of your nursing skills to see us through the epidemic! However, I do the "grunt work" of keeping the nurses supplied with hot water, clean towels, and little handkerchiefs for the tiny red noses! But there is some compensation. Running up and down the steps from the basement laundry to the nursery dozens of times a day with armloads of linens is keeping me slim. What a few sets of tennis used to accomplish!
Speaking of tennis . . . those old carefree days in Mayfield seem an eon ago. I can hardly remember the life I used to live back then. Everything seems now to be divided by "before" and "after" the war. Even my life with Owen in our small parish gets dimmer with each passing day. We were so terribly young, weren't we?
Not that I would change a moment of those two years. Neither would I want to relive them. Owen taught me so much and prepared me for what I am doing now, even though he didn't realize it, of course. If he could only know how he expanded my heart, broadened my interests, my concerns for other people, the whole world! Maybe he does!
Oh, Kitty, you would love these children as I do! Lately I have been working in the nursery, where they bring the new orphans, some of them scarcely more than infants. Think of it. . . both parents dead, deprived of care, helpless to defend themselves. One baby has really crawled into my heart. She is a fragile little thing, her skin almost transparent, her eyes huge in her small pale face. Her name is Nicole, and she requires a great deal of care. It takes hours to feed her, and then she sometimes falls asleep in my arms, and I hold her . . . longer than I am supposed to. But she is so special.
Owen and I wanted lots of children. We talked about it often. I guess I'm substituting now for the life I thought I would have with Owen after the war. Owen used to quote the Bible, "Sufficient unto the day," along with a saying of his Quaker grandmother, "Be present where you are." That's what I'm trying to do. I feel this is where I'm supposed to be at this particular time. What God has for me next, I don't know.
Love always,
Cara
Eden Cottage November, 1923
Dear Cara,
Richard is gone. He died peacefully in his sleep, holding my hand. I am numb, still hardly able to believe it has happened. Even though I thought I was prepared, even though I knew we were living on borrowed time, when the end finally came, it was almost impossible for me to grasp it.
He was given a military funeral with all the honors, but I felt cold and removed from it. I saw no glory in the war. I saw too many die. Such a waste. Richard, particularly, with his brilliance, his talent, his zest for life. He had so much to give, and now he is dead.
I have been going over his poems. Not to be morbid but to feel I'd not completely lost him. It is in his poetry that Richard is most himself, the Richard I knew and loved. Most of these poems are unpublished, although the few that were published received critical reviews. But he was a perfectionist, and I can see the many corrections and rewrites he did. Reading them in this form leaves me astonished and in awe. Who knows what he might have become, given his allotted fourscore and ten?
Believe me, Twin, I'm not wallowing in self-pity. I am going on with my life, grateful for having known and loved a wonderful man, knowing without doubt that he loved me, too. I am going to close the cottage. I don't think I can live here again. Not by myself and certainly not with anyone else.
Do keep me in your prayers. I see a long, lonely road ahead and I need all the love and support of my friends, family, especially yours, my dear Twin.
Always,
Kitty
Paris, France
April 1924
Dea
r Kitty,
Everything is in bloom over here now. The garden is lovely. Not, of course, to compare with the one at Cameron Hall but beautiful in its own way. I am just grateful the dreary winter is over, and the children can go outside to play.
It's amazing to me that French children play the same games we played as children, called by different names, of course. It is wonderful to watch them play, hear the chatter and laughter of the little ones who have lost so much. Of course, they don't fully realize their loss. The orphanage is all they know. It is their home. But I sometimes wonder what their fate will be when they are too old to stay here any longer. Most French families have been impoverished by the war, the husbands and fathers dead, so there haven't been many adoptions. No one can afford another mouth to feed. War is so insane. The scars never seem to heal.
As you can imagine, my days are full and busy. I did, however, have a week off and went over to see Aunt Garnet at Birchfields. Bryanne was also home for the holidays, and I met her English governess, Jillian Marsh. She has one of those peaches-and-cream complexions that American girls all envy and eyelashes one would die for! But besides all that, she is a lovely person, all warmth and charm. I tried to persuade Aunt Garnet to take Bryanne to Virginia next fall but could get no firm commitment from her. She used my bringing up the subject to launch into her usual tirade about Jeff. So it seems hopeless. The only thing I would suggest is to let Lynette come to England for a visit.
I wish you could see Nicole, my particular "pet" at the orphanage. She is so cunning, Kitty, and so bright. We are not supposed to have favorites among the children, and I try not to, but she is such a darling!
You mentioned Kip's being at loose ends. Why doesn't he get hold of himself? We've all been dealt terrible blows by the War. But at least he has a child, which is more than either of us can say. The trouble with Kip . . . no, I'm not going to get into that! I have a tendency to criticize, as Owen used to point out gently. Sometimes he would quote Scripture to me, Matthew 7:3 especially: "Why do you look at the speck in your brother's eye, but do not consider the plank in your own?" Well, I have plenty of "planks" in mine! I do love Kip—you and I have known and put up with his foibles since childhood—and I sympathize with his losing Etienette, but he has more to live for than many other survivors of that tragic time.
If you see him, give him my best anyway. I really mean that.
Love,
Cara
chapter
6
Summer 1925
Cameron Hall
THE SUMMER after her graduation from Dunbarton, Lynette's spirits had never been lower. Frustrated in her attempt to achieve her heart's goal of reuniting her brother and sister as a family, she felt miserably isolated.
Her plan to get a teaching certificate had been tacitly accepted by the family, and she enrolled at Teachers College for the fall semester. It was a long and difficult year for Lynette. Postcards and infrequent letters from Bryanne further dampened her hopes that Grandmother Devlin would ever give Brynnie the freedom to return to Virginia. Maybe not until her sister was twenty-one and could make her own decisions. Even this last letter, while heartening to learn of Brynnie's relief in leaving the girls' school, suggested that the European tour would be only another delay tactic staged by their grandmother. Who knew how long they would be traveling?
At the end of the term, Lynette went home to Mayfield, almost dreading the long summer stretching ahead. Then, quite unexpectedly, Frank Maynard entered her life again, and suddenly everything changed.
Their first encounter years before had been happenstance. Or was it? Lynette had often wondered afterward. She had nearly given up hope that anything would ever develop from her schoolgirl crush. Their meetings had been few and far between, usually in some social setting crowded with other people. Then one day a few weeks after Lynette's graduation, they met by accident.
Time had hung heavy on her hands since her return. She was not interested in joining the Mayfield social scene, nor was she ready for the many church and charity activities that occupied her Grandmother Blythe.
Driving home one day after doing some errands for her grandmother, Lynette, on impulse, took the old county road instead of the newly paved one. Spotting a sign that read "ESTATE SALE AND AUCTION TODAY" at the end of a drive leading to one of the older homes, she decided to stop and investigate.
Browsing among the boxes of books spread out among clocks, dishes, and other assorted miscellany of household goods on the wide lawn, she heard someone call her name and turned to find Frank looking both surprised and pleased to see her. They talked a while, discussing the items for sale and exchanging a few pleasantries. Afterward, both armed with a varied selection of purchases—an old fan and a Dresden shepherdess for Lynette, mostly books for Frank—he walked with her to her car.
When he discovered that she had not yet eaten lunch, he asked if she would like to go with him to the small country inn nearby. Intrigued with each other, they found that their differences seemed to melt away during the lunch, which lasted nearly three hours.
After that day Frank and Lynette spent many summer afternoons together. From the first, they found each other totally compatible, the difference in age the only problem, and that only for Frank. Gradually as their feelings for each other grew, there was a blending of two devoted hearts, two searching souls; two minds, intelligent and inquisitive; two personalities, quiet and trusting.
They met often on Sunday afternoons for the band concerts in Mayfield Park, then went for a soda afterward. They attended other auctions, browsed in bookstores, went canoeing on the river. Since both loved the written word, notes flowed between them, filled with shared thoughts, quotations, poetry, all the things that meant the most to each of them. Lynette's joy was boundless in this new, unexpected happiness. Even the concern of her aborted family reunion became less worrisome.
Then one day she received a letter from Frank in which he wrote: "To tell you of my deepest feelings, I have stolen from the poet we both admire, John Keats." Then followed the borrowed lines: " J never knew before what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it. Though Keats wrote these words, I hope you will accept the sentiment as my own."
She did, with joy! Nothing seemed more natural to her now than loving Frank Maynard. Having recently discovered the poetry of Elizabeth Barrett, who wrote of her love for Robert Browning, she answered Frank's letter, enclosing a poem from Sonnets from the Portuguese, adding, "We are both borrowers, Frank."
By the end of the summer, they were deeply in love. Unwilling to let the world intrude on their newfound happiness, however, it was still their secret.
Marriage had not been mentioned. Frank, who was still trying to establish his law practice in Mayfield, did not yet feel financially secure enough to ask Lynette to marry him. It was at this point in their relationship that an unexpected opportunity presented itself.
While walking in the woods one brilliant fall afternoon, Frank mentioned it to Lynette. "Mr. Bryan Creighton, one of the partners in the law firm I worked for in Richmond, is urging me to run for office. State senator. How would you feel about that? Since I'm not known everywhere in the district, it would mean months of hard work. I'd have to do quite a bit of traveling, talking to folks, gaining visibility. I'd be away from Mayfield most of the time until the June election."
Lynette did her best to conceal her disappointment. "I'd miss you, Frank," she said carefully. "And I really don't know anything about politics. But I'm sure you'd be wonderful at whatever you choose to do."
Frank reached out and touched her cheek with the palm of his hand. "Ah, Lynette, every aspiring office holder should have someone like you to encourage him." He sighed. "I'm not sure it's something I really want to do, though. But my family has always been patriotic. And it seems like a good chance to do something that might make an important difference. This part of Virginia has been depressed for a long time. I'd like to help bring it back."
&nb
sp; "And you could, Frank. I know you could," she said loyally. "Virginia needs men with ideals."
"Well, I'd like to talk to Scott about it before I decide."
Lynette nodded. "Yes, that would be a good idea. Scott is smart and he knows this area. He could help you a great deal if you decide to run."
"And if I do, and if I win . . . would you mind being a senator's wife?"
Lynette's eyes widened and brightened. "You mean . . . ?"
"Yes, my darling, I'm asking you to be my wife . . . whether or not I'm elected senator. I just wanted to be sure you didn't mind."
"Mind? Why should I mind? But do you really mean it, Frank? You don't think I'm too young?"
He laughed softly and drew her close, kissing her protesting lips. "I think you're exactly the right age." He kissed her again, a lingering kiss, and after releasing her reluctantly, he said, "Should I tell Scott about us?"
"I don't think so," she said. "Not yet. Let's keep it our secret just a little longer." The idea of sharing their bliss was frightening to Lynette. What if something should happen to change their beautiful plans?
Shaking off the thought, Lynette forced herself to think only of the moment. Suddenly another dream seemed possible. Lynette confided to Frank her hope of bringing Bryanne to America to reunite their little family. "Even though it seems almost too late for us ever to be a real family again, I do want us to get to know each other."
Frank, who was an only child and had grown up with his own brand of loneliness, was empathic. He not only promised to help Lynette accomplish her goal but suggested that Brynnie could live with them after they married.
"Of course, we'll have to wait, darling," he said gently, "until after the election. But win or lose, we will be married."
Frank's declaration of love burst upon Lynette like spring sunshine after a long, dark winter. She wanted to bask in its warmth, its promise. Frank filled all the emptiness that had existed since her mother's death.
