by Jane Peart
"She's not at all like that, Scott. She's very pleasant and, I might add, quite pretty."
"A pretty photographer?" Scott moaned. "Spare me!"
"What's going on in here?" asked an amused voice. "The way you two are going on, it sounds like old times."
Brother and sister turned toward the doorway, where Blythe Cameron stood looking from one to the other. Her smile traced tiny lines around her sensitive mouth. Although past middle age, she retained a youthful grace and her rich auburn hair was as yet untouched by silver. The gray knit dress she was wearing was brightened by a persimmon scarf, tied at an angle over one shoulder.
"'Evening, Mother." Scott went over, kissing the cheek she turned to him, while Kitty moved a cushion on the sofa to make room for Blythe to sit down beside her. "Kitty was just telling me she's rented Eden Cottage . . . and to a female photographer, of all things!" he added with an air of disbelief.
"Scott's being difficult, Mama." Kitty laughed. "But he'll change his tune when he meets her."
"Yes, I think he just might." Blythe cast a speculative glance at her son.
At thirty-seven, although attractive, intelligent, and with an ironic but not caustic sense of humor, Scott was still a bachelor. Unlike some veterans of the Great War, he had come home with a sense of purpose and determination. Within a few months he had purchased the failing Mayfield Messenger and had taken over the editorship of the paper. For the last few years, getting the local newspaper back on its feet had consumed all his time and effort. As far as Blythe could tell, there had been no time for romance. "That's right, Scott. Kitty tells me Mrs. Kirk is delightful. And I can vouch for her beauty."
Scott shook his head and smiled dismissively. "For how long have you rented the place, Kitty?"
"Just until I get back from France. Mrs. Kirk paid two months in advance, and I told her that if she left before then I'd refund her money."
"Well, I hope it works out . . . for your sake." Scott sounded doubtful. "That is, if she doesn't turn the bathroom into a darkroom."
"We've already covered that. She told me she intends to take all the negatives back to be developed in her studio in New York."
In spite of himself, Scott was interested. "What will she be photographing?"
"Old homes, plantations, churches, old buildings, that sort of thing. She has a contract with Vagabond."
"The travel magazine, eh?" Scott's tone was negative. "They tend to overplay everything. I can see the layout now. . . . " He squared his hands as if framing pictures. "'The Picturesque Old South—Past Glories of the Fallen Confederacy' . . . et cetera, et cetera."
"Scott, you're so—so . . ."
"So what?" His smile broadened to a grin.
"I don't know . . . iconoclastic, maybe!"
"Not at all. I just don't like the idea of some Northern opportunist making money at the expense of a South that's digging itself out of fifty years of economic depression imposed by . . ."
"Please, Scott!" Kitty cut him off. "Save it for one of your editorials. For pity's sake, let's change the subject."
"All right, little Sis," her brother conceded with a smile. "Having the place occupied is a good thing."
"I agree, Kitty. As usual, you've made the wise and practical decision." Blythe patted her daughter's hand fondly. "Well, Scott, what's new at the Messenger?"
"Why does that question somehow strike me as redundant?" he teased. "What's new at a newspaper? Why, news, of course! Seriously, though, there's nothing new I can print yet. We don't have verification, but there's a strong rumor that Senator Wilcox is going to resign before his term is out."
Blythe looked surprised. "But why would he do that?"
Scott shrugged. "Good question."
"He's been here forever, hasn't he?" Kitty asked. "At least as long as I can remember."
"That's right. And that's part of the problem. There are a lot of people who feel he's been coasting, not really representing the area. Things have been changing, and he hasn't kept up. Talk is, he's gotten much too comfortable in the job, likes going on junkets, and spends more time on the golf course than he does in his office. More damaging is the common knowledge that he has a few cronies he favors and isn't above handing out political plums. Nobody's proved anything. At least, not yet. But even if the rumor about his resignation isn't true, he's going to have some stiff opposition when he comes up for reelection."
Scott rose from the chair he'd taken by the fire. "If you ladies will excuse me, I think I'll take a walk down to the stables and see how Sean's doing." Sean McShane was the young Irish man, son of Rod Cameron's old horse-breeding friend, who had recently been hired as the head trainer for Cameron Hall Stables. "That is, if I have time before dinner, Mother."
Blythe waved him off. "Run along, dear. And do ask Sean to join us, won't you? I don't like to think of his eating alone so much."
"I don't think Sean minds that at all." Scott grinned. "I suppose, if you'd grown up in a home with five rowdy brothers, you'd enjoy a solitary meal once in a while yourself, Mother!"
"Yes. He seems perfectly content in Dad's old apartment above the stables," Kitty added. "He has his radio and his books, and he can come and go as he pleases."
"Well, perhaps, but ask him anyway, Scott," Blythe insisted.
Scott promised to do that, and left the two women sitting by the fire. When he was gone, Blythe said to Kitty, "What a shame Scott didn't want to take over the running of the stables himself after your father died."
"But, Mama, it's working out perfectly now that Sean's here. I'm sure Daddy would be pleased with the arrangement. Dan McShane was one of his oldest, closest friends, and he loved all the boys. But Sean was his favorite, and you know he was practically born on a horse! I think it's the best thing that could have happened after Scott decided to buy the Messenger"
"Yes, but . . ." Blythe looked thoughtful. "Rod so hoped that his son . . ."
"I know, Mama. Daddy might have been disappointed at first, but I think he'd also be very proud of what Scott's done with the paper. It's won awards, you know, for being one of the outstanding small-town newspapers in the state." Then she added, "And I really think Sean loves it here."
"I suppose you're right, dear." She knew that it had been Rod's dream to have his son follow in his footsteps. Of course, he had first wanted Blythe's son by her first marriage to Malcolm Montrose to come in with him. But Jeff had been determined to pursue a career in art. That decision had caused a rift between the stepfather and son that had never been fully bridged. Then Rod had pinned his hopes on Scott, only to be thwarted once more. Blythe suppressed a sigh. I f life had taught her anything, it was that one cannot make one's adult children's decisions for them.
"Where's Lynette?" Kitty asked, changing the subject. "I haven't seen her since early afternoon."
Kitty's question brought to Blythe's mind another troubling problem. "She went over to Avalon. Jeff and Gareth are leaving for Taos next week and she wanted to spend some time with them . . . with her brother, anyway." Blythe frowned. "I think she took some of her watercolors to show her father, but she may be too shy to do it."
"Well, no wonder!" Kitty declared in exasperation. "Jeff doesn't encourage her, Mama. Calls them 'pretty little paintings' when she wants more from him. She wants to be taken seriously, needs some constructive help. I can't understand why Jeff—" She broke off, knowing that criticism of her half-brother was a touchy subject.
Blythe had always been defensive of her firstborn. Had reason to be, since Jeff had always been self-absorbed and had become even more so since the death of his wife years ago. The explanation that he was a well-known artist preoccupied with his career was no excuse, in Kitty's mind. Other people had been hurt, she knew—his children, most especially.
As if picking up on her daughter's secret thoughts, Blythe remarked, "A letter came for Lynette today from Bryanne. And I got a postcard from her, too. Here, I'll show it to you."
"Where are they now?"
> "In Italy. Venice, I think. At least that was the postmark on the card."
"Doesn't Aunt Garnet ever plan to bring Brynnie back?" Kitty's voice was edged with bitterness.
"Of course!" Blythe said generously. "She's written that she has inquired at Miss Dunbarton's about enrolling her next year."
"Next year?" Kitty was incredulous and started to say something more, then appeared to think better of it. She rose from the sofa and went over to the fireplace, her whole body rigid with anger. One hand on her hip, she placed the other on the mantelpiece, tapping her fingers impatiently. Then she turned around and held out her hand. "Let me see what she says." Taking the card her mother handed her, she read it, then handed it back, saying indignantly, "I think it's absolutely criminal that those three have been separated all this time! I'm sure Faith would hate it!"
Blythe threw out her hands in a helpless gesture. "There wasn't anything we could do about it, Kitty. The war, you know . . ."
"Oh, Mama, the war . . . it was over nearly five years ago! You know perfectly well that something could have been arranged. Bryanne is almost seventeen and hardly knows any of us . . . not even her own brother and sister!"
At the pained expression on her mother's face, Kitty was contrite. She came over and gave Blythe a hug. "I'm sorry, Mama. I know how badly you feel about it. It's Jeff and Aunt Garnet who are to blame! They resent each other so much, and Lynette and Gareth and Bryanne have been the pawns in their tug of war."
"But Jeff. . . you know, he was just devastated after Faith's death."
"Yes, but he's their father! He could have done something, should have tried anyway."
"Well, he Aid take Gareth with him to New Mexico. . . ."
Kitty started to say something else but knew this discussion would go nowhere and only cause her mother more distress. At that moment they heard the slam of the front door and running feet along the polished floor outside the library.
"That must be Lynette." Blythe cast a significant glance at her daughter. "Now, Kitty, don't express your feelings in front of her."
A moment later a tall, dark-haired young woman came into the library. "I'm home, Gram, Kitty."
"Hello, darling," Blythe welcomed her. "There's a letter on the hall table for you. From Brynnie."
"Oh, wonderful!" Her face brightened. Lynette turned and ran out of the room.
Picking up the pink envelope with its foreign stamp, she dashed upstairs to read the letter in the privacy of her own room. She would share portions of the letter with the whole family later. But sometimes Brynnie wrote of things that should be kept just between the two of them. After all, sisters sometimes needed to confide in each other.
She settled herself on the window seat and began to read:
Dearest Lynette,
I think Grandmama really means it this time. She isn't studying travel brochures or asking fellow guests at the hotel about this tour or that cruise. I don't see how she can put it off any longer, do you? She has run out of excuses, I think.
I'm tired of being "educated, polished, cultur-ized" or whatever Grandmama thinks she has been doing with me these last few years. Of course, Jillian is a love. You'll adore her, Lynette. However, she is Grandmama's employee, and she must put the best face on it when Grandmama decides something. She is fluent in French and Italian and manages all the tickets, the currency exchange, and sees that our luggage gets on the right train and nothing gets lost. She is truly a marvel and stays as cool as the proverbial cucumber under the most trying circumstances.
I honestly believe Grandmama would just as soon spend the spring at Birchfields. But her conscience must be bothering her, although she keeps blaming Father for our not being together. She says if he would only "settle down and provide a home for his children" . . . but we aren't children anymore, are we? And I've come to think Father is as "settled" as he will ever be. Would you want to go to New Mexico to live? In a way that sounds rather exciting—desert sunsets, cowboys, cactus, pueblos, Indians. Gareth sends me postcards from there when he visits.
But I must end this letter. Jillian just stuck her head in the door and says we have another cathedral or museum or something to go look at. Since I have to make a report every evening at dinner on my "cultural activities" of the day, I'd best close with much, much love.
Always, your loving sister,
Brynnie
Lynette folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, then went over to her desk, took out stationery, filled her fountain pen, and began to write a reply. She, too, had secrets to share.
chapter
9
CRYSTAL NAVIGATED her small station wagon from the county road onto the narrow lane that led through the woods to Eden Cottage. Braking to a stop, she leaned on the steering wheel and gazed at the little house. Nothing had changed in the week she had been in the area except that now it had a waiting, expectant look.
Eager to take possession, Crystal hurried up the flagged path onto the porch, fitted the key into the lock and turned it, almost holding her breath. Stepping inside, she stood motionless for a full minute, glancing around. Sunlight poured through the windows, gilding everything in its path—the fine antique furniture, the clock on the mantel, the hearth bricks and basket of logs beside it. She noticed that even a fire was laid in the fireplace, ready for the strike of a match to bring it to glowing life on the first cool evening.
Crystal felt embraced by warmth and welcome. Kitty Traherne was right. This house was an enchanted place—built with love, lived in with love, filled with love. What a miracle she had found it . . . even for a short while.
Two days later, Crystal entertained her first guest, Sue Dabney. Although she planned to maintain a strict working schedule, it seemed only fair to return Sue's hospitality and show her appreciation for the Dabneys' tip about the cottage.
Sue was equally as enthusiastic about the charms of Eden Cottage as Crystal. "I've never been inside before," she confessed. "When Kitty and her husband lived here, no one dared come unless invited. I was never a particular friend of Kitty's even though we all grew up here in Mayfield and moved in the same social circle. I was really closer to her twin."
Crystal was puzzled. "Twin? I knew she had a sister in France, but she didn't mention that they were twins."
"Yes . . . Cara," Sue said. "She was always much more outgoing and lively . . . a flirt, really."
"Well, Kitty seemed awfully friendly to me."
"Oh, she is, but Cara was . . . well, you'd have to have known her. She did surprise everyone, though, when she up and married a minister who became an army chaplain. Sadly enough, he died in the war . . . a hero. In fact, both twins have had similar tragedies. You see, Kitty was a Red Cross nurse and married one of her patients who had been badly wounded. He was confined to a wheelchair and, when they came here to Eden Cottage, they lived a kind of. . . reclusive life. I suppose she wanted to protect him as much as possible. Anyway, they were madly in love. Maybe they just didn't need anyone else."
She thought of her own early married life with Sandy—busy with their work, get-togethers with other young journalists and newspaper people, parties, trips—never a dull moment. In retrospect, she rather envied the different kind of life together the Trahernes must have enjoyed.
Almost as an afterthought, Crystal asked, "What is Kitty's twin doing now?"
"She's working in a war orphanage, of all things!" Sue shook her head as if she still couldn't believe it. "Doesn't sound anything like the Cara I used to know!"
Crystal grew pensive. " War changes people. Especially people who have lost someone dear."
Afraid she had brought up a sensitive topic, Sue quickly changed the subject. "Well, I'm certainly glad that Kitty agreed to rent this place to you."
"I am, too. And very grateful to you and your mother for suggesting it. You must have given me a good reference." Crystal laughed as she set down the tea tray she had prepared ahead of time.
"What lovely silver and china!"
Sue exclaimed, helping herself to a cucumber sandwich. "Did Kitty leave all this for you to use?"
"Yes, she did, and I must admit I'm a little uneasy about using museum-quality pieces for everyday use. But she left me the dearest note, assuring me that this was my house as long as I'm here, and these lovely things are meant to be used." Crystal glanced around her with pleasure. "It seems almost too good to be true."
"And what about your work? Have you started photographing any of the houses here in Mayfleld yet?"
"Well, I'm still getting settled, but I must get started soon. Still, there's something about this place . . . I'm afraid, like the Trahernes, I could be perfectly content to curl up here and shut out the rest of the world."
Sue looked aghast and held up her hand. "That would never do! I've told everyone about you, and my friends are anxious to meet you. They'll probably have some ideas for houses they think should be included in your collection." She took another sip of tea. "I assume Montclair will be one of them."
"I haven't seen it," Crystal confessed, refilling her cup.
Sue's eyes widened. "You haven't? I'm surprised. It's not very far from here, and since the house is on a hilltop, it can easily be seen through the woods . . . that is, when the trees are bare. . . . " She paused, then lifted her eyebrows quizzically. "I guess that means you haven't met its owner, either . . . Kip Montrose?"
Crystal shook her head. "Then we'll soon take care of that!" Sue declared. "You're invited to a party at Montclair on Saturday night—the unofficial opening of fox hunting season."
Crystal pursed her mouth. "I'm not very keen on meeting people who go around on horseback chasing defenseless little animals."
Sue gave her a curious look. "Well, you're in Virginia, and you know the old saying: "When in Rome, do as the Romans do.' But seriously, you'll have to come. It will give you a chance to meet some of the people whose homes you'll be photographing. Besides, Kip's the hunt master this year and can give you a personal tour of his plantation. He's one of the lucky ones. Most of the families around here lost everything they had in the war."
