by Jane Peart
Crystal suppressed a smile. She knew Sue wasn't talking about the recent World War. From past experience, she knew that Southerners often referred to the War Between the States as if it were only yesterday, instead of sixty years past.
At last Sue put down her teacup and got to her feet. "I really must be going. Now, remember we'll pick you up about seven on Saturday evening. I do hope you brought something smashing to wear. I've told everyone I was bringing my career-girl friend from New York City, so they all expect you to be glamorous and sophisticated!"
Crystal laughed. "I hope they know you well enough to know how you exaggerate!"
After she had waved Sue off in her bright yellow roadster, Crystal returned to the shoebox of a kitchen to wash and put away the delicate Imari teacups. Catching a flash of movement outside, she looked through the window over the sink and saw a horse and rider cantering across the rustic bridge in the direction of what must be Montclair. As she watched, he disappeared through the autumn foliage. Could that be Kip Montrose? Recalling Sue's enigmatic remark about him, Crystal felt a spark of curiosity. Maybe the hunt party on Saturday evening would be enjoyable, after all. At least, she'd get to see the legendary house and meet its owner.
chapter
10
KNOWING THAT her friend Sue would insist on including her in some social activities, Crystal had brought along one evening dress—an apricot crepe de chine sheath with a dropped waist, satin sash, and short, accordion-pleated skirt. The style was flattering to her boyishly slim figure and, now that she had gotten used to it, her new haircut looked right, too.
Her hair, silky as corn tassels, swung just below her ears. For the "glamorous" touch Sue had suggested, she added a string of amber beads and matching pendant earrings.
"That should do it," she said, stepping away from the full-length mirror to get a better view of her overall appearance.
In one way she wished she had not succumbed to Sue's insistence that she attend the festive opening of the hunting season. She hadn't felt like partying much since Sandy's death. However, she had to admit to a certain curiosity about Montclair and its master.
Just after dusk, Sue and her escort, Reid Langley, arrived to collect her. As they approached Montclair, a large harvest moon hovered overhead, paving the drive with mellow light. The house, a rather rambling structure, was not the typical antebellum mansion Crystal had envisioned. Instead, it appeared as if the owners had added to it at random. Lights spilled out of the tall windows that ran the length of the deep front porch, and the sound of music and laughter floated on the crisp night air as they came up the steps.
Inside, the house was alive with sparkling light and color. From the hallway above, a magnificent circular stairway curved gracefully into the entrance hall. The rich hue of the crimson carpet was duplicated a thousand times over in the cut-glass prisms of a huge chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling. On either side of the foyer, doors opened into twin parlors.
Crystal only had time for a fleeting impression of pale yellow walls and fine furnishings because Sue was speaking to her in a low tone, "All this is fairly new. People say Kip has been spending a small fortune to restore this place. When he came home from France, his father, Jonathan Montrose, turned the plantation over to him, and they—Mr. Montrose and Kip's stepmother, Phoebe—have been living in Scotland. Anyway, I don't care about the gossip . . . It looks splendid, and overseeing the restoration certainly pulled Kip out of that awful depression he was in for a while after . . ."
Whatever Sue was about to reveal was abruptly cut off by the approach of a tall, dark-haired man, who was moving toward them with athletic grace. In a formal red hunting coat, collared in black velvet, and niffled white shirt, he looked incredibly dashing.
"Susan and Reid, good to see you," he greeted them before his gaze shifted to include Crystal.
"You're looking marvelous, Kip!" Sue said, then bringing Crystal forward, "I want you to meet my friend, Crystal Kirk. She's down from New York and is practically your neighbor now."
"Happy to meet you." Kip reached out and took Crystal's hand. "Welcome to Virginia and to Montclair."
Crystal found herself studying the face of her host. Beyond his obvious good looks, it was an interesting one. Although tanned and unlined, some past experience had marked it; his eyes, even now as he laughed, shining with humor, still held a certain sadness. I f she were into portraiture, she would like to photograph this face.
Crystal was snapped out of her reverie by Sue's next remark. " . . . and she'll probably want to photograph Montclair as well." Belatedly, she realized Sue was telling Kip why she had come to Mayfield.
"I'm delighted to hear that you're so interested in us, Miss Kirk," he said. "The South seems to be forgotten these days by most Northerners. Even by some of our own Southern congressmen and senators. Isn't that right, Scott?" Kip asked half-jokingly as a man with thick russet hair and a well-trimmed mustache sauntered by.
At Kip's comment, he stopped. "Do you want an editorial opinion or an off-the-cuff comment?" he drawled with a wry smile.
Sue wagged her finger playfully at both men. "Now, you two, no politics tonight!" Then, tarning to Crystal, she introduced the newcomer. "Scott Cameron, the editor of our local newspaper, meet my guest, Crystal Kirk."
With his serious expression and his air of quiet authority, Crystal might have guessed Scott Cameron to be a professor, but an editor came close. Still, upon closer inspection, she detected the sparkle of humor in his brown eyes.
"Scott wields unbelievable influence in this county. You've heard the expression, 'The pen is mightier than the sword,' no doubt. Well, his pen can be mighty sharp at times . . . two-edged, one might say!" Kip said with a chuckle.
"I'm impressed." Crystal smiled, holding out her hand.
"I assure you, the Messenger is not the New York Times" he replied diffidently.
"Nonetheless, your editorials carry a great deal of weight around here," Sue insisted. "Don't let this show of modesty on Scott's part delude you, Crystal."
"Well, of course, not all of us agree with the stands the Mayfield Messenger takes," Kip threw in.
"I'm well aware of your opinions, Kip. But why don't you make them public ? You know we run a full page of Letters to the Editor once a week. You can vent your spleen on whatever issue you wish."
Kip smiled benignly. "Ah well, I try not to step on too many toes. That could be dangerous."
"Freedom of speech—isn't that what democracy is all about?" Scott countered. "I thought that's what we went to war to guarantee."
"Which war are we talking about?" Kip teased.
Reid jumped into the fray. "What's the issue? States' rights or Federal intervention?"
"Uh-oh! Enough!" Sue exclaimed, putting both hands over her ears. "This is a party, gendemen! And remember, we have a guest who isn't used to this kind of sparring." Sue put her hand on Kip's arm. "Why don't you show Crystal around the house? You've done wonders with it."
"And, as I'm sure everyone is saying, spending money like the proverbial drunken sailor." Kip laughed. "Small towns, Miss Kirk, have no secrets. Coming from a big city, you probably wouldn't know that. But everyone here knows what you're up to and can't resist gossiping about it."
When another couple joined their group, Kip stopped to make introductions, and the conversation shifted to the next day's hunt. A portly older man cornered Scott, and someone called to Sue. She and Reid drifted off to chat, leaving Crystal alone with her host. She wasn't sure that Sue had not contrived it.
A little embarrassed, she told him, "Please don't feel obligated to look out for me, Mr. Montrose. I'm sure you have other guests you need to see, and I'm quite used to being on my own," she assured him. "I'll just wander around, if that's all right. In fact, I'd like to take a closer look at some of these portraits."
"First, I don't feel obligated in the least, Miss Kirk. I know most of these people, have since childhood, and they're almost as much at hom
e here at Montclair as I am." He smiled down at her. "If it's any comfort to you, I'm indebted to Sue. She told me she was bringing someone special tonight. She failed to tell me, however, that it would be someone so attractive."
Automatically Crystal put up her guard. This must be the Southern charm she had heard so much about. But with Kip Montrose, such gallantry seemed natural. There was something youthfully unaffected about him.
"Besides," he went on, "I love showing off my home, talking about its history." He gestured toward the paintings in their ornate gilt frames, hanging in pairs all around the main hall. "These are all portraits of my ancestors' brides who became mistress here. Some were done by well-known artists of the day, I'm told. Although I must admit I don't know much about art myself. As a photographer, you would recognize the names, I'm sure."
He took Crystal's arm and led her around the hall, pointing out that each of the ladies' portraits was coupled with that of a man.
"We hung them in sets although they were probably painted at different times," he explained. "The ladies' portraits were usually painted before the wedding, often given as an engagement gift to the groom-to-be. Of course, there were some exceptions—for instance, if the identity of the prospective bride changed suddenly." When Crystal lifted a quizzical brow, he explained, "A case in point was the first bride of Montclair, who was actually a substitute for her cousin who eloped with another man, practically on the eve of the wedding." Kip looked amused. "A novelist would never run out of plots with our family history."
Pausing before another pair, he remarked, "I don't even know if these would be considered good paintings, either technically or artistically. They've just always been here, part of my growing up, part of my life . . . like Montclair itself."
He halted abruptly, as if the thought had just struck him and demanded, "By the way, what did Sue mean when she said you were almost my neighbor?"
"I'm renting the little house that borders your property—Eden Cottage." Was it her imagination that at her words, Kip's intensely blue eyes darkened? "Mrs. Traherne rented it to me before she left for Europe."
"Ah, yes, of course. Kitty," Kip said, his mouth tightening. Then he shrugged off the sudden mood change. "Why don't we get some punch and find some place to sit down so we can get better acquainted. I'm very interested in hearing more about your project." He led her into the curved alcove off the large front parlor, then excused himself.
While he was gone, Crystal looked around, getting more of a perspective on the house. Sue had intimated that the mansion had been newly decorated. Looking through the archway into a large drawing room, Crystal noted the pale yellow walls, fine Victorian furniture, an ornate marble fireplace over which hung a huge, gold-framed mirror. At one end of the room, a small band was playing, providing music for some dancing couples. In the room where Kip had gone to find refreshments, she caught a glimpse of a long table spread with a yellow cloth, of masses of gold chrysanthemums, and white and yellow tapers in great silver candelabra.
Kip was soon back with two glasses. He handed her one. "Now, I want to hear all about you. So you're a photographer. That's an unusual profession for a woman, isn't it?"
"I don't know if it's as unusual as it is new," Crystal said with a smile. "I went to art school, taking all the traditional art courses. Then when I graduated, I tried painting portraits for a living. But I found portrait-painting to be limiting and confining." She made a little grimace. "With portraits, there are always the families to please—the aunts and uncles and cousins, too—and there is always something wrong with the mouth!"
Kip threw back his head and laughed heartily. Crystal joined in somewhat sheepishly. "I guess I didn't have the right temperament for pleasing people, particularly people with inflated egos, or an entirely distorted view of what they or their relatives really look like."
"I can see you're a woman with definite ideas, Miss Kirk." Kip's eyes twinkled with as much admiration as amusement.
"I suppose going into photography was testing an alternative. I started experimenting on my own with a small box camera at first, snapping people, places, trying different angles, various effects. I found it quite rewarding. Fun, really."
Kip arched a brow. "Fun? I never heard anyone describe their work as fun."
"If it isn't fun, why do it?" Crystal countered. "If your work doesn't give you some joy, some fulfillment, life becomes dull, colorless, bleak."
He narrowed his eyes appraisingly. "But what if one has no choice but to do what's been preordained for him . . . or her?"
"Nonsense! One always has a choice."
"Not always. Sometimes life hands you something you can't refuse."
"You can't live out other people's expectations of you. You have to be true to yourself," Crystal insisted firmly.
Kip regarded her with a curiously steady gaze. "You're an extraordinary woman." Then he broke into a sly smile. "But I think we're being much too serious on an evening like this. Come, let's go out on the veranda. It will be cooler and less crowded, and you can see the garden by moonlight."
Crystal felt a small warning sensation, light as a butterfly fluttering. His suggestions sounded too intimate, too romantic. But Kip was already on his feet, holding out his hand to her, and she took it. They went out onto the moon-shadowed porch and walked over to the balustrade. From there they could see the garden paths and flowerbeds, etched in a milky mist.
Kip was standing so near that she was suddenly more aware of him than of her surroundings. Frightened by her own feelings, she moved away. Her heart was pounding wildly, and she walked to the other end of the porch to calm herself. To her infinite relief, she heard familiar voices and turned to see Sue and Reid coming out through the French doors onto the veranda. Her moment of panic lifted. When Reid asked Crystal to dance, she accepted and went inside with him, leaving Sue with Kip.
Reid introduced her to several other young men, and the evening passed pleasantly enough as she went from partner to partner, making light conversation. But beneath her surface gaiety, Crystal knew her time with Kip Montrose had been significant. For some reason she was sure their meeting had been no casual encounter.
At the end of the evening, when she and Sue went to say their goodbyes to their host, Kip held Crystal's hand a little longer than necessary. "Are you riding tomorrow, Miss Kirk?"
"With the hunt? Oh, no, I'm not an experienced rider, and I understand one must be excellent on horseback to ride with this hunt club."
"Not at all. That's a myth like so many other myths about Virginia and the South. The South is full of them, you know. We Southerners use them to hide our flaws. To protect our little world, we've concocted the grandest myth of all."
"And what is that?"
"Ah, no you don't! I won't tell. You'll have to discover the answer for yourself when you come to know us better," he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So won't you come tomorrow? I'll be really disappointed if you don't. Surely Sue or Reid can find you a gentle horse to ride. And you can always drop out at any point along the way if it becomes too much for you."
"I don't think so, Mr. Montrose. Perhaps another time."
"Well, at least you'll be at the hunt breakfast afterward at the Langleys', won't you?"
Just then Reid came up with their evening wraps, and without meaning to, Crystal heard herself promising Kip she would come.
chapter
11
EARLY MORNING sun barely touched the treetops around Eden Cottage. Crystal, dressed in borrowed tan jodhpurs and tweed riding jacket, stood at the kitchen window sipping a cup of coffee. She was nervously awaiting Sue and Reid's arrival with the gentle mount they had promised to bring for her. Crystal blamed herself for getting into this no-win situation. Why on earth had she agreed to ride with an established hunt club? She must have been out of her mind! She knew that most Virginians learned to ride almost before they learned to walk.
"You don't have to keep up or follow the chase, Crystal. Besides,
only the die-hard hunters ride for leather," Sue had assured her over and over. "So don't pay any attention to them. Just relax, have fun, and enjoy the ride."
In spite of this advice, Crystal was nervous. It had been years since she'd been on a horse. Hopefully, it was like riding a bicycle—once you know how, you never forget. But she had no more time to worry, for at that moment, she saw Sue and Reid, mounted on their own horses, cantering into view, a gleaming chestnut horse on a lead behind them.
Trying to appear calm so as not to "spook" the horse, a mare named Astra, Crystal still had some qualms as Reid held her horse's head while she got into the saddle.
"Take it easy, Crystal," Reid said, smiling up at her as he stroked the mare's nose. "It's a great morning for a ride through the countryside.
And the hunt breakfast at the Langleys' will be enjoyable. The whole thing's mostly an excuse for a party anyway."
Hoping that what he said was true and not wanting to be a poor sport, Crystal picked up the reins and, after Sue and Reid had mounted again, followed them down the path. They rode single file, trotting through the woods, then clattering over the little bridge that led to Montclair. As they rode by, Crystal turned her head to get a better look at the house.
In the early morning mist, the mansion had a kind of mystical beauty. But there was something about Montclair that Crystal could not quite define, something vaguely disturbing. It was a fleeting sensation, quickly dismissed as they turned sharply, jogging to the left, and emerged from the woods into brilliant sunshine. They rode for what seemed like miles, passing great orange pumpkins squatting in the meadows and silvery Queen Anne's lace quivering along the white board fences.
Riding into the field, near the starting point of the hunt, the three saw the other riders just ahead, some in their bright red hunting "pinks" and visored black velvet caps, members of Mayfield's elite Hunt Club. Noise and confusion were everywhere. The pack of foxhounds making a terrible racket, barking and whining as they whirled and spun, eager to hear the call that would set them off in pursuit of their prey.
