by Jane Peart
Sensing Crystal's discomfort, Reid leaned forward in his saddle to reassure her. "Now don't be intimidated. Just keep your horse steady and, after the Tally-ho is blown and the others start up at a fast clip, just follow at your own pace."
"Or at my own risk!" Crystal added under her breath, her heart beating as fast as any frightened rabbit's or, more to the point, she thought, the fox's. But she took his advice and her mount, although excited by the presence of the other horses, seemed calm enough as Crystal guided her to the edge of the group, where she had a good view of the other riders.
Almost at once she spotted Kip Montrose. He cut a splendid figure, sitting erectly astride a superb bronze-colored horse, his aristocratic good looks enhanced by his well-fitting hunting jacket, the creamy stock at his throat. Immediately a suitable description sprang to mind—"Master of Montclair." He seemed the epitome of the romantic hero in a gothic novel.
Her gaze traveled over the other riders in the crowd. Some of the finely bred horses were skittish and pranced about restlessly, anxious to be off, their riders bending over them, talking in soothing tones. Other riders chatted nonchalantly among themselves, the buzz of conversation and laughter carrying on the clear morning air. Crystal had the sensation of being an "outsider," an observer to a scene that, while fascinating, was completely foreign to her.
All at once her attention was drawn to a young woman who was having difficulty with her horse, a magnificent animal but obviously high-strung. He was nervously sidestepping, tossing his head, yanking on the reins. The rider, displaying skillful horsemanship, swiftly brought the gelding under control. Then she moved to the end of the cluster of mounted riders, leaning forward to pat her horse's neck, murmuring endearments.
From her vantage point only a short distance away, Crystal studied the young woman. She was a strikingly pretty girl, her slim figure set off by the fitted scarlet riding coat. Her glossy dark hair was brought smoothly back under the brim of a perky black velvet derby and tied with a bow at the nape of her neck. To her surprise, Crystal noticed she was riding sidesaddle and so wore a long black skirt.
Just then Sue rode alongside Crystal. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. Don't bother about me."
"Well, then, if you're sure. . . . They're about ready to start, but if you fall out, just meet us at the Langleys' in about two hours, all right?"
"Yes, thanks. Oh, by the way, Sue, who is that stunning young woman?" Crystal inclined her head toward the rider she'd been watching.
"Which one? Oh, that's Lynette Montrose."
"Montrose?" Crystal repeated. "Is she related to our host last night?"
"A niece." Sue gave a little laugh. "But then isn't everyone related to everyone else around here? There are Montrose and Cameron kin all over the county. Actually, Lynette is the daughter of Kip's half-uncle, Jeff Montrose. But she lives with her Grandmother Cameron, who is also Kip's stepgrandmother" She laughed again. "Don't ask me to explain. It's all too complicated for words. I'll try to fill you in later."
With that, Sue gave her horse a little kick with her booted heel and rode off to join the rest of the club waiting for the hunt to begin. A few minutes later an ear-splitting shrill on the shiny brass horn announced the official start of hunting season, and there was a roar of pounding hoofs as horses and riders rushed forward, the dogs in the lead, howling frantically as they ran.
Crystal held her reins taut in both hands, feeling the flanks of her horse quiver as the others thundered past. Not until the riders had cleared the first low stone wall did she loosen her grip and gradually ease her horse into a canter.
Crystal never tried to catch up with the hunt. With the sun on her back, she surrendered to the rhythmic sway of the little mare's stride and enjoyed the ride through the countryside riotous with color.
Sue had given her easy directions to the Langleys' home, a white-pillared mansion not far from the Dabneys'. As she dismounted in front of the house, a stable hand took her horse and directed her to the screened-in porch at the side of the house where breakfast was being served. Mrs. Dabney, Sue's mother, was already there, helping her longtime friend, Cornelia Langley. She took Crystal in hand at once and introduced her.
"I'm delighted to meet you," Mrs. Langley said. "Sue's told us all about you and why you've come. What an interesting project! Now, before I hear all about that, we must feed you."
She poured Crystal a cup of hot coffee. Then, heaping a plate full of delicious samples of ham, wild game, scalloped oysters, hot biscuits, jams, preserves, and jellies of every kind, Mrs. Langley led the way to a corner where an elderly lady was ensconced on a white wicker love seat.
"Here's someone you should meet, dear—Amelie Carvel. She knows all there is to know about Mayfield and the families that have lived here."
Mrs. Carvel's hair was a snowy halo about her head, paler than the pearls in her earlobes and around her neck. The laugh wrinkles around her twinkling brown eyes indicated a woman who had aged with grace and humor. Before leaving them together, Mrs. Langley told her, "Crystal's staying in Eden Cottage on the Montrose property."
"Oh, at Montclair? It was one of the first plantations around here, along with Cameron Hall, you know. I hope you plan to include both in your photographs. Especially Montclair. It's not the largest nor the most elaborate, but . . . " And here Mrs. Carvel leaned forward as if she were about to reveal something of great importance. "Montclair has such a history . . . enough tragedy, romance, and adventure to fill twenty volumes."
Crystal leaned forward, eager to hear every word. Encouraged by her interest, Mrs. Carvel continued, "To begin with, it was originally built for one bride, but through a quirk of fate, her cousin became mistress there." The woman paused as if trying to collect her memories. "Of course, there are all sorts of legends about all these old houses, as you may well imagine. Rumors circulated soon became facts repeated over and over until no one doubts they're true. One such is told about Montclair in the years it stood empty after one of the Montroses lost it in a card game. Day after day, it is said, a carriage would drive up, and a lady dressed all in black, carrying a parasol of black lace, would get out and peer through the gates. Then she would finally get back in the carriage and drive away. Nobody knows who she was, but many claim to have seen her."
Even though fascinated by Mrs. Carvel's narrative, Crystal suddenly felt a tingling awareness. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, she turned to see Kip Montrose staring at her across the room.
He was standing at the end of the porch, leaning carelessly against one of the pillars, as casually at ease as he would be in his own home. He had the look of a man who not only knew he was universally welcome but belonged everywhere.
His tanned face had a ruddy cast after the brisk morning ride in wind and sun, contrasting attractively with the intense blue of his eyes and the gleaming whiteness of his teeth when he smiled. He was smiling now, a lazy assured smile, as if he knew the effect he was having on her.
Crystal caught her breath. Momentarily flustered, she turned away quickly from his knowing glance. Heart racing, she leaned toward Mrs. Carvel, trying to recover the thread of what the old lady was saying.
"You must see Marydell, my dear." Mrs. Carvel launched into a description of a plantation house that was of special historical significance but was scheduled to be torn down.
Just then a mellow male voice interrupted. "Good morning, ladies."
Knowing who it was before she looked up, Crystal's pulse quickened once more.
"As I live and breathe, it's Kip Montrose, isn't it?" Mrs. Carvel said almost coyly. "You handsome scamp! I declare, you look so much like your father, Jonathan, the dear boy. 'Course you're not a thing like him. He has the most impeccable manners."
There followed some Southern banter that was almost flirtatious between the octogenarian and the master of Montclair. When Mrs. Carvel's daughter-in-law came to escort her home, Kip pulled up a chair and sat down, angling it so as to cut off Crystal's view
of the rest of the room. "You ride very well."
Crystal felt her cheeks grow warm. "At least I didn't fall off," she said, feeling that it was a foolish thing to have said.
Kip leaned forward. "I'm glad you came. I hoped you would." His eyes held hers. "Have you plans for later today?"
Crystal, usually so clearheaded, now felt quite dizzy. Looking into Kip's eyes, she felt as if she were drowning in a pool of cobalt blue. "Plans?" she echoed, dazed. "Well, I'm not sure. I . . ."
Something in Kip's smile signaled that he was conscious of his effect on her. "Whatever they were, cancel them," he grinned. "I'm giving you a guided tour of Montclair."
A warning bell went off somewhere in her head, but if she heard it, she ignored it. Instead, she heard herself say, "I'd like that very much."
"Good, I'll come by for you around four. We can walk from Eden Cottage. It's only a stone's throw from Montclair."
Crystal nodded mutely. Somehow she knew that if he had proposed a trip to Mars, she would have been helpless to refuse!
chapter
12
LATER THAT afternoon, Crystal was amazed to find herself undecided about what to wear. She had brought very few outfits with her, most of them suitable for tramping around the countryside, carrying her bunglesome photographic paraphernalia. Rummaging through her wardrobe, one that consisted mainly of sensible shoes, wool skirts and sweaters, and rain gear, she grew increasingly annoyed with herself. She couldn't remember ever being this concerned about looking attractive to a man. Certainly Sandy had never paid any attention to clothes, his own or anyone else's.
So why was she behaving like a silly schoolgirl getting ready for her first date? She wasn't willing to admit even to herself why it seemed important to make a good impression this afternoon. But it had occurred to her that Kip Montrose was the kind of man who would notice what a woman wore!
Thoroughly disgusted with herself after several discards, Crystal finally chose a heather-blue sweater set and gray flannel skirt. When Kip arrived, looking as splendid in a belted tweed Norfolk jacket and V-neck sweater as he did in a dinner jacket, she was satisfied that her choice was appropriately casual.
On the walk to Montclair through the woods, Crystal's first impression of Kip was confirmed. His charm was as much a part of him as his good looks and impeccable manners. He soon had Crystal talking about her work, drawing her out with his intelligent questions, and exhibiting an interest in everything she had to say.
Nearing the house, Crystal was disappointed. In full daylight, Montclair seemed to lose some of the magical splendor it had in the moonlight and early morning mist. In fact, as they reached the steps of the encircling veranda, she was shocked by the grim evidence of deterioration. A quick paint job must have covered the posts of the porch and given the front door a new coat of gloss, but a closer look revealed that the paint was already peeling.
Once inside, Crystal tried to mask her dismay. Last evening, the chief illumination had been candlelight as flattering to an old house as it was kind to aging ladies. Its glow had concealed flaws that were now visible. Crystal had visited enough old houses to recognize a multitude of seriously needed repairs. This was puzzling, particularly in view of Sue's remark about the amount of money Kip was spending on renovations.
"I haven't finished all the redecorating I plan to do," Kip explained, opening the door to the music room and then to the library, which Crystal had not seen the night before. "A house this size requires constant care, and the older it gets, the more often it needs something." He spoke as though this were an ongoing project, but what Crystal saw were signs of longtime neglect.
"Would you like to go upstairs?" he asked. "Or are you mainly interested in photographing exteriors?"
"Oh, I'd like to see everything! When I photograph a house, I prefer to go through it completely to get the feel of a place. Especially a house like this, where generations of a single family have lived."
"Well, come ahead then." He gestured to the winding staircase, and they started up.
On the second floor, corridors branched out in four directions as wings were added. There were six bedrooms, Kip told her, opening door after door for her to peer in. They came to a sunny nursery where, long ago, children had played and where a dollhouse and rocking horse still remained, as if awaiting their return. Crystal had the very real sense that she was walking back in time through the centuries, where, along these halls, in these rooms, real people had lived, slept, talked, quarreled, and loved—leaving an indelible imprint.
As they turned down the fourth corridor leading into the west wing, Kip took out a bunch of keys. "After my mother died—returning from Europe aboard the great unsinkable luxury ocean liner, the Titanic—" Kip's voice was laced with sarcasm—"my father shut off her rooms, never went in them again. I don't think he ever forgave himself for not being with her. You see, Uncle Jeremy was able to purchase only two tickets for the ship's maiden voyage, and my Uncle Jeremy gallantly allowed the two ladies—my mother and Aunt Faith—to take them. They followed on a slower vessel. The rest, as they say, is history." Kip placed a key in a lock and pushed the door open. "This was Mama's room."
Crystal felt a strange compulsion to venture in and look around. The bedroom furnishings were impressive—a mahogany sleigh bed, carved nightstands, an ornate bureau. In an alcove stood a dressing table cluttered with perfume bottles and a tarnished silver hand mirror, comb, and brush. A negligee lay as if it had just been thrown aside, its lace ruffles trailing on the flowered carpet. Adjoining the bedroom was a dressing room with an enormous French armoire. Standing at the entrance to the armoire, one of its doors swung open eerily, startling her. She suppressed a shudder. There was a hovering aura of unhappiness here in Kip's mother's rooms.
A sense of depression crept over her, then indignation at the overall shabbiness and neglect of these beautiful rooms. She had to bite her tongue not to demand an explanation of Kip, who seemed remarkably indifferent. Was he oblivious to the decay? Or preoccupied with other things?
Perhaps something had happened to the Montrose fortune . . . but even that did not explain everything. Sue had mentioned that Kip's father and stepmother were abroad, spending several months in Mrs. Montrose's native Scotland. It seemed strange that they could afford extensive travel yet let their ancestral home deteriorate like this. Did they not plan to return?
Crystal could not resist the question, "This is such a huge house. Do you live here alone?"
"No." He gave her a level look. "My little son lives here with me."
Crystal managed to conceal her shock. No one had told her Kip Montrose was married. If so, where was Mrs. Montrose?
"Would you like to meet him?" Kip was asking.
Recovering quickly, Crystal nodded. "I'd like to very much."
"Let's go then. He's probably either at the stables with his pal Sam, the groom, or down at the pond, playing with the ducks."
Kip shut the door, relocking it, then led the way back downstairs. They went through the center hall, straight to the back of the house, onto a porch and down some steps. Following a well-worn path, they passed a kitchen garden, heading toward a group of wooden buildings. Again Kip made no apologies for the rundown appearance of the property.
Crystal was more and more confused. Was Kip blind? Did he care? Had the surface beauty of the house the night of the party been merely a glittering facade?
She had been to California, had visited the "movie" sets of the new film industry. It always amazed her how the filmmakers could create the illusion of medieval castles, of sumptuous sheik's tents, or a baronial manor. In the eye of a camera, the settings looked real. But they were only painted on cardboard or constructed of papier-. It was all make-believe. An illusion. Sham.
A cold possibility clutched Crystal. Was the man who intrigued her all surface and no substance? All charm and no character? The thought chilled her.
The delighted sound of a child's high voice calling, "Papa!" interjected
itself into her thoughts, and she saw a little boy running across the grass toward them. He flung himself at Kip, wrapping his arms around his father's legs.
"This is Luc," Kip said, leaning down to tousel the dark curls. "Luc, this is Miss Kirk; she takes pictures with a camera." A pair of round brown eyes peered shyly at Crystal, a hint of a smile.
"Hungry, Luc?" Kip swung the little boy up and over his head, then set him on his shoulders. "Want to go in and see if Mattie made gingerbread today?"
"Yes! Yes!" Luc crowed happily.
Kip turned to Crystal. "You'll stay and have some with us, won't you? We'll wash it down with some fresh apple cider from our own orchards."
"How can I refuse?" She followed as Kip started jogging back up toward the house, with Luc laughing merrily as he clutched his father's hair.
At the back porch, Kip set Luc on his feet. "Run into the kitchen and ask Mattie to bring a tray into the sitting room, that's a good fella."
The little boy ran down along a breezeway and opened a door into the kitchen.
"As you could probably tell, most of the rooms are shut off. Luc and I have bedrooms upstairs, but we spend most of our time here in our bachelor quarters." Kip opened the door for Crystal. "Not exactly a formal drawing room, but we like it."
Like all the rooms at Montclair, this one was high-ceilinged, but it had a welcoming if rumpled look. The furniture, a large sofa and two deep armchairs, must have once been handsome pieces. Now they sagged, the leather shiny with wear. Discarded newspapers littered the floor, and sports magazines were piled on tables. On a thin Oriental rug, the pattern threadbare, was a half-built Lincoln log village, as well as some children's picture books scattered about.
"It has that lived-in look, wouldn't you say?" Kip chuckled. "Untouched by any interior decorator's itchy fingers." He scooped up a fluffy, tiger-striped cat who was sleeping on the sofa and dumped her unceremoniously on the window sill, where she gave a mew of protest and curled up to resume her nap. Moving a pillow, he gestured for Crystal to sit down.
