Senator's Bride

by Jane Peart

  But from now on, she resolved, things were going to be different. They had to be. Or else she would lose sight of what she had come to Virginia to do in the first place. Tomorrow she would get up early and be on her way, long before Kip could get another brainstorm and kidnap her for one of his adventures.

  chapter

  14

  CRYSTAL SET HER ALARM and was up at sunrise. Today her plan was to photograph the little church at the Crossroads.

  She loaded her camera equipment into the back of the station wagon, packed a sandwich and thermos of coffee, and set off. Resolutely she turned her head as she went past the house on the hill, hardening her heart against the thought of Kip's disappointment when he learned she had gone off without him. Her work had to come first, Crystal reminded herself firmly.

  Her mind, however, could not be so easily distracted. From the first, Montclair had held a strange fascination for her, later bolstered by Mrs. Carvel's dramatic stories. But Crystal realized it was more than that. Avoiding Kip today did not solve her dilemma. Kip Montrose was disturbing not only her present work but her future plans.

  Unconsciously, she shook her head to clear it as she drove along the country road, flanked by fields thick with goldenrod and lined with trees splashed bright with fall color. Everything was achingly beautiful. Or was it that everything just seemed more beautiful when you were in love? In love? The possibility that she was falling in love with Kip Montrose was very real.

  She must get hold of herself! She was letting her emotions run away with her. Besides, Kip was wrong for her. And she was wrong for him. After Sandy's death, Crystal had never expected to love again, had never planned to remarry . . . certainly not someone like Kip Montrose. She should head off the inevitable end to which their relationship was moving. But how?

  The trouble was, since coming to Virginia, seeing Montclair, meeting Kip and Luc, Crystal had become aware of a gnawing void within her. A longing for love and family and roots.

  Brought up by aloof New England grandparents after the deaths of her own mother and father in quick succession, Crystal had missed a real home. There had been boarding schools, lonely holidays in the austere Boston house, then college. It was with the Dabneys that she had first glimpsed a warm, fun-loving, affectionate family life. But she certainly did not know how to create one.

  Her marriage to Sandy had been a relationship of friendship, youthful passion, mutual acceptance. Since Sandy had been an orphan, too, they had relied on each other for the kind of caring and support most people expect from their family. For this reason, his death had been doubly devastating.

  A quick picture of her husband flashed before her eyes—as different from Kip Montrose as it was possible to be. Sandy had been homely, freckled, with a shock of tousled carrot-red hair that would never stay slicked down. He had been careless in dress and careless with money. But he had a cheerful nature, an irrepressible sense of humor, and undaunted optimism. And Crystal had loved him dearly.

  But Kip . . . there was no way to explain her feelings for Kip. They were as inexplicable as they were impossible. Foolishly she had let her emotions persuade her that there could be compromise, that Montclair could become a home again. . . .

  Sternly Crystal reined in her wandering thoughts. What was she thinking of? There was no way their distinctly different kinds of lifestyles could merge. She did not belong in Virginia. Nor at Montclair as its mistress. What did she know about managing a great house, entertaining, doing any of the things that would be expected of her as Kip's wife?

  Most of all, there was Luc, that dear little boy. Could she be the kind of stepmother he needed, dedicated as she was to her career? And what of her photography? Would she be able to pursue her profession if. . . ? She did not even finish the thought, for she knew the answer.

  Over the past five years, she had become independent, ambitious, focused. No matter what, she couldn't forget the struggle she had made to get where she was. To become sidetracked now would be a terrible mistake. That's what she had to remember.

  She was relieved at that moment to see the weathered frame building of the little church come in sight, and she pulled off the road onto the overgrown strip of grass in front. The church itself was surrounded by a rustic fence where she supposed buggy horses had been hitched during the service.

  A kind of autumn haze hovered over the valley, touching the old boards and giving them a sheen that might be hard to capture with a camera. She'd better get busy.

  Getting out of the car, she took a long breath, savoring the faint smell of burning leaves in the air, then walked around, studying the angles, the direction of the light, trying to decide where to set up her tripod. The longer she stood quite still, studying the exterior of the church, the less troubled she felt. It was as if she were being enveloped in a kind of embracing peace.

  She knew that the little church was no longer used. It had long since lost its pastor and its congregation who had moved closer to town no doubt, to a bigger, newer building. For some reason, though, Crystal felt compelled to mount the rickety wooden steps and try the double doors. Oddly enough, one side opened on rusty hinges and, after a moment's hesitation, she stepped inside.

  When her eyes became accustomed to the shadowy interior, she looked around. Inside was perfect simplicity. There were twelve pews on either side of a narrow aisle leading up to an altar rail formed of a series of crosses. Six narrow windows lined the walls on two sides. Standing at the door, Crystal heard the skittering of mice, the creaking of the floor boards.

  She slipped into one of the back pews and sat there for a moment, letting the stillness settle over her. After a while, she folded her arms on the back of the pew in front and rested her forehead on them.

  Crystal's Christian teaching had been sketchy. Her grandparents had attended a cold, formal church in Boston, where she had been sent to Sunday school. There she had learned the Ten Commandments by rote, but could remember very little else about it. However, there had always been a deep yearning within her for some kind of spirituality, a seeking for something to believe in, something greater than herself.

  She had been told that her ability to see beauty—the exquisite delicacy of a flower, the pattern of sunlight on grass, the slant of light on an old building—and to replicate it for the enjoyment of others through her camera was a kind of "gift." Somehow Crystal sensed that this was much more than a talent. It was something akin to creation. It was her Creator allowing her to see things in a certain way.

  Suddenly she was humbly grateful. No matter her turmoil at present, her dilemma as to what to do about her relationship with Kip Montrose, Crystal was quite sure that if "His eye is on the sparrow," in the words of the old spiritual, then He knew all about her, too.

  Why should she be discouraged? Or her heart feel lonely? She had been given a gift to use, and she would use it. Crystal's lips moved in a spontaneous prayer of gratitude: "Thank You, God, thank You! Show me what to do, what You want me to do, then show me how to do it."

  The phrase "Flee for your life" flashed through Crystal's mind, startling her with its intensity. It was not the kind of thing she would say to herself, not her words at all.

  She remained there for a few more minutes. Then she quietly left the church, calmed and fortified and with a new sense of direction.

  That afternoon her work went well. Better than it had at any time since coming to Virginia. As she packed up her things to make the drive back to Eden Cottage, Crystal knew that this day at the Crossroads had been significant, both professionally and personally. She knew at last what she must do.

  Kip read the note from Crystal, folded it, and put it in his jacket pocket. He did not understand. He had thought they were reaching a point in their relationship when it would be natural to talk about a future together.

  But she had written that something urgent had come up and she had to return to New York immediately. What would have called her away so abruptly?

  She was different,
there was no question about that. He had sensed a resistance in her that he had rarely encountered in women. Perhaps that had made her even more intriguing. But he had felt sure that, given time, he could overcome any reticence she might be feeling. He had even allowed himself to imagine that together they might create a real home for Luc. Now he felt a crushing disappointment.

  After reading Luc his bedtime story and tucking him in, Kip walked to the far end of the lawn. With the trees almost bare now, he could see Eden Cottage in the distance. No lights shone from its windows. Crystal had really gone then.

  Suddenly a brisk wind came up, and Kip felt chilled. Pocketing his hands in his jacket, he turned and walked back toward the house. With no lights on in front, he thought as he approached that the house looked somehow lonely and abandoned.

  "I'm going to have to do something," he said aloud. "Get involved in something more that the Hunt Club . . . a project, find some purpose. Something." Even to his own ear there seemed a desperate note in his voice.

  chapter

  15

  CRYSTAL WAS GLAD to be back in New York. Glad to be back in her apartment, with its clean, open space, its minimal furnishings, its white painted walls. Her senses had become satiated with old houses, antiques, velvet draperies, Aubusson rugs, and heavily framed family portraits. This was her world, her life. Here she could recover her real self—that self that had almost been eclipsed by the seductive appeal, the slow enchantment, the obsession with the past.

  Work was what she needed. Keeping busy would help erase those entrapping daydreams of Kip and a life that could never be. Grateful for the pressing deadline to submit the first prints of the pictures she'd taken in Virginia, Crystal began a daily schedule that often left her exhausted by the end of the day.

  She had taken more than a hundred pictures. All these had to be developed and critically viewed. Then decisions must be made as to which of them would require reprinting, which discarded, and which chosen for the exhibit.

  After a breakfast of black coffee and toast, Crystal donned her brown denim smock and went into her darkroom. First, she mixed the developing powder with water and filled the tanks. Then, selecting the plates she would work with that day, she began the concentrated task of developing the negatives. There was always an anticipatory excitement as she waited out the ten to fifteen minutes required for the film to develop. After that, she washed off the negatives under running water and immersed them in a second tank, this time in a mixture of fixative powder and water. Again came a waiting period to remove every vestige of the silver not used on the plates. Then the plates were removed, washed, and hung in the drying racks.

  When completely dry, they were carefully placed on sheets of sensitized paper to print. Next, she viewed the prints, shining an artificial light behind them onto the paper. This was the crucial time of decision. Crystal often found herself holding her breath at this point. Was the print up to the quality she wanted? Should it be darker, lighter? Should she repeat the whole process? This decision, she knew, marked the dividing line between the amateur and the professional photographer. Which prints would hold up to the critics' scrutiny when they were exhibited?

  Crystal's heart was in the work she had done during those golden days in Virginia. She had known instinctively that everything she did there was touched by a quality of excellence she had never achieved before. Enmeshed in the history of each house she photographed and the people who had lived there—their joys, sorrows, tragedies, triumphs—she had sometimes felt herself almost stepping back into another century.

  It had been a dangerous journey into the past. She had been spellbound, almost convinced she could stay there forever. Repeatedly she had reminded herself of the lesson learned that day at the little church at the Crossroads. Even the name seemed significant. She had been at a crossroads that day, and she had been given clear direction. It had been the right one, she was sure of it.

  Still, Crystal wondered how Kip had reacted to the note she had left, her abrupt departure? Although he might have perceived it as harsh, a clean break was the only way. She would not allow herself any regrets.

  If there were second thoughts, Crystal had only to remember the day at the airfield, when she had taken Kip's picture standing beside his plane, seen that expression on his face. . . .

  She had left the photographing of Montclair for last. When she asked herself why she had kept putting it off, she had been honest enough to admit that it was because she was afraid. But of what? Of the mansion . . . or its master?

  Knowing that without it, her collection would not be complete, she had firmly put aside her fears and sent Kip away, in spite of his insistence that he could be helpful, telling him he would only be in the way. It was true. But not the whole truth. Being around him was distracting, and by that time she was finding it harder and harder not to betray her feelings.

  He had left reluctantly, driving his roadster down the driveway with one last cavalier wave of his hand and a shouted, "You'll be sorry!"

  Smiling at his nonsense, Crystal had gone about getting ready for the shoot, arranging her tripod, looking through the viewer, studying the way the light fell through the trees. She had wished for color film that day, for Montclair had never looked so lovely with the variety of trees in their fall colors—golden maples, deep crimson dogwoods, splashes of bright red and yellow against the dark evergreens.

  All the while she was setting up, she had felt a nervous tingle of excitement. That wasn't unusual in itself. But this time, just as she was about to put the dark drop cloth over her head and insert the glass plate, Crystal was seized with an overwhelming sadness.

  Suddenly there was the impression of a faded debutante in tattered finery, left alone after the ball was long over and the music echoed through the empty rooms. The house as it was now was only a shell of what it had once been. Crystal began to tremble. She could almost hear the music of a waltz, see the couples—beautiful women in hooped ball gowns and handsome men in Confederate gray or black evening clothes, tails flying as they circled the ballroom—a vision of all the gaiety, the love, the laughter that had made it a real home.

  If only someone cared enough, really cared, Montclair could again be a home. But who could make that happen? Not me, she thought. I can'tmake Kip's dreams come true.

  So she had run away.

  The sound of the timer went off, jolting Crystal from her melancholy thoughts. Slowly, carefully, she lifted the prints up to the light and held her breath. These were the pictures she had taken of Montclair that day.

  She examined them closely. They were good but not the best of the lot. Certainly not good enough to include in the collection. Crystal backed away and let out her breath. Satisfied that she had made a professional decision not colored by sentiment, a new strength surged through her.

  Montclair had been a beautiful dream, but it was not for her.

  Crystal waited until all the pictures for her exhibit were submitted and approved before she at last developed those she had taken of Kip at the airfield. She knew why she had delayed, debating whether or not to simply destroy the plates, thus putting Kip Montrose out of her mind and heart forever. But professional curiosity won over her indecision. When she saw them, she was immediately transported back to the beautiful, carefree day and the reason she had fled.

  In fact, looking at the pictures affected her so deeply that Crystal was tempted to tear them up and toss the scraps in the wastebasket. But they were too good to destroy.

  Instead, she put them in a manila envelope and addressed it to "Kendall Montrose, Montclair, Mayfield, Virginia."

  As soon as she mailed them, Crystal had felt sending them was a mistake. How big a mistake she was yet to discover.

  Then one afternoon, while taking a break from her day's work and making herself a pot of tea in the kitchen, the bell buzzed from down in the entrance hall of the building, signaling a caller. Who could that be? Purposely, she hadn't told any of her friends she was back in New Yo
rk because she felt she needed uninterrupted time to work. Truthfully, she needed time to recover from her near-fatal decision about Kip Montrose.

  She went into the living room and pressed the release that unlocked the door to the stairway leading to her second-floor apartment. Within minutes there was a knock at the door. When she opened it, there stood Kip.

  The shock of seeing him left Crystal speechless.

  "Surprise!" He smiled and walked in, placing both hands on her shoulders. Shaking his head sadly, he looked down into her face. "Crystal, Crystal, why did you run away?" Before she could answer, he was kissing her full on the mouth.

  Totally dazed, she returned his kiss, then stepped back gasping. "What are you doing in New York?"

  "I've been in Massachusetts, visiting my sister, Meredith Sousa. We had some family business to attend to there. Now I'm on my way back to Virginia, but I can only stay for a day. Don't want to be away from Luc too long," he explained. "I couldn't leave without seeing you. Besides, I need to know what happened." He paused, frowning. "What did happen, Crystal? I was stunned to get your note and find you'd already left. Why did you leave like that? It didn't make sense. . . ."

  "It makes a lot of sense," Crystal replied, keeping her voice even. "My life is here, my work is here. I'd already stayed too long in Virginia."

  "But I thought we were . . . good . . . together. We were getting along famously. You were having a good time, weren't you?"

  "I thought it best to leave," she said simply."Things were getting . . . well . . . complicated, and I . . ."

  "You mean you were afraid I was falling in love with you?"

  She turned away, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  "Or was it that you thought you might be falling in love with me?"

  Crystal threw out her hands in a helpless gesture. "Oh, Kip, it's not that simple. I wish it were."