by Jane Peart
He looked at her with concern. “Now, we must see about some food and something to drink for ourselves. You must be hungry as well as tired.”
Noramary shrugged slightly. “If I had known where to find things, I could have—”
Duncan interrupted her. “Nonsense! I wanted you to stay close by the fire and warm yourself. I didn’t expect you to do anything. Actually, I don’t know what we’ll find. I come here very rarely nowadays, sometimes only at midday if I happen to be riding this part of the plantation.”
Duncan lighted another candle and took it with him into an adjoining room. When he came back, he was juggling a round loaf of bread, something wrapped in cheesecloth, and a basket of small russet pears. He slid them handily onto the gateleg table and pulled it over to where Noramary stood.
“It’s a meager enough supper, I’m afraid. Certainly not the welcoming feast I’m sure my sister Janet had planned for our homecoming this evening!”
“Will she be worried, do you think?” Duncan halted for a moment, cocking his head toward the sound of the storm raging without, then with a slight smile, shook his head. “On a night like this? Janet probably supposes I was wise enough not to have left Williamsburg! There she misplaced her confidence, to my chagrin!”
“Duncan, you are not responsible for the weather! Nor for the storm or the muddy roads or even the carriage wheels!” Noramary admonished, with a hint of teasing laughter in her voice.
He looked at her, frowning, then gave a short laugh.
“You’re right! I have taken too much credit, haven’t I?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then a curious look flicked in his eyes as he gazed at her. “You know, you’re really quite remarkable. Most women would have been in a fine temper by now with all this!” He threw out both hands in a gesture of futility.
“But it’s no one’s fault,” Noramary insisted. “It couldn’t be helped. After all, only the Lord controls the weather.”
“True,” said Duncan solemnly. He paused and Noramary was surprised by a broad grin spreading over his serious features. “Actually, we’ve been praying for rain. The woods around here are like tinder and we’ve been worried about forest fires.”
“Really?” Noramary exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth in a spontaneous burst of laughter.
’That should teach me to be careful how I pray, eh?” Duncan joined in her laughter, and Noramary realized it was the first time she had heard the sound. It was a rich laugh, deep and hearty.
That bit of shared mirth seemed to break the stiffness between them, and the tension she had felt so strongly in the forced intimacy of the long carriage ride from Williamsburg eased considerably. By the time he had gotten down pewter plates from the pine hutch cabinet, set them on the table, found woven napkins and pottery mugs, the atmosphere was decidedly more relaxed. Duncan had also found a jug of apple cider.
“Only about half full,” he declared, holding it up and giving it a shake, “but it will quench our thirst and take the chill off, no doubt. Come, you must be famished. You hardly touched anything at Jacqueline’s party,” he said sternly.
Noramary was both embarrassed and oddly touched by the knowledge that he must have been watching her at the Camerons’ reception.
She took her place opposite him at the little table and was surprised when he reached across it and took her small hand in his.
“Let us ask a blessing on this first meal we eat together as husband and wife,” he suggested in a low, almost shy voice.
Noramary nodded, bowed her head, and closed her eyes as Duncan prayed reverently, “Good and gracious Father, we ask Thy blessing on this food we are about to partake of at the beginning of our life together. And on that life, whose path is known only to Thee, we earnestly beseech Thy help and grace. We ask this in the name of Thy Son, Our Lord, Jesus. Amen.”
“Amen,” whispered Noramary.
When she opened her eyes, Duncan was gazing at her. Her cheeks, warmed by the fire, flushed a deeper rose. The hood of her cape had slipped back, its shimmering blue satin lining framing her face and her dark, rain-dampened hair that curled in fetching tendrils about her forehead. Her skin had a dewy freshness and her eyes—he drew in his breath unconsciously. Those eyes—deep, sparkling like sapphires! A man could drown in their depths, he thought, in a rising tide of emotion.
As if he knew he’d been caught staring, Duncan quickly picked up the knife and began cutting the loaf of crusty, rough-grained bread, mumbling as he did, “This is not at all as I’d planned your arrival at Montclair to be!”
Noramary looked at him curiously. In all their meetings Duncan had always seemed so sure, so confident. It was surprising to see him so annoyed over this unpredictable turn of events. It also surprised her a little that Duncan must have planned their homecoming carefully. She had been so preoccupied with her own thoughts that she had given little attention to what he must be thinking and feeling about their marriage, about bringing her to Montclair.
“How had you planned it?” Noramary asked shyly.
He unwrapped the large triangle of cheese from its cloth and started to shave wedges from it. “Well, to begin, I had hoped to reach Montclair a little before sunset when the view of the mountains is best. Then when we went inside,” Duncan continued, “there’d be fires burning in all the fireplaces, shining on the paneling and floors—newly polished for your benefit, I might add.” He looked up, smiling. “Incidentally, all the wood used in the construction of the house is our own timber—white oak—and the floors are heart of pine, rubbed to bring out their golden sheen.”
Again Noramary was conscious of another facet of this man that had, heretofore, gone unobserved. Duncan was really quite articulate in contrast to the reserved, rather stilted conversations in Williamsburg. That he was describing Montclair with such pride and affection was equally enlightening. Every detail of the house was of great importance to him.
“And Janet would have a grand supper waiting, the table set with our mother’s English china and crystal, which now, of course, belongs to you—as mistress of Montclair.”
Mistress of Montclair—Noramary turned the tide over thoughtfully in her mind. Noramary… Montrose now. The name still sounded strange to her, but one day she would grow accustomed to it, she supposed.
’Tell me, Duncan, why didn’t your sister come to the wedding?”
Duncan took a long swallow of cider before he answered. “A number of reasons, actually, the first being that she is officially still in mourning—although Angus has been dead for nearly two years. The second, of course, is that she wanted to have everything in readiness for our homecoming.” He paused significantly before adding, “And thirdly, and I’m inclined to believe this may have been the most important reason in her mind, is the fact that after marrying my late brother-in-law, Janet turned Calvinist, and my guess is she felt there might be more wine, music, and merrymaking at a Williamsburg wedding than her conscience would countenance.”
“Well of course,” Noramary dimpled prettily, “Williamsburg citizens are known for their hospitality. But I can scarce believe that your sister would withhold her attendance from her brother’s wedding, when even our Lord enjoyed such occasions.”
’The difference, I’m afraid, between strict adherence to man-made rules and rituals, rather than to the loving spirit He intended. But never fear. Even though Montclair is a distance from other plantations, your coming will bring on a spate of entertaining! Everyone I know is anxious to honor my bride.”
Which bride? Noramary thought dismally. She could not help wondering how Duncan’s friends felt about the circumstances of his marriage. Winnie’s running off practically on the eve of their wedding had to have been an embarrassment to him, and now he was bringing home her cousin as her substitute. Would they pity him, feel that the Barnwells had taken advantage of him?
Before Noramary could follow this line of thinking to its conclusion, Duncan said disparagingly. “What a wedding feast! Crumbly
cheese, dry bread—slightly turned apple cider!” He sounded disgusted.
Impulsively, Noramary quoted: “Better is a dry morsel with quietness, than a house full of feasting with strife.”
“Aha! Proverbs 17:1. My lady knows her Scriptures” Duncan applauded.
“I had a very pious nanny,” she explained.
“A nanny… in Virginia?” Duncan seemed puzzled.
“But that was in England, of course. I’ve only been in America since I was twelve. I was born and reared in Kent.”
“I didn’t realize. I just assumed you had always lived with the Barnwells.”
Noramary shook her head. “I came to them after my brother Simon married.” She hesitated, feeling there was no need to tell Duncan now about the circumstances under which she had been sent away from Monksmoor Priory. “My mother and Uncle William were half-brother and sister,” she explained.
“Do you… miss England? Your home there?” Duncan persisted.
“Well, of course, sometimes I think about it. But it was a very long time ago… Virginia is my home now,” Noramary stated firmly.
“And you have made the best of things,” Duncan finished.
To her astonishment he put his large hand over hers where it cupped the tankard of cider.
“I hope you will come to feel Montclair is your home, Noramary, that you will come to love it as I do,” he said softly.
’Tell me more about it,” she urged, eager to change the subject for fear she might display some evidence of homesickness, more for Williamsburg and the Barnwell household, than for faraway Monksmoor Priory in Kent England.
Duncan launched into a description of the things he had built into the house to accommodate a climate and weather unknown to the original English architect. Noramary listened with interest until, suddenly, midsentence, Duncan broke off.
“My word! I am talking a great deal!” He held up his tankard and asked quizzically “Do you suppose this aging cider has loosened my tongue?”
Noramary laughed a light, rippling sound that delighted Duncan with its natural spontaneity. He laughed along with her and rising, said in the pompous manner of an orator, “Let us drink a toast! For, upon my honor, I have never before been known as a brilliant dinner partner. Of course,” he added sheepishly, “this is not what might be considered such an elegant dinner, either.”
Noramary laughed again, pleased to discover Duncan’s sense of humor. “I never dreamed you were such a thespian!” she teased.
“Madam, I am many things you never dreamed!” he retorted with a broad smile that transformed his usually serious demeanor.
Noramary looked at him in astonishment, realizing that what Duncan said was true. In these few hours—in this outrageous, unforeseen situation—she had learned more about this man than in all the weeks of their decorous courtship. Duncan was not just the dignified, rather aloof, courteous but cool suitor he had seemed, a man of conservative opinions, a prosperous planter. He was a man of many layers. A man who could laugh at himself, as well as at circumstances, a man of consideration and kindness, a man of faith and humor. He was complex, with myriad emotions and feeling underlying the reserved facade. He was, in fart, very much like herself.
Amid much merriment they ate the simple fare, and the shared meal became a feast as if the dry bread were a light, moist cake and the slightly turned cider the finest champagne. The unpredictable circumstances in which they found themselves, and what their family and friends would think if they knew about it, produced more mild hilarity.
Their initial stiffness with each other had long since disappeared, and by the end of supper they were both surprised to discover the other to be a most amiable companion.
Duncan filled the black cast-iron kettle with water to boil for tea and hung it on the crane, where its rising steam sizzled on the still crackling hearthfire.
“Have you had enough or too much of this poor supper?” inquired Duncan.
“Just enough, and I do feel better, thank you.”
“You know, just now when you so aptly quoted from the book of Proverbs, another came to mind.” He smiled. “I, too, was taught the Scriptures by my mother.”
“And what might that have been?” “Two came to mind, actually. First, Proverbs 15:10. Do you know it?”
Noramary’s dark winged brows came together over her smooth forehead as she pondered. “Hmmm. Fifteen, ten, did you say?” And she quoted slowly, searching her memory, “Better a dinner of herbs where love—” She stopped short, blushing.
Duncan finished it for her. “—a dinner of herbs where love is than a fatted calf with hatred.”
His eyes were twinkling and Noramary smiled. Love was a word that had never been spoken between them until the wedding ceremony earlier that morning: “love, honor, cherish.” So beautiful, but love had to be more than words, Noramary thought wistfully.
For a few minutes there was silence in the room. Only the sound of the wind and rain blowing against the sides of the cottage, clattering like pebbles on the roof and windows, disturbed the peaceful moment.
Duncan refilled their tankards with cider and began speaking again in a more serious tone of voice. “When I started planning my house—our house,” he amended, “I wanted it to become one of the finest of the James River manors. Only the best materials would be used in its construction—elements from our land itself. I wanted to build a splendid house that would endure for years, that would stand for our family… and those who came after us.” Again Duncan paused, his eyes holding Noramary in an unswerving gaze. “Our family has been greatly blessed in property and possessions. Our land was originally a King’s Grant deeded to my father and his brother. Unfortunately, my uncle died before reaching his majority and his part came to my father and his sons.” A shadow seemed to pass over Duncan’s face as he continued. “But my older brother James died of fever when he was still a boy and so… I’m the only Montrose left, the last of the family. The land is now mine and…” He left the rest of the sentence incomplete, its implication clear.
As the only male surviving, the owner of vast properties and wealth, it was understandable that Duncan hoped for an heir to carry on the proud name of Montrose. It was important, therefore, really necessary, for him to marry, Noramary mused, if not the bride of his choice, then a substitute. She lowered her eyes, crumbling the piece of dry bread in her hand.
A sudden clap of thunder caused them both to start, and Duncan nearly toppled his tankard of cider with the involuntary movement of his hand. In the ensuing moment, they rose from the table and Duncan strode over to the door to bolt it securely against the rising wind.
The interruption seemed to break the amiable intimacy of their mealtime, and as Noramary moved to stand beside the fire, she sensed an awkwardness between them once again.
She began to feel intensely weary. It had been a long day filled with tension and excitement, as well as the unforeseen hazards encountered on their journey. She had had little sleep the night before, she recalled, spending a good part of it apprehensive about this night.
Her wedding night! Here?
Before her thoughts became more agitated, she heard Duncan moving around behind her, his boots sounding on the bare wooden flooring of the rooms beyond. Curious to see what he was doing, she turned about just in time to see him returning with an armload of quilts.
“There are no sheets or pillows in the bedrooms, and the mattresses have been removed, but I found these in the blanket box and I’ll fix you a place on the settle in front of the fire. You should be fairly comfortable mere. By morning the rain should have slacked enough for us to ford the creek and get to the house on horseback. Later, I’ll get help to move the carriage out.” Duncan spoke briskly as he shoved the wooden high-backed settle at an angle to the fireplace and proceeded to fold quilts upon it. “Maybe the water will have receded and we can use the bridge.” He turned to her with a teasing smile. “But, as they say, ‘we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, eh?’�
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Noramary attempted a weak smile. She felt worn out, but relieved at the makeshift sleeping arrangements. She was almost too tired to think of anything but curling up before the fire and closing her heavy eyelids.
“Come try this. See if you can manage to sleep on it,” urged Duncan.
She gathered up her skirts, let herself down to stretch out on the narrow bench. To her surprise, the quilts felt amazingly soft.
“How is that?” asked Duncan with concern.
“Fine,” she murmured drowsily, her eyes already beginning to close.
“Then, I’ll bank the fire a bit, and it should burn through the night.”
Through her half-closed eyelids, Noramary saw the flames sending patterns of light dancing across the ceiling. Then the firelight was temporarily blocked by a tall figure standing over her. She felt a light touch as Duncan placed the back of his hand against her cheek and said very softly, “There is another Proverb, Noramary.” His voice was very low. “The most important one, more important than land or property or possessions…”
“Which one?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep.
“Proverbs 19:14,” he replied.
She mustered a small laugh. “Duncan, I’m too sleepy to think what that could possibly be,” and sighed sleepily.
“Houses and riches are an inheritance from fathers, but a good wife is from the Lord.” Duncan’s words were the last she heard as she drifted off to sleep.
Before Duncan himself bedded down on the opposite side of the fireplace, he stood looking down at his sleeping bride. She was infinitely more beautiful than he had ever seen her—dark wavy hair tumbled about her flushed cheeks pillowed on small, dainty hands; her black lashes, shadowy crescents against her flawless skin.
Noramary, so gentle and sweet, so warm and laughing… Duncan felt a sensation so sharp, yet tender, that it was almost pain. Hope flared brightly within, and the conviction grew that in her he had found the thing for which he had been searching all his life—love. The marriage had been carefully considered and, while he thought he had based his decision on the most practical of reasons, he knew now he was wrong. By the most unforeseen, the strangest of circumstances, this lovely creature had become his wife. Now, all at once, she was the most important thing in his life.
