by Jane Peart
Had she turned the wrong way when she left the cottage? Perhaps she had missed the path. She paused for a few minutes, trying to remember how she had come. Maybe it had been from the other direction. So she reversed her course. But this did not lead her to the opening she had hoped to find, either.
Feeling her legs quivering with exertion, she leaned against a tree to rest. By now the rain was threading through the trees, increasing steadily, so that soon the ground was soaked. In spite of her warm cape, Noramary, too, was drenched.
No matter, she would simply have to plow on. This must be the way back to Montclair, she told herself, stumbling forward again.
She couldn’t have gone so far that it would be impossible to find her way back, she encouraged herself, though she had heard of people who traveled in circles through the wilderness, became lost, gave up in despair, and were eventually discovered only a few yards from their destination.
The rain turned to icy needles of sleet. Noramary ducked her head and forced herself on. Her thin slippers were already wet, and she was almost blinded by the freezing rain slicing in front of her and upon her, the wind slashing against her.
She bit her lip, trying not to cry out in fear and panic. Her feet slipped and slid on the now sodden ground. Once or twice she fell to her knees. She staggered up—her skirts, now heavy from the rain and mud, slowing her progress. The sleet had turned to snow. Driven by the mounting wind, the flakes struck her face in rapier-sharp particles. She stumbled on, stopping only to draw a ragged breath and rest, her hands clinging to the rough bark of the pine trees, fighting fatigue and a growing desperation.
It was then that she saw a light swinging in an arc, as though from a lantern. Breathless with hope, she watched as it grew brighter, stronger.
Then through the dark and the cold, she heard a familiar voice, rough with anxiety, calling… calling her name, hoarsely, over and over.…
“Noramary! Noramary… answer me!”
The light was a blinding square now directly in front of her. She held up one hand weakly and answered with utmost effort, “Here I am! Oh, Duncan, thank God!” before she felt her knees give way and she sank to the ground.
The next thing she knew, she was swung up in strong arms, the hood of her cape falling back, her wet hair streaming into her face.
She did not remember much about the jolting horseback ride in front of Duncan’s saddle, his arms holding her tightly as he spurred his horse forward through the sheet of whirling snow.
She recalled being carried into the house, the circle of fearful dark faces around her, hearing Duncan’s voice say harshly, “Ellen, get her out of these wet clothes and into a warm bed as fast as possible. She’s soaked to the skin and already shaking with fever.”
She roused herself enough to try to control her shivering and whisper guiltily, knowing she must have caused great concern and trouble by her absence in the storm, “I’m sorry.…”
“Never mind that, dearie.” That was Ellen’s voice with its soft Scottish burr. “We’ll have you warm and cozy soon so’s you won’t catch your death of cold.”
Noramary opened her large eyes, now unnaturally bright, and murmured, “It’s nothing really… a slight chill.”
Ellen gently helped her undress, while a frightened Delva was busily running the warming pan between the sheets. Two other maids heated bricks in the fireplace, then wrapped them in thicknesses of flannel to place at her feet. Noramary alternately shivered and felt fiery hot, but protested that she would be fine in the morning. Soothingly, Ellen guided her over to the bed and, as tenderly as if she were a child, half lifted her aching body into bed.
Outside, the storm continued to rage, but no more so than did the fever in Noramary, who tossed and turned with troubled dreams. It was the same one she had had over and over in the past few months. She always seemed to be running, as if searching desperately for something or someone. There seemed to be a river rushing wildly between her and the object of her search. A mysterious figure stood on the other side, just out of reach, beyond the sound of her voice as she called his name. He never looked in her direction, and she would awake, sobbing and breathless.
Time after time, when she woke choking and hoarsely calling that name, Ellen was there. It was the same through out the night—the fitful sleep, the dream, waking to Ellen’s ministrations, then falling again into troubled sleep. Never once did she see the tall, shadowy figure standing just outside the half-open bedroom door.
The next few days were a blur to Noramary and were followed by weeks of slow recovery. She slipped in and out of consciousness as her fever mounted, aware only of the muted sound of movement around her; of hushed, yet urgent voices; of hands, blessedly cool on her burning skin; of a headache pounding so persistently that she could not think.
Then there was the night she awoke to an agonizing stab of blinding pain like the thrust of a sharp knife. She remembered crying out as a rushing shudder shook her frail body, and then she sank into oblivion. The pain was the last thing she remembered. It was days before Noramary was conscious of anything else.
Much later, she learned from Ellen the other part of the story: Of how, when she had not returned by dark, the frightened servants and a weeping Delva had gone to Ellen, who had sought Duncan in the plantation office. Hearing that their mistress had gone out early in the afternoon for a walk and had not yet returned, he had jumped to his feet.
“You are sure she didn’t take her horse or get the small carriage from the stable, perhaps to ride over to Cameron Hall?” he demanded of the cluster of houseservants and Ellen standing in a frozen line, awaiting the master’s decision. They all shook their heads. “In that case, send word to the stables to saddle my horse, and get two of the men mounted to go with me. We must find her before it gets any darker or colder.”
Noramary opened her eyes and turned her head slowly on the pillow to gaze out the window. Outside, the sky was blue and, on the branches of the trees, fragile green leaves shimmered in the sunlight. Somehow spring had come at last, she thought in surprise.
Vaguely she wondered what day it was, for she seemed to have lost all track of time. She tried to raise her head but felt rather light-headed and weak. Tentatively she moved, and in an instant Ellen’s kind, worried face bent over her.
“You’re awake, dearie. I’ll get you some broth. The doctor said you must try to eat something soon. You’ve dwindled away to a mere nothing, you have.”
“Ellen, what happened? I know I must have been ill, but I don’t remember.…” Noramary’s voice was faint.
For a moment Ellen’s blue eyes misted with bright tears. “You’ve been very ill, dearie. We were that afraid that you might slip away altogether. But the Lord was good. Except, dearie…” Ellen’s hand covered Noramary’s small, thin one with a sympathetic gesture. “You’ve lost the bairn.… The doctor said it was the high fever… it could not be helped. But you’re not to be sad, dearie,” Ellen continued briskly, plumping the pillows behind Noramarys head. “You weren’t that far along, and he says there’s plenty of time for babies!”
Part IV
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but when the desire comes, it is the
tree of life.”
Proverbs 13:12
chapter
20
AUNT BETSY, accompanied by Laura, arrived at Montclair in response to Duncan’s urgent summons. She was shocked at the drastic change in Noramary’s appearance. Her vibrant, glowing look was gone. Her skin, pale, almost transparent. Her slender body, wasted.
Within hours of her arrival, Aunt Betsy had come to the decision that Noramary must return with her to Williamsburg to be nursed back to health.
“I must say, Duncan, I am gravely concerned. To be very blunt, I fear for her life.”
Duncan paled. “But the doctor has assured me Noramary is out of danger.…”
“That may be. However, the girl has suffered not only physically, but the other effects
of losing her child may not yet be known. Unless we do something right away, Noramary might still slip away from us.”
’Then, madam, I can only agree to whatever would be best for her,” Duncan agreed.
“Right now she needs the bright company of her cousins and the activities of our busy household to distract her from her sorrow over the baby,” Aunt Betsy continued firmly. “Noramary is much too young to bear the natural depression she feels in this solitude. It will do her a world of good. Mark my words, we must all help her to get well, and we must begin now.”
The decision was made and, while it was met with some reluctance and not a little resentment by Ellen, who had nursed Noramary so faithfully, she relented when Duncan convinced her it was all for her beloved charge’s good. Even Ellen could see that Noramary was getting no better, in fact, seemed to be losing ground each day.
Ellen helped bundle Noramary warmly into the carriage and, amid the flurry, the strangely formal farewell between husband and wife went unnoticed.
As they started down the drive from Montclair, Noramary turned and looked back through the oval window, and her heart was suddenly wrenched at the sight of the tall man standing on the porch. His shoulders were slumped in an uncharacteristic posture of dejection and defeat, and she thought of what Ellen had told her.
“He never left your bedside, ma’am, not for all those days you were sick. When I had to go take some slight repast or for some other necessity, or when he insisted I have a short nap, he would stay right there until I returned. Tender as a woman, he was! When you were out of your head, tossing and turning and calling out, he would soothe your head with cool cloths. He never seemed to tire. And when you lost the baby… why, I never saw a man so grieved!”
Grieved? Duncan, over a child he did not believe was his? Noramary could only shake her head in bewilderment.
For Noramary, the next few weeks passed in a peaceful montage of long, leisurely, sun-splashed days. She slipped back into the framework of life in the Barnwell house as easily as if she had never left, and the longer she stayed, the less real seemed her life at Montclair.
Spring had come to Williamsburg in a burst of delicate color of blossoming fruit trees and flowering bushes. The gardens of the town behind the neat boxwood hedges were rainbows of bright blooms. Noramary enjoyed sitting in the sunshine of the pleasant walled garden behind the Barnwells’ home, in the lounge chair that had been placed there for her.
When she was relaxing there one day while Aunt Betsy filled her basket with mint leaves, Noramary sniffed the spicy fragrance appreciatively.
“You should plant an herb garden at Montclair, Noramary,” Aunt Betsy remarked.
“Yes, I suppose I should,” Noramary agreed passively.
Unknown to Aunt Betsy, her words pierced Noramary’s heart. With aching remembrance, she thought of that night at Montclair when she and Duncan had sat together at the window of their room, and he had asked her, “What can I do to make you happy?”
“But you have already made me happy, Duncan.”
“I want to do something special for you! Isn’t there something you would like to have?”
“Well,” she had replied thoughtfully, “I would really like to have a garden.”
“You shall have it, my darling!” he had declared emphatically, kissing her tenderly.
But there had been no garden. After that night mere had only been a wasteland at Montclair.
Then one day the quiet stream of days was broken by two unexpected events.
Noramary was alone in the house one afternoon while Aunt Betsy and Laura were shopping. The little girls were in school; Uncle William, at his business office.
She had just come in from the garden and settled herself in the small parlor with some knitting when she had the sudden impression she was no longer alone. A shivery tremor tingled down her spine so positive was she that someone’s gaze was upon her.
Lifting her head slowly, her eyes widened upon the figure standing in the doorway.
“Robert!” She dropped her knitting and gasped his name.
He came into the room and stood there gazing at her with a look of such longing that it touched the very depths of her heart. The bond of years embraced her in warmth, and she held out both hands in greeting. Remembering the carefree happiness they had known together, all her desolate loneliness faded, the weary emptiness of the past months fled.
For a few minutes her hands remained in his, and there were no words for all that was in each heart to say. Then Noramary, realizing the danger of this innocent meeting and what was in both their minds—the close companionship growing into innocent romance, the summer kisses, the impulsive promises—gently withdrew her hands. She needed to remind Robert—and herself—that everything was different now, everything changed.
“Sit down, Robert. I was about to have my tea and you must join me.” Her voice trembled slightly.
’There’s no need for that.” He dismissed her suggestion with a gesture. “I came only because I heard you had been very ill, and I wanted to see for myself that you were all right.”
Noramary reseated herself, picking up her knitting again. Perhaps the activity would still the shaking of her hands.
Robert stood by the fireplace, looking down at her. She felt uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, for one did not have to be a physician to see the changes wrought by her illness. Yet it was the more subtle changes carved into her face by her unhappiness that Robert noted. Her delicate-boned slen-derness now verged on thinness, the rosy-cheeked roundness of her face had been replaced by a pale oval, the eyes that had once danced with mischief and fun were smoky blue pools of haunting sadness. Noramary knew he had not missed any detail.
She cast about for some topic to relieve the heavy silence that hung between them, but it was Robert who spoke first.
“I have been talking with your uncle, Noramary. He is writing some letters of introduction for me. I am leaving shortly to go to Scotland, where I will study for a year with a friend of my uncle’s—a surgeon with an excellent reputation. He has been developing some new methods of surgery that I hope to learn so that when I come back…” His voice trailed away.
Noramary glanced up from her knitting to catch the look of grief in his eyes. She spoke quickly to mask the awful silence that was descending once more. “That sounds very interesting, Robert. I’m sure your studies will be most fascinating and…”
But Robert interrupted. “Oh, Noramary, surely we can talk of other things than my medical studies. There is so much I want to say, so much I need to know, so many unanswered questions.…”
“They are better neither asked nor answered, Robert,” she said softly.
“Why cannot there be truth between us, Noramary?” Robert asked. “I realize you could not respond to the note I wrote you at Christmastime, but it would still mean so much to me to know… to be sure… that you are happy.”
Noramary looked directly into Robert’s earnest eyes, remembering with regret the day she had tried to write to him, the half-written letters she had left on her escritoire just before leaving for that ill-fated walk in the woods. She had gone to the cottage that day, had found her silhouette over Duncan’s desk. Then the storm had come and…
“Well, Noramary, are you? Have you been happy these months?” Robert’s voice broke in upon her reverie.
She looked over at him. He was bending forward, his hands clasped on his knees, the clear, truth-seeking eyes searching her face.
Just then the door opened and Thomas, the Barnwells’ butler, entered, bearing a silver tray. It took a few minutes for him to set it down and bring the serving table over in front of Noramary. She willed her hand not to shake as she lifted the heavy silver teapot to pour the steaming tea into delicate cups. They were both silent until Thomas left the room, leaving the door discreetly open as befitted the situation of a married lady entertaining a gentleman.
But still Robert’s question begged an answer.
&nb
sp; Noramary’s thoughts were in turmoil. She knew Robert deserved an answer. Yet how could she give him an answer that would satisfy him, yet remain loyal to her wifely vows to Duncan? To reveal the secret she had borne so long alone now seemed a betrayal.
In spite of everything that had happened, Noramary still believed her marriage vows were sacred. She recalled the words the minister had read from the book of Hosea on their wedding day.
I will betroth thee unto me forever,
Yes, I will betroth thee to me
In righteousness and justice
In lovingkindness and mercy.
I will betroth thee to me in faithfulness,.
The words themselves, echoing in her mind, brought instant understanding of what she must do. Much as she loved Robert, would always love him, he was part of her past, her childhood, the other life she had put behind. That is where he belonged—in her past. She had to help him put her in his past, too. What they had once had together would never really end. It would be a lovely memory always. To try to make anything now of these chance meetings would only spoil those memories. He must understand that they both had to go on to other lives, other loves. Only if she freed him could Robert do that.
So when Noramary answered Robert, she spoke very gently but very positively. “Yes, Robert, I am happy.” And by that affirmation she believed she was willing that happiness into existence.
With God’s help I will find a way to be happy, she resolved, and if not happy, then content.
“Then I, too, am happy, Noramary,” Robert said solemnly. He tried to smile. “I suppose there is nothing more to be said. I shall take my leave.”
Noramary rose from her chair and, with a rustle of skirts, came around the tea table, holding out her hand to him. As she did so, her wide skirt brushed the knitting basket by her side, toppling it and spilling the contents onto the floor. A ball of yarn rolled toward Robert, stopping somewhere midway between them.
At the same time both Robert and Noramary moved to retrieve it, bending down simultaneously. Robert was quicker and collected the yarn ball, placing it in her cupped hand. Their fingers touched and, for a moment, all the old memories flowed back. Suspended in nostalgia, they stood looking into each other’s eyes.
