by Jane Peart
At that very moment a tall figure stepped into the doorway, blocking it and casting a long shadow into the sunny parlor. Startled, Noramary and Robert turned to see Duncan standing there, regarding them coldly.
“Duncan! What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you!” exclaimed Noramary, flushing. Even as she spoke, she realized how the scene he had come upon could easily be misread and that her words had only served to confirm his suspicions.
“Obviously not,” Duncan replied icily. “I’ve come to take you home.” Turning to Robert, he made a stiff little bow. “My apologies, Mr. Stedd, if I have interrupted another reunion of old friends.” He paused to let the reference to New Year’s Eve take effect. Then, addressing himself directly to Noramary, he said, “My arrival is untimely, I see. It was not planned, but prompted by a surprise visitor at Montclair. In the press of all the events of the winter, I’m afraid we failed to remember the portrait we commissioned Cecil Brandon to paint when he was at the Camerons’ last fall. He is at Montclair at this moment, waiting to begin. So we must leave for home at once. The Camerons have graciously consented to entertain him until our return. This will explain why I had no opportunity to warn you of my coming.”
Noramary tried to ignore the emphasis he put on the word warn.
“Of course. I will get ready right away,” she murmured.
Over Aunt Betsy’s protests, they left for Montclair the next day—Noramary, comfortably cushioned with afghans and pillows in the carriage, Duncan riding his horse alongside. Noramary was grateful for that. At least they would not have to endure the long ride in the chill atmosphere of Duncan’s displeasure and suspicion.
The countryside she had left still locked in the bleakness of winter had erupted into glorious springtime color, Noramary discovered. Upon her return, the woods around Montclair were a fairyland of pink and white dogwood blossoms. Even so, the old familiar feeling of dread swept over her as the carriage rolled into the drive. She felt almost like an escaped prisoner who had been captured and returned to gaol.
After a night’s rest, Noramary sent word to Cecil Brandon at Cameron Hall that she would be ready to sit for him the following day.
Ellen laid out the crimson velvet gown for the sitting. As she helped Noramary with the buttons, she clucked in dismay. “Oh my, madam! This will have to be pinned to fit properly—you’ve wasted so! We must get some flesh on your bones. Some hearty Scotch porridge should do it!” she declared emphatically.
Brandon had dispatched a note to Noramary with directions for her to wear her hair very simply, adding with his flourishing hand: “Anything else would be gilding the lily.” She put the finishing touches to the classic style he had requested, put in the ruby earrings, and clasped the pendant on its chain around her neck. Without preamble, Duncan had simply sent in the case containing the Bridal Set.
Delva came to announce that Mr. Brandon had come and was setting up his easel in the drawing-room corner that he had chosen because of its light.
Ellen beamed at her mistress. “Oh, madam, you look truly lovely. A picture, indeed!”
“Thank you, Ellen,” Noramary said, smiling at her loyal housekeeper. “I don’t fancy this whole thing much, I confess, but if it gives Duncan pleasure…”
“But, madam, you are the first bride to live in this house. He wants your portrait to hang in the front hall, like in the grand manor houses of England and Scodand. Then…” She paused and her eyes twinkled merrily, “die portraits of the brides your sons bring home will be hung next to yours.”
For a moment the old pain seized Noramary’s heart. But of course Ellen did not know that there would never be any Montrose sons! Why Duncan should insist on this portrait Noramary couldn’t fathom.
Cecil Brandon surveyed his subject through narrowed eyes. Then he seated her in a high-backed chair where the light streamed in through the windows. He took great pains arranging the folds of her gown, her hands with her unfurled fan just so. He tilted her head, moving it a fraction of an inch to the left, then, stepping back, moved it a little to the right. At last he stepped over to his easel, picked up his brush and palette, and announced, “Now we are ready to begin. I only hope I can do justice to your great beauty, my dear lady.”
For what seemed a very long while to Noramary, there was no other sound in the room but that of the brush moving rapidly on the canvas as Brandon began blocking in her portrait. It was hard to sit so still. Her chin began to quiver from holding it at the angle in which he had positioned it. Her back began to ache and her fingers, holding the fan, to tingle. It seemed an eternity before Brandon put down his brush and said, “We’ll take a short break now.”
“May I see?” she asked, standing and arching her back to ease the stiff muscles.
“No, I never let my subjects see a portrait in the working stages—a rule I adhere to very strictly, in spite of the wiles of many beautiful ladies,” he said, chuckling. “And you, my dear, are among the most beautiful it has been my pleasure to paint.”
Noramary blushed. She could never really think of herself as beautiful, despite this noted artist’s use of the word. Beautiful women had life handed to them on a silver platter, did they not? All the beautiful married women she knew, at least, had the love of their husbands—Jacqueline, Leatrice.…
Cecil Brandon was a man of cosmopolitan tastes, one who had traveled extensively and was as knowledgeable of many other topics as he was of painting. He was also a man of considerable sophistication, yet he was not in the least condescending. Noramary had, at first, been awed by him, knowing his prestige as a painter of the great as well as of the nobility of England. But, as the sittings progressed, she lost her timidity in his presence and began to ask questions about his profession.
“Painting portraits is a very specialized branch of art,” he told her. “One cannot improvise as an artist can in painting a landscape or still life; that is, put in a light or shadow or even add a piece of fruit or a flower if it will enhance the composition. A portrait painter must be true to what he sees.… Oh, I admit to having eliminated a wart or a wrinkle at times.” He chuckled. “But in painting such perfection as yours, I’m hard put not to make the viewer think the artist has idealized his subject!”
Again Noramary felt uncomfortable. The compliment seemed too lavish for her own estimation of her looks.
She started to protest, when Cecil fixed her with a studied, penetrating look. “I have a feeling you don’t like being beautiful. Perhaps it has caused you unhappiness?”
Noramary stared at him. It was almost as if she heard Nanny Oates speaking again. How could he know?
“Perhaps you find your beauty too heavy a burden? Perhaps it makes your husband jealous?”
Noramary looked at him incredulously. How had he discerned this?
As if reading her thoughts, he continued. “Ah, I suspected there was some cause for the decided change I find in you after only a few months’ time. When I was here in the fall, you were radiant… all the glowing happiness of a bride newly wedded to a man she loves, who adores her! I find so great an alteration in you, there must be a deep, abiding problem.…”
Noramary was suddenly quiet, too quiet.
All at once it was too much to bear. Duncan’s continued coldness, his distrust, his suspicion. It was too heavy a burden to carry alone any longer. Her eyes filled with tears. Speechless, she stared at Brandon. Sobs ached for release. She dropped the fan to put two delicate hands to her throat, as if she were choking. Tears rolled unchecked down her cheeks.
“My dear lady,” exclaimed Brandon. “What is it?” Little by little, haltingly, Noramary poured out her story.
“I have come to believe that Duncan was still in love with Winnie when he married me. I don’t think he realized that fully until…” Here Noramary broke down again. “In the meantime, I had fallen deeply in love with him.” She paused, then said in a voice that betrayed her bewilderment, “He thinks there is someone else in my life. A childhood friend, a ver
y dear person whom I hold in great affection. But since the day I accepted Duncan, I have not tried to communicate with him nor to see him, except by chance. Somehow, no matter what I’ve said, my husband believes me to have been unfaithful!” she burst out. “I swear to you I have never been! He will not believe me, although I have told him over and over. I married him under circumstances that might have led him to think I did not love him. Perhaps I did not. I did not know what real love was then, though I took vows that were, and are, sacred to me. Perhaps, for a time, those vows were all that bound me to him—a promise made, a covenant to be kept. That, too, has changed. I have learned to love Duncan Montrose with a deep, abiding love, for I have seen him in moments of tenderness and gentleness. It is that Duncan I will go on loving, whether or not he ever believes that love… or accepts it.”
Noramary put her head in her hands and wept brokenly.
“My dear lady, I have made you weep! Forgive me, I should have said nothing… but there was such a marked difference, not only in your demeanor but in your whole expression… the eyes, the very mirror of the soul, are so sad. They reflect the pain in the heart.… I have not painted portraits for so many years for nothing. I could not help but observe…” Brandon said in some distress.
When her hard sobs finally lessened, Brandon lent her his clean linen handkerchief to wipe her eyes, and pressed her hand gently.
“Dear lady, sometimes one needs only a sympathetic ear to release healing tears. Perhaps our conversation has been fortuitous. I believe tomorrow the sitting will go better. Your candor and innocence will show forth. I will paint you so no one can question the shining beauty of your virtue.” He smiled and gently touched the ruby earrings swinging from her ears, and quoted softly: ‘And who shall find a valiant wife, for her price is above rubies?’”
“Even your stern husband will not be able to deny the fulfillment of the Bible’s definition of a ‘fortunate man.’ He will read in your face the truth he has not been able to receive from your lips. Trust me, dear lady. Your portrait will be the finest work of my career.”
Brandon quickly packed up his painting case and bid Noramary good-afternoon. He had been invited to the Camerons’ for dinner, and Jacqueline had sent her carriage for him, which was even now waiting. He kissed Noramary’s hand and left her sitting alone in the drawing room.
The afternoon sun was slanting through the long windows, and Noramary sat bathed in its rays, thinking over her confession and the artist’s assurances. If it could only happen… if Duncan could only be convinced… if he could love her again.…
There was a noise behind her and instinctively she turned to see Duncan standing in the archway, his height and broad shoulders filling it.
Her eyes, so recently misted with tears, were glistening, her lips parted in surprise, all color drained from her cheeks.
Noramary stood up, hands pressed against her breast where her heartbeat quickened noticeably. She started to speak, but something restrained her. Several swift changes of expression passed over Duncan’s face. He seemed to be struggling for words. So she waited. When he finally began to speak, his voice shook with emotion.
“Noramary, please understand that I did not mean to eavesdrop. I came into the house earlier than usual, intending to look in on the sitting, to see what progress Brandon had made on your portrait today. Perhaps it was intended that I should overhear your conversation.” He stopped, flinging out both hands in a helpless gesture. “Maybe I should have left after hearing part of it—but I couldn’t. I didn’t.
“How can I explain? It all began the night we truly became man and wife. It was so glorious. I couldn’t believe my good fortune—that the Lord had given me so precious a wife. Then, in your sleep, you whispered a name… a name that was not mine. And I foolishly jumped to conclusions.” His tanned face flushed deeply. “I believed you and Robert Stedd… were more than friends… mat you were lovers.
“I was mad with jealousy. It seemed that after I’d found what I’d been waiting for all my life, it was no longer mine. I hardened my heart against you, so that everything else that happened met that barrier I’d erected between us. I was ready to think the worst.” He halted, shaking his head as if it was almost too much for him to continue. “I didn’t dare let you know how much you’d hurt me or how much what I imagined had hurt me. It made me too vulnerable. It was easier to build a stone wall around myself.” He paused again. “But I couldn’t stop loving you. If I couldn’t have you as my true wife, I could at least carry an idealized image of you.…”
“The silhouette?” Noramary whispered.
Duncan looked surprised.
“I saw it,” she explained.
“Yes, the silhouette… I persuaded Jacqueline to give it to me… but when…”
“I went out to the cottage that day I got lost in the woods, the day I became ill—”
“That terrible day I thought I’d lost you forever.” Duncan sighed, a look of infinite pain on his face. “While you were lying ill, delirious, I stayed beside you, telling you how much I loved you, but of course, you could not hear. Then, in your room, I saw the letters on your desk, the ones you had started to write to Robert, and all my dreams for our life together when you recovered were dashed. I thought they were love letters, that you and he had been corresponding behind my back all this time. Then when I came to Williamsburg and found you with him…” Duncan broke off. He hesitated, searching for the words to continue. “Noramary, what can I say? I was wrong. Terribly wrong. About you… about everything!”
For a long moment they stood without speaking, gazing at each other—one with eyes begging to be believed; the other, hoping she could trust what had been said.
Then Duncan held out his arms. After a pause he said, “Noramary, my love, forgive me… I’ve been so blind.”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before she went into those open arms with a sigh, and she felt the strength of his embrace enclose her.
All the sad uncertainty of the past months vanished. All her anxiety lifted. Something deeper than happiness began to grow, filling her with an incandescent gladness.
It was a moment Noramary never dreamed she would know. Before it, every other emotion dimmed to a mere shadow. It was everything known of poetry and music and passion… of joy and love and ecstasy. It had no beginning and no end.
At last she belonged, truly belonged. At last she could love and be loved… wholly… without fear or apology… completely… until the end of all time.
Epilogue
NORAMARY STIRRED, aware of some new sound penetrating the deep, dreamless sleep into which she had slipped, exhausted. The room was shadowy, only the tawny glow from the fireplace gave some light. From her bed she could see out the window that against the gray blue February sky snow was gently falling. Snowflakes drifted lazily as she watched. It seemed that she and the world were wrapped in a velvety quiet.
Then she heard voices in the hall outside her door. As it opened gently, letting in a shaft of light, Noramary turned her head slowly and saw Ellen approaching the bed carrying a bundle in a lacy white shawl in her arms.
She came closer, bent nearer, laid the bundle in the curve of Noramary’s arm. She felt its light weight against her heart. Her arms felt heavy, almost too tired to lift, and yet as the bundle moved, a kind of excited wonder rose inside her. The baby! The last terrible hours were only faindy recalled as her hand cupped the tiny head and ran a finger over the downy tufts of hair. She felt something expand within her heart: love, happiness, a sort of rapture. Here was her baby.
“A handsome little boy, ma’am,” Ellen announced proudly, as if she had produced him herself.
“A boy,” Noramary murmured, peering into the little face. “A son for Duncan.”
The child was so beautiful, his white skin transparently fine, the pearly shadows of his eyelids, the long lashes, the small, rosy cheeks, the tiny mouth with its short upper lip, the softness of the light brown hair, like a cap on the
small, round head.
Afterward she slept for a long time. The next thing she knew, a tall figure was entering the bedroom, now shuttered against the evening, glowing with firelight. Moving lightly, quietly, for such a big man, Duncan came to the side of her bed, then knelt on the mounting steps and cradled her cheeks with his palms.
“My dearest love…” she heard him say, and a deep thrill trembled through her at the sound of his low voice.
“Duncan!” she whispered. “Are you pleased… a son?”
“Our son… Noramary. My darling.” His voice faltered, nearly broke; his hand groped on the coverlet for her small one, grasped it. “I have never loved you more. You are more precious to me than I can ever say… I was afraid… I might lose you.”
Noramary reached up and touched his mouth with her fingers.
“There is no need for words, Duncan. I know now that you love me. Now we have—everything.”
He kissed her fingertips and the palm of her hand as he turned it.
“Noramary, you will always be first… always.” His voice was very slow, soft.
She must have drifted off again with Duncan holding her hand, because later, when she awakened, she was alone. From the little room above, Noramary could hear a low, crooning song. She smiled. Delva must have finally managed to get the baby away from Ellen and was rocking him in the nursery in the new cradle.
Weak but happy, Noramary floated back and forth from the euphoric half wakefulness to a sort of dreamlike state in which she felt all-knowing, all-powerful, and prophetic.
She was so pleased that their first child was a boy, a son for Duncan, someone to carry on the name, the proud heritage of the Montrose clan with its long lineage going back into Scottish history.
