by Jane Peart
"As soon as I've freshened up, Vinny, I'd like to see the children."
"Yes, ma'am. I'll be back shortly." Vinny left the room quickly, obviously relieved to be gone. Maybe she felt she had talked too much.
I poured water from the china pitcher into the porcelain washbowl decorated with morning glories. Lathering with the fragrant English lavender soap bar, I washed away the dusty feeling of my train trip and the ride along country roads.
I changed from my traveling dress into something lighter and was just pinning up my hair again when Vinny's light knock sounded at the door.
She led the way down the hall from my suite, stopping in front of a closed white-paneled door, holding her finger up to her lips. There was a suggestion of laughter in her eyes. From behind the door we heard suppressed giggles. Slowly, the door opened—at first, just a crack, then a little wider.
Two curly blond heads, one just a bit higher than the other, two rosy little faces, two pairs of large dark eyes, looked out at us. There was a minute's hesitation, then the door was pushed back, and two flying figures dashed out and flung themselves at me. I bent down and gathered Alair's little daughters into my arms, kissing their sweet-smelling cheeks, the tops of their tangled curls. I felt a lump welling up in my throat. I love them already, I thought, not knowing then how very dear they would become to me and how irrevocably, from this moment on, our lives would be entwined.
The little girls had had their baths and were in frilled nighties and matching pink robes, but their eyes were bright and alert without a hint of sleepiness.
Off their bedroom with the twin canopied beds was a large combination school-and-playroom. It was there, at a low, round table set in a bay window overlooking the garden, that supper was set.
"Do you ask a blessing?" I asked them as we seated ourselves.
Both little faces looked blank. With a sinking heart I realized that these two small souls must have had no religious training at all. The responsibility Mama had mentioned grew suddenly heavier.
"Well, I'll teach you the one we used to say when I was a little girl and lived in this house," I said. "Repeat after me: 'Be present at our table, Lord. Be here and everywhere adored. These morsels bless, and grant that we may feast in Paradise with Thee.'"
As I might have foreseen, even this simple grace brought forth a barrage of questions: Who was "Lord" and where was "Paradise"? I saw I had my work cut out for me.
In spite of being such young children, the little girls had exquisite table manners and were thoughtful and polite, treating me throughout our meal as if I were a special guest.
After we ate, I sat at the little white piano and played some simple songs, teaching them the words. They were so eager to please, and I could see that in spite of their lavish surroundings, they lacked many of the simple pleasures that most children take for granted. My heart was bursting with tenderness for them, and immediately I was determined to give them everything I could to make up for whatever might be missing in their young lives.
The evening passed quickly and pleasantly. The children seemed eager to show me their pretty room and their dolls and toys and games—enough for ten children. They seemed hungry for companionship and relished the attention I gave them, babbling childishly about all the things that filled their days. I was pleased to see that Matty, their nurse, loved them with a fierce devotion. When she had observed me with the children, she relaxed and took up her knitting as she rocked, obviously relieved that the three of us were getting on so well.
They clung to me when we said good-night, as if they could not quite believe I would be there in the morning. As soon as I convinced them that they could peek in my bedroom door the first thing in the morning, they allowed Matty to lead them away to bed.
I walked down the hall to my own apartment, suddenly aware of a feeling of fatigue, an odd sense of depression. As I stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, I experienced that vague sensation of oppressive anxiety I had felt upon arriving at Montclair.
A tap on my door interrupted my melancholy reflection. It was Vinny bringing fresh towels and hot water for a bath.
"I hopes you rests well, Miss Dru," she said. "Sometimes it's hard to sleep peacefully the first night under a strange roof."
"But this isn't a strange roof, Vinny. You knew I lived here when I was a little girl, didn't you? Miss Alair and I—Mrs. Bondurant—and our cousin, Jonathan."
"Yes'm, I guess I do recollect hearin' about that," Vinny replied slowly. She stood quietly, alternately smoothing and pleating her white apron. "My grandmama was the cook here in the old days, and my mama and us lived here on the plantation during the war. I was jest a baby, but they tells me they hid the silver in the wagon when the Yankees come up here, unexpected, then set me on top!"
"Why, Vinny, I remember that!" I laughed. "Or I've heard Mama tell that story so many times that I seem to remember."
We smiled in mutual enjoyment of a long-ago joke we'd played on the "enemy."
Then Vinny's expression sobered. "They must have been happy times in the old days. Gramum often talks about it. I come here to work first as a kitchen maid when I was ten, then later . . . Miss Alair choose me to be her maid." She shook her head, sighing. "I seen a lot of changes . . . lot of sadness."
Curiosity battled with caution within me. I was interested in what Vinny could tell me about Alair when she was mistress of Montclair . . . and about Randall. But I knew it was not wise to question servants or listen to backstairs gossip, nor should I encourage disloyalty in the servants of the man who was also my employer. Still, I had sensed that Vinny not only disliked her employer but feared him. I wondered why. Despite my intense curiosity, caution won out.
"Vinny, I am tired," I admitted reluctantly. "After a nice bath, I should go straight to sleep."
Vinny turned to leave. At the door she paused. "When my Gramum heard you was coming, she told me she'd be mighty pleased to see you again. She's got rheumatiz real bad, so she don't get around too good. You'd have to walk down to her cabin . . . that is, if you had a mind to—"
"I'd be happy to see her. Tell her I will come soon. I'm so pleased she remembered me."
Vinny still hesitated, apparently as eager to talk as I was to listen, but I felt strongly checked.
"Good night, Vinny," I said firmly.
"Good night, Miss Dru," she said, and whisked out the door.
After I bathed, I blew out the lamp. Seeing that the newly risen moon had made the room almost as light as day, I went over to the window and looked out.
Planting my elbows on the windowsill, I leaned out, looking across the wide expanse of front lawn. The silvery line beyond was the river, with clumps of shrubs and small trees darkly etched against the deep blue of the evening sky.
I wondered how many times Alair must have viewed this same scene, with the sliver of a lemon-colored moon just beginning to show itself above the tops of the trees. Had she and Randall stood at the windows of the master bedroom and, arms locked around each other, gazed out? They must have been happy here together, I thought, sighing. Maybe they even walked hand-in-hand down to the river on summer nights.... Abruptly, I stopped my wild imaginings. What fantasy! I had seldom even seen Alair after her marriage. How could I guess what she had thought and felt?
I got up, closed the window, and went over to the bed. It had been turned down, the lacy coverlet folded on the needlepoint bench at the foot, the downy satin quilt folded in a triangle for ease in pulling up if the night grew chill. I was unaccustomed to such luxury.
My thoughts strayed again to Alair. She had grown up in the same poverty as I, and yet she had apparently made the transition to an opulent lifestyle with little trouble. She had become, in fact, extravagant! In all fairness I supposed it would be quite easy to indulge oneself when everything was at one's fingertips.
I gave a little sigh, then turned over and snuggled into the down pillow, feeling myself drifting at last into a languorous sleep.
Somet
ime in the night I awakened to a house that was silent, utterly still. A shaft of moonlight spilling through the window had fallen across my bed. It was this that had roused me, no doubt.
I shook off a nameless shiver of apprehension and drew up the quilt. How foolish to be frightened! At least six other people besides two sleeping children shared this roof.
Still, I could not help remembering Alair's untimely death. She was so young, I thought, much too young to die!
Resolutely I closed my eyes, willing myself back to sleep. When I gave myself up to it, it brought curious dreams of a graceful figure in a wide crinoline skirt and pink parasol, circling endlessly to unheard music.
chapter
7
TWO WEEKS AFTER my arrival at Montclair, Randall called me into the library.
When I entered, he was standing at the long windows looking out on the sweeping vista of terraced lawns. He did not turn immediately, and I stood waiting for him to acknowledge my presence.
I was still very much in awe of Randall. His manner was so abrupt, so formal, so distant most of the time that I could not imagine him as Alair's husband. How had he responded to her lighthearted teasing, her mercurial temperament, her playfulness? Perhaps it was because he missed these very qualities that he was generally melancholy.
At length he turned around and faced me. "So, then, are you settling in?" he demanded in an incongruously imperious tone. "Is everything to your satisfaction? Are you getting along with the children? Is there anything you need or want?"
The questions hurled at me, rapid-fire, quite startled me.
"Oh, no, sir! I mean, yes! Everything is fine, that is. The children are a joy, and we are getting along very well. As for my needs, I could not wish for anything more!" To my consternation, a furious blush mounted in my cheeks as I prattled on.
He pierced me with his penetrating gaze until I felt like an insect pinned under a microscope. "You're quite sure? You have only to say."
"Quite sure."
"Very well, then. You should know that I will be away on business." A business trip? No one had mentioned that he would be leaving so soon after my arrival. "You are to be in charge here during my absence, and the servants will answer to you. I've made that clear . . . although Benjamin pretty much runs the house and Cora, the kitchen, so you shouldn't be burdened."
Benjamin, I had learned, was the dignified butler who had been in Randall's service since long before he acquired Montclair or married Alair.
"Matty, of course, tends to the children's physical needs and Vinny—" Randall's mouth tightened slighdy—"seems to manage everything else."
"Oh, you mustn't worry about a thing, sir," I said, attempting to reassure him. "How-how long do you plan to be away?" I could not resist asking.
Randall frowned. "I'm not sure. I have been invited to visit the Elliotts who are staying at the Springs, but I have not yet decided how long my stay will be."
The Elliotts! At once a picture came to mind—not a particularly pleasant one at that.
Before I left Thornycroft and while the Bondurants were still living in Massachusetts, Randall had suggested that I visit the children often to get to know them better before I took over their full care at their home in Virginia.
On one such Thursday I was returning with them from an outing in the nearby park. Nearing the hotel entrance, I saw Randall with two ladies, awaiting the arrival of their carriage.
At our approach the little girls rushed forward to greet their father, the two ladies making a great pretense of fussing over them. I might as well have been part of the scenery, inasmuch as I had received only the barest glance until Randall introduced me.
"This is the children's new governess, Miss Druscilla Montrose," he said. "Mrs. Chalmers Elliott, Miss Peggy Elliott."
The introduction was received with a nod from the mother and a sidelong assessment from her daughter.
Peggy Elliott was indeed lovely—tall, with the hour-glass figure so admired at the time and displayed to great advantage by her stylish costume, a tightly fitted jacket of myrtle green wool trimmed with curly, black lambskin, the narrowed skirt pulled back into tiered pleats. She wore a little hat of matching fur tilted forward over her flaxen curls.
Her mother, an imposing woman with none of her daughter's beauty, was elegantly attired in royal blue, with a sealskin cape and velvet bonnet.
Alongside this fashionable duo I felt quite drab in my dove-gray pelisse and sensible bonnet. Subconsciously, I drew myself up and lifted my chin, regarding the pair with a steady gaze. It was a ploy I had adopted when some of my Yankee classmates tried to lord it over me. Outraged by their condescending manner, I had only to remind myself that I was a Montrose, of one of the first families of Virginia.
If her rude appraisal were not enough, on my way inside with the children, I had overheard Mrs. Elliott say to Randall, "Isn't she a trifle young? Are you sure you didn't make a mistake in dismissing Miss Ogilvie?"
Seething inside, I uttered a silent prayer for composure and hurried past my employer and his guests. It was certainly no business of mine whom Randall Bondurant chose as his friends, that is—and the thought struck me with icy horror— unless there was any possibility of Peggy Elliott's ever becoming his wife and the children's stepmother!
Still, with a great deal of relief, I saw Randall make his departure, and it was amazing how the atmosphere of the entire household lightened. Randall's restless personality affected all of us. I could understand how the tragedy of Alair's death still tormented him, but some of the tension I felt here seemed to dissipate with his leaving.
My new life as my little cousins' governess proved to be richly fulfilling. Actually, I was more a companion than governess because it had been decided to put aside any thought of lessons until fall. I woke up every morning eager to start my day with my small charges.
Both children were uniquely endowed with special qualities that endeared them to me. Nora was obedient, creative, and charming; Lally, a mischievous imp with a strong streak of independence combined with a sweetness that made her irresistible. As for me, I suppose I was so different from their former dour Scots governess that I was a pleasant change.
One thing disturbed me: The children had so many playthings that they had never found it necessary to resort to imagination. On the contrary, their mother and I, along with Jonathan, had possessed few toys, but spent marvelous hours pretending we were knights and fair ladies, or castaways on some desert island.
When I introduced such ideas to Nora and Lally, they were delighted and I recognized the prospect of two active imaginations that matched my own.
I took the girls outside on sunny summer afternoons, and we picnicked in the woods or down by the wide creek that ran through the meadow. I even allowed them to take off their shoes and stockings and wade in the shallow water, doing so myself on several occasions.
Each day was so full and I was so busy, that I had been at Bon Chance nearly a month before I found time to visit my father's grave in the Montrose family cemetery.
Late one afternoon while Matty was washing the girls' hair, I decided to slip away. I asked Tom, the gardener, if I could have some flowers, and he gladly cut me a lovely bouquet of yellow roses, being careful to get rid of all the thorns before handing it to me. He beamed with pleasure as I complimented him on the product of his diligent labor.
Carrying the bouquet, I made my way up the winding path to the top of the hill. From that vantage point I had a breathtaking view of the valley—the rolling meadows, the ribbon of river shining in the sunlight, and in the far distance, a rim of blue mountains. It was so quiet I could hear only the hum of insects in the wildflowers, the slightest flutter of bird wings.
I opened the iron gate and stepped inside. Picking my way through the graves, I stopped here and there to read a headstone. All the people whose bodies lay here had lived, loved, and walked this very hillside to bury their own. All of them were bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh—my fa
mily.
And then I found the marker I was looking for—a simple slab of granite stone with the chiseled words:
R.I.P.
Leighton Clayborn Montrose 1842-1865
Lieutenant CSA
"Faithful in Love, Dauntless in War,
Where Shall We Find His Like Again?"
Sir Walter Scott
Reading the epitaph, I felt tears on my cheeks. When he died, my father was only a few years older than I was now. I had heard my mother say over and over that she had had a year of perfect happiness, and who could say that of a lifetime? Imagine a love that even death could not diminish!
I laid the fragrant, dewy bouquet at the base of the headstone, whispering the age-old prayer: "Eternal rest give unto him and let perpetual light shine upon him."
I moved away and passed along the little graveled walkways searching for I didn't know what, until I realized it wasn't here. I stood absolutely still, knowing instinctively that I was in the spot where Alair's body had been laid to rest. But there was no gravestone! Dead almost a year, and still no headstone erected to her memory?
How strange! Did Aunt Harmony and Uncle Clifford know there was no marker for their only, beloved daughter? Or had Randall, in his grief, forgotten that one must be commissioned, designed, ordered? I could not imagine the reason Alair's grave should go so long unmarked.
I was in a somber mood, indeed, when I walked down the hill back to the house, a mood that persisted past dinnertime and into the evening hours. I was peculiarly depressed as I went to bed that night, and it took me a long time to go to sleep. My dreams were confused, and though I slept heavily, my sleep was not peaceful.
Suddenly an unearthly scream pierced the night and I awoke in mindless terror. The ear-splitting cry came again; and as I clutched the sheets to my chin, shuddering, I remembered. Bondurant had imported peacocks. They stalked the grounds—regal, arrogant, unfurling their brilliant multicolored fan of feathers. I had forgotten. There was one old peacock still at Cameron Hall when I had come there as a child, the only one who had survived the more extravagant days. Now I recalled the startling sound of their call.
