Destiny's Bride

by Jane Peart

  We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Jonathan asked, "Have you ever seen the secret passage?"

  "Secret passage?"

  "Yes. The one Uncle John told me was used to hide slaves escaping north on the Underground Railroad."

  "Underground Railroad?" I was beginning to sound like an echo. "Here? At Montclair?"

  "Of course. Didn't you know about it? My mother was involved."

  "Helping slaves escape? Aunt Rose?" I thought of the delicate beauty in the portrait who looked as though the most difficult task she would ever have was lifting a teacup. "You must be mistaken, Jonathan."

  "No. It's true. Uncle John told me. Evidently my mother wrote him about it. Of course, the Montroses never knew about her activities."

  "You mean she hid slaves right here under Uncle Malcolm's nose? And Grandfather's and Grandmother's?"

  "I'm telling you it's the truth, Dru. I've read the letters my mother wrote to Uncle John."

  It took me a full minute to absorb this astounding information.

  Then Jonathan got to his feet. "Let's see if we can find it. It's in the old nursery above the master bedroom." He grinned. "I guess I slept through all those historic events."

  We left my rooms and went downstairs to the suite of rooms occupied by Randall. I felt a little strange going in while he was away, and wondered what Jonathan really thought of our having separate apartments.

  Randall's bedroom seemed austere, with not a single feminine touch. We found the door that opened onto a narrow winding staircase.

  "I never knew about this," I remarked as we started up.

  "In one of her letters, my mother explained that having the nursery built like this gave the mother both privacy and easy access to the baby. That way, the baby's nurse could come and go from the hall without disturbing the parents."

  "You know a whole lot more about this house than I do, Jonathan!" I declared.

  At the top of the steps Jonathan lifted the oil lamp higher and looked around. The room seemed full of shadows.

  "Where should we look?" I asked.

  "Mother said there was a concealed spring along the wall. If you touch it, it releases a section of wall that slides back." Jonathan set down the lamp, and we both began feeling the paneling with open palms. "Ah, here it is!" he exclaimed, and I heard a creaking noise as the wall shifted to one side.

  Jonathan picked up the lamp again and we both peered into a small room.

  "Imagine!" I breathed. "How long do you think people were kept in here?"

  "Not long," Jonathan replied. "I understand this only leads to the tunnel that goes underground to the river. There they were met by a boat that took them farther upstream to the next station of the Underground Railroad."

  We stepped inside, and I shuddered as the lamp cast grotesque shadows on the rough walls.

  "Here's the door!' Jonathan cried, his voice tinged with excitement. "It's bolted, but I can move it, I think."

  I grabbed his sleeve. "No, Jonathan! Don't! No telling what's beyond—" I shivered with horror. "Rats! Bats! Who knows?"

  Jonathan hesitated. "All right," he agreed, acquiescing to my wishes. "At least, we've seen this much. It's given me a good idea how courageous my mother really was."

  We returned to the room and slid the wall panel shut again.

  "I wonder how many other secrets this house has kept," Jonathan mused aloud as we went downstairs, then back to my small parlor where a fire crackled cheerily.

  "We Montroses have quite a heritage, Dru," Jonathan commented thoughtfully when we were comfortably settled in the deep chairs opposite each other. "Our past is all part of our present, everything is connected, and the twists and turns of chance and fate affect our destiny."

  "In what way?"

  "For example, if my father, Malcolm, had not been sent north to be educated at Harvard, he would never have been Uncle John's friend and through him met and fallen in love with my mother. She would probably have married Kendall Carpenter, who is Davida's father. So, it seems we've come full circle."

  I thought of my sense of destiny in meeting Randall, becoming Alair's children's governess, and then agreeing to marry their father.

  As if reading my mind, Jonathan interrupted abruptly. "Are you happy, Dru? I spoke to Randall briefly on Christmas Day, so I don't know him, only a fleeting impression—" He broke off and, spearing me with those truth-seeking eyes, posed the question.

  I answered it with another question. "Can someone who is himself unhappy make anyone else happy?"

  "Are you speaking of Alair . . . or yourself?"

  "Oh, Jonathan, I don't know!" I sighed. If there were anyone in the world I could trust, it would be my cousin, but I didn't want to burden him with my problems. Besides, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it in the short time he would be visiting.

  Sensing my reluctance to pursue the subject, Jonathan closed our discussion. "Well, at least this house is back in the family now. Whatever they call it . . . it will always be Montclair to me."

  I decided to travel as far as Richmond with Jonathan on his way back north. Mama hadn't been able to leave Aunt Nell to come to Mayfield for the holidays, so it would be an opportunity for a visit with her as well as to prolong my time with my beloved cousin.

  Jonathan stayed overnight with us at Aunt Nell's and, before he left on the train to Boston, Mama made him promise to bring his bride south as soon as possible.

  "I promise, Aunt Dove. I'm longing for you to meet her and for her to meet all my Southern relatives. I just wish that all of you could come to the wedding."

  After Jonathan left, Mama and I settled down for a nice visit. She was quite overcome with all the gifts I had brought for our belated Christmas celebration.

  "You've been wickedly extravagant, I'm afraid!" she exclaimed as she held up the quilted velvet wrapper trimmed with lace. But I knew from the expression on her face that she was delighted with all the presents, especially the sewing box that played a Viennese waltz when the lid was lifted.

  We spent many cozy hours together, but try as I might, I could not avoid the inevitable question. "Is there anything wrong, dear? Something seems to be troubling you."

  Since my mother is usually sensitive and perceptive, I knew it would be useless to try to conceal what was on my mind and heart.

  "Well, Mama, to tell the truth—" I began, and I launched into the events of the past months since returning from Europe. I told her about the disturbing encounter with Brett Tolliver in the woods and the subsequent series of anonymous letters.

  "Poor man!" Mama shook her head sadly. "I hear he has been quite ill—a heavy cold that nearly went into pneumonia. Of course, he doesn't take care of himself, living alone as he does above the stables at his family's old place. The new owners are gone most of the year. It seems one of the Tollivers' old servants who sharecrops on the land found him in a delirious state and brought the doctor."

  That could explain the sudden cessation of the letters I thought. That is—if Brett truly were the author.

  "It is sad to see a great family come to such a bitter end," Mama said, sighing. "It seems like yesterday when Melissa Tolliver used to bring Brett over to play with you children. The Tolliver place was on the other side of the woods from Montclair and just as isolated. She longed for the company of other women because she was alone there while Tom was away during the war." Mama shook her head, smiling a little in recollection.

  "Brett was a rascal, full of mischief. He and Alair were the same age, and what a pair they were together. I remember one day when Melissa was ready to go home, and we couldn't find either of them. They had simply disappeared! We looked everywhere, getting more frantic by the minute. Over an hour later we finally found them down by the river, miles from the house—neither one of them a bit repentant that they'd caused such worry!"

  Suddenly the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. While they were still children, Alair and Brett must have discovered the secret pa
ssageway! Being the adventurous sort, they undoubtedly followed it all the way to the river that day the adults thought they were lost. It was their secret. Afterward, maybe they used it as a meeting place. If so, this seemed a logical explanation as to how the anonymous letters got into the house so mysteriously.

  The thought of his sneaking up through the tunnel, letting himself in by the hidden panel and into my bedroom made me ill. Obviously Brett Tolliver was bent on revenge, sowing seeds of suspicion about the man he hated. Y e t . . . there was still the remote possibility that Brett might be right—

  "Mama, do you think there is anything to these accusations?"

  She looked startled. "That Randall Bondurant is in some way responsible for Alair's death? Why, I don't see how he could be. But then, you know the man so much better than I, dear!"

  "Do I?" I deliberately let the question hang between us for a long moment, turning a significant gaze upon my mother.

  "Dru, dear, what on earth are you saying? That you don't know your own husband?" Mama's incredulous voice held a gentle reproach.

  "I don't know if you'd understand, Mama, but—" I paused— "Randall married me mainly to give his little girls a stepmother. He wanted to be sure they would be reared—" and here I smiled— "as true Southern ladies."

  "I'm sure he really only meant that he wanted to be certain they would be brought up by someone who loved and cared for them as only real kin can," Mama amended. "But you do love him, don't you, dear?"

  "Yes, I love him, Mama. It's just that . . . I don't know how he feels about me." My anxiety was betrayed by my shaky voice.

  "Many marriages are begun for practical reasons but become idyllic unions in time," Mama said comfortingly.

  "He's so—so secretive, so mysterious about his own family background."

  "Well, I can tell you a little about that," she said confidently. "My friend, Jocelyn Milton, was originally from Charleston and when she heard my daughter had married a Bondurant, she wasted no time in telling me that the Bondurants were from a very old French Huguenot family who were among the earliest settlers."

  "Then why is he so reluctant to discuss his past?"

  "Jocelyn also told me something I thought you would have known by now . . . that when Randall was a high-spirited, reckless young man, he disgraced the family name . . . or at least his father thought he did . . . so he disowned him."

  "That's all you know?"

  "Obviously it did not keep him from making a great success of his life as well as accumulating enormous wealth."

  At this point in our conversation we heard the tinkle of the silver bell at Aunt Nell's bedside. It was Mama's summons, so we had to break off our talk.

  I left the next morning by train for Mayfield.

  When I reached Bon Chance, I found Randall waiting for me . . . and another anonymous letter.

  chapter

  23

  I SPOTTED THE LETTER at once. Seeing my name scrawled in the familiar handwriting sickened me. At the same time I became aware of Randall standing in the open door of the library.

  "You're back!" I exclaimed. "I didn't expect you so soon!"

  I moved to the hall table. In the act of casually removing my kid gloves, I slipped the envelope into my muff.

  "Yes, it is sooner than I expected as well." A smile tugged at his lips. "When you have seen the children and refreshed yourself from your trip, please join me. I'll have Ben bring tea in here. I have some things to discuss with you."

  "Of course, Randall," I murmured almost absentmindedly. All my attention was centered on the unknown contents of the envelope whose sharp edges I could feel inside my muff.

  The joyful cries of welcome from Nora and Lally seemed strangely muted, drowned out by my clamoring heartbeat.

  Why had this letter come today, spoiling my homecoming, poisoning the atmosphere with its venom?

  The children followed me into my bedroom, telling me how much they had missed me, plying me with questions about Jonathan, asking when they could meet my mother in Richmond. They bounced on my bed, chattering so constantly I could not gather my thoughts.

  They leaned on their elbows at my dressing table while I removed my bonnet and tidied my hair.

  "Listen, my darlings," I said at last. "Your Papa wants to see me, so I must go downstairs at once. I'll be up later to hear all your stories." I hugged each one and kissed their rosy cheeks.

  Still, they clung to my hands as I made my way down the hall to the top of the staircase, so I had no chance to open or read the letter.

  We parted with more hugs and kisses and I went down the steps, my mind still in turmoil.

  Ben had brought in the tea service and was just stoking the fire when I entered the library. The curtains had been drawn against the early winter evening and the firelight brightened the room. But it did nothing to dispel my sense of impending doom. The letter's evil message hovered ominously, chasing away any comfort or security to be derived from the cheerful atmosphere of the room.

  I tried to push back my gloomy presentiments as I poured tea, handed Randall his cup, then added sugar and lemon to my own. I sipped it gratefully, hoping its warmth would soothe my nervous chill.

  Sitting opposite me in the deep, wing chair, Randall seemed less tense than usual. The firelight and the candleglow from the sconces on the mantelpiece played across the rugged contours of his face. Perhaps it was only the light, but it seemed to me that his expression was less stern and forbidding. I noticed, too, that he looked thoughtful, his attitude even somewhat pensive.

  The thought passed through my mind that he had called me in to announce another move, another change, and immediately I thought of the packing and planning that would be needed. In a way it would be a relief, a means of escaping the terrible shadow of the letters.

  Then he broke the silence. "I've been doing a great deal of thinking while I've been gone . . . about the children, about the future. I left here in pursuit of some diversion, some group of which I'd feel a part. Always before, the company of crowds has satisfied my restlessness, my boredom."

  He paused, shrugged. "The antidote did not work this time. Why? Because the patient had misdiagnosed his ailment."

  What kind of riddle was Randall presenting?

  He glanced into the fire. "You see, Dru, I was seeking happiness in the wrong place. It only took me a few days to realize that my happiness is here."

  I looked at him in surprise. This certainly was not what I'd anticipated.

  "The last two years have been the happiest of my life, the most contented. When I realized this, I asked myself why. Do you know the answer, Dru?"

  I shook my head, still puzzled by this strange conversation.

  Randall smiled. "The answer surprised even me, I must confess."

  My heart began to thump wildly, and I felt my face flush. I tried to still my fluttering pulse. Could this be happening?

  Randall continued to regard me with a curious mixture of intensity and calculation. "Can you guess the reason, Dru?" he pressed.

  My hand began to shake and I set my cup down so it would not rattle in its saucer. I avoided his gaze, turning instead to the red-orange flames dancing in the fireplace. What was Randall trying to say? A bright spurt of hope sprang up within me.

  "Perhaps your modesty constrains you from what you must surmise is the truth." Randall paused again. "It is you, Druscilla, who has made the difference. You have made this place a home—a place worth coming home to, a place I long for now when I'm away."

  I could scarcely believe my ears. I dared not allow myself to think what he might mean by his words.

  "Look at me, Druscilla," he commanded gently.

  Obediently I lifted my head. He was gazing at me with the tenderness I had seen in his eyes when he looked at the children. My heart turned over.

  "I have always found you to be a person of honesty, of unwavering integrity. I want an honest answer from you now. What are your true feelings for me?"

  His
eyes held mine, demanding my answer.

  "I have a great deal of admiration and respect—" I began haltingly.

  He made an impatient gesture. "Respect is what we owe. Love is what we give. I don't want your respect—I want your love."

  I stared at him, stunned.

  "Obviously, this comes as some surprise," he said, and he got up, began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "I have even denied it to myself. Told myself I should not cross the lines we drew, the terms of our agreement, the marriage contract we signed. But I left no room for emotion. I gave no thought to how feelings can change, deepen."

  He stopped pacing, spun around and faced me, frowning. "There is no need for you to answer me now. This comes, I realize, without warning. But the need to tell you how I feel compelled m e . . . . Druscilla, you are everything I dreamed a mother of my children should be, but more than that . . . everything I ever dreamed in a wife."

  I could still find no words. Overwhelming emotion tied my tongue and stung my eyes with tears.

  "There is more," Randall went on. "I know now it was wrong to marry without love. Worse still, that I did it a second time. I know now I never really loved Alair. I wanted her, wanted to possess her because she was a symbol of everything I lacked and coveted. The most beautiful, elusive creature, from one of the oldest, most prestigious families in Virginia—she was some sort of prize to be won."

  He appeared now to have forgotten I was present, seemed to need to confess all that had weighed him down for so long.

  "I think I knew even then it was a mistake. I tried to make up for it by lavishing every material comfort upon her, to compensate her with every luxury, every extravagance for that which I couldn't give her—love. At least, we had our beautiful children . . . but even the children didn't make Alair truly happy."

  Somehow I got to my feet. "Randall, I don't think you should say any more."

  "But what I'm trying to say, Dru, is that you deserve so much more than I was willing to give you in Italy at the time we married. I'm ready to give it now—that is—if you will accept it."

  He caught both my hands in his, forcing me to look at him. "I wonder now if I prevented you from finding a real love with that young Italian? If I had not asked you to marry me, using the girls and your love for them as my reason, would you have married Orsini?"