by Jane Peart
About the Author
Jane Peart, award-winning novelist and short story writer, grew up in North Carolina and was educated in New England. Although she now lives in northern California, her heart has remained in her native South—its people, its history, and its traditions. With more than 20 novels and 250 short stories to her credit, Jane likes to emphasize in her writing the timeless and recurring themes of family, traditional values, and a sense of place.
Ten years in the writing, the Brides of Montclair series is a historical, family saga of enduring beauty. In each new book, another generation comes into its own at the beautiful Montclair estate, near Williamsburg, Virginia. These compelling, dramatic stories reaffirm the importance of committed love, loyalty, courage, strength of character, and abiding faith in times of triumph and tragedy, sorrow and joy.
ZONDERVAN
SHADOW BRIDE
Copyright © 1991 by Jane Peart
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-83368-0
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan Publishing House
Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Catahging-in-Publkation Data
Peart, Jane.
Shadow bride / Jane Peart.
p. cm.—(Brides of Montclair series : #7)
ISBN 0-310-67011-X (paper)
I. Title. II. Series: Peart, Jane. Brides of Montclair series
bk. 7.
PS3566.E238S5 1991
813’.54—dc20 91-19158
CIP
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Edited by Anne Severance
Interior Design by Kim Koning
Cover Design by Art Jacobs
Cover Illustration by Wes Lowe, Sal Baracc and Assoc, Inc.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part III
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part IV
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part V
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Part I
1875 to 1876
What? Gone without a word?
—Shakespeare
To the and part is less an evil than to part and live; there—there, is the torment.
—Landsdawne
chapter
1
Cameron Hall
Fall 1875
Mayfield, Virginia
KATE CAMERON stood at the drawing room window of Cameron Hall, watching her son, Rod, take his chestnut gelding over the hedge at the end of the meadow, the horse’s flowing mane and the rider’s windblown hair almost the same russet gold.
On this early October afternoon, Indian summer lingered in the Virginia countryside although tinges of scarlet edged the leaves of the elms on the avenue of trees lining the drive up to the house.
As horse and rider cantered toward the stables and disappeared from sight, Kate turned away and walked back into the room with the slight stiffness of arthritis that sometimes plagued her at the onset of cool weather.
Even at sixty, Kate retained much of her youthful beauty, still slim and elegant, with only a few faint lines marking the passage of time, trials and tragedy endured showing in her face.
Seating herself in one of the wing chairs beside the fireplace, she looked appreciatively around the gracious high-ceilinged room. Kate had always loved this room from the first time she saw it when she came here as a bride from Savannah forty years before. Cameron Hall, built by her husband’s Scottish ancestors who settled on a King’s Grant a century before, was one of the most magnificent of the James River plantations.
Only recently, at Rod’s insistence, it had been refurbished. New draperies hung at the arched Palladian windows, its worn upholstery replaced, the carpets restored, everything brought back to its pre-war grandeur.
Under Rod’s skillful management, the fortune they, along with most Southerners of their class, had lost with the Confederate defeat was slowly being rebuilt; and the Cameron Hall stables were becoming known as one of the finest Thoroughbred farms among horse-breeding circles.
Kate’s heart filled with pride when she thought of how Rod had overcome so much to bring about the present success of the stables and farm. The place had been in disastrous condition when he returned after having been a Yankee prisoner of war. He had also had to face personal heartbreak, the death of his twin brother, Stewart, and the disappearance of the woman he loved—Blythe Montrose.
Kate sighed as her eyes rested upon the family portrait hanging over the mantle, painted when her red-haired twin boys were about eight and her daughter, Garnet, a pixyish three. How young even she and Doug looked then! How happy they had been in that sheltered, idyllic world before the war.
Her thoughts of the past were suddenly interrupted by the sound of the front door’s slam and booted footsteps approaching along the polished hall floor. Kate turned her head in anticipation toward the drawing room door that a minute later opened, and a tall man in a tweed riding jacket stepped into the room.
At thirty-eight, Rod was splendid looking, very much like his father, Douglas Cameron, Kate mused, broad-shouldered, long-limbed, athletically built. As he had matured, he had grown even more handsome. His strong, well-molded features gave definition and character to his face. Kate liked the mustache he’d worn since the Army too; it gave him a certain dashing air to his almost too serious expression.
However, it was not her son’s physical appearance that concerned Kate but his bachelor status.
“Good afternoon, Mother.”
“Did you have a good ride?”
“Never better. My new hunter is coming along well. He’ll be more than ready at the opening of the fox hunting season,” he replied, running his hand carelessly through his hair.
“Isn’t it a bit cold in here for you, Mother? There’s quite a chill in the air these days.”
Walking over to the fireplace, Rod took a log from the basket beside the hearth and tossed it into the fire.
“Is that better?” Rod asked after he had the fire going. “Are you feeling all right? You looked a bit pensive when I came in.” Rod gave her a searching look. “Don’t tell me you’re still missing the young ladies, are you?”
Knowing he was referring to their former boarding pupils in the school she and Garnet and Dove had started to help
their depleted financial situation after the war, Kate laughed.
“Who would have thought I’d miss all those harum-scarm girls with their giggles and shrieks? But I have to admit I do miss them once in a while.” Kate shook her head. “After Garnet remarried, Dove and I couldn’t possibly have continued doing it. No, that’s a closed chapter, and I find plenty to keep me busy and happy, doing things I didn’t have time for when we were runing the Academy. Such as visiting and seeing old friends. In fact,”—here she hesitated before continuing casually, “I’ve invited Elyse and Fenelle Maynard for tea. Perhaps after you’ve bathed and changed, you’d like to join us?”
An amused smile tugged at the corner of Rod’s mouth, and he lifted an eyebrow. “Must I? Won’t it be all tea, tiny cakes, and ladies’ talk?” he teased, his eyes twinkling with the old boyish mischief.
Kate touched the cameo at her lace collar, replying nonchalantly, “Oh no, I don’t think so, dear. Fenelle is quite charming and clever, and I’m sure they would both be disappointed not to see you while they’re here. They’ve just come back from Richmond, you know, on a visit to Francis, who is in law practice there now. You could just pop in and say hello, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, Mother, you are transparent!” Rod shook his head, chuckling.
“Perhaps only because I’ve hit a nerve?” She hesitated before adding earnestly, “Dearest boy, I am just thinking of your happiness. You rarely go out socially any more, turn down more invitations than most people receive! How do you expect to meet anyone … especially any eligible young ladies … if you don’t socialize?”
Rod shrugged. Propping his arm against the mantel shelf, he stared down into the fire.
“Perhaps I’m not interested in socializing or meeting anyone … especially not any eligible—and by that, I take it you mean marriageable—young ladies!” There was an edge of sarcasm in his reply.
“Oh, darling, I don’t mean to push. It’s only that—well, Rod, isn’t it time you thought seriously about marrying? With you the Camerons come to an end, you know.” She made a sweeping gesture. “And all this, all that has been built here, has been standing for generations—this beautiful house, the land, the stables, the Thoroughbreds—who will it go to when we’re gone? Will it be lost? Just as Montclair was lost and the Montrose dynasty ended—”
The mention of that name brought a stillness into the room. When at last Rod broke the silence, his voice sounded choked.
“I had hoped—well, Mother, you know what I hoped—” he broke off.
“Yes, darling, I do know, and I am sorrier than I can say that things didn’t work out the way you wanted them to. But Blythe has been gone for years now. No one has the remotest idea where she went, where she is, what became of her…. Even Sara and Clayborn don’t know—” Kate halted, recalling the letter she had recently received from Sara Montrose in Savannah. Sara had written that they had received a large sum of money through a New York law firm; they suspected the money had come from Blythe. Sworn to uphold the confidentiality of their client, however, the lawyers had refused to divulge the source when Clay tried to investigate.
“We surmise it must be part of the inheritance from the gold mine or ranch Blythe’s father owned in California,” Sara had written. “But that is only supposition. It seems the child has vanished into thin air. She was, I’m afraid, never happy in Virginia, so perhaps she returned to California. I wish her Godspeed. The money is some sort of trust fund from which we receive a generous monthly check. I am more than grateful, of course, for it gives us a needed sense of independence, even though sister Lucie could not have been more hospitable here in Savannah. I am confiding this only to you, dear friend. The lawyers were very explicit that we should not tell anyone else whom we suspect to be the source of our windfall. So I trust you not to share this information with anyone else, no one at all, not even your nearest and dearest!”
Had there been any information in Sara’s letter that would have helped Rod locate Blythe, Kate knew she would have told him. But since this further mystery would only add to his burden, she had remained silent. By now, everyone in Mayfield—except Rod, perhaps—simply accepted Blythe Montrose’s strange disappearance as a closed book. Kate feared that her son would never do so, that he would go on missing Blythe for the rest of his life, failing to even think of building a life with someone new.
Of her two sons, Rod had always been the more difficult for Kate to understand. It was a myth that twins, even if physically “as alike as two peas in a pod,” were identical in other ways. Stewart had been so open, so quick to respond, but Rod was much more reserved, keeping his own counsel.
And after the war, he had withdrawn even further into quiet detachment. Of course, he had suffered the irreplaceable loss of his twin, and his prison experience had been brutal. Nevertheless, years had passed, Kate reminded herself. Shouldn’t some healing have taken place by now? Characteristically, Rod never spoke of Stewart or Blythe, and Kate had no idea what he was now thinking or feeling.
Rod lifted his head and regarded her wearily. “I understand what you are saying, Mother, and I know how you feel.”
Kate reached out her hand in a comforting gesture. “I didn’t bring it up to hurt you, son. I wouldn’t have said a word. It’s just that—” She bit her lip.
“I know, Mother, I know. Believe me, your concern is valid. I think about all this, too.” He hesitated before concluding, “I’ve been planning to go to Ireland on a horse-buying trip, and I thought this time I’d go to England—”
“That would be wonderful, dear! Garnet would be so pleased. She and Jeremy know so many lovely people there, and surely they would introduce you—”
Rod held up a warning hand. “Wait, please, let me finish. What I started to say was I intend to go to London. I’ve heard there’s a firm there that specializes in searching for and locating missing people. I plan to consult them.”
“About Blythe? In England?”
“It’s as good a place as any to try, isn’t it?” Rod said with a tight smile. “I’ve advertised in dozens of western newspapers, contacted every possible lead in California.” He flung out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “And nothing! So I can only assume that she has left the country.”
Kate did not know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.
In a moment Rod straightened his shoulders and forced an enthusiasm he didn’t feel. ‘Well, I’m off to get washed, brushed, and curried to make myself presentable for your tea party.” As he strode toward the door, he called back over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, Mother. I’ll be fine. Things will work out.”
I pray so, dear son, Kate said silently. Lord, she prayed, I believe you will bring about what is best, but I ask please make it soon. She ached with sympathy for this man who had so courageously carried his heartbreak for the past six long years.
Just outside the drawing room door, Rod halted, clenching his jaw. Why couldn’t he forget her? Why had every other woman since Blythe seemed so ordinary? He closed his eyes, wincing as if in pain, and her face came to his mind as clearly and vividly as when they had ridden through the autumn woods together and she had turned in her saddle to look back at him with her dancing brown eyes, her glorious hair streaming in sunbright strands in the wind.
Blythe, my love, where are you? Why did you leave without a word? Will I ever see you again?
With an effort, Rod dragged himself back to the present. Shoulders set firmly, he crossed the hall and mounted the stairway to his room, determined to make as pleasant a task as possible of the afternoon with the Maynard ladies.
A small, shabby buggy, drawn by an ancient mare, rounded the bend of the drive, bringing Cameron Hall into full view of its occupants, a plump dowager and a younger woman, sitting stiffly erect in the hard seat.
Elyse Maynard turned to her daughter and gave her a studied appraisal, flicking an imaginary bit of lint from the immaculate, if worn, afternoon gown. “Now, for pity’s sake, Fene
lle, if Rod comes in, don’t sit like a bump on a pickle all afternoon. Be animated! Men like girls who can carry on an interesting conversation, can be witty as well as look nice.”
Fenelle folded her lace-gloved hands in her lap and suppressed a sigh, bracing herself for her mother’s usual instructional before any social visit. This one, of course, was especially important, at least in her mother’s estimation. Rod Cameron would be joining them this afternoon for tea, the invitation had stated. And Rod Cameron, in Elyse Maynard’s eyes, was a fine “catch.”
“It’s not as though you were still eighteen, Fenelle,” her mother reminded her. “So many of our eligible young men lost their lives fighting for our glorious Cause, you know. It isn’t as if you had the choices you once had, dear girl.”
Fenelle needed no reminder that she would be thirty on her next birthday, although with a bland blondness—pale, smooth skin and cornflower blue eyes—she looked at least five years younger. Yet, as each birthday approached and she was no nearer settling down, her mother’s anxiety increased. Fenelle could not remember when they had actually stopped celebrating birthdays. Now, her mother pretended to forget them.
“Not that anyone remembers birthdates—” her mother said philosophically and repeatedly. “Anyone who would ask a lady her age—well!” was a sentence that Elyse Maynard never finished, leaving the fate of such a gauche person to her listener’s imagination.
Besides her delicate prettiness, Fenelle was shy and sensitive and suffered acutely from her mother’s obsession with her continued spinsterhood. What was harder to endure was the fact that she was not even allowed to grieve the loss of Holt Chalmers, the young lieutenant who surely would have married her had he not been killed at Antietam early in the war. Her mother fluttered nervously if Fenelle even mentioned his name, and she did not approve the fact that her daughter kept his picture on her bureau with a small vase of fresh flowers before it.
“The war is long over, Fenelle. Not one southern family has escaped losing someone. I loved Holt and mourned for him as deeply as anyone who knew him, but it’s been years now, sweetheart. You simply must get hold of yourself.”
