by Jane Peart
Just then Myrna, breathless from hurrying, entered the compartment. “Sorry, madam, but they didn’t have a new Queen, so I brought Ladies’ Day instead. I hope that is suitable? And they only had chocolate buds—no caramels.”
Ordinarily, Garnet might have been cross at the substitutions, but today she was too preoccupied with her thoughts. She took the magazine and box of sweets her maid handed her, hardly aware that the engine whistle was shrieking again, and the train began to move slowly forward.
As the train gathered speed, Garnet wrestled with her dilemma. When Rod came, should she tell him she had seen Blythe? She had no idea on which train Blythe had arrived or where she was going or at which station along the route she may have boarded. She may have been visiting someone in the country or—oh, the possibilities were endless! It was enough of a mystery how she had come to be in England at all. And what a bizarre coincidence for Garnet to have seen her!
Garnet thought of her last trip home to Virginia and the haunted look in her brother’s eyes. If anyone could recognize and understand unrequited love, it was she. Hadn’t she loved Malcolm Montrose in vain for years? It was only after he brought Blythe from California and after Jeremy had come into her life that Garnet had finally been able to come to terms with her hopeless fantasy.
She remembered Rod’s torment when Blythe still lived at Montclair in those last months with Malcolm, who had gone off on a binge, drinking and gambling, until at last, the ultimate tragedy—he lost his ancestral home in a card game. Within weeks, he was dead. A horseback accident. And Blythe? She had simply disappeared. The letter she had left explained the situation but gave no hint of where she was going or what she planned to do.
It had been a terrible time, and Rod was still suffering. Involuntarily, Garnet shuddered.
“Are you chilled, madam?” Myrna asked solicitously. “Here, let me put this lap robe over your knees. Should I order tea?”
Distracted, Garnet merely nodded, her thoughts spinning as fast as the train wheels, the question in her mind echoing with every revolution: What shall I do? What shall I do?
As the train wound its way through the city railyards and then picked up speed, rattling forward, Garnet leaned back against the cushioned seat.
Blythe! Here in England or perhaps in London! It seemed impossible, but Garnet felt sure she had not been mistaken. She had had a good look. That face with its small high-bridged nose, the proud set of her head, her graceful carriage—all were stamped indelibly on Garnet’s mind from the first day she had seen her nearly eight years ago.
“Madam, your tea. Shall I pour for you?” Myrna spoke. Garnet looked up into her maid’s concerned eyes as she offered her the small tray with a squat brown pottery teapot and a thick white cup and saucer she had obtained from the porter.
“Yes, thank you.” Sipping the hot liquid, she stared out the window at the changing landscape. Grimy warehouses and rows of soot-blackened buildings gradually gave way to lush, rolling countryside. The train clattered over arched stone bridges, thundered through villages, stopped at flower-bordered stations, then started up again, passing through long stretches of meadow where sheep grazed and cottages nestled against the green hillsides.
Blythe … Blythe … Over and over the train wheels seemed to repeat the name.
Then, as it had long ago, Malcolm’s voice intruded into Garnet’s thoughts, “Garnet, may I present my wife—Blythe Dorman Montrose.”
Stunned at the word wife, Garnet had stared at the girl framed in the doorway of the pantry at Montclair. Even now she could feel the numbing shock. She had felt exactly as when she had fallen out of a tree as a little girl, landing flat on the ground. Although she had not been able to breathe or speak, Garnet saw that she was young and very beautiful. It was her eyes Garnet noticed first—large, dark, frightened as those of a startled doe, then the glorious auburn hair curling around her heart-shaped face from under the edge of an atrocious purple bonnet that looked very much the worse for wear. But even her peculiar outfit could not disguise a lovely figure.
Bewildered, Garnet had turned to Malcolm for some kind of explanation. But Malcolm had stepped away from her, distancing himself physically as well as emotionally, and she had looked into the eyes of a stranger.
Where was the Malcolm of old, the one she had loved so desperately all her life, the one who had broken her heart by marrying Rose Meredith, his Yankee bride? Would he now break it a second time?
Somehow she had managed to mumble that Sara, an invalid, must be prepared for her son’s unexpected return, and for the surprising news that he had brought back a bride from California. Even now, so many years later, Garnet could still remember the blinding tears that crowded into her eyes as she had stumbled up the stairway toward Sara’s room.
Betrayed! Every other thought was suppressed by this one fact. Betrayed by her own heart as well as by Malcolm—Malcolm whom she had worshiped as a child, longed for as a young girl, coveted as a woman. Malcolm, for whom she had hopefully waited during the years of her own widowhood, keeping his home, caring for his invalid mother and his little son, Jonathan, expecting that at long last all her yearning, dreaming, waiting would be rewarded. Then he had returned, and with him, Blythe.
“We’re coming into the station now, ma’am,” Myrna said as the train pulled to a stop. Garnet snapped back to the present and stepped out of the compartment onto the platform.
The Devlin coachman was waiting for them. He saw to the luggage and assisted Garnet into the small carriage. Springing to his perch in front, he lifted the reins, gave the two bays a flick of his buggy whip, and set off at a brisk trot down the road to “Birchfields.”
The house Jeremy had bought for them in the country had a long and interesting history, dating back further than Garnet cared to hear. In the 1840s it had passed out of the hands of the original owners, been purchased by one of the newly wealthy industrialists, and refurbished and modernized. The place—surrounded by storied English gardens—provided a haven of peace after the busy social life Jeremy’s work demanded of them in London.
Jogging along the winding country road, Garnet was still preoccupied. She was almost glad now that Jeremy wouldn’t be down until tomorrow when he would arrive with their guests—the writer, his wife, and their entourage. Having this evening alone would give her time to think things through, to decide whether to write her mother about her strange sighting of Blythe at Victoria Station, to prepare Rod for the possibility that she was now living in England. Or would that be too cruel? Besides, what did she really have to tell them? Finding Blythe in London or wherever she was would still be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Perhaps it would be best not to mention it at all.
By the time they drove up the curved driveway and halted at the front entrance of the timbered and stone Tudor mansion, Garnet was still undecided. Hadley, the butler, came down the steps to see to the luggage. Lined up in the front hall to greet her were Mrs. Cavanaugh, the housekeeper, and the three maids.
Even after years in England, Garnet still found it strange having white servants. She had learned one did not treat English staff with the same careless informality with which she had always interacted with her own family’s black servants back home in Virginia; and certainly not with the intimacy she had enjoyed with Tilda, Carrie, and Bessie during the war years at Montclair.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Devlin. I hope you had a pleasant trip down,” Mrs. Cavanaugh greeted her.
“It was … all right,” Garnet said evasively, then admitted, “Actually, I’m exhausted, Mrs. Cavanaugh. And with company coming tomorrow, I think I’ll just have something light for dinner in my suite and get to bed early.”
“As you wish, madam,” the housekeeper replied. Then as Garnet started toward the stairway, Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, “Will Miss Faith be coming down this weekend as well?”
Garnet paused. “Yes, Nanny will be bringing her with her father on the morning train.”
Myrna, who had followed Garnet upstairs, helped her off with her coat and into a velvet-and-lace dressing gown, saying quietly, “I’ll get you some hot tea, madam. That should relax you and help you rest.”
“Thank you, Myrna,” Garnet replied absently and went to look out the window overlooking the formal garden with its maze of boxwood hedges. “It will be a busy weekend—”
Her mind still on Jeremy, Garnet took out her hairpins, thinking of the unexpected way her husband had come into her life. Considering the circumstances, surely their meeting had been providential—
Toward the end of the war Garnet had been living at Montclair, her husband’s home, while Bryce rode with Mosby’s raiders. She, her widowed sister-in-law Dove, their cousin Harmony Chance, their children, her father-in-law, Clayton Montrose, and Sara, Garnet’s invalid mother-in-law were alone there while the men fought for the Confederacy. After the death of Rose, Malcolm’s first wife, Garnet assumed the care of their son while Malcolm served with Lee’s army.
The four women had just been terrorized by a raid made by a small band of undisciplined Union soldiers who had threatened to return when Jeremy, then a major in the Union army, had offered them his protection.
Thereafter, though officially their enemy, he had come each night to guard the house against any unordered attack by renegade soldiers. Later, he had also returned Jonathan’s little pony, Bugle Boy, confiscated by the troopers along with the rest of the livestock.
After the war, Jeremy had returned to Virginia and surprised Garnet one day by calling on her. Now a widow, she was overwhelmed by the darkness of her life, and she was touchingly grateful for the attention of this handsome and sophisticated man, now an executive with a prestigious New York publishing firm. To her further surprise, he had declared his love for her and his desire to marry her.
Jeremy finally convinced Garnet, who had never expected to know love again, that they could find happiness together. With the respect and admiration he had earned from her during the war came a dawning realization of love, and they were married at Cameron Hall.
After all the years of deprivation, Jeremy had given her a life she could never have imagined. With publishing offices both in New York and London, they divided their time between the two cities, combining Jeremy’s business trips with interludes of pleasure. They stayed in some of Europe’s grandest hotels, visited Austria and Switzerland, where Garnet was stunned by the sight of the spectacular Alps. They toured capital cities, saw the great works of art in museums, heard music played by some of the finest orchestras conducted by the most famous maestros of the concert world, took boat trips down the Rhine, viewing the fairy-tale castles from the decks of luxury yachts.
Life had opened into astonishing vistas for Garnet since her marriage. Still, although she appreciated and enjoyed her exciting new life, she was often homesick for Virginia, and it was a special joy for her to be able to travel often to visit her mother in Mayfield and to see her brother, Rod.
Her thoughts turned to Rod. It just wasn’t fair! He had cared for Malcolm Montrose’s neglected second wife with a devoted passion, and she had apparently abandoned him after losing Malcolm and Montclair. Now Garnet had seen her—Blythe, the object of his long search, the source of so much of Garnet’s past pain and envy.
Garnet reached for the double silver frame on her dressing table and studied the photographs. On one side was a picture of her two brothers, Rod and Stewart, looking so handsome in their brand-new Confederate uniforms. The other picture was of Rod alone, ten years later.
He was still quite handsome. But there was something about his expression that had not been present in the first picture, she thought as she compared them—the indefinable look of someone who has been touched by tragedy. The eyes held a secret sorrow, a secret not hidden from his sister.
Again Garnet fretted. Would it diminish his heartache to know she thought she had seen the woman he had loved and lost? The one great love of his life? Or would it only prolong his pain?
chapter
4
Belvedere Square
London, England
“GOOD AFTERNOON, Mrs. Montrose. The carriage is over here.”
“Thank you, Barnes.” Blythe replied, then followed the Ainsleys’ coachman to the dark green carriage at the curbing outside the train station.
Barnes tossed a coin to the boy holding the reins of a sleek pair of horses, then opened the door for Blythe to get inside.
Seated in the luxurious interior as it rolled smoothly through the city, Blythe gazed with interest at the panorama unfolding outside the window. The crowded streets, bustling pedestrians all in an intense hurry to get somewhere, and noisy activity contrasted sharply with the quiet village where she lived.
It was a rare occasion, usually at her friend Lydia Ainsley’s insistence, when Blythe could be persuaded to come up for a few days’ visit. Although she enjoyed shopping and dining out at one of the fine restaurants before going to the theater, more and more she was reluctant to leave her serene life in the country and the delightful company of her small son.
This time, however, she had come to town for the specific purpose of seeking help on a decision that had been troubling her a good deal. She had delayed coming for weeks. Now she could no longer put it off. The decision must be made soon, or so Corin Prescott had told her.
Blythe frowned, remembering the conversation that a few weeks before had started her thinking about the whole matter. Corin, her friend and neighbor in Kentburne, had brought it to her attention. The discussion had disturbed her so that finally she knew she must put all her concerns before Edward Ainsley. As her son’s godfather, he would be the logical one to consult.
Edward and Lydia Ainsley were dear and trusted friends. She had first met them through her father’s New York attorneys. Recently widowed, absolutely alone in the world and pregnant, Blythe had faced an uncertain future. Evicted from Montclair three days before Christmas, just weeks after Malcolm’s death, she had fled the shambles of her life in Virginia—but not before going through Malcolm’s trunk, in which Blythe had found a letter addressed to her from her late father. In it were five hundred dollars in gold and instructions to contact the law firm of Cargill, Hoskins and Sedgewick in New York City. There she discovered her father had set up a trust fund for her after his first gold strike in California. Having invested in railroad, shipping, and other valuable stocks, he had made her a wealthy woman!
On the romantic whim that Malcolm’s child should be born in England, the land of his favorite authors and poets, Blythe first planned to go there. Her lawyer, however, advised her that in her condition the warm climate of Bermuda might be a better choice and offered to write a letter of introduction for her to some friends who were wintering there.
In Bermuda, Blythe and Lydia had become immediate friends. Later, she sailed with them for England and stayed with them in their London town house until they helped her find Larkspur Cottage in Kentburne, a charming village about twenty-five miles from London, where she had lived ever since. When her baby was born that summer, the Ainsleys were the natural choice for his godparents.
But Jeff was no longer a baby, Blythe reminded herself, six years old and next year, starting school!
As the carriage turned toward Belvedere Square, the exclusive residential area where the Ainsleys lived, Blythe recalled that conversation with Corin Prescott.
Corin had stopped by with some cuttings from his own large garden for Blythe to plant in her smaller one, and they had stood together watching Jeff roll
his hoop wobbily down the lane in front of her cottage.
“He’s growing fast, isn’t he?” Corin commented. “What a fine big fellow he’s getting to be, Blythe. He’ll make a cricket player his first year at his boarding school, I’ve no doubt.”
“Boarding school?” echoed Blythe, puzzled.
“Of course, hasn’t Ainsley looked into the matter for you yet?” Corin seemed surprised. ‘When there’s no father, that’s usually the godparent’s job.”
“No, he hasn’t mentioned it. But I have no intention of letting Jeff go away to school!”
“But, my dear Blythe, all young boys must be sent off to school at his age,” Corin explained patiently.
“Why must they? There’s a perfectly good school right here in the village.”
“Not for a gentleman’s son,” Corin corrected her.
Blythe thought that over for a full minute before saying, “But I don’t want him to go away. I would miss him too much.”
Corin’s voice was gentle. ‘There’s the boy to think of, Blythe. He needs other lads for playmates, fellows his own age as well as older boys for models. That’s especially important for a lad growing up without a father or brothers.”
Blythe gave him a rueful glance. “And in a household of women? Doting women, at that, I suppose?”
Corin laughed. “I didn’t say that! But I do believe what I’m saying is true, Blythe. It wouldn’t be for Jeff like it was for me. My parents were in India where my father was posted, and I had to come back to England to go to school. It was years before I saw them again. But you can choose a school fairly close, where you can see Jeff often. And then, of course, there will be holidays and vacations, when he’ll come home.”
