by Jane Peart
Blythe hated the whole idea of sending her little boy away, having other people looking after him. But if, according to Corin, it was the best thing for him, she would have to consider it.
Seeing that it had made Blythe so uncomfortable, Corin tactfully refrained from bringing up the subject again. But Blythe knew she must consult Edward about a school for Jeff. She trusted his judgment, knowing that he himself was a product of the English “public school system,” which, paradoxically, meant “private boys’ boarding school.”
After listening carefully to what Edward had to say, she would reserve her right, as Jeff’s mother, to make the final decision.
Blythe sighed. Bringing up a child alone was so … lonely. Suddenly she thought of California, of the one-room schoolhouse in Lucas Valley where she had gone to school. How different her son’s life would have been if, after Pa’s death, she and Malcolm had stayed there to run the ranch.
Jeff would have lived a healthy outdoor life in the Sierra foothills—roaming the woods, wading, swimming, fishing, riding horseback—instead of fulfilling the expectations of an “English gentleman.”
Had she made a mistake in coming here? Making a life for herself and her son so far from California? Or even so far from Jeff’s Virginia heritage?
But there was no heritage now, no Montclair for Jeff. His father had lost it all on the turn of a card.
Thoughts of Virginia and Montclair were always bittersweet. She had loved Malcolm. Had he lived, they might have been able to work out their life together. Blythe was too honest not to admit the disturbing truth that it was her love for another man that had compelled her to leave without disclosing her whereabouts to a anyone. Carrying Malcolm’s child, how could she have sought help from Rod or reveal the love she had for him?
Unbidden came the memory of riding horseback with Rod through sunlit autumn woods one particular day, when they had stood together on the rustic bridge over a rushing stream. She was certain that he had been on the verge of declaring his love. Panic-stricken at the thought of betraying Malcolm, she had run away, back to the dubious safety of her husband’s home. Later, she had been forced to run again, putting as much distance as possible between them.
The carriage came to a stop. Blythe saw that they had reached the Ainsleys’impressive town house. Quickly, she thrust away her painful memories. Better not to remember, Blythe thought. What was past was forever lost. It is the present and, most of all, Jeff’s future that counts now.
Lydia Ainsley came rushing down the carpeted stairway to greet her friend with a warm hug.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you, Blythe!”
To the butler who was standing silently by, she said, “We’ll take tea upstairs, Thompson, in my sitting room.”
With an arm about Blythe’s waist, Lydia led her to the stairs and started up. “Come along, Blythe. We have so much to catch up on. I’m eager to hear all your news!”
Lydia Ainsley’s sitting room reflected her charm and good taste. Rose velvet draperies were drawn against the fog of the London afternoon, and a cheerful fire glowed in the small white marble fireplace. With a graceful hand Lydia waved Blythe to one of the matching curved loveseats.
“Do sit down and take off your hat, Blythe. Be comfortable.”
As Blythe followed her hostess’s suggestion, a discreet knock came at the door. A maid in a black uniform and white ruffled cap and apron entered, bearing a large tray.
Recognizing the maid as the same young woman who was always assigned to attend her whenever Blythe was a guest in the Ainsley home, she spoke. “Hello, Violet.”
The girl darted a quick look at Lydia before answering. Blythe’s easy American manners broke with the rigid protocol in this traditional upper-class English household, where the presence of servants was rarely acknowledged. Lydia gave an imperceptible nod.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Montrose.” Violet dropped a little curtsy. “It’s nice to see you again, ma’am. And ’ow’s little Master Jeff?”
“Growing like a weed, Violet!”
Violet set down the tray and stepped back, awaiting orders from her mistress.
“That will be all, Violet. Thank you.”
“Yes ma’am.” With another curtsy Violet exited, and the two ladies settled down to tea and conversation.
As she poured the steaming Oolong tea into shell-thin cups, Lydia said, “I was so happy to get your note that you were coming up for a visit, Blythe. We don’t see half enough of you. And with Edward so busy here in the city, we don’t get down often to see you in the country. And how is my darling godchild?” Lydia asked as she handed Blythe her cup.
“Thriving, and a real joy as well as a handful, of course!” Blythe laughed, beginning to relax in this atmosphere of affection and warmth. She always felt welcome here. “Actually, it is precisely because of Jeff that I’ve made this visit. I need to talk to Edward about him.”
Lydia registered alarm. “Nothing wrong, I hope?”
Blythe shook her head. “No, not at all. I just need to ask Edward’s advice about Jeff’s education. He’s very bright, you know. Already knows the letters of the alphabet, and he’s always asking questions of me and Nanny, too, about how things work and why things are the way they are—” Blythe smiled a bit ruefully. “He’s no longer satisfied by Nanny’s standard reply: ‘Now, now, Master Geoffrey, that’s not for little boys to know.’ ” She shook her head. “Jeff gets very cross with Nanny when she gives that response, I’m afraid.”
“And well he should!” Lydia remarked. “Jeff’s far too intelligent to be put off with that kind of nursery prattle.” She passed a plate of flaky scones to Blythe who took one.
“I’ve been told it’s time …” Blythe hesitated, unwilling to name Corin as the source of this information. Lydia would be likely to pounce on the fact and read far too much into it. That Blythe had been discussing such a personal decision as Jeff’s education with the handsome retired Army officer might lead her friend to a wrong conclusion about their relationship. Carefully amending her words, she continued. “I mean, I understand that most little boys in England are sent to boarding school when they are seven or eight.”
“That’s true,” Lydia agreed, stirring sugar into her tea. “I know my brothers were and Edward, too, of course. I’m sure he will be more than happy to advise you, although, be prepared, he will most certainly be prejudiced in favor of Barcliff, his old school.”
“Well, of course, Jeff’s only six,” Blythe said quickly. ‘There is still plenty of time—”
Wide-eyed, Lydia gazed at her. “Oh dear, no, Blythe! Actually it may be too late! Don’t you realize to get into some of the best schools, parents sometimes register their sons at birth?”
Aghast, Blythe stared back. “Really?”
“Oh, yes, indeed. However, if you do decide on Barcliff for Jeffy, I feel sure Edward could be of tremendous help. You see, one of his old classmates is now headmaster there, and there are always a few strings one can pull,” Lydia reassured her.
The conversation then shifted to the plans Lydia had made for Blythe’s visit—shopping and lunch tomorrow and, this evening, a small dinner party.
“Just a few friends and their wives. And tomorrow evening, we have tickets for the theater and supper afterward. I so wish you were going to be here longer, Blythe. There are some lovely people I’d like for you to meet, some Americans we’ve recently become acquainted with—”
Blythe was only half-listening. Already, she found her thoughts drifting to the cozy little house nestled in its old-fashioned garden in Kentburne. By this time Jeff would be in from his daily outing with Nanny, would have had his bath and was probably sitting down to his own tea.
“Nursery teas” Blythe had learned, were actually light suppers before the children’s bedtime. These were more substantial meals than the dainty sandwiches and tiny cakes it was customary for adults to have before their formal dinner hour at eight-thirty or nine. She missed being there to read to him
, cuddle him, hear his prayers. She could almost feel his little arms around her neck, smell the clean, warm scent of him as she tucked him into bed—
Lydia’s voice brought her back from her longing thoughts. “I suppose you’d like to have a little rest before changing for dinner, wouldn’t you?” she asked, reaching for the tapestry bellpull to summon the maid.
Violet appeared as if by magic. “Yes, ma’am?”
“Will you take Mrs. Montrose to her room and see that hot water is taken up for her bath?”
Lydia rose and walked with Blythe to the door, giving her an impulsive hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you! It’s been weeks since we’ve had a good visit. You mustn’t be such a stranger.” She wagged her finger playfully in Blythe’s face.
Blythe couldn’t tell her friend that she found her trips to the city an ordeal, something she put off time after time. The Ainsleys had no children of their own, so she knew Lydia would not understand that even a night or two away from Jeff was difficult for Blythe. Perhaps Lydia would even caution her about making her son the center of her world.
The guest room had been redecorated since Blythe’s last visit. Lydia’s artistic talents were well-employed in her home, but Blythe knew her friend filled up the emptiness of her childlessness, of which she never spoke, by endless shopping for furniture and fabrics.
The end result is the creation of a restful, eye-pleasing environment such as this, thought Blythe, looking about her with pleasure. Apricot velvet draperies swung back from starched lace curtains. The ornate mahogany bed was covered in a flowered chintz in muted green, golds, peach colors. There were matching plump chairs on either side of the fireplace, over which hung a delicate floral watercolor.
On the bedside table was a hand-painted porcelain lamp, a popular new novel, a book of poetry, and a moiré-silk writing case filled with stationery embossed with the Ainsley crest.
In the small adjoining dressing room was a full-length mirror. An armoire had been placed alongside a satin upholstered reclining couch. The dressing table held crystal containers for powder, perfume atomizers, eau de cologne, silver-backed mirror, brush and comb.
Violet brought in the large brass vats of hot water for Blythe’s bath along with scented French soaps and thick, thirsty towels. Before she left, the maid spread a mist-soft knotted throw on the chaise for her, and although Blythe did not feel particularly tired, she stretched out, indulging herself in a rare moment with nothing to do but rest and prepare herself for the evening’s festivities.
“I’ll be back in time to help you dress and do your hair, ma’am,” Violet said softly as she left, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her.
How shocked the maid would be to know that Blythe managed very well every other day, dressing herself and doing up her own hair, Blythe mused. Again her thoughts drifted to her son.
It was probably good for both of them for her to get away from the cottage once in a while. He had the constant watchful care of his Scotch nanny, the affection of Cook and Emma, the thrice-weekly housemaid.
Blythe admitted she was, as the English say, “besotted” with her son. But then right from the beginning Jeff had been an ideal “picture-book” baby, the kind that grandmotherly ladies in the park made cooing sounds over when he was wheeled out in his pram.
He looks so much like his father must have looked at the same age^ Blythe thought. Malcolm’s other son, Jonathan, came to mind. Though she had never seen him in person, she had seen the portrait of him as a very young child, painted with his mother, the beautiful Rose Meredith, who had died so tragically in a fire. She wondered if Jonathan was happy living up North with Rose’s relatives.
The reddish fluff that had crowned Jeff’s head as an infant had darkened as he grew older, and now he had the same silky dark curls as his father. Instead of the dark eyes Jonathan had inherited from his mother, Rose, Jeff’s were large and intensely blue.
Yes, Jeff was a darling—loving and lovable. But he was also independent, strong-willed, stubbornly intent on having his own way more and more.
“Needs a man’s hand, that one does,” Nanny declared often, giving Blythe a knowing glance. “A houseful of women won’t do for that lad,” she would say, as even at a year or fifteen months, Jeff had strained out of her arms, wanting to be put down to take his own tottering footsteps on his way to explore some new delight.
Jeff would stand for only so much hugging, being held. He would give Blythe a tight, choking clasp around her neck, then move out of her arms at the first opportunity. Her eyes often followed him on these early explorations, thinking how different everything would have been if—but Blythe never allowed herself to dwell too long on the past.
She had done what she had to do. If it had been a mistake, there was no point in fretting about it now.
Early on, Nanny began insinuating that Blythe would do well to marry again, find a good but firm stepfather for the little boy. Diplomatic at first, she became more outspoken as the years passed and Jeff grew from a toddler into a sturdy little boy. After all, as Nanny pointed out, Blythe was only twenty-four and looked even younger.
Her hints became even broader when Corin Prescott started calling. Fond of quoting Scripture, she would sometimes say, “Well, ye know, Mrs. Montrose, ‘weepin’ endures for a day, but joy comes in the mornin’,’ don’t ye know?”
It was time to put away mourning, she would murmur when Blythe dressed in black to go out or to church on Sundays. Gradually, giving in to the old nurse’s urging, she removed the crepe veil from her bonnet, then added crocheted white collars and cuffs from Nanny’s own needle to relieve the severity of her traditional mourning costumes. The first time she went up to London to shop with Lydia, Blythe bought a gray caped coat and bonnet; and the next time, pale lilac and bright blue. Nanny was extravagant in her approval of these changes.
“Are you ready to dress, ma’am?” Lydia’s little maid broke into Blythe’s long reverie.
Later, sitting at the dressing table in front of the mirror, Blythe felt wickedly indulgent and allowed Violet to brush, braid, and coil her hair.
“Oh, ma’am, ‘tis a real pleasure to do your hair. So thick, and such a glorious color!”
Blythe smiled at the compliment and at once was thrust back in time to an incident in which someone else had said almost exactly the same thing.
Amelia Thompson! Her cabin-mate on the boat trip from San Francisco to New Orleans when she and Malcolm, newly married, were on their way back to Virginia and Montclair. Because of overbooking on the ship, Blythe had had to share a cabin with Amelia and her infant daughter rather than with her new husband. What was to have been their “honeymoon” trip was anything but, she recalled, though she remembered Amelia and little Daisy with real affection.
Amelia had been lively, talkative, and friendly. Blythe, fresh from the frontier town in northern California where she had lived with her rancher father most of her life, was introduced by Amelia to fashion, the latest hairstyles, and some fascinating tidbits about married life that brought a blush to Blythe’s cheeks, even in retrospect.
Bonded by the intimacy of their mutual quarters, their natural affinity for one another, and the youthful need for companionship, the two young women had become fast friends on the tediously long journey. But this came to an abrupt and ugly ending when they docked in New Orleans and Amelia’s husband, an army officer, met his wife and baby. When Malcolm saw Major Thompson’s blue uniform, he refused to shake hands and walked away, leaving a bewildered Blythe to attempt an explanation. Later, when she asked Malcolm why he had behaved so rudely toward her friend’s husband, he had turned on her savagely.
As a former confederate officer who had lost not only his own brothers but also many of the men under his command, Malcolm declared his hatred for that uniform. Anyone wearing it was his enemy.
“What jewelry did you wish to wear, ma’am?”
Violet’s question startled Blythe back to the present. She shoo
k her head unconsciously, looking down at her left hand where she still wore the plain gold band Malcolm had placed on her third finger in the wooden church in Lucas Valley nearly eight years ago.
Violet looked disappointed, and Blythe thought how the girl’s eyes would sparkle to see the ruby and diamond Montrose bridal set that was safely locked away with some of the few things Blythe had taken with her when she had fled from Montclair that dreary December day. She had never worn the set. She had only looked at it once or twice, wondering if Rose, Malcolm’s first wife, had ever worn it. She knew that Sara, Malcolm’s mother, had. She was wearing them in the portrait hanging over the drawing room mantel at Montclair, a portrait painted when Sara was a bride, fresh from Savannah.
A knock at the bedroom door announced Lydia, splendid in a cranberry faille dinner gown, who exclaimed, “How lovely you look, Blythe! The emerald green is so becoming! Now, aren’t you glad I persuaded you to buy that material and pattern to have made up from the model we saw at Madame Berthe’s salon on your last visit?” she asked with a satisfied expression. Then tucking her hand through Blythe’s arm, she said, “Come along. Edward is already downstairs and eagerly waiting to talk to you about Barcliff before our other guests arrive.”
What Lydia had described as a “simple little dinner party” proved to be an elaborate affair, with Thompson presiding over the serving of an eight-course meal by two white-gloved footmen. Beginning with a cream of celery soup and ending with a delicate carmelized custard followed by a selection of fruit and cheese, the dinner amused Blythe as she compared it to her simple evening meals at her Kentburne cottage. How could Lydia’s elegantly gowned lady guests keep their wasp-waisted figures if they dined out four out of five nights a week, as she had been told most of them did?
At a signal from Lydia, the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars.
