by Jane Peart
Garnet quickly set down her cup. “Come, Rod, we must be off!” she said brightly. “If I don’t ride now, I’ll not have another chance all day.” Sending a charmingly apologetic smile in the direction of her guests, Garnet beckoned for Rod to follow and started out of the room.
Hurrying through the long hallway to the front terrace, Garnet heard Rod’s booted footsteps behind her and called over her shoulder with a mischievous grin. “That was a close call! For a second, I was afraid we were going to have the whole troop with us!”
Outside, the grooms held the heads of two magnificent horses—one, a dappled gray; the other, a sleek roan. They mounted and cantered down the drive. Garnet had always been a skilled horsewoman, and Rod was “born to the saddle.” The Dartmoor country was interestingly different from the lush Virginia countryside with its rolling hills and woodland stretches.
Soon they were far beyond the manicured grounds of the manor house, climbing a broad path rough with stones. At the top of a hill they reined in and surveyed the panoramic view spreading out before them—acres and acres of barren ground and jutting boulders, the famed moors. But as they rode on farther, what had seemed a sweep of thick brown turf was in reality a varicolored carpet. Golden gorse bloomed alongside purple heather. Clumps of pink and blue wildflowers crowned the hillock and dotted the vast landscape.
Garnet drew her mount to a halt. “Let’s get down and walk a bit,” she suggested.
Leading their horses loosely by their reins, brother and sister strolled companionably for a few minutes. The wind was ever-present—a low sighing through the rough grass. Above them, silhouetted against a vivid blue sky, a hawk soared and spiraled.
Garnet considered a way to bring up the subject of Blythe, but before she could speak, Rod was asking her a question.
“Are you happy, little Sis?”
Surprised, Garnet exclaimed, “Oh, yes, Rod! Very happy!”
“I’m glad,” he said, stopping to let his horse nibble at some brush. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about happiness lately—how unexpectedly it comes and how swiftly it can go. Jeremy is a fine man, Garnet—” he gave her a quizzical smile—“even if he did fight on the wrong side in the war. But then that’s all in the past. So much is in the past, and we have to move on.” He patted the horse’s nose and continued.
“Like many other Southerners, I’ve spent entirely too much time dwelling on the past. Now I’m determined to look to the future, build for it.” He squared his shoulders. “You know I stayed at Dan McShane’s farm while I was in Ireland. And seeing him with his family about him, his life there brought it all clear to me how much of life I’ve missed. Dan’s teaching his sons to love the land and plant themselves deep in its soil. They’re building a good foundation for the future, Sis. It forced me to think about my own future—”
As he paused, his face still averted, Garnet felt her hands under the leather gloves tighten on her horse’s lead.
Rod turned to face her. “Garnet, I’m the last of the Camerons, you know. As Mama has pointed out on several occasions—the family line ends with me. That is, unless, I marry and have children of my own.”
Now! Something inside Garnet’s head exploded. Now is the time to tell Rod about seeing Blythe! It might be the one clue he’s been searching for. But her throat constricted, and she waited, dreading Rod’s next words, which were, “I’m going to ask Fenelle Maynard to marry me.”
While her maid strategically placed a marcasite comb in her elaborately coiffed hair, Garnet glared at her reflection. She had not slept well the night before, as the circles under her eyes attested, and with houseguests and more guests arriving for dinner, she needed to look her best.
But she had gone to bed burdened by Rod’s announcement and the secret that weighed on her so heavily, and had awakened, unrested and anxious. She had been short with her maid when Myrna brought in the morning tea, an English custom Garnet had never fully embraced, and she had sent her back down to the kitchen for coffee.
Now she had been tense all day. Her guests’ conversation had seemed especially boring, the requisite bridge game in the afternoon, tiresome, and she could not wait to escape to her bedroom for the hour or two before dinner to be alone. Even this respite had not proved helpful. Over and over she had berated herself for not telling Rod about seeing the woman she was certain was Blythe in Victoria Station.
“How is that, madam?” asked Myrna, handing Garnet a mirror, then stepping back to admire her own handiwork.
Still distracted by her uneasy thoughts, Garnet tipped her head from one side to the other, checking her hairdo.
Just then a knock sounded on the boudoir door.
“Come in,” Garnet called.
A middle-aged woman in a dark blue dress collared in white and wearing a fluted lawn cap set squarely on top of her gray head, hesitated in the doorway.
“Beg pardon, madam, but Miss Faith is begging to come in and see you. I wasn’t sure whether you were dressed or wanted her to—”
“Of course, I want her, Nanny.” Garnet twisted around to face her daughter’s nurse. “My hair has taken so long that I didn’t realize it was so near Faith’s bedtime. Have her come in, by all means.”
“Yes, madam. I’ll send her right in then.” The woman backed out the door, closing it quietly behind her.
Garnet turned back to study her reflection again. “Yes, Myrna, I think you’ve outdone yourself. It looks très chic”
“Thank you, madam. It’s ever so becomin’, if I do say so. I saw a picture of the Princess of Wales with hers done much the same, and from what I read, Princess Alexandra has the exact same coloring as you, mum.”
Amused at her maid’s extravagant praise, Garnet declared,
“Then I must look stunning because the Prince of Wales’s wife is quite a dazzling creature from the mere glance I once had of her riding out in her carriage.”
“Oh, she is that. At least, from all the reports of her in the papers,” Myrna replied seriously, unaware that Garnet was teasing.
Another quick rap came at the door, then it burst open to admit a little whirlwind with dark, flying curls, wearing a ruffled nightie and pink wrapper. She came running toward Garnet, arms outstretched, losing a small furry bedroom slipper in the race.
“Mummy! Mummy! You look beautiful!” she said, flinging herself into her mother’s embrace.
“Look sharp, now, Miss Faith!” Myrna said in quick alarm. “Mind you don’t muss your mother’s dress.”
“It’s all right, Myrna.” Garnet laughed as she gave Faith a hug, then set her firmly back down on her feet, and gazed fondly at her only child.
Faith Devlin promised to be a beauty, having inherited Garnet’s pert expression, the impudent turned-up nose, and her father’s shiny coal-black hair, his gray, long-lashed eyes.
Faith stared, awe-struck at her mother as Garnet turned slowly, holding out the skirt of lemon-yellow glacé-silk drawn back in the new style with ruffles cascading into a small train. She adjusted the decolletage slightly, then smiled at her small daughter, who was regarding her with adoring admiration.
“Oh, Mummy, you look like a fairy princess !” Faith sighed.
Garnet reached out and cupped the rosy cheek with a cool hand.
“Thank you, my darling!”
Garnet sat down again to examine the contents of the velvet jewel case Myrna had opened for her.
“Mummy, can’t I stay and watch the company coming?” Faith begged as she climbed into Garnet’s chaise lounge and watched as her mother slipped pearl pendant earrings into her lobes, then took a pearl choker from her jewel box for Myrna to clasp about her slender neck.
“Oh, I suppose so, this once.” Garnet’s thoughts drifted back to the days at Cameron Hall when she had perched at the top step of the graceful double staircase, her face pinched between the banister rails, looking down to see her parents’ festively attired guests as they arrived for the many parties given at their palatial Virginia home.<
br />
“Then be sure and tell Nanny I can, or she’ll make me go to bed just like a baby!” Faith said firmly.
Garnet laughed at her daughter’s imperious tone. For the dozenth time she thought how much like herself at the same age Faith was! Garnet prayed, however, that she would not grow up as stubborn and willful as she had been. Most importantely, that Faith would not repeat her mother’s grave mistakes in love, that she would find someone from the beginning who was the right one!—
Abruptly, Garnet dismissed these thoughts. She certainly had more immediate problems than Faith’s future romances, she reminded herself, thinking of Rod—Rod and Blythe, Rod and Fenelle Maynard.
Her brother’s declaration still troubled Garnet like a stone in the heel of her riding boot. It wouldn’t go away unless she did something about it. And right now, Garnet did not know what to do.
Just then, Faith’s piping little voice interjected itself into her confusion.
“Mummy, don’t you think Uncle Rod is the handsomest of all the gentlemen here this weekend? I do Except Papa, of course. Nobody is as handsome as Papa.” Faith paused for a second before she went on. “What do you ‘spose happened in Ireland, Mummy? Uncle Rod seems so happy since he came back.”
Garnet stared at her little daughter in surprise. How right she was. Rod did seem much happier, happier than Garnet had seen him in ages. Assured, confident of the future. His planned engagement to Fenelle Maynard had apparently made the difference. Perhaps Fenelle had given Rod back his lost purpose in life, his self-esteem, his optimism.
It was then Garnet made her decision. It would be useless even to mention Blythe at this point. Rod was set upon a new, hopeful path. And Garnet, for one, was not going to do anything to cast a shadow on the sunshine now glowing so radiantly in his life.
And what about Blythe? Surely, by this time, Blythe had found her own new happiness. Perhaps she had put all that had happened to her in Virginia behind her. Surely, her memories of Mayfield could not be ones she wanted to hold and cherish, even if she had once thought she loved Rod.
No, Garnet decided, the best thing to do is to say nothing.
Never one to dwell for long on vague probabilities, she rose from her dressing table, gave Faith a kiss, and said, “I must go down to our guests now, precious. I’ll tell Nanny to let you peek over the balcony until everyone comes and we go into dinner. But then you must go right to bed, understand?”
Faith nodded solemnly. “Yes, Mummy, I promise.”
Having assured herself that she had made the right decision about Rod, Garnet swept out of the room and down the stairs, ready to step into the role she played with such verve and style, that of the charming hostess of Birchfields.
Part III
Life unfolds in a continuous succession of expectations and experience; all that happens is through the mercy of God.
—anonymous
chapter
8
The Guest House
Savannah, Georgia
LYING ON HER reclining chair in the sunshine, Sara Montrose watched the hummingbirds hovering above the hanging baskets of trailing red and pink fuchsias suspended from the fretwork of the porch. It had become a morning ritual for Clay to settle her here on the sunny terrace while he went to pick up the morning mail. Here she could enjoy not only the birds, but also the lush beauty of the surrounding blossoming azaleas and camellia bushes. It was especially pleasant now in April since the weather had become so balmy.
The guest house where she and Clay now lived, set in a grove of gnarled oaks hung with Spanish moss, occupied a portion of the spacious grounds of Sara’s younger sister Lucie’s home a few miles from Savannah.
Six years ago Sara and Clay had come to spend the winter. They were still here. Unforeseen circumstances had prevented their returning to their Virginia home, a fact that had not surprised Sara. Although she had not confided her foreboding to Clay, she had had a feeling when they left Montclair that they would never return. No one could have anticipated the tragic turn of events that had brought her premonition to pass.
Courageously, Sara had set about to make a new life, for Clay’s sake more than for her own. She had left Savannah as a bride in a rebound marriage, glad to escape her unhappy memories. Now she made the effort to renew old ties, invite old friends to call, create a congenial social circle for them. Even though the long-ago riding accident had left her a semi-invalid since the age of thirty, Sara was still elegant and fascinating. In spite of her obvious fragile health, people always came away from a visit declaring how witty, bright, and marvelously entertaining Sara was.
Sara never spoke of the other tragedies that had wounded her spirit. Only Clay knew the secret sorrow of her heart, the hurts that had never fully healed—the loss of her three sons, of the magnificent home over which she had presided for many years, of a sense of being in control of her destiny. As ever, he was her devoted companion, admirer and lover, always eager to do whatever would make her more content, happier, or more comfortable.
As she saw his tall figure coming now through the lushly flowered garden toward the cottage, Sara felt her heart soften with affection. How dear Clay was, how steadfast through all the vicissitudes they had suffered together in their long marriage.
As a girl, Sara was considered extraordinarily beautiful. It was said that every young man who met her fell in love with her. She had had dozens of proposals, but she knew why she had chosen Clay. It was not just that she had been cruelly disappointed by her first love, but that she realized, even then, Clay loved her in spite of her flaws. And with each passing year, she appreciated him more.
Sara sat up a little, noticing that Clay’s step was quicker than usual this spring morning and that he was smiling and waving an envelope in one hand.
In fact, she could see that her husband was trembling with excitement.
“You may find this as hard to believe as I, my dear—” he said in a voice that shook slightly. “But this is from Blythe!” And he handed her an envelope bearing an English postmark.
Startled, Sara took it and read the return address. “Kentburne? Where is that? England?”
Clay nodded. “Open it, my dear. Let’s see what it says,” he urged her.
Sara’s heart was beating rapidly as she picked up the ivory-handled letter opener and slid it along the flap of the envelope. She unfolded the three pages of thin writing paper, her eyes skimming the first line. Then she wet her dry lips and began to read aloud.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Montrose:
I know you have wondered about me all these years, and I ask your forgiveness for my long silence. My only excuse is that I was too young, too devastated by the events that led to Malcolm’s death and my eviction from Montclair to think rationally. I only recall thinking what a blow it would be to you both, and simply didn’t have the courage to face you, nor the wisdom to help you bear these dreadful tragedies.
It was months before I could sort things out for myself, I suppose. As you will note, I came to England—for sentimental reasons. Through Malcolm’s love of this country, I too had come to think of it as a kind of haven where I could somehow recover from my sorrow and build a new life. That new life included Malcolm’s son—
Sara drew in her breath and raised her eyes to meet those of her husband’s.
“A son!” she repeated. Clearing her throat, Sara read on.
His name is Arthur Geoffrey Paul, after Malcolm’s favorite boyhood hero, King Arthur and St. Paul, the great lion of God. But I call him Jeff.
Jeff is a handsome boy. He looks much the way I imagine Malcolm might have looked at this age. He is very bright, with a happy disposition. On his next birthday he will be six, old enough to travel. Therefore, I am planning to bring him to America next month.
If it is agreeable with you, we will be coming from New Orleans and look forward very much to visiting you in Savannah next month.
I regret any pain my actions over the past years may have caused. I am most an
xious to make amends and to see both of you again. As Malcolm’s parents, and Jeff’s grandparents, you hold a special place in my heart.
Affectionately,
Blythe Dorman Montrose
“Well!” was all Sara could say as she folded the letter and replaced it in its envelope.
“Well, indeed!” Clay agreed, “Isn’t it wonderful, Sara, dear? To see a grandson we didn’t even know about? And in only a few weeks!”
Sara’s mouth twisted slightly. “You would think she would have let us know about this sooner! I mean, for all intents and purposes, we lost Jonathan to the Merediths. It seems quite unfair that Blythe would have kept Malcolm’s other son from us, too!”
Clay reached over and patted Sara’s hand. “Now, my dear, best to let bygones by bygones. Blythe is older now, wiser. She even admits she acted impulsively. Says she’s sorry for any grief she has caused. Let’s welcome her with open arms, not bring up any unpleasantness from the past.”
Sara regarded her husband affectionately. “You’re right, of course. Turn the other cheek. What a fine Christian man you are, Clay. I sometimes envy you your ability not to harbor bitterness about anything. I’m afraid I sometimes allow myself to be overwhelmed with regrets, old sorrows.” She lifted her chin and smiled at him, her eyes brighter. “I wonder if Jeff really does resemble Malcolm? Malcolm was such a handsome child.”
“We’ll soon see, my dear,” Clay reminded her, smiling happily. “We’ll soon see.”
Riding from the Savannah dock in the open carriage Sara’s sister had sent for them that early spring morning, Blythe gradually noticed a subtle difference in the air. The sharp, tangy dampness of the wharves gave way to the soft, flower-scented air.
The quiet streets were ablaze with blooms—long beds of azaleas, from frosty whites to palest pinks and fiery reds and waxy-leafed bushes laden with velvety camellias. Begonias spilled riotously over the iron-lace balconies. And from behind scrolled wrought-iron fences and the gates of hidden gardens peeked pink day lilies.
