by Jane Peart
Blythe held her breath as the confident reply came, “Jeff!”
“Ah ha! Jeff, is it? Well that’s a fine name for a Virginia lad.”
“Were you named for our famous native son, Thomas Jefferson?” the other man teased. “Or, maybe, for our illustrious Confederate president, Jefferson Davis?”
Blythe bit her lower lip and made an unconscious gesture as if to stop him. What if Jeff had given his full name, Jeff Montrose! Then what would have happened?
From her vantage point, she saw Jeff tip his curly head to one side, evidently puzzled by the questions. Almost at the same time he caught sight of Blythe. ‘There’s my mother! I’ll ask her!”
To her dismay, the two men turned in the direction of Jeff’s pointed finger. There was nothing Blythe could do but continue down the steps with as much dignity as she could muster. Her heart throbbed in her throat; her breath was shallow; her hands under her gloves, clammy. But what else could she do?
Rod stood motionless, watching the tall, slender woman move toward him. It was the reality of a thousand dreams, yet vastly different from his fantasies.
She was still lovely, her features visible through the froth of blue veiling, her auburn hair swept up under the saucy flowered and beribboned bonnet. But this was no coltish girl recently come from a western ranch. This was a fashionably attired lady of elegance and style.
Rod stiffened. His bearing became almost militarily erect. As Blythe came closer, she could see character lines in his handsome face, and the sun-bronzed russet hair was threaded with silver.
Waves of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. Then something in his eyes halted her—something undisguised, transparent, full of remembering, and she caught her breath.
As they stood looking at each other, she saw her agony mirrored in his expression. To her horror, the blue eyes glazed over, hardening into steel. For the first time she knew how awful these years must have been for him. Somehow the silence between them was worse than any words they might have spoken.
“Mummy, Mummy, who am I named for?” Jeff’s high-pitched voice broke through her trance-like state. She felt his little hands grab hers, swinging slightly as he persisted. ‘Wasn’t it some knight from King Arthur’s court?”
Blythe felt her mouth tremble as she forced it into a smile.
“Rod,” she murmured.
“Blythe!” Her name on his lips sent a thrill coursing through her.
As if Rod suddenly became aware of his companion, who was looking with curiosity from one to the other, he introduced them.
“Blythe, may I present Francis Maynard?” Rod hesitated a fraction of a second. “Francis, Mrs…. Montrose.”
The other man acknowledged the introduction with a friendly smile.
“Delighted, ma’am. I presume you’re related to old friends of mine, the Montrose family?”
Blythe nodded, somehow able to utter the confirming words: “Malcolm Montrose’s widow.”
Evidently Francis Maynard was sensitive enough to perceive there was something unusual in this meeting. “If you will excuse me, ma’am, Rod, I’ll go on ahead and join our friends in the gentlemen’s lounge. You’ll join us later, Rod?” He bowed again, saying as he left, “You’ve a fine boy there, Mrs. Montrose.”
Finally Rod spoke, breaking the long awkwardness between them. “I’m truly at a loss … I can’t believe you’re really here … I don’t know what to say.”
“I know.” Blythe swallowed over the ache in her throat. “I never meant … this shouldn’t be the way—” She gave up. “Jeff and I have been here just a few days. We’ve been in Savannah, with Mr. and Mrs. Montrose. It was she who suggested—” Blythe drew Jeff closer to her—“that I bring my son here to see Montclair—”
“You must know it’s been taken over by Randall Bondurant—”
“Oh, yes, of course. I knew that … that’s why I left—” she broke off helplessly. Again, the enormity of what she had to explain threatened to dissolve her. Rod’s eyes were impenetrable, searching her face, seeking answers to the many questions that must be crowding his mind.
Rod saw the trembling mouth he had so often longed to kiss. She looked so vulnerable that Rod’s heart felt sore, then it hardened. How dare she come back here now! Of all times! Hadn’t she left without a word? Hadn’t she proven her lack of trust in him by keeping her plans to herself? Hadn’t she betrayed their love by all these years of silence? Now—when it was too late—here she was!
He found his voice at last and was surprised at its harshness. “And this is Malcolm’s son?”
“Yes, this is Jeff. Jeff, short for Geoffrey. It was a name Malcolm liked very much,” Blythe replied, thinking how stiff and formal she sounded. How odd to be speaking with the man she had loved all these years as though to a stranger.
Panic spread through her, and she groped for something more normal to say. “How is your mother, Rod? I thought of sending a note asking to call, but then … it didn’t seem the right thing … especially now that I—” she stopped abruptly, feeling her cheeks burn. “I mean, we are here for such a short time…. Well, we must go now, we have a train to catch and—”
Here Jeff supplied the rest of the information. “Then we’re taking a big ship, going back to England! And I am to have a puppy as soon as we get home!”
Rod smiled down at him. ‘That’s fine, Jeff, every boy should have a dog.” His eyes rested on the handsome little boy with interest and liking, all the while thinking, This could have been my son. Mine and Blythe’s. He turned to Blythe. “What time does your train leave?”
“In an hour,” she replied. “I have to settle my bill—”
“There’s another train to Richmond later today. Take that one, instead.” Rod’s tone was authoritative. “We must talk, Blythe. We can go into one of the private parlors here. Don’t you think you owe me that much?”
Blythe hesitated. What use was there in talking now? It would only make things worse. Her anguish was already unbearable. But how could she refuse?
Leaning down, she cupped Jeff’s cheek. “Darling, how would you like to run out to the play yard, find your friends Tom and Jimmy, and play for a while so Mummy can have a visit with her old friend, Mr. Cameron?”
“Oh, yippee, yes!” Jeff said excitedly. “I didn’t get a chance to tell them about the big ship we’re going on!”
He was already heading for the side door as she called after him, ‘Try not to get too dirty!”
Rod smiled knowingly. “Aren’t you asking the impossible of a small boy, Blythe?”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed ruefully.
“Now, shall we go?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the alcoved parlors, curtained with looped velvet draperies, that circled the lobby. He motioned her forward and there was nothing to do but follow his suggestion. As she did so, Blythe now dreaded the very encounter she had dreamed of. What could possibly come of any discussion between them now?
The little room, heavily decorated in the ornate style set by England’s Queen Victoria, was almost smothering to Blythe. She seated herself on one of the carved armchairs. A pink marble-topped table separated her from Rod, who lowered his long frame into the opposite chair.
Glancing over at him, Blythe could read the hopelessness in his eyes, the same despair she felt. They were as trapped now by their feelings for each other as they had ever been before. But she knew he was expecting an explanation of her actions six years ago. He deserved that much. In a breathless rush, she began to tell him how frightened she had been, how lost after Malcolm’s death when she had been ordered out of Montclair, but Rod held up his hand and stopped her midway.
“Didn’t it even occur to you that we … all my family … that I, in particular, wanted to help you in any way possible way, Blythe? Didn’t you know I loved you?”
Tears stung her eyes and she nodded wordlessly.
“But I was carrying Malcolm’s child, Rod. I thought it would be wrong to accept your help
when I could promise you nothing in return—”
Rod shook his head as if he still did not comprehend.
Once the dam was broken, Blythe’s words tumbled one over the other, pouring like flood waters as she told him about what she had discovered about her father’s legacy, how she had acted on impulse, first going to Bermuda and meeting the Ainsleys who had taken her under their wing, and how she had ended up in England.
“I tried to find you,” Rod said at last.
“I didn’t know. I thought … I wanted you to forget me.”
“Forget you? Did you really think I could do that?”
Her lips were stiff as she said, “Rod … I know you are engaged, that … you are getting married.”
At her remark the pupils of his eyes widened slightly, and slow color rose into his cheeks. But he did not look away as he answered her. “Yes, quite recently to Fenelle Maynard, the daughter of old family friends.”
“From Mayfield, then?”
“Yes.”
“Are you to be married soon?”
“A date has not yet been set. Fenelle is abroad, visiting relatives in England. She won’t be returning to Virginia until the fall. Her cousin has arranged a London season for her—” His words drifted off, spoken almost impatiently as though what he was saying was of little importance.
Blythe tried desperately to think of something appropriate to say, something, anything, but her mind drew a blank. She felt the rush of adrenaline that made her pulses throb. Rod’s eyes held her prisoner, and she could neither move nor turn her head away.
His next words were so low she unconsciously leaned forward to catch them. “Why? Why, Blythe?”
She knew what he meant. Why had she left without telling him? Why had she not sent for him in her distress? Why had she disappeared from his life, leaving no clue as to where she was going or where he might find her?
She shook her head dumbly, looking down at her gloved hands pressed tightly together in her lap.
“I don’t know, Rod. It was such a long time ago. I was a different person then … I can’t remember what I must have been thinking—”
“Didn’t you know I would have done anything, gone anywhere … if I had known?”
Without lifting her head or looking at him, she nodded miserably.
“If I had only known … maybe I should have guessed. But I tried … thought I should respect your … grief,” Rod said. “I thought you knew… given time, I would have … we could have … Blythe, don’t you understand? Didn’t you know how much I loved you?”
“Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t say it!”
“I have to say it!” Rod retorted almost harshly. “I’ve waited nearly six years to say it. How much can a man bear? Can you imagine the agony I’ve been through not knowing where you were, if you were all right, if you might be in want? Blythe, I never imagined you to be so cruel.”
Blythe felt a quiver all through her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry?” he echoed, a tinge of irony in his voice.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away before Rod could see them.
Just then Jeff came running in from the lobby.
“Mummy, our carriage is here. The doorman says it’s time to leave for the train station!”
Startled, Blythe jumped, then spoke hastily. “Yes, darling. Go along. I’ll be right there.” Jeff lingered a moment, studying his mother with a quizzical expression, then he turned and ran off in the direction of the front entrance.
“Blythe, don’t go yet—” Rod pleaded. “There’s so much more to say—”
“No.”
“There must be some way—”
She shook her head. “But there isn’t. This is for the best—” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. “I must go,” she said, but she did not move.
“I can’t let you go like this … not again!” he declared. “I won’t—” He put out his hand as if to restrain her physically.
Instinctively she drew back. “Don’t! Please!” she cried in alarm, knowing that if he touched her she would weaken.
With all the force of her will, she got to her feet, avoiding his outstretched hand, and moved quickly across the room. At the archway, she paused briefly, then, afraid to look back, she walked through the door.
In the lobby she went over to the desk. She stood there, her slim figure rigid, while her bill was figured and presented.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mrs. Dorman, and that you will come back soon.” The desk clerk smiled.
Steadying her voice, Blythe murmured what she hoped was a suitable response. When the clerk signaled to the bellhop waiting with her luggage, she thanked him. Then, head held high, she swept through the entrance, down the steps, and into the carriage where Jeff was waiting.
As soon as the carriage door closed behind her and she felt it move forward, Blythe drew a long painful breath. She smoothed each finger of her kid-gloved hands, responding to Jeff’s childish chatter distractedly. Her mind seethed with all the unsaid things her heart had longed to say. She wished she could weep. She wished for any other emotion than what she was feeling.
Determinedly she lifted her chin. She could not, would not think of the past, only the future … a future forever without the man she loved so dearly.
In the small parlor off the lobby, Rod slumped back into the chair, put his head in his hands, and kept it there as he heard the sound of the carriage wheels rattling down the driveway.
Happiness is not the end of life, character is—Harriet Beecher Stowe
chapter
10
At Sea
En route to England
BLYTHE’S HAND tightened on Jeff’s small one as she made her way across the bustling wharf to board their ship for the Atlantic crossing. Noise and confusion surrounded them as they pushed their way through the crush of people—passengers accompanied by family and friends seeing them off, sailors hurrying past, porters trundling carts of baggage, dock hands shouting instructions—all made up the mix of humanity at the Norfolk Harbor waterfront.
Blythe, her face flushed and mouth tense, almost managed to reach the gangplank with Jeff in tow. However, now he lagged behind, fascinated by all the dockside activity.
“Come along, Jeffi” she urged him.
Above them on the ship’s deck a young officer leaned on the railing to observe the scene on the dock and saw the little tableau below. Watching the slender, attractive young woman in a stylish beige traveling suit coaxing the handsome little boy forward, he thought with anticipation that this routine trip from America that he made twice a year might be more interesting than usual.
But if Lieutenant Michael Walden had any hopes of striking up a pleasant companionship during the trip to England, they were soon dashed. In polite but coolly definite terms, Mrs. Dorman-Montrose made it perfectly clear that she desired to spend her time in her deck chair reading, or with her son.
The boy, however, was all over the ship, making friends with everyone from stewards to the captain himself. But a “Good morning,” “Nice day,” or “Good evening” were about as far as the hopeful lieutenant was able to get with the mother.
For Jeff’s sake she tried to be cheerful when they were together, but his sociable nature led him to seek out others, and she was alone during much of the time on ship. Blythe had much to occupy her mind. The depression that had gripped her in the wake of leaving Mayfield returned to plague her; all the haunting “might-have-beens” remained.
She felt terribly young and vulnerable, “storm-tossed’, as the composer of one of her favorite hymns described a troubled soul. Never had she felt more alone than on this voyage.
She struggled against the self-pity of a parent left alone to bring up a boy. Since she had lost Malcolm and now Rod, the only man she had truly loved, she must be both father and mother to Jeff. With that thought came the realization that she might ha
ve to face the rest of her life alone.
Filled with self-reproach, she remembered her failure to reach out for what Rod Cameron was offering. What a wonderful father he would have been to Jeff! She had no doubt that Rod would have accepted Malcolm’s son as his own and brought Jeff up in the long tradition of honor and loyalty that was his own.
Whenever she had found herself lacking clear direction, Blythe turned to the one Source which had been her strength and mainstay through all the lonely years. At night in her cabin, with Jeff sound asleep in the next bunk, she opened her Bible and searched diligently for words of encouragement.
It comforted her to read the stirring assurance from the book of Joshua that had bolstered her sinking spirits at other times: “Be strong and of good courage; do not be afraid, nor be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.”
Blythe knew it was useless to look back, too late to imagine what she should have done all those years ago. What was important now, as Paul admonished in Philippians 3:13, was to “forget those things which are behind and reach forward to those things which are ahead—”
As the ocean voyage drew to its close, Blythe realized that the days on shipboard had not been wasted. The time she had spent studying the Scriptures had given her new insight and renewed resolve to go on and, with God’s help, to build a life for herself and Jeff that would enrich them both.
The night before the first faint green rim of the Irish coast was sighted, Blythe stayed up late, reading and praying for some word of guidance she could cling to in the days ahead. Just before she closed her Bible, she felt led to turn back to the well-worn pages of Isaiah. There she found what she had been looking for.
“Remember ye not the former things, neither consider the things of old. Behold I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it? I will even make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.”
Suddenly, Blythe felt new energy surging through her. God had never failed her when she had called upon Him. He would not forsake her now. No matter that there would be times of regret, times of self-recrimination, as there would surely be, she would memorize this verse, hold fast to it, believe that in her “wilderness,” in her “desert,” God would make a way for her.
