by Jane Peart
Part IV
From England to the Edge of Time
To every thing there is a season, and a time for everything under the sun.
—Eeelesiastes 8:1
chapter
11
Larkspur Cottage
Kentbume
Summer 1876
EVER SINCE her return to England, Blythe had felt unsettled and vaguely disquieted. The little house and garden that had so delighted her before no longer held the same fascination. She seemed unable to regain the contentment she had known before her trip to America.
Of course, she knew the source of her new restlessness. Blythe thought she had made her peace with the passions of the past. But seeing Rod again and learning the news of his forthcoming marriage had unnerved her. Not only that, but finding that her feelings for him were as strong as ever was even more disturbing.
What had she expected? That he had stopped living? Had ceased to be a man with desires, needs, longings? Had she supposed he had dwelt only in the past with his dreams of her? How selfish could she be? She herself had borne a child, made a home for both of them half a world away. She had a whole new life with people about her who cared for her. Could she wish anything less for Rod?
Yet she knew nothing of how Rod had spent those years, though it had taken only those few minutes with him to bring sharply into focus what she had thrown away.
Her foolish decision to leave Mayfield forever came back to taunt her now. Suddenly the loss was unbearable. She thought of all the years she had been alone, all the difficult, lonely years when she had longed to have someone strong to lean upon, to counsel and advise her, to love and be loved by in return. “I have only myself to blame!” she reminded herself over and over. But it only made her regret more devastating.
One early July day Blythe forced herself out into the garden to spend some time weeding, hoping this menial task would banish useless self-reproach. Donning a wide-brimmed straw hat and gardening gloves, she knelt by her pansy bed, willing herself to concentrate on the task at hand and not go wandering off into pointless paths of “what-ifs.”
“Good morning, Blythe!” She looked up to see Corin leaning over the stone wall. “You look determinedly industrious,” he commented with a smile.
Blythe sat back on her heels. “Well, after all, gardens do require regular attention, and since I got back, I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting mine.”
“To say nothing of your friends and neighbors!” he chided her gently.
Blythe felt the subtle admonition in his tone.
“I know. I’m sorry. I just haven’t been very good company lately.”
“Can you put aside your spade for a few minutes and walk over to Dower House with me?” he asked. “I have something to show you that I believe you’ll find very interesting.”
“Like this?” Blythe glanced down at her denim pinafore as she got to her feet.
“You look fine to me. Besides, this is not an invitation to a royal tea party,” Corin teased. “I’ve been doing some gardening of my own. Well, actually I’ve been overseeing Alec who’s been clearing out some tangles of ivy that were about to take over the whole side of the house. I’ve wanted to get rid of it for quite a while since it provides a habitat for rats.”
Blythe gave an involuntary shudder.
“It’s all cleared away, now,” Corin reassured her. “I wanted to show you what we uncovered. Come along.” He opened the gate for her.
Together they strolled down the lane that led to Dower House. Even before she met Corin, Blythe had admired the mellow red brick house just beyond the gates of the Marsh estate. It had been built in the seventeenth century as the dwelling place for ladies of the manor superseded by daughters-in-law married to sons who had inherited the title, land and property. Maybe to those replaced matrons the house had seemed small and cramped after the high-ceilinged spaciousness of Monksmoor Priory. But Blythe thought it a perfect country house with a magnificent view of the river from the front and of the ocean cliffs from the rear. It did, however, seem more suitable for a family than one lone lady. Or, as was the case now, a single gentleman.
Corin led the way around to the side of the house where Alec, his gardener and handyman, was piling huge bundles of ivy into a wheelbarrow. There was a cleared space of about three feet in width from the stucco foundation.
Alec tipped his cap to Blythe, a crooked smile creasing his weathered face, and Blythe acknowledged him with a cheerful greeting. As the man rumbled away with his loaded cart, Corin beckoned Blythe over to the now exposed cornerstone.
“Come over here, Blythe, and look at this.”
She did as he suggested. He was pointing to something carved into the plaster, and she had to crouch down to read it. Her lips moved, forming the words she now read aloud: “JEDEDIAH DORMAN, Master Pargeter 1678.”
She felt Corin’s firm hand under her elbow, helping her to her feet again. She gazed into his face where a smile played around his mouth, his eyes twinkling.
“What does it mean?” she asked, puzzled.
“Well, my dear Blythe, what I think it means is that your ancestors must have come from these parts. This Jedediah Dorman was the craftsman who did the pargeting on this house.” He paused, waiting for the significance to dawn on her. “Dotman, my dear. It could be that this Dorman is an ancestor of yours. Is it possible that your father’s family might have originated from this part of England?”
Blythe shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. All Pa ever said was that he came from Kentucky, that they had settled there very early. But we never discussed—”
“Well, pargeting is pretty much a lost art. The few who have retained the knowledge are employed for restorations, that sort of thing. I’m not really sure how old Dower House is. I believe it was built some time after the Priory itself, or the mansion might even have been built on its ruins.”
“What, exacdy, is pargeting?” Blythe asked. The term was new to her.
“Pargeting was a skilled craft in the fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. You’ve noticed the ornamental plastering above the front door here, haven’t you? The imprint of the Marsh family coat-of-arms? That is pargeting. But it does seem more than a coincidence, doesn’t it? The name, Jedediah Dorman, being the same as your father’s.”
“Yes … but could it really be the same?”
Corin shrugged, pocketing his hands in his jacket. “Quite possibly. The techniques required an artisan who was highly skilled. A coat-of-arms was not an unusual request for a person building a house in those days. However, sometimes the manor lord wanted the pargeter to create something original, a family crest, or something else symbolic, like the one above the front door.”
“I’m ashamed to say I never noticed it. Let’s take a look,” Blythe said eagerly, stepping around a pile of brush on her way.
At the front of the house Blythe examined with new interest the panel of ornamented plaster over the doorway to Dower House.
“Jedediah Dorman must have been a master at his craft, for there’s not a single line or crack in this panel, and it has lasted all these many years,” remarked Corin.
“How is it done, do you know?”
“I believe they first made a mold, usually of oak or some other hard wood. The ingredients of the plaster itself were usually an individual ‘recipe’ created by the artisan himself, most often kept secret and passed on from father to son, or loyal apprentice.
“Something like this is sketched first, then transferred to a mold.” Corin stepped back for a better look. ‘Then, while the plaster is still moist, the mold is pressed into it for a matter of minutes to set the impression.
“I’ve read that the finest craftsmen made up their own plaster, pulverizing red bricks to mix into the plaster to get this pale pink shade. They would use the best oxhair for stiffening, which made the mixture that much stronger and more durable. Tour Jedediah Dorman was a real artist. Maybe I can find out more about it in one of my
books on the craft guilds. I’ll see if I can look up some more information for you,” he promised.
Blythe thanked him and walked back to Larkspur Cottage, thinking how strange it was to have come full circle across oceans and continents, and inadvertently finding a link to one’s unknown past.
Two days later, Corin brought over a book from his extensive library. The book on pargeting was richly illustrated with examples of this unique, intricate skill. That evening after Jeff was in bed and asleep, Blythe sat up reading until very late. Even when she eventually closed the book and put it aside, she was thoughtful.
After she had fled Virginia for the second time, Blythe’s depression had deepened. On the ship headed back to England, she could not shake the feeling that she was depriving Jeff of his rightful home and heritage for selfish reasons.
Again and again she questioned her motives. With what was she replacing all that she was robbing him of) What possible link did she have to England or with its history that she could pass on to her son? By the time they had docked, traveled by train down to Kentburne, and returned to their cottage, she felt disheartened and empty. Surely this was not enough to build upon!
But Corin, pointing out the possibility that the pargeting on Dower House had been wrought by an ancestor gave Blythe something new and different to consider. Somewhere back through the centuries, a skilled artisan—probably her ancestor—had lived and worked with honor and pride here in this same small village. Later, some other adventurous relative had decided to try his luck in the New World and had risked the rigors of a sea voyage. In America, still another had pushed back one frontier after another, braving the wilderness of Kentucky, until at last one had crossed the plains and prairies into California—her father, Jedediah Dorman. Who knew what brave creative blood coursed through her son’s veins?
Indeed, Jeff had more than his father’s Virginia legacy. He had a long and proud history through her as well. From her ancestors, Jeff was heir to something unique and special. And there was yet another missing piece of Jeff’s inheritance that should also be explored. Blythe’s mother—Carmella Montrera! Spain!
Blythe’s heart gave a curious little leap as an extraordinary idea was born. Why not take Jeff and go to Seville, trace her mother’s people, learn a little more about their Spanish background?
She said nothing to anyone, but her mind was filled with the plans she was making. She would go to Spain in September, she decided, when the heat of the Mediterranean summer was past. There was still a full year before Jeff would have to start school, and by that time she would have made the decision that was always hovering at the edge of her consciousness.
July slipped away into August, and the warm English summer began to wane. Though the garden was bright with color—the blue of delphiniums and larkspur, from which her cottage took its name, the pink and red of the rose bushes, heavy with blooms—Blythe noticed a shortening of the twilights now, and dusk came down quickly, cooling the air with just a hint of autumn’s chill.
Although she had not even mentioned her plans to Dotty, not a day passed that Blythe did not turn over in her mind the idea of going to Spain. Some days she was sure that she would go; on other days, less certain. On still other days, she even doubted her ability to choose the wisest course for them.
Jeff, unaware of his mother’s inner turmoil, grew stronger and brighter, more self-confident every day. Observing him with pride and pleasure, Blythe realized this would be a fine time to travel with him. He was old enough not to demand special care, yet still young enough to easily absorb new surroundings and situations and retain the memory.
Then one Sunday, as she walked over to the little village church to attend evensong, the words of Psalm 42 repeated themselves in her ear, voicing her own state of mind: “Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God.”
It troubled Blythe that thoughts of Rod Cameron still came unwanted into her mind, casting a shadow over the happiness that should be hers. He was probably married by now, she told herself, which made her longings even more disturbing, even sinful. She wished she could erase all thoughts of him, but it seemed impossible.
It was in this frame of mind that she stepped into the cool, dim vestibule of the church and entered the sanctuary.
Blythe had found the atmosphere here entirely different from that of the unadorned wooden church of her California girlhood. Its plain oak benches and rectangular windows contrasted sharply with St. Anselm’s carved choir loft and stained-glass windows, each depicting one of the twelve apostles. The altar was draped in fine linen and lace, and there was a sculptured stone pulpit and pews with individual kneelers. But the God she sought was the same.
She slipped into a seat at the side and then to her knees in the customary private prayer before the service. Even though she felt her prayer inadequate and awkward, it was sincere.
“Lord, I’m ashamed of my confusion. You have promised in your Word to be a lamp to my feet, a light for my path, yet I seem to wallow in darkness. You have blessed me in so many ways, and I am grateful. But I still feel lost and alone. I need Your wisdom, Your guidance … I need to know if what I’m thinking of doing is the right thing—”
Slowly an almost tangible peace flowed over her, calming her spirit. She took a deep breath, feeling comforted in the absolute stillness of this quiet sanctuary.
How unlike Reverend Burke’s church in Lucas Valley, where people greeted you heartily, clapped their hands to lively hymns, and “Amened” loudly throughout the service. And it was entirely different from the tent revival that had changed her life one summer in Mayfield. But the mystic quality inherent in these Church of England chapek must be equally pleasing to God, she thought. Like His children, each is part of the whole, the Body of Christ on earth.
The wheezing sound of the ancient organ striking the first chord of the preparatory hymn alerted Blythe that old Mrs. Templeton had taken her place, signaling the start of the evening prayer service. Rector John Ashford, preceded by two acolytes, both rosy-cheeked village boys in starched surplices and carrying lighted candles, came in and took their places on either side of the altar behind the chancel rail. The congregation rose to its feet, and there was a great scraping sound followed by the ruffling of pages turned as prayer books were opened.
“Almighty God …” intoned the Reverend Ashford in his deep, theatrical voice as he led the people in the responsive readings.
After this, he mounted a few steps into the pulpit where he could look down at his assembled parishioners.
“Our first Scripture is taken from the Old Testament, Second Samuel, the seventh chapter, twenty-fifth verse.”
Blythe listened, almost mesmerized by the minister’s mellow tones, only a phrase here and there catching her attention. In this chapter David was speaking to the Lord in the intimate way he had that Blythe always envied slightly. Imagine, being on such terms with God! Still, she could relate to David’s pleas and praise, his thanking God for blessings and asking him for more.
The rector then said, “I am taking my homily from David’s own question to the Lord in Psalm 8, verse 4: What is man that Thou art mindful of him?’ We ourselves might well ask: ‘How do we know God hears us when we pray and why should we expect Him to answer?’”
Blythe almost gasped. The subject was so nearly her own heart’s cry.
The short sermon was simple: We should expect God to answer our prayers because He has promised in His Word to do so.
Next came a reading from the New Testament—the Gospel of John, fifth chapter. The passage recorded an incident in which Jesus healed a man crippled from birth. First, He had asked him: “Do you really want to get well?” then had instructed, “Get up and walk.”
Those words went straight to Blythe’s heart as if spoken direcly to her. Do you want to get over your melancholy, your useless longings for a man who is pledged to another woman? Do you want to be healed of your heartbreak? she heard. Then, Get up and
walk! Or, more to the point, Get on with your life.
She would do just that. She would go to Spain and allow God to heal the old wounds, the old regrets, reconcile the mistakes of the past.
The service ended with another quotation from a psalm, this time Psalm 119: “Do good to your servant according to your promise,” followed by one last hymn and a benediction pronounced by the rector.
As Blythe came out of the church, it was still light, the sky a lovely lavender. Just outside the door, she saw Corin waiting for her. As they strolled together along the road leading to Larkspur Cottage and Dower House, Corin spoke of his own plans for his annual hiking vacation in Switzerland the next month.
Although she had not intended to tell him until all her arrangements were complete, somehow she could not help herself. Impulsively, Blythe blurted out her plans to travel to Spain and her reasons for wanting to go.
By the time they reached her garden gate, the sky had gradually deepened into purple. In the shadowy light, Corin’s expression was thoughtful.
“How long do you intend to be away?”
“A few weeks, maybe longer … I’m not sure.”
He was silent a moment before he spoke again.
“I was planning … to wait until my return from Switzerland to say this,” he began haltingly. “I suppose I wanted to see if my being away would make a difference, if you might realize you missed me.” He paused, “Now, I dare not take a chance.” He turned back to look at her, but his face was in shadow and she could not read the expression in his eyes.
“You have not been the same since you came back from America, Blythe. So I must ask you—did something happen there? Something that altered your feelings about England, about living here? Perhaps, somehow, touching your native roots created a longing in your heart to go back. I’ve been afraid to ask. But, now, I feel I must … because—” Corin’s voice grew husky with emotion.
