by Jane Peart
She winked back the tears. Tears would not console her; they would only make matters worse. Jonathan would be upset, would not understand. Besides, had she not promised to honor and obey him?
The words of the vows they had so recently repeated came to mind, along with the benediction that had been pronounced over them: “May God grant that you two live in such mutual harmony and full sympathy with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with united hearts glorify Him in all you do in your married life.”
A wife was supposed to be submissive, sweet-spirited. A wife was not to argue or show anger. But she and Jonathan were not in “mutual harmony” nor in “full sympathy” with one another, nor had their hearts been united in this decision!
She recalled Reverend Nevins’ also saying: “In marriage there will be sacrifices you will be called upon to make.” But she had not imagined such sacrifices would include moving hundreds of miles away from family and friends to an isolated country estate!
She had not wanted to leave the pretty little house Papa had built for them right next door to the house where Davida had grown up, where she could run across the lawn any time to see him or to borrow a recipe from Mrs. Glendon, their longtime housekeeper, or where she could simply cross the common to visit with any one of her girl friends from childhood.
Wasn’t there something else the minister had said? Davida tried to remember. “Only love can make it easy, perfect love can make it joy.” Well, there was no question about her love for Jonathan. Davida loved him so much that it hurt!
“I think we’re almost there!” Jonathan exclaimed. “I believe I’m beginning to recognize the road where we turn off. Yes, I remember! Darling, we’re nearly there! Montclair!!”
Davida turned her head to look at him. His face was glowing, and he was smiling. How handsome he was, how much she loved him.
Maybe love would be enough. Maybe love made everything possible. She certainly couldn’t change anything now. She had made her choice and married Jonathan Montrose. She had assured him he was all she wanted, all she would ever want, and when she had said it, she had believed it. Desperately she told herself, I must believe it.
Davida leaned forward and kissed him softly on his mouth. “Oh, Jonathan, I love you.”
Davida took her first tour of Montclair, guided by a rapturous Jonathan, who saw everything through the happy haze of a long-delayed homecoming. Later, with all the instincts of a fastidious Yankee housewife, she made a second, more thorough, inspection of the house alone. This time she made the frustrating discovery that the mansion, for all its splendor, had suffered from standing empty for the past eighteen months.
While the Bondurants had been living in South Carolina and she and Jonathan were on their wedding trip, Montclair had stood unoccupied and unattended. In spite of the coverings, the furniture was thick with dust, and in all the vast rooms, unheated for months by the daily warmth of damp-chasing fires, the baseboards and ceiling moldings had collected mildew.
Davida realized a place this size needed a number of servants to keep things in good order, and the fact that it was she who would have to hire them and train them, if the work was to be done properly, was daunting.
She thought wistfully of the pretty little cottage her father had so lovingly built for them in the hopes of keeping her close by—of the small, neat rooms, the windows unshadowed by foreboding giant trees that barred the sunlight from pouring in, the tidy lawn bordered by flower beds—which was all that then separated her from her darling Papa.
Always striving to be the “ideal wife,” Davida hid her heartbreak. She wished she could share Jonathan’s obvious delight in being back in Virginia, but much as she tried to pretend, it was impossible.
So in their first year of marriage, secrets were kept out of love and out of the fear of causing pain to the other—the first link forged in a chain that would build through the years to separate them.
He shall return to the days
of his youth—Job 33:25
Leaving Davida standing in the middle of the front hall to direct the draymen carrying in the crates, boxes and trunks from Milford, Jonathan left quietly by a side door. He walked through the boxwood hedged herb garden, past the stables, out along the meadow, and found the hillside path that led to the Montrose family graveyard.
Pushing aside the scrolled black iron gate, he entered the burial grounds of generations of his ancestors. With a sense of reverence he searched among the headstones, pausing at one or two to read the epitaphs chisled on them, until at last he found the name he was searching for. In the shadow of the brooding stone angel, he read:
ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE
1839-1862
Beloved Wife of Malcolm,
Mother of Jonathan
“Love Is As Strong As Death”
As he read that name, Jonathan felt the grip of strong emotion for the mother whom he could not remember. In that moment he experienced the embracing love and tenderness she could no longer bestow. How hard it must have been for her when she realized she was dying to know she was leaving her child.
From the portraits of his mother—the one at his grandfather Meredith’s house in Massachusetts of Rose as a radiant bride and the other, hanging in the stairwell at Montclair, of her as a young mother with her child leaning on her knee—himself—Jonathan knew what Rose had looked like. He had often gazed on that face in a kind of awed adoration, studying its contours, its expression, the dark, thoughtful eyes. For him, she would always be not only beautiful, but also forever young.
As fragile as her appearance seemed, however, the things Jonathan knew and admired most about his mother were Rose’s strength and courage.
Looking down at her grave, Jonathan realized, perhaps for the first time, that in spite of the two women—Aunt Garnet Devlin and Aunt Frances Meredith—who had tried to substitute the maternal love fate had deprived him of so early, his life had lacked something vital in not knowing his own mother.
Jonathan knelt in the soft grass beside the tomb and wept. It was the first time he remembered weeping for the lovely young woman who had given him life. He had been too young when she died to fully perceive what had happened. Later, the events of his life as he grew up in much different surroundings, had gradually dimmed his memory of the Virginia home where he had been born and lived until he was five years old.
Jonathan did not know how long he stayed there lost in fond thoughts and memories, but the sun was slanting through the maple trees around the fence of the cemetery when he got up from his knees and started down the hillside back to the house.
As he neared Montclair, he could see first the double chimneys at both ends of the house, then the slate roof, and finally the whole house came into view along with its sculptured gardens, boxwood hedges, and the long line of elms facing each other along the winding drive.
“Montclair,” he said softly to himself.
A house that descends from generation to generation through a single family begins to have a certain air about it, he thought. Except for the few years it had belonged to Bondurant, Montclair had retained its continuity, its affiliation with the other great James River plantation houses dating back to original King’s grants of the last century.
Now it belonged to him and Davida, who had her own strange connection with the Montrose family.
Jonathan came through the orchard to the front and started up the steps of the house, thinking how little aware most people are at the time they make them, how such decisions affect our destinies and those who come after us.
chapter
22
Mayfield
1886
WHEN JEFF returned to Brookside after their California trip, Blythe was once again thrown back on her own resources without the companionship of her son. One favorite pastime was a shopping expedition. Having long ago lost her fear of being recognized, Blythe often shopped in Mayfield.
Not only had she changed, but Mayfield itself
had changed. No longer the sleepy little town it had been, Mayfield’s mild climate and leisurely lifestyle had drawn visitors from the North until it had become a lively metropolis with many new restaurants and stores, guest houses, and other special attractions designed to lure the tourist.
It never crossed her mind, however, that there would be anything unusual about this particular afternoon, nor that on this excursion she would have an unexpected encounter.
Within an hour she had crossed off almost every item on her list as accomplished. As she started back to the spot where she had directed her driver to wait with her barouche, near the town square, she noticed a sign reading ANTIQUES hanging over a little shop she had never seen before.
Corin, who had first given Blythe an appreciation of the value of antiques, had occasionally taken her with him on periodic scavenger hunts for pieces to add to his collection of Jacobean furnishings for Dower House. Since it was still early, she decided it might be fun to go inside and browse around.
She paused in front of the shop, astonished to see something familiar in the window. It was Sara’s little desk! She recognized it at once, the lovely inlaid wood, the graceful shape, the turned legs—exactly as it had always stood between the windows in Sara’s sitting room at Montclair. How in the world had it turned up here?
The winter Sara had left Montclair to go to Savannah, Blythe knew that Sara had thought it would be only a temporary arrangement until the next spring. None of them guessed that by December of that year, Montclair would have passed out of the hands of the Montrose family and into those of Randall Bondurant, who had won it from Malcolm in the ill-fated card game.
The house with all its furnishings, artifacts, and paintings, as well as Mr. Montrose’s extensive library, had been included in the wholesale transfer of the property. With only three days to comply with the eviction notice, Blythe remembered the heartsick haste with which she had packed into a single trunk a few precious things, things of Malcolm’s mostly, things that might one day be important to the child she was then carrying.
Probably when the new owner took possession of Montclair, completely restoring and enhancing it, only furnishings assessed as being of great value were kept. Probably the little desk was not one of those. Sara had once told Blythe that this little desk was the only thing she had brought from her girlhood home in Savannah, so its value was sentimental to Sara alone, Blythe judged.
Blythe pressed her face against the glass, shielding her eyes with both gloved hands in order to see better, wanting to assure herself that it really was Sara’s desk. Satisfied, she pushed open the shop door and walked into the dim, musty-smelling interior. A bell over the door jingled, announcing her entrance to the woman sitting behind the counter in the back. At Blythe’s approach the woman lifted her head and peered over oval-shaped wire spectacles.
“Looking for anything in particular?” she called. “Or do you just want to browse?”
“Oh, I’ll just browse for a bit, thank you,” replied Blythe, who wanted to examine the desk and also check to see if anything else from Montclair had been placed here for sale.
The woman went back to the newspaper she was reading, and Blythe wandered among the cluttered contents of the small shop, making her way slowly over to the desk.
Apparently she was the only customer. Perhaps this store was seldom frequented due to its out-of-the-way location, for the only other living being was a fluffy yellow-and-black striped cat that uncurled itself from the front display window where it had been sleeping in a square of sunlight. As Blythe drew near, the cat arched its back, stretched thoroughly, then hopped down lightly to search for a new napping place, where it would be undisturbed.
Blythe examined the desk, running her hand over the wood, gritty with dust. The slanted lid was shut, and although there was a tiny keyhole, it was unlocked. The lid pulled down to form a writing surface, she remembered, and behind it was a panel of small pigeonholes. In the center was a small door with a carved fanlight, tiny knob, and miniature keyhole, but again no key. When Blythe tried to open it, it held fast. What secrets had Sara possibly locked behind that small stronghold? she wondered fleetingly, before dismissing the idea. Of course Sara would have taken any important papers with her when she went to Savannah.
Sliding open the two shallow drawers under the lid, Blythe noticed an inkpad and stamp. She picked it up, turned it over and saw a trio of scrolled initials, SLM. “Sara Leighton Montrose,” Blythe whispered. ‘This is Sara’s desk!”
Blythe was not aware that the shop proprietor had come up behind her until she spoke. “Are you interested in this little desk?”
“Yes … I am,” Blythe replied, attempting to control the excitement of her discovery.
“It’s quite old, but a fine piece,” the woman told her. “Probably made by a plantation craftsman. Many of the slaves in the old days were artisans who made most of their owners’ furniture. Unpaid laborers could copy the originals of famous English and French designers for much less money than the owners might spend on a purchase from European markets.”
“How much is it?”
Immediately the woman was all business. She named a price. “Actually,” she began, and Blythe was afraid she might be reconsidering her offer. ‘This desk came from Montclair, one of the finest of the James River plantation houses. Used to belong to one of the oldest families around here, the Montrose family. When Mr. Bondurant took over and began redecorating, many of the furnishings were bought by a dealer when they went up for auction. I’m not quite sure how this came to be in here, but I do know this is a good example of the kind of plantation workmanship I was telling you about. Quite rare, nowadays. Nobody seems to know what happened to the slaves who used to do this quality work. All gone up north, most likely.”
Blythe followed the woman over to the counter where she wrote up the sale. Opening her purse, Blythe counted out some bills and told her she would send someone to pick it up.
As the shopkeeper went over to the desk to mark it “Sold,” Blythe could see through the window a woman standing outside, looking into the shop. She caught her breath. Even though it had been years, Blythe recognized her at once. It was Garnet, Rod’s sister!
Blythe’s mouth went dry. But there was no way to avoid an encounter, no way of escaping the woman who had always considered her an interloper, who blamed her for stealing the man she loved. Unconsciously Blythe lifted her chin, opened the door of the shop, and walked out to the street.
“Hello, Blythe.” Garnet’s voice was even, emotionless. “I saw you in town. Actually I followed you. We need to talk.”
At her words, Blythe recalled that Garnet’s way had always been direct, matter-of-fact. The day after Blythe’s arrival at Montclair as Malcolm’s new bride, Garnet had abruptly announced that she was leaving and that Blythe would be in charge of caring for the invalid Sara, the house, all the responsibilities she had shouldered during the the years of the war and immediately afterward.
What a shock that had been to the inexperienced sixteen-year-old girl Blythe had been then. From that day Blythe had rarely seen Garnet, for soon after leaving Montclair, Garnet had remarried. This would be the first face-to-face meeting in all these years.
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” Blythe agreed. “Where shall we go?”
“There’s a tearoom nearby. It’s out of the way. We’ll not see anyone we know there, as we might at the Mayfield Inn. This way.” Garnet led the way. Silently they walked down one block and crossed to another.
Sitting across the small, linen-covered table from Garnet, Blythe studied her curiously. Garnet had never been considered a great beauty, but she had a look that Blythe had always secretly envied in other women. Not arrogance exactly, but a sort of assurance possessed only by those of certain breeding and background—an inborn air, a natural elegance.
It had nothing to do with fashionable clothes, although Garnet’s were unmistakably that. Her stylish suit was surely from Worth’s, B
lythe surmised, her furs undoubtedly sable. And her hat, ornamented with velvet leaves in which a small feathered bird nestled, had most probably come from the Rue de la Paix in Paris.
“Tea and blueberry muffins?” Garnet asked Blythe while a crisply uniformed waitress stood, pad and pencil in hand, waiting to take their order.
“Fine. Yes,” murmured Blythe, aware of the startling coincidence in running into Garnet and the challenge it presented.
The waitress left, and Garnet proceeded to take off her beige kid gloves, one finger at a time, staring at Blythe. How maddeningly youthful and beautiful she still is, Garnet thought. Not a single line to mar that creamy complexion, nor a gray hair in those glorious copper waves glimpsed under the simple felt bonnet.
Beneath her confident surface, Garnet had always been intimidated by beauty. In a quick flash of memory, she remembered how stunned she had been by Rose Meredith’s appearance when she had first seen her the day Malcolm brought her to Montclair. Strangely enough, Malcolm’s second bride had affected her in the same way.
The silence stretched between the two women, accentuating all the uninfished business between them, all the hidden rivalry, the old hurts inflicted by the mere existence of the other.
It was Garnet who broke the tension at last. “I know about Avalon and about your son.” At Blythe’s startled look, she went on, “I met Lydia Ainsley in London through mutual friends, and when she heard I was coming to America for my nephew’s wedding—well, it’s no use going into all the details. She told me where you are living.”
The waitress was back, setting the teapot on a trivet and placing the muffin basket in the center of the table before placing cups before each of them.
When she had gone again, Garnet continued, “Anyway, I did go over to Arbordale before we left for Massachusetts to call on you, but I was told you’d gone away.”
