by Jane Peart
“They advocate massage, and bathing in warm water to relax you in preparation. Then the actual delivery is assisted by nurses trained in hydropathy. Women who have undergone this method report they are up and walking about and feeling fine on the third day after the birth!”
“Really?”
“Indeed!” declared Sara. “Of course, they suggest you come to the clinic weeks before you are due and enter into a routine of walking, drinking mineral water, the baths, and a very healthful diet. Furthermore, if I have another child, I am determined to spend the last three months at such a clinic.”
“And not have yours and Clayborn’s child born at Montclair?”
“Malcolm will inherit Montclair, Kate, and he was born here. That’s all that’s necessary.”
The boisterous sound of children’s voices outside interrupted their conversation, and Katherine put down her teacup and got to her feet.
“I really must be going, Sara. The boys have a long ride ahead of them. And Douglas will send out a search party for us if we’re late.” She laughed softly as she pulled on her driving gloves. “Thank you for the tea and the lovely gift of the pups. Shall we send over for them? Or, better still, why don’t you bring the children and the puppies and come to Cameron Hall for the day or stay the night?”
“What a treat!” exclaimed Sara as she accompanied her guest to the door.
The boys were engaging in a minor shouting match as to which puppy each of them would claim, and the two women found themselves acting as arbiters. Bryson got excited and began to cry at all the noise, and Becca lifted him up into her ample arms and carried him into the house.
Finally, the choice of puppies was resolved and Malcolm put them all back in their basket, while the Cameron twins went to mount up for the trip home.
Sara stood waving goodbye as Kate’s landau and the two little boys on their ponies headed down the drive toward the gate. As they rounded the bend, she felt a little hand slip into hers and she looked down into Malcolm’s upturned face.
Her heart melted within her, and a surging joy swelled in her breast. What a treasure this child was, Sara thought. She leaned down and drew him close, relishing the special scent of his skin, the warmth of his silken curls against her cheek.
From the hour he had been laid in her arms and she had seen the exquisite perfection of him, Sara had been lost. She had never expected to feel that way about a child. All the time she had carried him, the baby had almost been abstract, something she had wanted for Clayborn. She was proud and happy to be bringing a son into this beautiful mansion, fulfilling the need for an heir to the vast estate of Montclair, yet the baby itself had not been real to Sara. Not until she had seen him, that is, and held him.
From the beginning, Malcolm had been part of Sara in some kind of extraordinary way she could never explain. He was a gift, she felt, meant to make up for everything she had yearned for, been deprived of, all that she had missed in every other relationship.
She would sit and hold him for hours, wondering at his perfection, experiencing an almost spiritual uplifting. She had been reluctant for Carrie, who became his nurse, to take him away even to bathe and dress him.
When Bryson was born, although she was grateful that she had been delivered of such a fine, healthy child, Sara realized that there had not been a similar bonding. She had welcomed Becca’s eager care of the baby, and six weeks after his birth she had gone away to the Springs without a thought.
Yes, Malcolm was different. He was Sara’s heart.
She kissed him now and, holding his hand, said, “Come, let’s go in, darling. Mama will read you a story before supper.”
chapter
12
Montclair
Mayfield, Virginia
December 1842
Dearest Lucie,
How I would love to be spending this holiday season with you, beloved sister. Alas, however, the distance and circumstances prevent it! Perhaps, someday—
I am sending your Christmas presents early because we are planning to spend several days in Williamsburg. The children arc old enough now to enjoy some of the exciting festivities always part of the celebration there. We will be staying at the Barnwell house belonging to Clay’s great-great Aunt Laura. Avril is there now, readying it for the arrival of Kitty Barnwell Camden, a cousin, who has inherited it. Kitty married an English lord and went to England to live, but is now widowed and returning to Virginia.
Since the house has been closed for some years since the old lady’s death, there is a great deal to be done. Avril was given the responsibility in Laura Barnwell’s will to go through all her personal possessions, papers, and belongings, so she took two of her servants with her and has been away nearly three weeks.
Malcolm and Bryce are clamoring to see Nana, though Avril is really not their grandmother. Still, she dotes on the boys and they adore her. Avril has a way with all children, black and white! Wherever she goes around here, a little cluster of them follow, my own included! Avril should have had a dozen of her own.
So, we are all looking forward to celebrating Christmas in a very special and uniquely Williamsburg style this year. I wish you an equally happy Yuletide season in your new home. I hope the New Year will bring us both great happiness. Ever your devoted sister,
Sara Leighton Montrose
Williamsburg, Barnwell House
December 1842
Avril made her way up the narrow steps to the attic. The door opened with a creak of protest, and she stepped into the small, slant-roofed room at the top of the Barnwell house. Pale winter sunlight streamed in through the dormer windows.
She stood there a minute, looking around. The accumulation of years filled every foot of space. Boxes were piled one on top of the other under the eaves. Discarded furniture and other household goods were scattered, helter-skelter. Where to begin? And then Avril spotted the humpbacked trunk toward the front. Of worn, brown leather, darkened with dirt and age, studded with tarnished brass nails, and banded with thick straps, it stood a little apart from the rest of the clutter.
On the top, in faded gilt letters, the name LAURA BARNWELL identified its original owner. Aunt Laura had probably packed it when it was shiny and new—in 1745, when she went off to Miss Dale’s Female Academy—then unpacked it when she came home two years later, and sent it up to the attic, never to leave Williamsburg or Virginia again.
Avril knew there was a mystery surrounding Aunt Laura, though she did not know the full story. She had heard of a love affair broken off by a misunderstanding and that Aunt Laura, beautiful and charming as she was, had never married. Perhaps some of those secrets would be revealed in the contents of the trunk when she opened it.
At this moment she felt the full responsibility of Aunt Laura’s trust. She regretted having waited so long to fulfill Laura’s request, but so much had happened in Avril’s own life since the old lady’s death that she had not been free to carry out her duties until now. It had taken the startling news of Kitty Barnwell’s return from England to bring Avril in to Williamsburg.
Taking the key from the pocket of her apron, Avril inserted it in the rusty lock and turned it. It moved slowly, the metal grating against the keyhole. Avril heard the latch click. Then, with both hands, she lifted the lid.
A slight musty odor, mixed with the faint scent of dried potpourri, tickled Avril’s nose and she sneezed. Kneeling in front of the trunk, she folded back the crinkled lavender tissue paper covering the shallow first shelf. On top of yellowed but exquisitely embroidered linens was a letter addressed to Avril in Aunt Laura’s fine, spidery script.
With hands that trembled a little, Avril picked it up, broke the seal, and drew out the letter her aunt had written her.
My dear Avril, You have always been such a joy and comfort since you came into our family, I know I can trust you with the contents of this trunk. Some of the things herein are not mine but have been passed on to me by others, so please be a faithful custodian of all it co
ntains and act with great discretion in everything pertaining to them.
I began keeping a journal as a child, at my dear mother’s directive, as a kind of discipline. She always taught that this was a fine record of one’s spiritual progress as well as a safe repository for thoughts and feelings. These journals were always kept private, and so I ask that you read them, if you like, with the understanding that some were written with the innocent spontaneity of children, and some with the impulsiveness of immaturity. All should be considered in the light of the times in which they were written and the age of the diarist.
There is also, herein, a packet of letters given to my mother, extracting from her the solemn promise that on the death of the correspondents, they would be destroyed. Since my mother, Elizabeth Barnwell, died before being able to carry out that promise, this was not done.
I feel I can confide in you that they were letters written between Noramary Marsh and Robert Stedd before she became Duncan Montrose’s wife and the first bride of Montclair. They had been childhood sweethearts and planned to marry. But when my older sister Winnie, Duncan’s fiancée, eloped with our French tutor practically on the eve of the wedding, Noramary agreed to save the family honor as well as safeguard the sizeable dowry that had already been paid, by becoming Winnie’s substitute.
Noramary was heartbroken but in time, I believe, came to love Duncan dearly and they were very happy together. I don’t know if she forgot she had given these letters to Mama, but she never asked for them back. Robert Stedd never married.
Robert Stedd! That name was familiar. Avril leaned back on her heels. Was that old Dr. Stedd? The image of an erect white-haired figure came to mind. She had seen the old physician many times, walking or driving his carriage along the Williamsburg streets. Why, the Stedd house was only a few houses down from the Barnwells! A handsome blue clapboard house with white shutters. And he had been in love with Graham’s grandmother!
She picked up the letter again, and read the ending:
These are for your eyes only. I do not think they should be destroyed, but preserved. After all, they are part of our family history, and a hundred years from now they will tell a poignant story of two brave, young lovers who put duty and honor before selfish desire.
Avril slipped Aunt Laura’s letter back in its envelope and reached into the trunk. Inside, in an oblong enameled box, she found a packet of letters, tied with a frayed blue ribbon that was faded almost to white.
She got up stiffly from her cramped position and went over closer to the window where the light was better. One by one, she read the letters.
From outside, filtering into her consciousness, came the sound of children playing in the next yard. From somewhere in the house, Avril could hear Gemma and Dorsey, the two maids, chatting and laughing as they went about the tasks she had given them before coming upstairs. Avril shook off the sense of unreality, immersed as she was in the past as she read Robert’s letters to Noramary.
She wiped the tears that had blurred the final lines of the last letter. Then she carefully folded them and replaced them in the little enameled box. There they would stay. Maybe, someday, years from now, someone else would find them and tell Noramary and Robert’s love story.
“Avril!” A man’s voice broke into her reverie.
Avril jumped up and ran to the top of the attic stairs. Looking down, she saw Logan standing at the foot.
“Logan! What are you doing here?” she gasped.
“Home for Christmas!” he replied. “At least, that’s what I intended to do. Then, when I rode over to Montclair, I heard you had come to Williamsburg, so I thought I’d spend the holidays in town instead.”
“How splendid!” Gathering her skirts about her, Avril started down the steps. Catching her hands, Logan bent over and brushed a kiss on her cheek. “This will make Christmas really merry,” Avril smiled up at him. “But I didn’t know you’d be in Virginia and I don’t have a present for you,” she said in sudden dismay.
“Being with you again is present enough for me!” Behind the twinkle in his eyes, Avril saw something she had never expected to see. Something that made her draw in her breath in sweet surprise.
Was it possible? Or was she still caught up in the romantic spell of the love letters she had just read? She and Logan, like Noramary and Robert, were childhood friends. Could love happen to her again? But what better basis for love than friendship? Love based on mutual trust, respect, loyalty.
Impossible? Only time would tell, Avril mused, and taking Logan’s arm they went the rest of the way downstairs together.
The roll of the drum cracked through the frosty night air, followed by the piping of the fifes announcing the start of one of the most anticipated Williamsburg Christmas traditions, the Grand Illumination.
In every window of every wreath-bedecked house, winking like a thousand fireflies, candles glowed. Along the streets, crowds had gathered in a spirit of joyous anticipation.
Bundled up warmly against the winter chill, Avril, Logan, Sara, Clay, and the children hurried out of the Barnwell house at the first sound of music. Clay hoisted Bryce onto his shoulders so the little fellow could see over the heads of people pushing for good viewing along the road. Logan lifted Malcolm to a similar vantage point.
Bonfires burned at each corner, and people waiting for the beginning of the annual militia march huddled around them, putting out their hands to absorb the warmth. Flaming cressets on posts lighted the parade route.
“When will it start?” Bryce asked.
“Soon!” replied Clay, his breath making a small silver plume in the cold air.
The stirring music grew louder, and light from the torches could at last be seen, their bright sparks flying into the dark December sky.
“Here they come!” someone shouted, and the militia, their bright uniforms as red as their noses, rounded the corner. In smart formation, they advanced to the cheers of the people standing alongside.
The familiar old carol, played on the sharp notes of dozens of fifes, rang out “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!” accompanied by the rhythmic deep thrumming of the drums. As the members of the militia went by, they were followed by well-wishers and merry-makers, swinging their lanterns on their way to the Christmas proclamation to be read by the governor in front of Government House.
“More! More!” cried Bryce, beating his small fists upon his father’s shoulders.
“That’s all, son. The soldiers have gone!” Clay told him.
“No! No!” Bryce began to howl.
“For heaven’s sake, Clay, let’s go inside!” urged Sara.
“We’re going to have cranberry punch and cookies, darling,” soothed Avril, patting the little boy comfortingly.
“No! I want to see the soldiers!” Bryce protested, and Clay whirled around and began to trot back to the house, bouncing the child playfully.
“That boy!” Sara shook her head. “So determined to have his own way! I declare. Malcolm isn’t a bit like that. Where in the world Bryce gets his stubbornness, I don’t know!”
Logan squeezed Avril’s hand, but they did not dare exchange a knowing glance.
Inside, in the dining room, awaited a delicious feast. Becca, who had accompanied the family to Williamsburg, immediately took Bryce and set him down to tackle a plate piled high with his favorite foods, while the adults moved into the parlor to warm themselves before a glowing fire and sip on hot mulled cider.
Avril had kept all Aunt Laura’s Yuletide customs. The Barnwell house was festive with artful decorations. The mantlepiece was draped with greens, and at each window were a wreath and lighted crimson candle. For the dining room table she had fashioned a centerpiece of waxy magnolia leaves, shiny red apples, and pinecones. Burning bayberry candles scented all the rooms with a spicy-sweet fragrance.
When they gathered for the feast—creamed oysters, roast pheasant brought in from Montclair, two bottles of wine made from the famous scuppernong grapes, sweet potatoes, and minted ric
e—the conversation was congenial and relaxed.
“It’s a treat to be here, but I shall have to leave to go back to Montclair for Christmas Day,” Clay reminded them. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint our people by delaying their celebration.”
It was a tradition that on Christmas Day the field hands as well as the house servants gathered at the big house for the distribution of gifts from the master, after which a three-day respite from their usual chores was declared.
“Then, I think we should have our family Christmas on Christmas Eve, don’t you?” Sara asked. “The children would be devastated if you weren’t here to see them open their gifts.”
“We could attend the Christmas Eve candlelight service at church instead of the one on Christmas morning,” Avril suggested. “If you left at dawn, Clayborn, you could be home by early afternoon, couldn’t you?”
“A hard ride, Aunt Avril, but I could make it,” agreed Clay. “And worth the effort not to miss Christmas here with all of you.” He cast a special glance in Sara’s direction.
When the fig pudding and fruitcake were brought in and placed on the handsome sideboard to be served later, Logan called for the glasses to be refilled.
“And now I would like to propose a toast,” he said.
“Hear! hear!” the rest chimed in, raising their glasses.
“As we all know, the Montrose and Cameron families have been friends for generations. Our ancestors together cut through the wilderness that was once Virginia, built their homes, reared their children, tilled the land, and brought in good harvests. They have endured the hardships of pioneer days, and to paraphrase Scripture—have come into the good land and been richly blessed by the Almighty.” He smiled.
The listeners signaled their applause by tapping with their silver on the polished table.
“So, now I want to announce a further, closer alliance between these two families.”
Logan gazed at Avril with such intense affection that Sara instinctively turned to look at Clay’s aunt. She was startled to see Avril blushing. Her face, in the candlelight, seemed as youthfully radiant as a girl’s.
