Folly's Bride

by Jane Peart

  Logan rose and stood behind Avril’s chair, one hand resting on her shoulder, the other lifting his glass high as he spoke. “I am overjoyed to say that this lovely lady has done me the singular honor of accepting my proposal of marriage.”

  As soon as his words were out, Clay pushed back his chair and rushed around the table to pump Logan’s hand and embrace Avril.

  Sara rose, too, and waiting her turn to congratulate the couple, was dismayed to feel a tiny pang of envy. Why? Didn’t she, too, have the love of a good man? In fact, did she not have everything any woman could reasonably expect, or hope for?

  Only Sara knew there was something missing. But what?

  “Now, it’s my turn to make a toast,” Clay was saying. “To Avril and Logan, much happiness and many years ahead to share it. And for all of us, may 1843 be the happiest any of us will ever know!”

  Savannah

  1843

  chapter

  13

  THE DECEMBER DAY was mild, with only a light wind blowing, when Sara descended the gangplank of the paddle-wheel passenger boat that had brought her from Norfolk to Savannah. She saw the Leighton carriage at once. Standing beside it was the forlorn figure of her father’s coachman, Raleigh.

  He held his high-topped hat to his chest, baring his gray head as he bowed to Sara and assisted her into the carriage. From his expression Sara feared the worst, and when they drew up in front of the house she saw the door heavily draped in black crepe and hung with a wreath of amaranth leaves tied with a purple ribbon. Her worst fear was confirmed; she had arrived too late to see her father alive.

  For a minute Sara closed her eyes, pressing her clasped hands to her breast as if to absorb the pain. Scenes of her father flashed through her mind in rapid impressions. Memories of how as a tiny girl he had tossed her up in his arms, holding her above his head while she laughed with joy. Later memories of his bringing home her first pony and lifting her into the saddle. She remembered how he had gathered his two daughters into his big arms and held them while he wept and told them their mother had gone to heaven. And after that sad time, how he had taken his motherless children to church, on walks, on trips to visit their grandmother in South Carolina.

  Sara had begun to understand how lonely Leonard Leighton’s life must have been until he met and married the pretty young widow, Georgina Nugent. Perhaps if she had understood earlier, she might not have been so hostile, made things so difficult when Georgina came into their household.

  Well, the past is past, she thought with her characteristic practicality. And nothing can be done about the mistakes that were made.

  The door of the carriage opened. Gathering herself together, she got out and braced herself to enter the house where her father’s vigorous personality was no longer present.

  Trent, his eyes watery and red-rimmed, opened the door for her and she stepped inside.

  “Mournful day, Miss Sara,” he said. “Mastuh done passed over. Mahty sad time.”

  He took the cape she handed him and Sara untied her bonnet strings. The interior of the hall was unnaturally dark, a darkness created by the drawn draperies, customary in a house where death has occurred.

  As Sara stood there, orienting herself both to the oppressive silence and the realization of her loss, she heard a voice from the stairway and looked up to see Lucie leaning over the banister of the second-floor balcony.

  ‘Oh, Sara, I’m so glad you’re here!”

  “Lucie!” She hurried to the foot of the stairs while Lucie made her way carefully down.

  The sisters embraced tearfully, then Sara stepped back and gave her an appraising look. “You’re looking wonderfully well, Lucie, in spite of everything. When is the baby due?”

  Lucie’s cheeks flushed and she smiled. Then, as if she thought it not proper to evidence any sign of happiness under their sorrowful circumstances, she lowered her voice. “In March. Oh Sara, it is so sad Papa did not live to see my child. I wanted so much to give Papa a grandson!”

  “He had two grandsons in Virginia,” Sara reminded her sharply. It was still a bitter pill for Sara that her father had never traveled to Montclair to see either Malcolm or Bryce. Nor had Georgina ever invited her to bring the children for a visit when Papa was alive.

  Lucie’s eyes filled with tears. “I know, Sara. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply—” she amended, “I just meant here in Savannah where he could see them often, watch them grow up—”

  Immediately Sara was contrite. “Don’t worry, Lucie.” She put her arm around the younger woman’s shoulders.

  “I intend to call the baby—if it is a boy—Leonard,” Lucie confided shyly.

  “That’s lovely, Lucie. I know Papa would have been very pleased,” Sara said. Inwardly, she wondered if her father might have been hurt that she had not named her firstborn son after him. Could that be the reason he had made no effort to travel to Montclair to see Malcolm? After all, Malcolm was the first grandchild.

  But at the time of his son’s birth Clay wanted to follow the Montrose tradition of using the strong Scottish names given most males in the family, and she had consented. It was only now she wondered how this decision might have affected her father.

  When her second son was born, she had followed a custom in her mother’s family and given him Emma’s maiden name, Bryson.

  Well, it was too late for regrets. What was done was done. There was no making up for things she had overlooked. It would only cause more grief in the long run.

  “How is Georgina?” Sara felt forced to ask. She had no real desire to see her stepmother. It always put her on the defensive, for she could not pretend an affection she did not feel. But duty and correct behavior had been instilled in her from so early an age, that behaving properly came as second nature.

  “She’s holding up remarkably well,” Lucie told her. “Scott and Bowen have been sent for and should be arriving any time now.”

  “Should I go up and see her?” asked Sara, feeling her own reluctance.

  “She’s resting, Sara. She had a bad night. Camella is with her. She’ll let us know when Georgina wakes up.”

  Sara was ashamed at the relief she felt in being granted a reprieve, at least for a little while. She dreaded the ordeal of facing her stepmother after all these years. They had never been friends, would never be. It was useless to think that this mutual sorrow would make them so.

  “Well, then, let’s have Trent bring us some coffee and you can tell me about everything,” Sara suggested.

  The drawing room was closed and would not be open until after the memorial service for the reception of family and friends making formal condolence calls. So the sisters went into the small parlor that had been their father’s private sanctuary. As they walked in, both felt a fresh assault of painful memories.

  When Sara asked about her father’s illness, Lucie filled in the details of his last days.

  “He was stricken in his office at the Cotton Exchange, but recovered sufficiently to be brought home in his own carriage. Georgina says he walked into the house unassisted, complained of feeling rather unwell, then collapsed. Dr. Lefevre says the second stroke was more severe. At first they thought his paralysis and speech impairment would be temporary.” Lucie’s eyes brimmed with tears again, and she took out her tiny pocket handkerchief and wiped them. “Then Papa lapsed into a coma and—as you know—never fully regained consciousness.”

  “Not once? Didn’t he ever recognize you, Lucie, nor mention me?” asked Sara, the emotion in her voice revealing how much she longed to hear that in the moments of lucidity her father might have thought of her, wished her by his side, spoken lovingly of his eldest daughter.

  Lucie placed both her hands over her sister’s clenched ones. “I’m sorry, Sara. I sat by his bed for hours at a time, relieving Georgina and Camella, and I talked to him. But Papa never indicated he knew me … and he never answered.”

  Sara struggled to hide the hurt she felt. She had idolized her father, been fier
cely jealous of Georgina’s usurping what she had always considered her special place with Leonard. Now, he was gone without a word to her, a moment of farewell she could cherish and treasure for the rest of her life.

  “We must remember the happy times, Sara,” Lucie counseled gently.

  When Trent brought in the tray with the silver coffee server and a plate of thin lemon wafers, Sara served them both and sipped her cup silently until she felt somewhat revived. Then the conversation took a lighter turn, with Lucie asking about her small nephews. Sara noted fondly that, as a mother-to-be herself, her sister was showing great interest in the children’s development.

  “You must come to Virginia with the baby in the fall, Lucie. I’m sure Brock will permit it, won’t he?” Sara herself had no doubt her mild mannered brother-in-law would put up no objection to anything Lucie wanted to do. “Malcolm and Bryce would be so thrilled to see you again. They still talk about the games you played with them.”

  “I’d love that. To me, Montclair is a perfect paradise.”

  There was a discreet knock on the door and when Sara acknowledged it, Camella, Georgina’s personal maid, entered. She dropped a slight curtsy before greeting Sara.

  “Miss Georgina asks y’all to come upstairs now, Miss Lucie.”

  Sara and Lucie exchanged a glance—one, signifying her disinclination; the other, encouragement. They rose and followed Camella up the broad, curving stairway to their stepmother’s darkened room.

  Georgina rested on a small mountain of lace-trimmed satin pillows, monogrammed with her initials. She was wearing a loose gown of black velvet edged with cascades of black Valenciennes lace.

  Sara wondered how her stepmother had managed to have such an elegant mourning gown made within the short time she had been a widow. A matter of days, actually. Had she anticipated her husband’s death in such a calculated way as to make arrangements with a dressmaker to fit and complete the garments even before Leonard Leighton died?

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, Sara rebuked herself. Repentant, she started across the room to where Georgina reclined on a curved back chaise.

  Her stepmother’s narrow face, although fine of feature, wore a faintly discontented expression, the mouth drawn down in a look of perpetual petulance. She offered her cheek now for Sara’s dutiful kiss, then motioned them both to sit down.

  “Well, Sara, it is a sad day indeed that you have at last come, and too late to bid your father a last farewell,” Georgina began.

  Sara checked a bitter retort. Instead, she said coldly, “The fact is, I did not receive word that he was even ill until he had been unconscious three days. I came as fast as I could travel.” She could feel Lucie’s body stiffening with tension.

  Determined not to cause any discomfort to anyone, especially not her beloved sister, Sara stopped short of screaming, My father dearly loved me! It was you, Georgina, who drove a wedge of misunderstanding between us all these years!

  Georgina patted her coiffure, and again a wickedly uncharitable thought popped into Sara’s mind: How odd that the grief-stricken widow had enough stamina to sit for hours while her hair was dressed so elaborately.

  As if speaking was a greater effort than should be expected of a recently bereaved woman, Georgina said wearily, “As you both know, complying with your father’s request that he be buried in your grandmother’s family plot in his home church in South Carolina, the funeral took place there. A very wearying trip, I must say, and in my opinion, unnecessary, since Leonard spent most of his life in Savannah—and since your grandmother is in her eighties and was barely able to attend the services.

  “But, of course,” Georgina continued, “I always try to accommodate others.” Sara fought the almost uncontrollable urge to dart an incredulous glance at Lucie while her stepmother droned on, “So we are having a memorial service here. Leonard’s friends will want to pay their respects by calling afterwards. Except for my brief appearance at the service itself, of course, I cannot possibly receive the dozens of guests who will be coming to make condolence calls.” Here she fixed Sara with a look of icy intensity. “Since it is unthinkable that Lucie appear in public in her condition, you, Sara, must represent the family and receive the guests.”

  So it was as a concession to her stepmother’s directions that Sara came to be standing by herself at the entrance to the drawing room after the long service consisting of verbose eulogies given by her father’s longtime friends and business associates. One by one, the guests filed by, pressing her hand and uttering expressions of sympathy.

  It was all Sara could do to maintain a dignified demeanor and hold in check her own emotions, so very near the surface. Here, alone and vulnerable, she looked up to see him walk through the archway.

  As he moved purposefully toward her, Sara felt herself grow cold, as if ice had suddenly replaced the blood in all her veins. Her heart began to pump wildly even as her body seemed to turn to stone. She stood, transfixed, unable to breathe, to move.

  She wiped her suddenly clammy palms on the black-bordered handkerchief she held crumpled in her hands, and vainly wished to be safely upstairs with Lucie.

  But he pushed on through the guests crowding the narrow hallway until he was only a few feet from her, so close she could see those vivid blue eyes. His face, still tawny, was thinner, so much so that the aquiline features she remembered seemed now sharper, the cheekbones more prominent, and two deep lines now bracketed his mouth. In his eyes was an expression they had never held before.

  There was no time for Sara to define it, because Theo was speaking, his voice as mellow and rich as ever. “Sara.” He spoke her name like a caress. Bowing over the numb hand she extended, he said, “My sincere sympathy to your stepmother and sister, and to you, Sara, in this time of great sadness.”

  She tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it while his eyes explored her face. The hand he’d captured lay like a wounded bird in his palm. It must have been only a moment, but to Sara it seemed like an eternity as they looked at one another across the bridge of years.

  Then, as if suddenly aware of the people behind him, he straightened. When she tugged gently to disengage her hand, she felt him insert something small, square, and hard; then he closed her fingers over it and released her hand.

  “Wonderful to see you again, Sara,” he murmured, then moved on, leaving her weak and shaken.

  Without looking to see what Theo had written, she thrust the card into the velvet reticule alongside the tiny vial of smelling salts attached to her belt.

  There was such a crush of visitors toward the end of the afternoon that Sara could not leave her post, nor did she notice when Theo left. It was only after the last lingering guest had finally taken leave that she had the opportunity to take out the card and read what was written on it.

  Sara, I must see you. For what we once meant to each other, I beg you not to refuse. I will be waiting in the park across from your house every evening at seven until you come. Ever yours. T.

  Sara crushed the card as her hands closed convulsively around it. How dare Theo do this? How dare he attempt to rekindle an old flame? With both of them married, he must be out of his mind to suggest such a thing!

  Sara realized she was trembling, breathing shallowly. Then she heard Lucie’s voice, and she came slowly out of her reverie of burning memories and unfulfilled dreams.

  Hurrying to the foot of the stairs, she looked up. “Yes, Lucie, what is it?”

  “If everyone is gone, Stepmama wants you to bring the guest book so she can read the names of those who called.”

  Stiffly Sara turned, walked over to the hall table, picked up the signed book, and started slowly up the stairs. She felt drained, but tinglingly aware, every one of her senses warning her of impending danger.

  chapter

  14

  BECAUSE GEORGINA was entering a period of formal mourning and because Lucie’s advanced pregnancy prohibited her journeying out as well, it was left for Sara to go alone to the
stonecutter to make arrangements for their father’s grave. But not before selecting an appropriate epitaph to be engraved on it. And there was a lengthy debate as to which verse or quotation might be best.

  “Let’s go into Papa’s study and look through his bookshelves,” Lucie finally suggested. “Maybe we can find something that meant a great deal to him. He might have had a favorite book of poetry.”

  “Poetry? Papa?” Sara had rarely seen their father read anything but the financial pages of the daily newspaper.

  “You never know. We’ve got to start somewhere, Sara,” Lucie said practically.

  Walking into Leonard’s study was evocative of everything they remembered about their father. Sara had often been called into this room to be reprimanded for some fall from grace. But there were happier memories as well. The two little girls had come here often, after their mother died, to play quietly with their dolls or Noah’s ark while Leonard read the paper. There were other special moments when he had held them on his lap and told them stories about his country boyhood in South Carolina, quail hunting, or fishing in the stream that ran through the Leighton property there.

  Both sisters felt a poignant wave of nostalgia as they looked about and saw his leather armchair, the desk with its green glass shade and the globe of the world on its wooden stand that, as children, they had spun around and around.

  Nothing seemed to have been moved or disturbed in here since the morning Leonard had left for his Cotton Exchange office and returned, stricken with the illness that would prove fatal.

  They moved quietly around the room, Lucie taking book after book from the shelves, turning pages, pausing to read something. Sara examined the contents of the square walnut desk. As she opened the right-hand drawer, she saw a well-worn Bible and gave a little exclamation.

  “Look at this, Lucie,” she said, holding it up for her sister’s inspection.