by Jane Peart
Sometime, somewhere, Faith had read a beautiful poem, perhaps translated from the Russian. It said in part, that anyone who loves must suffer, for "who has found a rose without a thorn?"
Faith knew that she loved Jeff, but he did not know it. And maybe he would never know. So much could happen before they saw each other again.
He was gone, and the awful emptiness of her world without the hope of seeing him, overwhelmed her.
Back in Oxford, Jeff made quick work of tying up loose ends and completing plans for his departure to France. Despite the caution advised by his tutors and instructors and the half-envious, half-satirical comments of his friends, he was determined. Spurred on by his vision of a quest that would bring him both spiritual enlightenment and a lifelong purpose, a kind of religious fervor had seized him. Nothing could stop him now. He would not rest until he had taken up the original goals of the artists whose work he admired so much.
On the day he was to leave, Jeff was clearing out his rooms, stacking the belongings he was leaving in a corner to be carted away after he left. One of his best friends, Kevin Branch, lounged on Jeff's stripped bed, watching as he finished packing.
"Could you use another one of these?" Jeff asked jokingly, holding out his black academic gown worn by Oxford University undergraduates. "I have no further use for it. I'm off to a life of adventure and excitement."
"It wouldn't take much for me to chuck it all and come along with you, old man," Kevin remarked. "But my pater would cut me off without a shilling if I dared such a thing!"
Jeff shook his head. "Sometimes you have to take that kind of risk. I don't know what the repercussions of my decision are going to be for me. But I have to find out for myself if what I believe I should do is the right thing. You can't spend your whole life doing what other people think you should do."
"It's different for you." Kevin seemed slightly defensive. "You're coming into some money of your own on your birthday, right?"
"It's not all that much—just a house on an island in Virginia and a trust fund that will give me a yearly dividend. I don't even know what it will amount to, actually."
"Yes, but from what you've told me, the library in that house contains some first editions. You could sell those and live like a king for some time on what they'd bring."
"I'm not planning to sell anything. Someday I plan to live there and paint. Anyhow, that's my thinking now."
Kevin got up and stretched leisurely. "Well, I wish you the best of luck, old chap," he said with a last lingering look at Jeff's bulging knapsack. "I can't help feeling a tad jealous of your freedom. You'll have some grand experiences, no doubt—" He paused, still eying Jeff's stack of belongings ready to be stuffed into the canvas bag. "France, first, eh? Then Spain?"
"Yes, Spain. I went there with my mother as a boy, but I don't remember too much about it—except that it was always sunny and warm, and I played with some other children—" Jeff's voice trailed off nostalgically. "I've Spanish blood myself, you see, and I feel . . . well, I don't know what I feel exactly . . . only that I can't wait to reach Seville, especially."
Kevin thrust out his hand and Jeff clasped it in a firm grip. The two young men looked at each other for a moment before his classmate clapped Jeff on the shoulder and started out of the room. At the door he turned and gave a smart salute.
"Goodbye, good luck, and God bless," he said with some embarrassment, then he was gone.
Jeff stood for a few minutes staring at the closed door, then began cramming the rest of his things into his knapsack. He straightened up and surveyed the room with a last sweeping look to see if he was forgetting anything. He checked the bookcase, its shelves empty now. Then his glance fell on the table by the bed.
There he saw a well-worn copy of Tennyson's Idylls of the King. He went over, picked it up, and flipped it open to the flyleaf. The inscription, written in faded ink, read: "To my dear son, Malcolm—a real knight in shining armor. From his loving mother, Sara Leighton Montrose." The father he had never known, the grandmother he had met only once.
His mother had given him the book some years earlier, telling him it had been his father's favorite. Strange, how the stories of the knights of King Arthur had always held a fascination for him, too. Even his house in Virginia—Avalon—had been named for the island where legend had it that the wounded King Arthur was taken after his last battle with the evil Mordred.
Jeff had cut his teeth on the traditions of valor, truth, faith, courage, and honor espoused by Arthur and his knights. And why shouldn't men live their lives governed by these ideals? It was how he intended to live his.
Suddenly it all fell into place. The dream he so recently had discovered in himself seemed as much a sacred quest to him as those the legendary young men had pursued to attain their knighthood. Maybe it also explained why he had fallen under the spell of the painters who had captured forever on canvas the most noble themes known to man.
He took the book and stuffed it into his knapsack, fastened the buckles on the straps, slung it over his shoulders, and with a final look around the room he had occupied at Oxford for the last year and a half, he went out the door, letting it slam shut behind him.
chapter
4
FAITH COUNTED off the next few weeks of summer, trying to imagine where Jeff might be. Surreptitiously she checked the post when it arrived each morning to see if there might be some word from him. All in vain. Of course, she knew that he did not want to put her in the hazardous position of knowing what he intended to do until after his letter had reached his parents in Virginia. All the same, she ached with worry and missed him more than she had thought possible.
Outwardly she went through the motions required of her as a soon-to-be debutante—the dressmaker fittings, the luncheons, the parties, the invitations that must be acknowledged and accepted, the calls she must make with her mother. But she was totally preoccupied.
Puzzled, Garnet often quizzed Faith as to why she turned down so many of the social invitations that flooded Birchfields' post for her. But Faith didn't confide in her mother the real reason that she was so little interested.
On the rare evenings when no engagement required her attendance, Faith took long twilight walks down the winding garden paths or the woodland trail that led to the lake. She had often strolled these same paths with Jeff and should have been consoled. But a kind of melancholy had overshadowed her since his departure, one she could not shake, no matter what she did.
Then one evening when she returned from her solitary walk, Garnet was standing at the drawing room door. Something in her mother's expression sent a chill through Faith.
"Come in here, please, dear. Your father and I want to talk to you." Garnet's tone was brittle.
She followed her mother into the room. Garnet walked over to her desk, picked up an envelope, and handed it to her. "What do you know about this?"
Faith took the letter, noting the Virginia, USA postmark. Then, with widened eyes, she looked at her mother.
"Go on, read it. It's from Jeff's mother, Blythe Cameron."
Even before she withdrew the sheets of thin paper from the envelope and began to read, Faith's heart was beating hard. The words on the pages seemed to run together, blurring as her eyes moved back and forth across the lines, absorbing all the bewilderment, shock, and hurt expressed by Jeff's mother. Faith sympathized with the woman. But she also understood now why Jeff had chosen to follow his own dream. If he had not, he might forever be a prisoner of Blythe Cameron's possessive love.
When Faith finally looked up from the letter she held in both hands, her mother's eyes seared her.
"Did you know what Jeff was planning to do?" Garnet demanded.
"Yes. He told me that last weekend he was down here."
"Don't you think it was your responsibility, your duty to tell us?" Garnet did not try to conceal her indignation.
"No, Mama. It was Jeff's decision."
"Decision? A mere boy making such a decis
ion?"
"Jeff isn't a boy, Mama. He's nearly twenty-one."
"Then he shouldn't behave like a boy!" Garnet retorted, snatching the letter, "To take money his parents sent him to go home to Virginia, then take off for who knows where? Is that the act of a responsible twenty-one-year-old man?"
Faith had no answer. She glanced at her father sitting silently in his comfortable leather chair. As yet, he had said nothing.
Garnet began to pace back and forth, stopping every once in a while to give the short train of her dress a little kick, tapping her fingers impatiently on the letter she still held.
"His mother seems to think it's somehow our fault," she declared. "I suppose she's written the Ainsleys as well. But how on earth could we have prevented something we knew nothing about?" She whirled around and speared Faith with another reproachful look. "I do think that you should have shown more judgment, Faith. If Jeff confided in you, you should have—"
"That's just it, Mama. Jeff did confide in me, and I wouldn't betray that trust. Besides, I believe in what he's doing. I think he could be a great artist."
Garnet gave a small, scoffing sound. "Artist, indeed! He's never shown any particular talent in art before, that I know of."
"He was studying architecture at Oxford, wasn't he, my dear?" Jeremy put in mildly.
"But that's entirely different." Garnet turned to address her husband. "Architecture's a respectable profession—" "But one would have to have an artistic bent, an understanding of structure, knowledge of design, an appreciation of beauty to become an architect, I would think," Jeremy continued. "The young man probably had an inherent talent that he has just discovered in himself."
Garnet slapped the envelope into the upturned palm of her hand and gave a frustrated sigh.
"Well, that has nothing to do with this present problem, Jeremy. What am I to tell Blythe and Rod? That Jeff has been under my roof a half-dozen times since Christmas, and I knew nothing about his plans? It sounds incredible."
"Perhaps, but true. All you can do is write that this is as much a surprise to us as to them—" he suggested.
"Except to our daughter!" Garnet glared at Faith.
Faith lowered her eyes but did not reply.
"Well, blood will tell, as they say," Garnet said finally. "Jeff has a wild, reckless streak in him. His mother's mother was a gypsy dancer, you know!"
Faith bit her lip, suppressing the urge to rush to Jeff's defense. In her mind, his Spanish blood only gave him an even more dashing, romantic aura. But this she would never reveal. Not to anyone. Least of all, to her mother.
chapter
5
Summer 1893
STANDING at her bedroom window, Faith looked down into Belvedere Square, the wooded park facing the Devlins' impressive London town house. Not a leaf was stirring on this hot August morning, a sure sign that it would get even hotter. In spite of the heat, dreading the day ahead, she shivered involuntarily.
Why had she ever agreed to this madness? She had never wanted to be presented at Court. That was her mother's dream, the crowning glory of the debutante year. After this, maybe, just maybe, she would be able to lead her own life.
Faith picked up the teacup Annie had brought up to her earlier and took a sip just as a brisk rapping sounded at the door.
"Good morning, my darling. Well, the big day at last!" Garnet exclaimed as she rustled in, looking incredibly young and lovely in a lacy peignoir, ruffles fluttering and ribbons flying as she flitted happily about the room. Pausing to admire Faith's presentation gown hanging from the folding screen by the armoire, she fingered the filmy folds of the chiffon overskirt.
"Oh, it is exquisite," she sighed. "You'll be the outstanding debutante there!"
For the first time, she focused her full attention on Faith. "You're looking a little pale, dear. Are you feeling quite all right?" Then she swept across the room and touched her daughter's cheek and forehead with a cool hand. "Probably just the excitement. It's not every day that a Virginian meets the Queen of England! Now, come. You'll have to start dressing soon to be ready on time. Lydia said she would be sending the carriage at quarter of twelve."
"That seems terribly early, doesn't it, Mother? I mean—when the presentations don't begin until three?" began Faith.
"Perhaps, but evidently that's how it's done. Lydia says the carriages line up outside the palace for blocks, waiting their turn. Each is given a place and—well, she ought to know!" Garnet frowned slightly. "I wish it were possible for me to go, too. But only one sponsor is allowed with each presentee."
Faith knew that it bothered her mother terribly that she would not be able to see her only daughter's presentation to Queen Victoria.
"Well, that can't be helped," said Garnet practically. "Now, I'll be running along. When you're dressed, I'll come back to see you in all your glory." She patted Faith's cheek and sailed out the door, calling over her shoulder, "I'll send Annie up to help you."
Annie Pratt, the butler's niece, had been trained by Garnet's maid and brought along from Birchfields to attend to Faith's needs during her London season. But the idea of being dressed and combed by a girl nearly her own age still seemed extravagant and silly. In spite of both mothers' instructions, though, the two young women had become friends.
Annie's mum had cautioned her to "remember your place," and Garnet had urged Faith against confiding in a servant.
"No matter how loyal they may seem, they like to gossip 'downstairs'," Garnet had warned.
As it turned out, both young women had ignored their mothers' advice. Annie was Faith's "safety valve" for, if ever there was one, Faith was a reluctant debutante. It was no secret between the two of them that had it not been for her mother's pride and satisfaction, she would have much preferred to decline the honor of being presented at Court.
Following a discreet tap, a quiet voice came at the door. "It's Annie, miss." Then the bedroom door opened slightly, admitting a small, thin girl in a black dress and ruffled white cap and apron.
"Your mother wanted me to tell you it's time, miss."
"Is it?" Faith asked indifferently. "Yes, I guess it is, Annie." Putting down her empty cup, she looked at her maid with resignation. "Then let's get it over with."
With no further discussion, they set about the necessary and involved preparation. First, Faith's hair must be arranged. Her thick, naturally curly mane was the bane of her existence, since it stubbornly defied any effort at styling. But Faith had gradually begun to consider it a blessing. At least she did not have to try to sleep in paper curlers nor withstand the long process of crimping irons she had heard the other debs complaining about. By now, however, Annie had become quite expert in doing it up in record time, and had helped her mistress achieve a simple but becoming hairstyle.
That chore out of the way, Annie helped Faith off with her negligee. She suppressed a groan as Annie began lacing her into her whalebone corset to make her slim waist appear even tinier. Over this went a lace-trimmed camisole followed by two petticoats—one cotton, one taffeta.
"Now, miss, your gown," said Annie as she brought down the creation of pale pink satin from its hanger. Standing behind Faith, she helped her step into the underskirt and fastened the band at the back. The bodice was separate, put on like a jacket, with Annie breathing hard from the task of hooking a dozen or more tiny concealed hooks and eyes. The satin underdress in place, the chiffon overskirt was then dropped over her head and arranged.
After Faith was buttoned and snapped, she tried to take a deep breath but found it impossible. The bodice already felt miserably tight and hot. She gritted her teeth in helpless frustration. How ridiculous on this humid summer day to be donning a ball gown! And how could she endure this torture trap for four hours or more?
Regarding herself bleakly in the full-length mirror, she could not resist asking, "What am I doing?"
Before she could attempt an answer, her mother was back."Oh, my dear, you're a vision! I've never seen you look so eleg
ant! A real princess, isn't she, Annie?" Garnet circled Faith, observing her from every angle.
"Now, Annie, let's put on her headpiece," Garnet directed the maid. "The Ainsleys' coach will be here any minute."
The maid handed her the narrow band of pearls, and Garnet placed it carefully on Faith's head, securing it with pearl-headed pins before attaching the requisite three white plumes.
"There now, perfect!" she said, stepping back and nodding in approval.
The last item of the specified attire for a Court presentation was the satin train, held with small loops to the shoulders of Faith's gown. It took both Garnet and Annie to fasten it and carry it as Faith made her way stiffly down the stairway and out to the Ainsleys' carriage, waiting just outside the front door. Perhaps, if she thought of happier things—of Jeff, for example—the hours would pass more pleasantly.
The tedious wait in the line of carriages lasted two hours but seemed an eternity to Faith. Sitting erect so as not to wrinkle her gown and the cape with its shirred chiffon lining, Faith's neck began to ache. She put up her hand to massage the taut muscles and in doing so, shifted the elaborate headdress, then guiltily straightened it.
Why in the world had she allowed herself to be a party to this senseless charade? Who cared whether she was presented to the Queen? She knew the answer, of course. Her mother cared. To Garnet, a Court presentation represented the pinnacle of social achievement.
Faith glanced at the other occupants of the stifling carriage. Mrs. Ainsley was managing to look cool and composed in a lovely green French voile dress, her necklace and earrings of emeralds and pearls becoming accents to her English good looks.
Because Lydia Ainsley was Jeffs godmother, Faith had been particularly eager to know her better. During the debutante year, when Lydia had been her chaperone for all the social events to which they were invited, Faith had discovered that the woman's warmth was real—her kindness, genuine. But it was her radiant serenity, so different from her own mother's volatile personality, that had fascinated Faith, and she longed to know the secret.
