by Jane Peart
Satisfied that she would pass inspection even by her mother's sharp eye, Garnet moved quietly across the hall. However, passing the parlor at the stairway, she heard a name spoken that never ceased to cause a strange little throb under her heart. Malcolm. Malcolm Montrose. They were talking about Malcolm!
With one booted foot on the bottom step, Garnet stopped to hear what was being said about him. The voice belonged to one of her twin brothers, either Rod or Stewart. They sounded so much alike she was not sure which was speaking. But if it were Malcolm they were discussing, it was worth the risk of her mother's displeasure to go in and hear for herself.
Tossing aside her gloves and riding crop, Garnet turned and hurried to the parlor. Standing in the curved doorway, she surveyed the room and was relieved to see that only family was present. No guests yet.
"Hello, everyone!" she called out merrily.
All four of the room's occupants looked in her direction and all smiled fondly, even though her mother shook her head slightly and glanced at the ormolu clock on the marble mantlepiece.
Ignoring the implied reproach, Garnet cast a dimpled smile at her father and, moving toward the abundantly laden tea table, stopped at his chair to drop a kiss on his cheek. Her tall, russet-haired brothers exchanged a knowing look, but watched indulgently as Garnet helped herself to some cake.
"Garnet, dear, you're late. The Maynards will be here very soon," her mother admonished her gently.
"I know, Mama, and I'm sorry, truly I am. But I'm simply famished. Just a bite and I'll go get ready. It won't take me long to—"
"To make yourself beautiful enough to dazzle poor Francis Maynard?" teased her brother Rod.
Garnet gave an exaggerated shrug. "Oh, Francis" she scoffed. "It doesn't take much to dazzle him."
"So, missy, you can do it without half-trying, eh?" asked her other brother Stewart with a lift of his eyebrow.
Garnet chose to disregard the question, merely smiled archly and nibbled on her cake.
"Now, boys!" Mrs. Cameron chided her sons, "how can I ever hope to make a proper lady of Garnet when you two laugh at everything she does? And you're every bit as bad, Douglas," she addressed her husband, trying to look severe.
With the confidence of an adored only daughter, one treasured by her brothers, Garnet laughed along with the others at her mother's mild reprimand. Then, looking at Rod and Stewart, she demanded, "So, what have you two 'double-troubles' been up to this afternoon?"
"The same as you, little gypsy," Stewart retorted. "Riding all over the countryside. We did, however, manage to honor our dear mother's request to be home early, dressed, and ready to receive our guests. A point, I might suggest, that you would have been wise to make as well."
"But we also made a call at Montclair and paid our respects to the Montroses," added Rod.
So they had been to Malcolm's house, thought Garnet, with a small stirring of excitement. In June after his graduation from Harvard, Malcolm would be back at Montclair for good. How she had missed him, longed for the day when he would not be going to Massachusetts each fall. It seemed ages since Christmas, the last time she had seen Malcolm.
His dear image flashed into her mind, all six spendid feet of him, with his dark, silky hair, deep blue eyes, his high coloring, and aristocratic features. He was a few years older than the twins, which meant he was nearly six years older than Garnet, and had always treated her as a beloved younger sister, just as her brothers did. At least, until last Christmas. . . . Last Christmas had been different, Garnet thought dreamily.
But at her brother's next statement she was jolted out of her daydreams.
"You'll never guess what news is flying at Montclair," Rod announced with the air of one about to spring a spectacular surprise. "Malcolm is engaged to be married."
Startled, Garnet gripped the delicate handle of her teacup. She heard her mother's soft voice phrase her own agonized question.
"Who is the girl?"
"A sister of one of his classmates. Rose Meredith is her name."
The parlor seemed to spin crazily and Garnet's ears rang with the words that were reverberating in her brain. Malcolm engaged to be married? It can't be true!
"She's the daughter of a professor, I believe," Stewart continued. There was a trace of amusement in his voice as he added this bit of information.
"A Northern girl, then," Kate Cameron said with a hint of bewilderment.
"That's what comes of sending your sons up north to school. Never did understand Clay's reasoning when we have the University as well as Washington College right here in Virginia," commented Judge Cameron tersely.
Garnet finally found her voice. Struggling to sound natural, she asked, "Rod, how did you find out?"
"Apparently they had just gotten the news. Seems it's a bit of a surprise to all of them, too. We were visiting when Bryce showed us a picture Malcolm had just sent home."
"Is she pretty?" Garnet asked sharply.
Rod turned to his twin. "I'd say so, wouldn't you?"
"If you like them dark and demure." Stewart grinned.
"She's probably a terrible 'blue stocking'," remarked Mrs. Cameron. "Most Northern girls are."
"If you mean by that 'well-educated,' Mama, I believe Miss Meredith is, indeed. Mr. Montrose read us part of Malcolm's letter. His fiancee is 'as intelligent as she is beautiful.' Those were his words, if I'm not mistaken."
Trying to conceal the shock of this news, Garnet bit her lip and concentrated on the contents of her teacup. If she could just manage to control herself until she could escape to her own room, she thought desperately. The thought of attracting her mother's anxious attention or exposing herself to possible teasing by her brothers was unbearable. She attempted to appear as usual while the conversation flowed unheard around her.
Unknowingly her mother came to the rescue. "Garnet, dear, you really must go up and get ready. . . . It's getting late."
Gratefully Garnet stood up with a great show of reluctance.
"Oh, bother, I'd much rather eat supper like this . . . not have to fuss—"
But even as she spoke, she was moving toward the parlor door. Once out in the hallway, out of sight, she picked up her skirt and flew up the curved staircase, her little leather boots tapping on the polished steps.
Safely in her bedroom, Garnet's composure crumpled. Malcolm to marry someone else? Harsh sobs choked her as she pressed her fists against her mouth to stifle the sound. It couldn't be true! It just couldn't! Why, she had been in love with Malcolm Montrose forever! Or at least ever since she was twelve.
She had dreamed of marrying Malcolm someday—believing that he was only waiting for her to grow up. And last Christmas, at Mamie Milton's wedding, he had looked at her differently, had treated her differently, and Garnet had been convinced he had thought of her differently. Her mind raced back to that crisp December afternoon at Oak Haven. Decorated for Christmas, the house had been transformed into a fairyland. Garlands of fresh greens entwined through the banisters of the central circular staircase and holly tied with red ribbon suspended from the sparkling chandelier, made it an enchanting setting for a holiday wedding.
Garnet, one of the ten bridesmaids, was particularly pleased that Mamie had chosen emerald velvet for the gowns, which set off her hair gloriously.
She recalled coming into the house in a flurry of cold wind and drifting snowflakes, and Malcolm, handsome in a dark waistcoat and ruffled shirt, was the first person she had seen.
"Why, Garnet, I declare you look too pretty to be real!" he greeted her.
At his words her heart had turned over with happiness to have Malcolm gaze at her like that.
After the wedding ceremony they had danced nearly every dance together as Malcolm, in a teasing, reckless gesture, had torn up her dance card. Later they had eaten supper on the staircase by themselves, out of range of Garnet's ever-watchful mammy-nurse who had always accompanied her to social events and held it as her sole purpose in life to "be sure Miss Gar
net ax lak a lady and doan disgrace her mama."
When at last it was time to leave, Malcolm had slipped one of her small, white kid gloves into his sleeve, and Garnet had floated home in a daze.
Could it be possible that he had known Rose Meredith at Christmas? No! Malcolm was too honorable to pretend an affection he did not feel.
"I know Malcolm still cares for me! I know it!" Garnet railed. "I saw something special in his eyes! I know I did!"
Feeling betrayed, abandoned, Garnet smothered her anguished screams in the pillows, kicking her feet in frustrated fury. Gradually the sobbing lessened, but her fists remained clenched, her heart broken.
But it had been months since Christmas, since Malcolm had returned to Harvard to complete his studies, and while she had been counting the days until summer when he would come home to Montclair and to her, had Malcolm had fallen in love with someone else?
Suddenly the bedroom door opened and Mawdee, her mammy-nurse, came in demanding, "What you doin' here mopin' lak dat for when dey is company downstairs waitin' fo' yo'?"
Garnet sat up quickly on the bed where she had flung herself in her first burst of bewildered grief. Keeping her head averted from Mawdee's eagle eye, she surreptitiously wiped away the telltale traces of tears. But Mawdee unnoticing, bustled over to the big armoire to get out Garnet's dress for the evening.
While Mawdee's back was turned, Garnet jumped off the bed and hurried over to the marble-topped washstand. Picking up a pitcher of water, she poured it into the porcelain bowl and, leaning over, splashed her hot face.
Somehow she would get through this evening. Then when she was alone again, she would think of something—some way to pay Malcolm back for what he had done to her!
chapter
3
As IF IN benediction, a shaft of May sunshine, streaming in through the narrow, arched windows of the church, enveloped the couple standing at the altar rail in its golden light. To those attending the wedding ceremony of Rose Meredith and Malcolm Montrose, it seemed to hold special significance.
Vanessa Howard beheld the scene through a blur of unaccustomed tears. Usually not a woman prone to a show of emotion nor given to displays of affection, she dabbed at her eyes discreetly. Her niece was very dear to her. She sincerely hoped Malcolm would understand how sensitive she was, how easily hurt, how loyal and loving.
Rose had been such an interesting child—bright, lively, and with a vivid imagination. She had given to Vanessa, then a spinster past thirty, the gift of a relationship she would never have known otherwise. When Vanessa had come into that motherless home fifteen years ago to take care of John and Rose, it might have seemed to others that she was making a sacrifice. But her sojourn in the Meredith household had proved to be quite the opposite. Helping rear those children had brought her unprecedented joy and fulfillment. This day marked the end of her task.
She was handing over her precious charge to the young stranger from the South who would take Rose away to another life. Vanessa prayed with all her heart that he would treat his bride tenderly, keep all those promises he was making today. But who could say what lay ahead of them? They were so young and so gloriously in love that it made the heart ache to see them.
Taking his place at the altar, the Reverend Amos Brandon looked at the two young people in front of him and felt a sudden tightening in his chest. Though he had performed hundreds of marriage ceremonies, this one had added meaning. Perhaps it was because he had known Rose's mother, Ellen, had married her in this same church, and had buried her not five years later.
But no. There was something else, something particularly touching about this wedding, about these two people. It was as if a mantle of sadness hovered above the beautiful couple—as though this day were an ending, not a beginning. He tried to dismiss the pervasive melancholy as he cleared his throat and began the time-honored words.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and this woman in the bonds of holy matrimony, a state instituted by God and blessed by Him as an honorable estate—"
Seeing his daughter's enchanting profile turned toward her bridegroom, Thomas Meredith was conscious of an ache in his throat. Rose was very like her mother, his own Ellen, hardly more than a bride when he lost her. Yet Rose was very different. While Ellen had been gentle, submissive, quiet, Rose was intense and intelligent, with a strength of mind and a clear individuality—qualities not often appreciated by men. Perhaps it had been unwise to educate her as highly as her brother. Still, Malcolm had not found this unappealing. In fact, he seemed drawn to Rose by those very traits. That these gifts would blend with her sweet nature and femininity was devoutly to be hoped, her father sighed.
'These vows you are about to exchange should not be taken without full understanding of their importance, their mutual binding, and without any mental reservations whatsoever, as you shall answer on the dreadful day of judgment—"
Clayborn Montrose, Malcolm's father, the silver-haired, impeccably tailored gentleman in the front pew, shifted uneasily. As opinionated as he was strong-featured, he did not take to this kind of pious threat. Of course his son knew marriage was a serious step! Malcolm was a serious young man—thoughtful, reserved, not given to foolishness or flirting like his brothers, Bryce and Leighton. Malcolm was the intellectual one. Yet he could sit a horse as well as any other Virginian, even if he did not spend every waking hour in the saddle—riding, hunting, courting every pretty girl in the county. Clay might have wished his eldest son had chosen a bride from among the many eligible young ladies in Virginia, daughters of his lifelong planter friends.
But he had to concede that Rose Meredith was graceful and charming. A real beauty, as well. And her background was as prestigious and proud as his own. Her family, wealthy and well-born, her dignified father and refined aunt all spoke well of Malcolm's choice of brides. Clay had been equally impressed with the stately pink-bricked Federal house facing the well-kept common in the historic town of Milford as well as with the elegance of its furnishings, the gracious hospitality accorded by his host, and the well-trained servants in the household. Now, if only this present unpleasantness between the northern and southern states of the nation would get settled quickly—a subject that no one in this well-bred gathering had mentioned over the last few days—things would be fine.
Of course, there was Sara.
Ah, Sam, Clay sighed, remembering his own beautiful bride. Tall, slender, as graceful on horseback as on a dance floor, Sara had ridden daily until the terrible day of her accident. Clay closed his eyes, recalling the scene with an awful clarity.
He and Malcolm, then only a little boy, were watching her from the fence along the pasture as she practiced her jumps. The sun was shining that day on the slim figure in royal blue velvet, with dark hair tightly netted into a chignon under the plumed hat. Then suddenly the magnificent bay shied and turned at a stone hurdle, throwing Sara to the ground. When Clay reached her, she was lying motionless, the lovely dark hair loosened and spread on the grass, the lithe body broken. Malcolm had seen it all.
When even the finest doctors in Richmond could not promise that Sara would ever walk again, Malcolm had kept his mother's hope alive, staying by her bedside constantly. From that time a deep bond had been forged between mother and son, deeper and stronger than Sara had with either of her other sons—or with anyone else, Clay thought ruefully.
From that time on Sara had lived the life of a semi-invalid. Since he could not give her back the active life she had once enjoyed, adoring her as he did, Clay had tried to give her everything else.
The one exception was in Clay's choice of schools for their eldest son. Sara had not wanted Malcolm sent north to be educated, had argued hotly against it, but Clay had insisted, secretly believing Sara's possessive love for Malcolm to be unhealthy. Now, of course, Sara blamed him for Malcolm's choice of a Yankee bride.
" . . . and should not be entered into ill-advisedly without prayerful consideration—"
; Clay Montrose changed his position again, mentally decrying the fact that New England churches had such hard benches. Probably a leftover Puritanical belief that there is some virtue in being as uncomfortable as possible, he thought and chuckled inwardly, recalling with some longing the cushioned comfort of the Montrose family's private pew in the church they occasionally attended in Williamsburg.
"So, now I do ask you both to search your hearts and consciences that you may freely agree to the questions I will now put to you—"
John Meredith regarded his sister with eyes both affectionate and thoughtful. He had spent long hours with a deeply distressed and disappointed Kendall Carpenter in their lodgings at Harvard, talking about Rose's planned marriage to Malcolm.
Although he entertained some of the same misgivings about the match, John also admired and respected the Virginian. He had found Malcolm to be unusually intelligent, cultured, compassionate. Besides, Malcolm had spoken so convincingly of his love for Rose, his intention to devote his life to making her happy that John had no reason to doubt him. No, it wasn't the man she had chosen that struck some fear into his heart; it was the way of life to which Rose must become accustomed, a way of life so diverse and foreign to her that he could not help wondering if her happiness was really assured. Or if, once the newness of their mutual passion faded, the differences in upbringing and outlook would become more apparent.
John sighed heavily. There was nothing he could say or do that would have changed either of their minds, he realized. Rose, for all her soft sweetness, was strong-willed and stubborn, and Malcolm had been quietly determined.
"If there be anyone present who knows any reason why these two should not be joined together as man and wife, let him now speak or forever hold his peace—"
Kendall Carpenter, arms folded across his chest, sitting in the very last row, swallowed hard. He had not wanted to come to this wedding. It had taken every ounce of his strength and will power to bring himself here to witness another man marrying the girl he had dreamed and hoped and longed to have for his own. He set his jaw and clenched his teeth together, willing himself not to leap to his feet and stop the ceremony, shouting, "Yes, I do! It's wrong! It's a terrible mistake!"
