by Jane Peart
Since its early days Montclair had developed into one of the most beautiful plantation homes along the James River. The stark simplicity of its original design lent itself well to structural changes, additions, ornamentation, and enhancements that had been made through the years by its subsequent masters and mistresses.
The house had been constructed to last for centuries to shelter the dynasty the first master had envisioned would follow him. Built on an original King's Grant when this part of Virginia was still wilderness, a network of tunnels for refuge and food storage had been built underneath the superstructure of the house—a necessary precaution in time of Indian attacks. Now, of course, such a threat was a thing of the past.
For the first few days Garnet explored the splendid mansion. On previous visits she had seen only the first floor of the three-story house—the drawing room, the parlor, the dining room, music rooms, the veranda encircling the downstairs area. Now it was a delight to survey all the other rooms.
The newlyweds were given their choice of one of the new wings on the second floor. Garnet chose a front suite overlooking the sweeping drive. Every window in each room commanded a view of orchards, meadow, and the woods banding the terraced lawns.
When the furniture Garnet had chosen in New Orleans began to arrive, along with other pieces ordered through catalogs from northern furniture factories, she spent a few happy weeks supervising the arrangements. A bedroom, two dressing rooms, and their own sitting room were soon lavishly appointed in the elaborate style Garnet admired. Once this was achieved, however, she found time heavy on her hands. Since there was nothing to complain of in the luxurious circumstances into which she had moved, Garnet found other things with which to find fault.
The easygoing Bryce, who once back at Montclair reverted to his old bachelor habits of rising early to be out with his horses most of the day, found it an escape from his bride's petulance and frequently left her to her own devices. He had decided the best way was one of least resistance and habitually gave in to her in most things.
Garnet quickly acquired a defiant attitude. Ignoring the set pattern of life at Montclair, she slept late, had breakfast served in her room, then often went riding over to Cameron Hall, often choosing to stay overnight if there were guests whom she enjoyed. If Bryce minded his bride's unconventional behavior, he did not say. Mr. Montrose liked order but prized peace more, so said nothing. If Sara was annoyed—well, no one stayed angry with Garnet for long. She was so delightful, amusing, and playful—when she wanted to be.
Within a few weeks Garnet found herself restless and vaguely discontented. In spite of her indulgent husband and a life of luxurious ease, marriage had proved to be a great disappointment. Instead of the freedom she had expected to enjoy out from under the strict rules of decorum for young girls, she discovered all sorts of restrictions imposed by society on "married ladies."
Besides forfeiting the fun, flattery,and gaiety of her life as a belle with many beaux, Garnet's disenchantment was tinged with deep regret. The underlying reason for her unhappiness, for which there was no remedy, was the unalterable fact that she had married the wrong man.
In her way, Garnet had become very fond of Bryce. How could she help it? He was good-natured, amiable, fun-loving, and he adored her. His only fault was that he was not Malcolm.
And there was something more that Garnet had not counted on when she had forged her plan for marrying Bryce and being established at Montclair before Malcolm brought home his Yankee bride. It was the painful fact that she faced each day as she walked through the rooms of the house where Malcolm had lived most of his life, sitting at the table in the high-ceilinged dining room where he had taken his meals. All—daily reminders of the man she loved and had lost to a stranger.
When letters arrived bearing European stamps and postmarks, Garnet felt the ache of imagining Malcolm with Rose, honeymooning in Italy. And as the October date for their return grew near, Garnet's tension increased beneath her frenetic activity.
Malcolm sent a telegram from New York, stating that he and Rose would be taking a steamboat to Norfolk, the train from Richmond, on to Mayfield and Montclair.
"I want the whole family here to welcome Rose when they arrive," Mr. Montrose said at dinner the night before. "Since this is her first trip south, we want to show her what real Southern hospitality is like."
His words seemed directed to Garnet, whose unexpected comings and goings were a source of irritation to a man accustomed to promptness and order.
But Garnet found it impossible to comply with her father-in-law's request and on the day of Malcolm and Roses' expected arrival she rose early, slipped out of the house, and galloped through the morning mist to Cameron Hall, where she stayed until Bryce was sent to fetch her back. Even then she fussed, procrastinated, and delayed to the last possible moment her first encounter with Rose and the reality of her own shattered dream.
Part III
North and South
Montclair
1857-1858
chapter
7
ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE sat holding the hatbox containing her extravagant Paris bonnet as their carriage rolled up the winding road to Montclair. Though she looked properly demure as befitted a young matron, her cheeks were flushed with excitement and her eyes danced with anticipation. She glanced anxiously over at her husband of five months.
"Oh, Malcolm, I hope your family likes me!" she said anxiously.
"They'll adore you!" Malcolm assured her fondly, putting his hand over her small gloved one and giving it a gentle squeeze.
"Especially your mother. I want to be a real daughter to her. You said she has always wanted a daughter." Rose sighed. "And I have always wanted a real mother. Oh, not that Auntie Van hasn't been kind and caring and wonderful. . . but, well, you know, it's not really the same."
"Now, Mama will have two daughters," Malcolm reminded her.
"Yes, that's true."
Rose nodded, remembering Malcolm's surprise when his father's letter had reached them in Rome, telling of his brother Bryce's marriage. They had been sitting on the sunny terrace of their rented villa, overlooking the cypress-dotted hills, reading their mail after breakfast. She recalled Malcolm's bemused expression as he handed Rose the letter to read for herself, remarking, "Garnet! I would never have guessed those two—"
"Who is Garnet?" Rose had asked.
Malcom had laughed softly. "Garnet Cameron was a spoiled little scamp who grew up to be the belle of Mayfield County."
Ever since that enigmatic description, Rose had been curious to meet her new sister-in-law. But the honeymooners had extended their romantic European idyll two months longer than planned, lingering in the lovely Italian countryside, taking side trips to Naples, Venice, and Florence. When at last they were ready to depart for America, Rose was reluctant to leave this place where they had been so happy.
"But no place is as beautiful as Virginia in the autumn," Malcolm assured Rose.
When Rose first saw the Virginia hills, brilliant with fall colors, she had to agree.
Their train from Richmond had been met at the small Mayfield station by the Montrose carriage, whose driver, Mordecai, greeted Malcolm heartily and swept Rose a bow that would have been acceptable in the court of the young British Queen Victoria, she thought with secret amusement. Mordecai, handsomely black with gray hair and sideburns, then donned a top hat and, after settling them inside the carriage, oversaw the loading of their luggage. He then mounted the driver's seat alongside the coachman, also attired in bright blue jacket trimmed with braid. With a smart snap of his whip, the four matched horses started up.
"We'll soon be home, darling," Malcolm said. "Home to Montclair."
Rose found Malcolm's excitement contagious, although hers was mixed with a kind of nervous exhilaration.
After leaving the main road, they took a less-traveled path through a wooded section, lined on either side by dark pines slashed here and there with glimpses of crimson
maples, scarlet redbud trees, and golden oaks. All along the road Rose noticed bushes bright with dazzling yellow flowers.
"What are those brilliant blossoms?"
"Scotch broom," he replied. "It grows wild here. Well, almost wild. You see, there's a legend about its start in this part of Virginia. It seems Cornwallis's retreating army used dried stalks for cannonball packing, dropping the seeds inadvertently as they pushed back to Yorktown and the sea. The seeds germinated and—well, the result is a reminder of how the Virginians defeated the British! We take great pride in that fact, so the weed is allowed to grow and flourish as a talisman of how much we value our freedom." Malcolm smiled.
"It seems that Massachusetts and Virginia have much in common." Rose raised her eyebrows and inclined her head.
"A very happy coalition, I agree," he said softly, leaning over and kissing her tenderly on her rosy lips. "Did I tell you today how much I love you?"
"And I, you, my darling," she murmured.
As they continued, every once in a while Malcolm would point out an ornate gate or a narrow road seeming to lead nowhere except into denser woods. "That's Oak Haven," he would say. Or, "Just there is Fairwoods, where our friends the Tollivers live," or, 'The Grahams' place is over that ridge."
To Rose, all seemed such surprising distances from each other to be spoken of as "neighbors." In Milford, neighbors lived just down the road or across the Common. When her husband gestured to a particularly high wrought-iron gate flanked by stone pillars and said, "That's Cameron Hall, the home of our nearest neighbors and oldest friends," Rose was particularly interested. That would be the home of Garnet, Bryce's wife, whom she was soon to meet.
Still, "nearest neighbor" seemed an understatement, because it was quite some time before Malcolm sat forward, leaning eagerly out the carriage window and said, "We're almost there. Around another bend and you may be able to see the house."
Rose sat up, looking in the direction he was pointing, but could not see anything through the thick foliage. A little farther on and then she did see it—the ancestral home of the Montrose family, Montclair.
As often as Malcolm had affectionately and proudly described it to Rose, nothing had prepared her for its magnificence.
As the carriage rounded the final curve, she saw the house bathed in the October sunlight that gilded the roof and turned the long windows into flaming rectangles as if from some inner fire. This first impression was so startling it caused a quick intake of breath and a sudden, irrational sense of fear. The sensation of foreboding came and went so swiftly Rose barely noted its passing, for at this moment Malcolm reached for her hand and held it tightly.
"There's your new home, Rose. What do you think of it?"
Rose's eyes widened. She had not imagined Montclair to be so large, so imposing. It stood on a rise of sloping, terraced lawn sheltered by elm trees. The house of whitewashed brick and clapboard rose three stories, built in a U-shape with wings like embracing arms on either side, and a circling veranda. Six fluted columns paced the deep porch, broken only by a center doorway flanked by tall, blue-shuttered windows running the length of the house.
When the carriage drew to a stop in front, the door opened immediately and Malcolm's father stepped out to greet them. As he strode to the edge of the porch, he was waving his gold-headed cane and issuing brisk orders to someone invisible to Rose. In another minute, as if by magic, several Negro servants appeared in the doorway—women in blue homespun dresses with starched aprons and turbans. At the same time a group of Negro men and clusters of small black children gathered around the perimeter of the yard. The children's eyes were big with curiosity, and they pressed their hands to their mouths as if to suppress their giggles.
"How cunning they are," said Rose.
"They're all anxious to get a peek at the new bride." Malcolm smiled indulgently.
The carriage door was opened by Mordecai, very conscious of his role. He stood at attention while Mr. Montrose came down the steps, holding out both his hands and calling heartily, "Welcome home, Malcolm! And welcome to Montclair, Rose!"
A little shy in the face of all the attention she was receiving, Rose accepted the arm Mr. Montrose offered and alighted from the carriage. They mounted the steps together.
Rose's new father-in-law was a commanding figure with a leonine head of silvery gray hair, a well-trimmed mustache and beard. His eyes were deepset and fiery, his features nobly sculpted, his voice thundering. At a word from him the servants went scurrying like leaves before the wind in all directions, forming a double line all the way back to the hall. Rose vaguely counted fifteen or more as she passed by on his arm, Malcolm following close behind.
In the center hall she looked about her in awed admiration. From the high ceiling hung a splendid, many-prismed chandelier and, rising in front of her, was a curved twin staircase leading to the second floor, its balcony circling the foyer. The interior of the house was all elegance, warmth, and graciousness, and smelled of lemon wax, candles, and the pungent aroma from masses of fall flowers arranged in two blue-and-white Meissen vases resting on a highly polished Sheraton table.
All along the paneled walls hung family portraits. From where she stood Rose could look into one of the parlors, where a glowing fire burned cheerfully in the grate of a white marble fireplace. Suspended above it was a huge gilt-framed mirror. In it she could see herself, Malcolm, and Mr. Montrose, reflected like figures in a painting.
"Come along, my dear," the older man said tersely. "Malcolm's mother has been waiting all day to meet you. Bryson and Garnet will be along later. They rode over to Cameron Hall earlier and have not yet returned, although I expected them to be here when you arrived." A fierce scowl pulled Mr. Montrose's heavy brows together, and Rose was instantly aware that he was barely controlling his annoyance.
"I'll go on ahead," Malcolm said and preceded them, taking the steps two at a time.
"It is only fair to tell you that Malcolm's his mother's favorite," Mr. Montrose told Rose in a confidential tone as they followed several steps behind Malcolm. "It's a family secret, though an open one . . . if you get my meaning. I suppose the firstborn in any family has a special place, and the younger boys have never seemed to mind."
"Are these portraits of Malcolm's ancestors?" Rose asked, pausing on the landing before an especially appealing one of a young girl dressed in the fashion of the eighteenth century. Gowned in scarlet velvet, she was holding a fan, and her jewelry was so realistically painted that the rubies and diamonds of her earrings and pendant seemed to sparkle.
"That is Noramary, the first bride of Montclair," Mr. Montrose explained. "She was the wife of my great-great-great grandfather, Duncan Montrose, who settled here when the part of Virginia you have just driven through was still considered wilderness, mostly unexplored territory."
"She was very beautiful."
"All Montrose brides are beautiful." Mr. Montrose gave Rose a sidelong glance. "We must have you sit for your portrait soon, my dear."
They proceeded up the steps, Rose thinking with some trepidation that she had surely married into a family steeped in tradition. In some ways it would be a considerable task to live up to all these former brides.
When they reached the second floor, Rose saw that from the wide, spacious center hall, several other narrower walkways fanned out into the various wings of the large house.
As they started down the hallway, they could hear the sound of conversation and light laughter coming from the other end.
"My wife's suite is just off here. It is over the garden and has a view of the drive so she can see people coming and going." He lowered his voice. "I suppose Malcolm has informed you that his mother is an invalid and rarely leaves her rooms. She does take the waters at White Sulphur Springs in the springtime. We find this extremely beneficial to her health. She seems to recover some of the strength sapped by the long, confining winters."
At the archway leading into the suite Mr. Montrose stepped aside, and Rose
found herself standing at the door of Sara Montrose's sitting room, witness to a tender scene. Malcolm was down on one knee beside the French chaise on which reclined a fragile, dark-haired woman with a cameo profile. As they conversed in hushed tones, she was gazing raptly into his face, brushing back his thick curly hair with one hand.
Feeling like an intruder, Rose stood there uncertainly until some small sound or movement caused Malcolm to turn his head in her direction. Smiling, he got to his feet. Still holding his mother's hand, he invited, "Come in, darling. Mama, this is Rose. Rose, my mother, Sara Montrose."
Rose was struck at once by the strong resemblance of mother to son. Mrs. Montrose's features, although cast in a feminine mold, were remarkably like Malcolm's, especially the eyes and mouth. Her hair, drawn back from a pale face, showed not a trace of gray in its dark waves. She was exquisitely attired in lavender taffeta. The skirt, which spread over the end of the settee, was scalloped in layers, caught here and there with tiny purple velvet bows, and there were deep ruffles of ecru lace at her throat and falling over her wrists.
Sara Montrose turned her head slowly. The dark-lashed, deep-blue eyes that Rose had first thought were so like Malcolm's, seemed to change into a gray-blue, the color of a winter sea—and as cold. The impression stunned Rose and she had difficulty masking her reaction. Then in sharp contrast came a low, melodious voice.
"Why, Rose, come in so I can see you better. See for myself if all Malcolm's extravagant praise is true."
The gentlemen laughed appreciatively as Rose moved hesitantly toward her mother-in-law. Only Rose was aware that the faint smile that touched Sara's mouth was not echoed in her eyes.
The woman's thin hand, when she held it up, was studded with rings, and Rose was momentarily at a loss as to whether to shake it or kiss it. Gathered as they were around Mrs. Montrose's chaise, like courtiers in the throne room of a queen, there seemed some unspoken code that rankled Rose. The light touch of Sara's hand gave no indication of warmth, and Rose was not surprised when Sara turned to her son, the interview apparently at an end.
