by Jane Peart
"Now I want to hear everything," she demanded in the tone of a coquette.
Malcolm obediently launched into a descriptive narrative of their European travels, with Sara interrupting now and then to ask animated questions, giving him flattering attention and virtually ignoring Rose. Watching the interplay between mother and son, Rose was puzzled. It was, she thought, rather like watching the performance of a consummate actress.
"How I envy you, Rose!" Mrs. Montrose turned to her at last, placing a possessive hand on Malcolm's arm. "To have seen all those glorious sights! It was my dream that when Malcolm finished at Harvard, the two of us would make the grand tour." She gave a small deprecating laugh. "But, alas, that was not to be!"
"Your health, my dear, would have made that quite impossible," Mr. Montrose interjected, glancing at Rose half-apologetically.
Rose smiled, but she had not taken the wrong impression from Mrs. Montrose's lightly spoken words. She had received exactly the message Mrs. Montrose intended to convey. There was no mistake. She deeply resented her son's marriage, the fact of his European honeymoon, and most of all, his bride.
Rose was too intelligent and insightful not to have realized from their first meeting that Mrs. Montrose was jealous of anything and anyone who came between her and her son, and too sensitive not to be hurt by that knowledge.
In those first few moments Rose's own bright hopes of finding in Malcolm's mother a mother for herself were dashed. From now on, reality would be her guide in her relationship with her mother-in-law. There was much resentment to be overcome, but Rose was determined to win Mrs. Montrose—if not her love, then her admiration. Nothing would destroy what she and Malcolm had found together. She was willing to share him, even if his mother was not.
While the conversation turned to people and events, items of local news and gossip that excluded Rose, she let her mind wander, and looked around the beautifully appointed room in which Malcolm's mother spent her days, and, if what her husband had said was true, most of her life.
It is rather like a lovely shell, Rose thought. The walls were pale pink; the furniture, French; the draperies, damask of palest blue. Through another door Rose could see the bedroom. A tall canopied bed of blond wood with pink moire silk curtains and coverlet dominated the room. Everything around her, like the woman herself, was delicate, dainty, tasteful, of priceless quality—but fragile.
A lull in the easy flow of conversation occurred when they heard the sound of horses' hooves and carriage wheels, the strident bark of dogs, doors banging downstairs, and then footsteps on the stairs.
Mr. Montrose got to his feet, smiling broadly.
"Bryce!" he called, as if the name were explanation enough.
"And Garnet! Back from Cameron Hall!" declared Mrs. Montrose, lifting one elegant brow and shrugging. "That girl rides like a boy still!
Yet she is as charming and feminine as can be."
With a little flutter somewhere between anticipation and apprehension, Rose shifted slightly in her chair, awaiting the appearance of this girl who had piqued her curiosity for the last several months.
chapter
8
As BRYSON MONTROSE stepped into the doorway of his mother's sitting room, filling it with his tall, broad-shouldered frame, Rose saw at once that he was as different from Malcolm as two brothers could be. He had tawny, windblown hair and the tanned, healthy complexion of one who spends most of his time outdoors. His boyish smile ignited clear blue eyes as he greeted everyone, then stepped back to allow a slim, graceful girl in a moss-green riding habit to enter before him.
"Garnet!" Malcolm exclaimed, leaping to his feet, his hands extended. There was something in the way he said her name that sent a dart of alarm winging through Rose's heart. It spoke of affection and intimacy and something else she could not quite define. It brought her to a tense rigidity and riveted her gaze upon the young woman framed in the doorway.
For someone who could not be considered classically beautiful, Garnet Cameron Montrose was arrestingly attractive, Rose thought. Hers was an unforgettable face with its vivid coloring, enormous amber eyes, small nose with delicate, flaring nostrils, and full, red mouth.
Garnet stood poised for a moment, surveying the room as if evaluating an audience, completely aware of the drama of her entrance, the impact of her presence.
Then with a careless gesture, she swept off the jaunty little tricorn hat so that her hair was loosened from its confining net and fell in a shimmering red-gold mane nearly to her waist.
She moved lightly, gliding across the room to Sara's couch and swooping down to kiss her mother-in-law. Sara reached up in turn and patted Garnet's rosy cheek affectionately. "And here's our girl now. See? Our Malcolm is home at last!"
Garnet pirouetted toward Malcolm, the movement adroitly showing her high-breasted, narrow-waisted figure to full advantage. A mischievous sparkle lighted her eyes and a teasing smile hovered her lips as she said, "Well, Malcolm, now that we're kin, you can kiss me hello!"
There was a subtlety in Garnet's tone that rather bewildered Rose and a disturbing quality in Malcolm's answering laugh as he took Garnet's hands and leaned toward her. Just then Rose's attention was diverted by Bryson's bantering suggestion.
"Then, may I not claim the same privilege with my new sister?"
Startled, Rose turned as Bryson bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek, causing her to blush hotly and at the same time to miss whether or not Malcolm had accepted Garnet's challenge.
The next few minutes were a blur of movement and confusion. Bryson greeted his brother and there was a lively exchange of comments and questions. In the general hubbub no one seemed to notice that Rose had not been properly introduced to Garnet, but she felt immensely uncomfortable. She had seen the girl's eyes sweep over her and away without a glimmer of acknowledgment. But even the considerate Malcolm had been unaware of this oversight, and Rose tried to appear poised and calm in spite of it.
She was glad, however, for the entrance of a maid bearing a tray with a silver coffee service and a frosted fruit cake. Since this woman wore a gray muslin dress, white ruffled apron and cap instead of the turbans worn by the other Negro servants, Rose wondered if she held a privileged position in the household. This was soon established when the woman moved behind Mrs. Montrose, and, with a slightly proprietary air, adjusted her pillows. When Mrs. Montrose whispered something, the woman went quickly into the other room, bringing back a lacy shawl which she gently placed around her mistress's shoulders.
The tall, light-skinned servant must be her mother-in-law's personal maid, Rose decided.
Rose had little time to pursue her puzzling thoughts before Mrs. Montrose announced dramatically, "I am coming down to dinner tonight in honor of Malcolm's homecoming!"
"Then it will really be a celebration, my dear!" Mr. Montrose said heartily.
"And Malcolm shall have the honor of carrying me down since it is his first night home after such a long absence." The worshipful look Sara bestowed on her son was so obvious that Rose glanced to see if Bryson registered any resentment. But he was deep in discussion with his father and seemed oblivious to any undercurrent.
It was Garnet who broke up the gathering. Jumping to her feet, she gave her head a little toss. "Well, if dinner is going to be such a special occasion, I must be off to make myself presentable."
As she started out of the room, Bryson reached up and grabbed her wrist, saying with a deep-throated chuckle, "But, honey, you always look beautiful."
"Spoken like a true Southern gentleman!" roared Mr. Montrose. "Why, Bryson, I do believe marriage is taming you. You'll soon be a real poet!"
Garnet dropped a light kiss on the top of Bryce's head, but Rose saw with dismay, her knowing look was for Malcolm,. "Marriage has strange and mystical powers to change people."
"For the better, I hope!" Bryce grinned.
"That depends upon where you were when you started," Malcolm remarked enigmatically.
When
Garnet was at last out of sight and safely in her dressing room, she pressed both hands against her mouth to stifle the dry sobs that rushed to choke her, then closed her eyes against her white-faced image reflected in the full-length mirror. She had not imagined it would be so hard. To see Malcolm again—to be in the same room with him—and the woman he loved!
Garnet saw now that her childish scheme to make Malcolm regret that he had rejected her was like a knife flung in anger. It had turned, instead, to inflict deeper pain on the one who had hurled it.
Nor was she prepared for Rose to be so beautiful. It would have been easier for her to believe that Malcolm had been drawn to his Yankee bride by her intellect. It was more painful to see that he may have been dazzled by her exquisite beauty as well.
In a single glance Garnet had taken in everything she needed to know about Rose. Here was obviously a young woman of elegance and poise. Her traveling costume must have been bought in Paris, Garnet surmised. Of sage green serge appliqued with dark green cording, both its cut and style were flawless. And Rose was wearing her abundant dark hair in the new French chignon. Her enormous brown eyes were heavily lashed; her features, delicate; her complexion, translucent.
It was easy to see how any man might fall prey to such beguiling beauty and charm, but it was galling for Garnet to meet in person the girl Malcolm had preferred to her.
For all her gay faÇade upon entering Sara's room where everyone had gathered to greet the newlyweds, Garnet had been seething on the inside. All the old wounds of unrequited love were opened at seeing Malcolm again. He is more handsome than ever, she thought with anguish. His new status and the experience of travel had given him a maturity and polish that only enhanced his dark good looks. He seemed more at ease, laughed more readily, conversed with his parents with new assurance.
As Garnet listened, almost ill with envy, the only thing she could find immediately to criticize about Rose was her New England accent. Rose's voice, though low and refined, still held a brisk clarity that sounded strange in a room filled with softly slurred syllables.
But Rose's replies to Sara's eager queries about Paris fashion and the plays they had seen in London were gracious and lively. And she answered Mr. Montrose's questions with intelligence and respect. Garnet could see that Rose was making a favorable impression on her new relatives.
Just then the door to the dressing room opened, and Bessie entered, all grins and chatter.
"Oh, ma'am, isn't Mr. Malcolm's lady the purties' little thing? She so dainty and talk so sweet! I do declare I wuz sayin' to Tilda, I doan know when I seen a lady so—"
Garnet whirled about furiously. The last thing she needed right now was to hear anyone else singing Rose's praises. Bessie's entrance was ill-timed, and the little maid's thoughtless ramblings further firedGarnet's anger. Jealousy rose within her, obscuring everything else.
"Oh, hush up, Bessie!" she snapped. "Go fetch my hot water. I have to bathe and change for dinner. And hurry up about it, too!"
Everything vanished from Garnet's mind except the desire to outshine Rose. Determinedly she chose the most flamboyant of the extravagant gowns she had bought in New Orleans on her honeymoon. Of peacock blue peau-de-soie, the gown was designed with a fitted basque, sashed in wide grosgrain ribbons, tied in back and falling in long streamers over the flounced skirt. The Vandyke neckline revealed her gardenia-white skin.
Regarding her image with narrowed eyes, Garnet tried to picture herself as Malcolm would see her. She wished she could wear the Montrose rubies, the legendary bridal set of pendant earrings and necklace. But, of course, as long as Sara was living, no other Montrose wife would wear them. Instead, Garnet fastened on the pearl necklace with its coral medallion Bryce had given her as a wedding gift.
With a final pat to her coiffured hair drawn up to show off her small, flat ears, and swirled into a figure eight in back, Garnet felt ready to go downstairs and face the events of the evening.
But even knowing she looked her best and that her spritely conversation had captured its usual appreciative audience, Garnet found that the effort required to sustain it soon produced a pounding headache.
Sitting across the table from Malcolm was unbearable. Even though he laughed at her witticisms and bantered with her in teasing affection, it was Rose, sitting at the opposite end of the table, to whom his attention was drawn most often, his eyes resting upon her ardently in the softness of the candlelight.
Garnet struggled to keep her bright smile in place. It was difficult to keep from staring at Rose. Some inner magnet kept pulling her to the radiant face of her victorious rival. On two such occasions Rose met her glance and Garnet felt her face flush. That delicate, intelligent face—those grave, penetrating eyes sent a dart of conviction into Garnet's innermost being. Could Rose guess what she was thinking? she wondered in consternation.
After dinner when they were all sitting in the parlor having coffee, Garnet punished herself further by watching the touching tableau—Malcolm hovering solicitously over Rose, making sure she had her coffee with just the right amount of cream; lingering by her side even as he responded to his father's questions about England. When at length Malcolm suggested Rose might be weary after the long day of travel and the excitement of their homecoming, they said their goodnights before taking the woodland path over the bridge to Eden Cottage.
Rose came to Garnet then, both hands extended, and said, "I've been looking forward so much to meeting you, Garnet. I've always wanted a sister."
Taken off guard, Garnet said the first thing that popped into her head. "How odd! I have never felt the slightest need of one!"
The moment the words were uttered, Garnet could have bitten her tongue. The expression on Rose's face was so startled, her dark eyes widening at the rebuff. Garnet was instantly penitent. But it was too late.
Bryce cast her a quick look, then immediately stepped up saying smoothly, "Well, I have, Rose. Garnet's never had to share the spotlight with anyone before, so she hasn't missed having a sister. But I can't tell you how pleased I am that Malcolm's marrying you has given me one at last!"
His gallant remark removed the sting from Garnet's careless words, and some of the color that had drained out of Rose's face returned. Under Bryce's obvious admiration, she even blushed a little.
Garnet squirmed inwardly. Never before had Bryce given her such a cold, disapproving look. It was not until later, when she was brushing her hair at her dressing table, that he put his head in the door and mentioned the incident.
"I think you hurt Rose's feelings tonight, honey," he began.
A look of honest contrition briefly crossed Garnet's face, but she quickly affected an airy nonchalance. "I say what I feel! If people get their feelings hurt—" She shrugged indifferently.
"Well, it's not a very charming trait, honey." Bryce's voice was gentle, but it held a note of warning. "Rose is family now. We want her to feel . . . welcome, don't we?"
Bryce came fully into the room, walked over behind her, then placing both hands on Garnet's shoulders, leaned down and kissed her cheek. "It's just that I don't want Rose to get the wrong impression of you, darling. I want everyone to love you as I do, that's all."
Garnet endured his embrace as she had all the others. Bryce was a dear and so undemanding in every way she did not want to offend him unnecessarily. So she checked the defensive words that sprang to her mind, but she stiffened. With a half-sigh, Bryce left to go into his own dressing room.
Alone, Garnet flung down her silver-handled hairbrush. Bryce couldn't possibly understand what she was going through! How could he?
She shuddered as a cold fear clutched at her heart. If tonight was any example of what lay ahead of her, how could she endure it? To go on pretending for the rest of her life that she was happily married to one brother—when all the time she was dying of love for the other?
Pulling her velvet peignoir about her shivering shoulders, Garnet rose and went quickly into the bedroom. She wanted to be in bed
, pretend to be asleep before Bryce joined her.
She was trembling as she slipped into the massive mahogany bed with its arched, ornately carved headboard. It was torture to see Malcolm with Rose, to know that at this very moment they were probably in each other's arms. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing herself not to weep and cry out in her desperate longing to be in Rose's place.
Garnet pounded her pillow with a clenched fist. If only she could bring back yesterday when she had ridden with Malcolm through the woods between their plantations, when they had laughed together, long before he had gone north to school—before there was anyone else! Before there was a Rose! I could have made him love me! I know I could have!
Rose's thoughts were troubled as she sat in front of her dressing table later that night while her newly acquired maid, Tilda, brushed her hair with practiced strokes.
Not only that, she was exhausted. The day had been fraught with anxiety and excitement. The arrival at Montclair, meeting Malcolm's mother for the first time, reacting appropriately to her new surroundings—all had proved a draining experience for Rose.
Rose's image in the mirror reflected the toll of the day's activities. There were shadows under eyes glazed with weariness. The effort of maintaining alertness throughout the long dinner hour, pretending an interest in the discussion of subjects she neither understood nor had enough knowledge of to participate in, was wearing. Toward the end of it she felt herself becoming numb, visibly drooping.
Now she found the quiet though unaccustomed attentions of Tilda immensely soothing.
All through dinner she had felt herself scrutinized by Malcolm's mother, whose initial appraising stare had severely shocked Rose and still lingered like a small bruise in her heart. Her expectations of a motherly welcome had been shattered by the reality of the hard coldness in those beautiful eyes.
