by Jane Peart
Stewart Cameron, a recently ordained minister and son of the late Scott Cameron, former editor of the Mayfield Monitor, has taken the position of rector at Mayfield’s Episcopal church, St. Luke the Physician. He and his wife, the former Fiona Montrose, and their two small children will take up residence in Mayfield after a visit to Scotland, Mrs. Cameron’s native country.
Suddenly Joy came across this headline from the Mayfield Monitor:
Local Man Casualty in Vietnam
April 1968
Lt. Beaumont Montrose, a helicopter pilot and the only son of Mr. and Mrs. Fraser Montrose of Montclair, was killed last week, it was learned.
The father she had never known! Here in Mayfield he had been well known, loved, missed. What had he been like, this young naval lieutenant who had married Anne Layton in a whirlwind courtship and had never been able to bring his bride home to Montclair? Joy could only imagine the love that had come to these two young people who had been her parents, a love that had so tragically ended.
Model Discovered in Unlikely Place
1972
A mystery in the world of high fashion has at last been solved. Natasha Oblenskova, beautiful French-born model, disappeared from the fashion scene two years ago. Efforts to discover her location failed. Neither her agent nor the model agency that had managed her career would give any comments or information. Recently it was learned from reliable sources that the glamorous young woman, whose image had appeared numerous times on such magazines as Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, and WW, has taken vows to join a Russian Orthodox order of nuns. The cloistered convent is located in Connecticut, where Miss Oblenskova grew up with her mother, the former Evalee Bondurant, and her stepfather, Alan Reid. Miss Oblenskova is the granddaughter of Mrs. Druscilla Montrose Bondurant of Mayfield, Virginia.
1973
Hope Montrose, the famous illustrator of children’s books, both new and classics, will be signing her latest at the Abordale Library next Thursday from two until four. Ms. Montrose is currently visiting Avalon, her childhood home. Ms. Montrose is the daughter of Gareth and the late Brooke Montrose, and the granddaughter of the internationally known artist Jeff Montrose.
Fabulous Antique Jewelry Donated to Smithsonian
A set consisting of a ruby-and-diamond necklace and matching earrings, which is believed to be the work of an eighteenth-century designer to royalty and which had been in the Montrose family for generations, was presented to the curators of the Washington, D.C., institution. It was originally created for and given to Claire Fraser, the first Montrose bride and for whom Montclair was built.
Cara-Lyn Maynard, daughter of state senator Frank Maynard and his wife, the former Lynette Montrose, was recently decorated by the president for extraordinary valor in her work as a photographer in Korea. She is one of few women so honored.
At the very bottom of the trunk were several books. One was a Bible, its leather cover blistered as if by fire, the edges of the pages scorched, on which was embossed, in gold letters so tarnished that they were barely discernible, the name Rose Meredith Montrose. There was a worn copy of Tennyson’s Idylls of the King, with this inscription:
To my dear son Malcolm—a real knight in shining armor,
from your loving mother,
Sara Leighton Montrose
A verse within had been heavily underlined.
More things are wrought by prayer than this world little dreams of.
Joy picked up a battered New Testament that had apparently belonged to Malcolm Montrose. It looked as though it had been through a war—and probably had. Inside was a poem, written in ink that had turned a faint brown. A note in the margin identified the author as an anonymous Confederate soldier.
I asked God for strength, that I might achieve,
I was made weak, that I might learn humbly to obey,
I asked for health that I might do greater things,
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy,
I was given poverty, that I might be wise.
I asked for power, that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness, that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for—but everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself, my unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men, most richly blessed.
Malcolm must have copied it.
There were two books wrapped together. One was a book of poetry entitled POEMS, 1916–1918 by Richard Traherne; the other was No Cheers, No Glory: A True Account of a Field Nurse in Wartime France by Katherine Cameron Traherne. The dates on some of the pages were closer to the one Joy was most interested in finding. She was seeking some word about her father, the Montrose she had never known. Here in Mayfield he had a family, a whole life, that she knew nothing about. She turned a page and suddenly saw something that made her heart jump.
New Arrival in Mayfield
Mr. and Mrs. Fraser Montrose welcome a son, christened Beaumont. He joins his sister, Heather, at the family home, Montclair.
Gayle, rolled up in her sleeping bag, had finally succumbed to sleep, but Joy was not tired. Too much was unfolding here. People, events, stories she had never heard of nor imagined. It was like reading a fascinating novel, but it was real—and all these things had happened to her relatives.
Had her grandmother Nicole ever returned to France, as was her childhood dream? Had she made that search for her real parents? Had she found them? And if so, who were they? Missing parts of the puzzle of her own background. Whom had her father been named after? Beaumont Montrose sounded sort of French. “Beau,” his nickname, made him seem dashing, adventurous, reckless. From the one photograph she had seen of him—leaning against his helicopter, wearing a leather flight jacket, his uniform hat jauntily askew—he was certainly handsome.
The candle was burning low, the flame flickering, and yet, driven by the need to know more, Joy kept turning the pages, reading the items her aunt, Heather Montrose, had so painstakingly cut out and organized, hoping that some future unknown kin would find them interesting and important. The photographs were equally of interest. There was one labeled “Cape Cod, Summer 1909” and filled with groups of smiling young people, all neatly identified with white ink on the black plates. As Joy looked at it, she recognized some of the names, such as Kip and Cara. She wondered who the others were— Kitty, Hugh, Owen, Meredith—and what had happened to them since that carefree summer long ago.
Joy closed the trunk. This trip into the past—peopled by so many who had lived under this roof, gone from here to wars, come to this house as brides—had been both exhilarating and exhausting. She felt drained and yet eager to learn more. Her eyelids drooped, and she blew out the sputtering candle and climbed into her sleeping bag. All at once she remembered the envelope she had stuffed into her sweater and then in the excitement of emptying the trunk had forgotten. She was too tired now. Tomorrow there would be time enough to read it.
When Joy awoke on Sunday, the sun was streaming in through the windows. They had pushed back the inside shutters the night before. Gayle’s sleeping bag was empty, and when Joy got up, she saw a note on the table: “It’s such a beautiful day, I’ve gone exploring.” Joy slipped on her jeans and grabbed an orange from the bag they had bought the day before and hurried outside. The air was fresh from the rain, and Joy breathed deeply, thinking of the many other Montrose women who had stood on this same porch and seen the sweep of land called Montclair.
Soon Joy saw Gayle coming toward her from the woods beyond the meadow. She waved and called something, and Joy hastened to join her.
“Guess what I’ve found?” Gayle said when Joy approached. “A family cemetery. It’s terribly overgrown, but I peeked through the fence and there are several headstones, all probably belon
ging to your ancestors.” She paused. “There’s another graveyard a little apart, with a sign I could barely make out. I think it said, ‘Our People’—it must mean the slaves are buried there.”
“Shall we go take a look?” suggested Joy, not sure it was the right thing to ask her. But Gayle agreed, and together they retraced her steps up the path that wound up the hillside.
It took both of them to push back the iron gate and enter the cemetery. The grass was high. Blackberry bushes had invaded the plot, so they had to pick their way through them to examine the names on the headstones. They moved silently, stopping here and there to read a name, a date. It seemed the last one buried here was Malcolm Montrose. His grave was next to one marked “Rose Meredith Montrose, Beloved Wife of Malcolm.”
In quiet agreement they left the Montrose burial grounds, pulling the gate closed behind them. Together they walked a few yards further and found the sign that marked the opening to the other graveyard. Here wooden crosses marched in staggered lines, row after row. On the crossbars were simply carved first names: “Mom Becca,” “Lonnie,” “Big Jim,” “Joshua,” “Ellie.” The two young women did not speak as they wandered through the cemetery, each wrapped in her own thoughts. The humble resting place seemed somehow to lend some dignity to a dark, unhappy time in American history.
“I should see that these are tended to regularly. It is sacred ground,” was Joy’s only comment as they left and walked back down the hill to the house.
They decided to drive into town to find a church and attend services. Down the road from Montclair they saw a small, white frame church building. Gayle slowed the car. “Here?”
“Why not?” Joy responded.
As they entered, a choir in bright blue robes was singing “Shine, Jesus, Shine.” They smiled in recognition of the lively hymn and found places in a back pew and joined in.
Despite the uplifting service, Gayle was unusually quiet for the rest of the day as they continued to explore Montclair. Joy sensed that the walk through the slave cemetery had affected her deeply. She realized that Gayle needed time to absorb this face-to-face confrontation with her past and reconcile it somehow to her own life.
On Monday Joy had an appointment with Mr. Lawrence in town. Gayle dropped her off at the lawyer’s office, saying she thought she would go to the local library and do a little research about Mayfield on her own. They would meet in about an hour.
The discussion with the lawyer proved both instructive and helpful. Mr. Lawrence was a gracious, kindly person with all the legendary courtesy of a southern gentleman. When Joy pointed out that she was single and had a career and that there was not the slightest possibility that she would ever take possession of and live at Montclair, he suggested an alternative.
“The Mayfield Historical Society has long been interested in Montclair. It was one of the first plantations built on the James River, an original king’s grant to the Montrose family when they came here from Scotland. It is a treasure, and I know they have been worried that, unoccupied, it would soon fall into a state of such deterioration that it would be too costly to restore. If you deeded it to them, it would minimize your tax responsibility to an enormous extent and preserve its historic value. I am sure they would want most of the furnishings as well. Of course, you could pick which items you wanted personally. The house would then be made open to tourists, after being restored as closely as possible to the state it was in when it was not only a working plantation but a home known for its hospitality. All this could be arranged legally to give you the most benefit and yet be a wonderful gift to the community.”
“I have a lot to think about, Mr. Lawrence. Thank you for all your help.”
“It has been my pleasure, and I stand ready to assist you in any way. I was very fond of Miss Montrose. I feel that deeding Montclair to the historical society would be very acceptable to her.” He paused. “Perhaps that may have even been her own suggestion in her letter?”
It was only then that Joy realized she had not yet read it. She was embarrassed to admit it, so she just said, “There is a great deal to consider. I want to do the right thing.” She moved to the door. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Lawrence, and thank you again.”
“Mayfield has a checkered history,” Gayle told her when they met. “For a small town, it has had a dramatic life. I only got up to the 1790s!”
“The past seems so real and so close here, doesn’t it?” Joy asked as they left town and started back to Montclair.
“Too close at times. I told you my grandmother said Montclair was haunted,” Gayle reminded her with a rueful smile.
When they got to Montclair, Gayle said she was going to take a long walk. Joy sensed that she wanted to go alone, so they parted. Joy went into the house. This would be a good time to read the letter Heather Montrose had left for her.
chapter
19
Dear Whoever You Are,
If you are reading this, I assume my lawyers have ended their search successfully and you are now at Montclair. I hope you will stay a few days or longer. Even if you have simply come through the front door, I trust you will feel that sense of awe upon entering.
A house where generations of your family were born, grew up, lived, left, and then returned has a unique quality. It gives one the sense of continuity, a feeling of belonging that is rare and unique. The echo of footsteps on the stairs or in the halls is not disturbing but affirming. It gives one the foundation of security, a peace that neither time nor personal loss nor even sorrow can take away.
Although I now live here alone, the tide of life that flows through Montclair is tangible. A house holds all that has been lived and experienced within it down through the years. Even though all that makes up human existence has been played out here, it is not an unhappy place. I have never felt lonely here. As I grew older, I felt it was important to leave something for whoever came after me, so I’ve assembled the scrapbooks, a collection of as much information as I could gather about those who have called Montclair home.
In my earliest memories of Montclair, it is as if the sun were always shining. I remember warm days playing on the velvety grass around the house in my bare feet with my cousins Hope—daughter of my uncle Gareth and his beautiful wife, Brooke—and Hugh and Honor Cameron. We would play on the swings under the leafy oaks, ride our ponies, and catch fireflies on summer evenings while the grown-ups sat on the veranda, from which we could hear the murmur of their low voices, occasionally punctuated by light laughter.
What I discovered on my own about this place is that you can go away, but you take Montclair with you. When I was ten, I contracted polio in the days before the wonderful Salk vaccine made this parents’ nightmare virtually extinct. I recovered, but my health was afterward fragile, and my mother, Nicole, took me to various clinics and health resorts to see if my constitution could be strengthened and restored. This often meant travel abroad, and we were gone for months sometimes. I was often homesick and missed my adored father, Fraser Montrose, very much.
It wasn’t until I was older that I learned that besides seeking health for me, my mother was on a quest of her own. Orphaned after the First World War, she was adopted by Cara Cameron Montrose and brought to the United States, to Mayfield and Montclair. But as with many orphans, there was always this hunger within her to find out about her real parents and background. Thus we traveled widely throughout France, following one clue after another.
But this is another story altogether. My mother never told it. However, I believe that the name of my little brother, Beaumont, who was born after one of our trips, had something to do with one of her discoveries. I vaguely remember a picturesque village and a chateau we visited in which my mother had long conversations with an elderly woman who had been the housekeeper for the family who had lived there.
Moving from this personal vein, Heather’s letter went on to note some of the history of the house, how it had been built for one bride, but when she eloped with someone else before
the wedding, her cousin had become a substitute bride and the first mistress. The additions were explained, such as the balcony added for the invalid Sara, injured in a horseback-riding accident. Her letter recounted the times Montclair had hosted the governor of the state, and mentioned other dignitaries who had enjoyed its legendary hospitality.
A fact that intrigued Joy was the mention of Eden Cottage, the architect’s model of Montclair built about three miles from the main house. It became traditionally the place where the eldest son and his bride spent their honeymoon year. She would like to try to find it if it still existed.
The letter ended with two poignant paragraphs:
I sense that you somehow had no idea of your connection with the Montroses of Mayfield, Virginia, or you would have made yourself known before this. My younger brother Beaumont and I, as the children of Fraser and Nicole Montrose, jointly inherited Montclair. However, after Beaumont was killed, his widow never made contact with our family. All we knew was that they were expecting a baby. My lawyers have been searching for that child over the past few years. Since I never married or had any children, you are the sole heir.
