by Jane Peart
I have to assume inheriting Montclair will come as a shock to you. I have no idea if you are male or female, married with a family or single. I can only say you are now the possessor of a splendid legacy that goes back to prerevolution-ary Virginia, when our ancestor Duncan Montrose cleared the property on the James River and built Montclair.
I give you permission to take any of the furnishings, the silver, the china, or crystal that is in the house for your own. In this day and age, maintaining a house this large and the land would require a great deal of money. I have told my lawyers that if their search for the heir to Montclair proved fruitless within five years after my death, it is my wish that the house should be donated to the Mayfield Historical Society. As much land should be sold as needed to pay the back taxes that will have accumulated, so they can take over the property without heavy liens against it. All this can be worked out legally in due time.
Even though I will never know you, I feel a kinship with you as you read this—and a hope for the future. Somehow I feel that the splendid legacy of Montclair will escape the ruthless onslaught of so-called progress and never be turned into a country club or torn down to make room for a condominium complex but will remain as a symbol of its significant historical importance for generations to come.
Heather Montrose
Joy finished reading the letter. Her questions had not all been answered by everything Heather had left behind, and maybe the mysteries would remain forever. She would have to be satisfied with that. Heather Montrose had done her best to give Joy an idea of her background. Even with the loopholes that remained, Joy could understand how her young mother, grief-stricken and pregnant, had not contacted her husband’s family. They had not known there was a grandchild expected, and shortly afterward both had died. Heather, the only remaining member of the family, had tried to fill in the gaps.
Joy now felt more confident about what to do. No longer did she feel so completely overwhelmed by her unexpected inheritance. Heather had given her direction.
chapter
20
THE MORNING THEY were to leave Montclair, both Joy and Gayle were singularly quiet, as if caught up in the ambiance of the past, the aura of their surroundings. They had stayed up late packing a few things Joy decided to take back with her.
After they finished their cups of instant coffee, Gayle put on her jacket. “I think I’ll walk back to the cemetery again. There are some early daffodils blooming along the drive—is it okay if I pick some to take up there?”
“Of course,” Joy assured her. She picked up her canvas tote bag and said, “I’m going to take a last walk through the house.”
After Gayle left, Joy went out into the center hall, then slowly mounted the stairway. She glanced at the squares of less-faded wallpaper that had been left when the brides’ portraits were taken down. The restorers would probably try to match the pattern, and the paintings would be rehung. It gave Joy a deep sense of satisfaction to know that deeding Montclair to the preservation group would bring it back to its former glory. Then the women who had been mistresses here would again smile from their places of honor.
Upstairs, she walked the length of the hallway, stopping to open bedroom doors, pausing on a threshold or taking a few steps inside to admire a fireplace or check the view from a window. In the nursery she lingered. Her special fondness for this room because of the discoveries they had made there had grown after reading what Heather had written in her letter:
There is supposed to be a hidden room in Montclair, but no one I ever knew found it. There are rumors that this was once a “safe house” in the Underground Railroad, to shelter runaway slaves escaping to the North. But nothing ever proved that to be true.
Joy smiled. Heather’s mother, the Nicki of the note in the shoe box, must have kept her and Scotty Cameron’s find a secret, even from her daughter.
Reluctantly Joy ended her tour of the second floor and went back downstairs. She wandered through the library, whose bookshelves were nearly emptied. Heather had mentioned in her letter that she had given boxes of books to the local library, and some valued first editions to the Mayfield museum. All that identified the music room were a bust of Beethoven and one of Mozart, both on pedestals. Any instruments must have long since been removed. She passed the twin parlors to go further down the hall to the master bedroom suite. She circled the room, touching the handsome rosewood furniture, the high bed with its carved pineapple posters, the drop-leaf table and two Queen Anne chairs set in the bow-windowed alcove. She lingered at the magnificent bureau.
For some reason she took hold of the carved-leaf drawer pulls and one by one opened the drawers. She caught the faint fragrance of crushed roses. She imagined that long ago fragrant dried petals in tiny net-wrapped sachets were spread among ruffled petticoats and camisoles. She closed the last drawer— and then, quite inadvertently, her foot touched the ornamental base of the bureau. With a click it fell forward, revealing a concealed shelf. A secret compartment! Joy crouched down to examine it and saw something inside. A thin, leather-bound book. She reached in her hand and drew it out. The cover was dusty, the gilded pages tarnished. Gingerly she opened it. On the flyleaf was written, with fine Spencerian hand in faded ink, “Rose Meredith Montrose. Journal 1861–1862.”
Joy’s heart began to thump. Carefully she turned the first page. The script was so tightly spaced, it was difficult to read.
If I didn’t have this journal to pour out my feelings, I do not know what I would do. I am so miserable and feel so guilty. How could I be so unhappy in such beautiful surroundings, such luxurious circumstances? And yet not so long ago I thought myself the happiest of women.
I now look back on the first year of our marriage, spent in Eden Cottage, as idyllic. Not a cross word ever spoken between us, not the slightest unpleasant moment. But was I simply blinded by love? Had I not heeded what Kendall Carpenter tried to point out to me in his impassioned pleas and what even my dear brother John more cautiously put forward for me to consider—that Malcolm and I came from far different spiritual and philosophical and cultural backgrounds? Did I choose to ignore that we might have been “unequally yoked” even from the first?
Joy almost closed the book and replaced it. This was like looking into someone’s open heart. These words were not meant for anyone else’s eyes. And yet she could not bear to put it back, to stop reading.
Malcolm is gone and I am devastated. We parted in anger. I fear the chasm between us is too wide and deep to ever be bridged. I am so unhappy. I wish I could call back all my words and had not heard his. Things will never be the same, and now it is too late to remedy the breech, too late to ask forgiveness or to forgive.
I feel so lonely, so afraid. My life is in ruins. My darling Malcolm gone fighting in this horrible war, and my brother John fighting against him on the other side. I know John has chosen the right. Slavery is wrong and should be ended. In his heart I believe Malcolm knows this, but he said he cannot go against his heritage, his state.
Between these anguished entries Rose had copied Scripture verses, as if she sought reassurance and strength. Some of the writing was blurred, as if tears had dropped on the pages as she wrote.
Joy sat down on the floor, unable to stop reading. It was a compelling narrative, as absorbing as any historical novel.
I am alone here with Mother-in-Law Sara. She is as demanding as ever, even more so now that Lizzie has disappeared. If she ever knew I had any part in that, I don’t know what the consequences would be. Garnet is in Richmond. So I hold the fort here. Of course, the servants are here and Tilda is a great help with Jonathan, as I must be at Sara’s beck and call. We don’t get a great deal of news about the war, but what we do get is bad. Father-in-Law is very morose, worried about his sons. And so am I, dreadfully so, because my heart is divided.
Joy was compelled to continue reading. As she turned the pages, a thin sheet of paper slipped out. It was a letter. She unfolded it and read,
Beloved,<
br />
How often I have thought of you and regretted dearly the way we parted.
Her heart tripped. This was a letter from the husband about whom Rose was so grieved. Her eyes raced along the closely written lines, down the pages, then paused to read this sentence:
Let us take our marriage vows again—from this day forward to love, cherish each other until death us do part.
Breathlessly Joy turned back to the diary to read Rose’s ecstatic response to the receipt of that letter.
God is so faithful. All my prayers have been answered. My dearest Malcolm has written me a precious letter. It is a priceless confirmation of the love we have for each other. Nothing can come between us, nothing can separate us, for our hearts and souls are bound to each other forever. We both want to renew our wedding promises. “What God has bound together, let no man put asunder.” Amen to that.
The entries were few and far between after that. Short notations of everyday events. The rest of the pages were blank, as if the journal had suddenly halted. Had Rose merely stopped writing? Or had something caused the diary’s abrupt ending?
Gayle’s voice jolted Joy back to the present. She scrambled to her feet, dropping the diary into her tote bag, and hurried out into the hall. She leaned over the banister. “I’ll be right down!” she called to Gayle, who was standing at the bottom of the curved stairway, looking up at her.
“You’ll be happy to know I left flowers on each of the graves—in both cemeteries,” Gayle told her.
“Good,” Joy said. She remembered reading Rose’s epitaph: “Love Is As Strong As Death.” Then she suddenly recalled that the date on the headstone, 1862, was the same year as that last diary entry. Joy felt a kind of bittersweet sadness, almost as if she had known Rose. Had she died happy, anticipating a joyous reunion with her estranged husband? Joy hoped so.
“Are you about ready to go?” Gayle asked. “I think we should probably leave by noon. But first I want to show you something I found.”
Joy followed Gayle down the drive, past the meadow on one side and an orchard with gnarled old apple trees on the other, onto a woodland path. Gayle led the way and over her shoulder told Joy, “I came down from the cemetery by another way and just happened on this.” She stopped and pointed across an arched, rustic bridge. Through the thick foliage Joy saw the slanting roof of a small house. Another secret of Montclair? Could this be the Eden Cottage both Heather and Rose had mentioned? Joy felt a tingle of anticipation as they went along the path, which was almost obscured with wildflowers. When they reached a clearing, there stood a replica of Montclair. Its dimensions were cottage-size, but the architectural details were the same. It was built of clapboard and mellowed brick, with dormer windows along the second level. Two longer, shuttered windows flanked the paneled front door, which had probably once been painted bright blue.
“What do you suppose this is?”
“I know what it is. It’s a honeymoon house, Eden Cottage,” Joy answered and went on to explain what she had learned.
“Perfect, isn’t it?” Gayle glanced at Joy. “I would consider not selling this along with the rest of the property, Joy. This would be an ideal place for you to live eventually. An artist’s retreat.” Then she smiled, her eyes mischievous. “Of course, you could also use it for its original purpose!”
chapter
21
AS THEY CROSSED the Virginia state line, Joy felt a kind of sweet sadness, even though she knew she would be coming back again when the final papers were drawn to transfer Montclair to the Mayfield Historical Society. She planned to bring Molly with her then. Molly would love and appreciate everything. However, this first time of discovery was bittersweet and would never be repeated. Joy was leaving with a lingering memory of something priceless and special.
They got back late that afternoon. Spring had not yet arrived in this northern climate. They drove through a heavy mist that was fast turning to an icy rain. They had not talked much on the trip. Both had much to think about. Now only the whisper of the windshield wipers broke the silence that had fallen between them.
When Gayle let Joy out of the car at her tree house, she refused the offer to come in for supper. “Thanks anyway, but I have to be at the hospital early in the morning.”
Joy said, “It meant so much to me for you to go with me, Gayle.”
“It was good for me too, Joy. I took lots of pictures. I think my mother and grandmother will be real interested in seeing what Montclair looks like. When they’re developed, I’ll give you prints.”
They said good-bye and Gayle drove off.
The apartment seemed damp and lonely when Joy walked inside. She dumped her suitcase and sleeping bag and went straight to the kitchen. She put the kettle on to boil water for tea. Everything seemed strange and small after the high-ceilinged, spacious rooms of Montclair.
Waiting for the tea to brew, she unzipped her tote bag and pulled out Rose’s diary. She had only had time to read a few pages when she found it. Now she felt a compulsion to read more to pull this love story together, because it contained all the romantic drama, intensity, and heartbreak of a best-seller. Joy was an ardent believer that nothing happened by chance. Somehow, finding the hidden journal made it seem meant for her. She had something to learn from it. Maybe she would discover a clue to her own dilemma.
I realize now I didn’t really understand about love, didn’t know the real meaning of love for a lifetime, never fully grasped the depth of the vows I took. I thought I loved Malcolm with all my being. But all of him? His mind, the way he thinks, what motivates him, what his views on the important things of life are?
In my father’s house I was treated as if I had some intelligence, some opinions worth expressing, and was allowed to do so. Here women are expected only to be decorative, charming, to smile and agree with everything the men believe and say. I find this difficult, and as a result Malcolm finds me difficult!
Did I make a terrible mistake in marrying Malcolm? Was it a mistake for him as well, to have a bride who doesn’t quite fit the mold of a southern lady? Is love enough for us to overcome these differences? I pray so because I love Malcolm with all my passionate heart and I want us to be happy. If being myself makes him unhappy, then I was wrong to accept his proposal. It was my own weakness to love and not count the cost. I read this somewhere and copy it here: “Love’s door has two keys: one is trust, that frees you to unlock that portion of yourself you must surrender to another person if you want to be loved fully; the other is hope, that the other person will allow you to love him and will love you in return.”
Joy put aside the book. There was so much wisdom here. Love made life so complicated. Rose’s self-questioning mirrored her own. Had Rose and Malcolm ever solved all the things that divided them, and lived happily ever after? No, not according to the date on the headstone.
As Joy sleepily got ready for bed, Rose’s repeated reference to being unequally yoked lingered in her mind, as if echoing from the pages of the one-hundred-year-old diary.
The next morning when her alarm went off, Joy could hardly drag herself up and out of bed. It had snowed during the night, and a glance at the leaden sky full of heavy clouds promised they were in for a late-winter storm.
The last thing she wanted to do was brave the weather, go to the hospital, and work. Most of all, she wasn’t ready to see Evan. She needed time to sort out her accumulated feelings about the weekend—and especially her feelings about him.
Coward! she accused herself. Evan would have to be faced, their relationship confronted. To heighten her tension, her car wouldn’t start. Evidently, from the days of idleness the battery had run down. After several futile attempts to get the engine to turn over, Joy gave up in frustration and trudged to the bus stop.
Her stomach was tight with anxiety. She dreaded the thought of seeing Evan. As she stepped off the elevator, the possibility of that happening anytime soon vanished. The fourth floor was a scene of frantic activity. A kind of organized ch
aos seemed to be in progress.
From one of the haggard residents drinking coffee in the staff lounge, Joy learned that there had been a bad accident on the freeway in the early hours and that the three operating rooms and the recovery rooms were full of victims.
“A busload of skiers coming back from a mountain resort collided with a truck trailer,” he told her wearily. “Those of us on the night shift have worked right on through, and every doctor on staff was called in. It’s been a nightmare.”
Evan would be among those called in, Joy knew. There would be no chance of seeing him for hours. She felt relieved, then suddenly guilty for thinking so selfishly.
She went into the solarium and looked at the panels but soon decided that with all the pandemonium, there was no way she could do any concentrated work. Besides, she had a headache and a stuffy nose. Maybe she was coming down with a cold. She had better go home and head it off with hot lemonade and rest.
She walked out of the hospital and into a drizzle that by the time she reached the bus stop had turned into a steady rain. Despite the shelter’s protection, the wind-driven rain slashed into her mercilessly. Finally the bus lumbered up, but by the time Joy got off and ran the few blocks to her house, she was thoroughly chilled and shivering wet.
A hot bath was all she could think of. She ran a tub, poured in capfuls of scented bath oil, and eased herself into the fragrant steam. Leaning her head back on the rim of the tub, she closed her eyes and allowed herself the luxury of escape. As she relaxed in the scented warmth, as if from a long distance away she heard her phone ring. It startled her with its persistence. She did not budge, telling herself that by the time she got out of the tub, wrapped herself in a towel, it would stop. She leaned back, closed her eyes again. It rang several more times. She ignored it. Finally it stopped.
