Courageous Bride

by Jane Peart

  “Thank you,” he heard her say. Her voice was low, rather husky. Immediately he thought of the Shakespeare line “Her voice was ever soft, gentle and low, an excellent thing in a woman.”

  Not wanting to startle her, thinking she would be frightened if she saw the figure of a man lurking in the yard, he approached the porch and called out, “Good evening! I’m Gareth Montrose, Mrs. Maynard’s brother. I came to see if everything was all right.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “Why, yes, thank you. That is very kind of you and Mrs. Maynard, of course.” He still could not see her features clearly. “Please, won’t you come in?”

  In a few long strides he was at the bottom of the porch steps. She turned on the porch light and stepped out. When he saw her clearly, her beauty almost took his breath away.

  She was the most exquisite creature he had ever seen. Her skin was as translucent as porcelain, her eyes a violet blue. Her hair grew from a point above her forehead and fell on either side of her heart-shaped face to her shoulders.

  Gareth was not an artist’s son for nothing. Growing up surrounded as he had been with paintings, art books, artists, he compared her beauty to that of one of the models used by Rossetti—Jane Burden, perhaps.

  Was this Lynette’s tenant? When she had said the person was a missionary returned to the States from Japan, Gareth had not thought to ask if it was a man or a woman. Somehow he had assumed it would be a male missionary, probably a man with a family, on furlough from his work in a foreign land.

  Gareth’s conjecture was interrupted when the woman said, “How kind of you to come.” Her speech was very precise, almost as if English were her second language. She spoke slowly, as if choosing each word carefully. “Yes, indeed, everything was fine. We got here this afternoon and found all in order. Thank you.”

  We? Gareth wondered automatically. A husband? He felt a prick of dismay. Just then, from behind her, a diminutive young woman dressed in a blue-and-white striped cotton kimono suddenly appeared. She was, he saw, an Oriental—Japanese, of course.

  “May I introduce my companion, Mitsuiko Yatasami.”

  Ah, the “we,” Gareth thought with relief.

  “Nice to meet you both. I brought these,” Gareth said, handing over the bouquets to the young woman, who took them and withdrew. He stood there feeling a bit awkward. Then, as if he needed to explain, he said, “Your garden needs work, and I plan to get it in shape for you.”

  “How lovely and how very thoughtful of you, Mr. Montrose,” she said. “And I think I forgot to introduce myself.” She gave a melodic laugh. “I’m Brooke Leslie.”

  Gareth would always remember that moment, when he heard her name for the first time. It was as though everything suddenly receded and only that image of her remained. Her voice struck some unknown chord within him, a remembered echo of something he had been searching for all his life and was on the brink of finding. Whatever was happening, he could not quite grasp nor understand it.

  Driving back from Arbordale, he could remember little of their conversation other than that he had assured her he would be available should she need anything. He hoped he hadn’t said anything incredibly stupid. She was so utterly composed, so poised, that he simply found himself dazed. He had never felt like that before.

  Gareth had never had a serious romance. Still, that evening he knew that he had met someone who would change his life forever.

  The very next day Gareth brought vegetables from the garden at Avalon—lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers. Mitsuiko took them, smiling and bowing. Miss Leslie was resting, she told him in her tiny voice. Although disappointed, Gareth said not to disturb her and left.

  Back in his pickup, he felt like driving out to Spring Hill to question his sister, find out more about Brooke Leslie. She was so unlike anyone he’d ever met before, so different from his sisters, his cousins, any of the young women he was sometimes pressed to escort to social events he could find no excuse to avoid. He wondered what lay behind that quiet mask, her thoughtful, quiet ways too mature, too reserved, for her years.

  Why hadn’t Lynette informed him that the person renting Shadowlawn was someone so … But then he remembered Lynette saying that a realtor had made the arrangements, that neither of them had met the tenant. In a way, Gareth would like it just as well if his sister—or any of the family, for that matter—did not know about Brooke. They would all come rushing over with all sorts of tokens of Southern graciousness. Not that he didn’t value that in his womenfolk. It was just that Brooke was—well, different. To be truthful, he wanted to keep her to himself for a while, like some precious jewel he had come upon. Gareth shook his head in self-ridicule. I’m going over the wall, he thought.

  Nevertheless, more and more he found himself leaving the island, rowing over to the mainland, inventing errands, reasons to go by Shadowlawn. His primary excuse was a commitment to get the garden in shape. Actually, he was doing more than he had at first intended.

  One sweltering afternoon he had been working hard, weeding and thinning and transplanting some bulbs, when he heard his name called. Wiping his forehead with the back of his arm, he turned to see Brooke Leslie standing on the porch.

  “Mr. Montrose, surely it’s much too warm for all that. Can you stop and join me in a glass of lemonade?”

  He was too hot and sweaty to sit on the chintz-pillowed wicker chairs, he told her. Instead he sat on the steps, and they had their first real conversation.

  “I thought Virginia might be too warm for me this summer. But this place is so shaded, I’ve found it lovely and cool.”

  “This is the first time you’ve come here?” Gareth was avid with curiosity about her but was reluctant to ask too many questions.

  “No, I came here to boarding school.”

  “In the States?”

  “Yes, to North Carolina. My parents were teachers at a missionary school in Japan. By their teens, most missionaries’ children are sent home for their education. It is an accepted practice. But I was an only child, and most of my friends were Japanese girls I’d known all my life, so I was terribly homesick. I missed Japan very much, found it difficult to adjust. I stayed just long enough to finish my high school education and then went home.”

  There was so much more Gareth wanted to ask, but he was too shy, afraid she might think him too probing.

  Just then Mitsuiko glided onto the porch, bowing and apologizing, and told Brooke a package had been delivered for which she had to sign, so whatever else Brooke might have told him about herself was interrupted.

  After that day, sharing iced tea or lemonade became a ritual they enjoyed almost every afternoon he worked in the garden at Shadowlawn. It was something Gareth looked forward to eagerly.

  Soon the yard and garden were in good shape, requiring only a cutting and trimming once a week. Late one afternoon Gareth found himself restless, wanting to see Brooke Leslie, wondering if somehow he could drop by with some kind of plausible excuse. He racked his brain for some explanation, then decided he’d not even try to make something up. Impulsively he cut a huge bouquet of peonies and drove into Arbordale. As luck would have it, Brooke was lying on the wicker lounge out on the lawn. Because of the leafy maples, the lawn got the shade of the afternoon and was pleasantly cool.

  She seemed delighted with the flowers and invited him to stay for iced tea. He drew up one of the lawn chairs and sat down, thinking how exquisite she looked in a peach-colored dress of some floaty material, her dark hair resting against blue-striped pillows.

  Mitsuiko brought a tray with a pitcher of tea and tall frosted glasses with wedges of lemon, poured each of them a glass, then glided quietly away.

  “I received a lovely note from your sister, my landlady, Mrs. Frank Maynard,” Brooke said, smiling. “She said she would come by when the state legislature takes a recess and she and her husband come home for their summer vacation. I look forward to meeting her.”

  “Yes, Lynette is a great girl,” Gareth agreed. “I think y
ou’ll like her. Makes a perfect politician’s wife. You know, gracious, smiling, diplomatic.”

  A slight frown drew Brooke’s dark feathery eyebrows together on her smooth brow. “That is unlike Japan. Political wives in Japan are rarely seen. For that matter, wives never socialize with their husbands in Japan. They live very separate existences. Except at home, of course …” She paused. “It is a very different culture.”

  “Tell me about Japan,” Gareth prompted. He wanted to know everything about Brooke, where she had lived, what she had experienced. There wasn’t anything about her he considered unimportant or trivial.

  She began slowly to tell him. “Japan is a very beautiful country. Very different from America. Even though I’m an American, somehow I feel Japan is my heart’s home. I grew up there, you see, and learned to love it, its people, its customs, at a very early age. I believe those first impressions when a child is still being formed are most important, don’t you?”

  Gareth thought of his own early childhood at Avalon, followed by all the years of confusion, uprooting, adjusting to different places, circumstances. Then at twenty-three he’d gone back to live at Avalon by himself. So he thought he understood what Brooke was saying. In a way Avalon was his “heart’s home.”

  “There is a strange, wild, dark beauty in the Japanese landscape. You see it, of course, in their paintings—the stroke, the grays, the wash of a black line across white paper, indicating what the imagination can provide. Perhaps it is the mountains always in the background.”

  “You talk about it as though—” He paused, not knowing exactly why but feeling some anxiety stir within him.

  A thoughtful expression crossed Brooke’s face. Her eyes had a faraway look as she said, “As though I miss it? Yes, I do. Although, I’ve tried to train myself to live in the moment, as the Quakers advise. To be present where you are.” She paused and smiled. “And right now there is a great deal of change happening in Japan. A nationalistic spirit that is very strong. The military is influential, and after the war with China many factions are vying for power.” She sighed. “Of course, in the countryside and where I was in the mountains it remains simple, peaceful. That is what I miss.”

  They both fell silent. It was not an uncomfortable silence but a companionable one, as two kindred spirits might enjoy. Fireflies flitted in and out of the bushes, blinking their little lights and creating a magical illusion. Finally Gareth said, “I want to show you my garden. I want you to see Avalon.”

  “I’d love to sometime.”

  Gareth wanted to set a day and time to do that right then but resisted. After all, Brooke was supposed to be recuperating from her illness, whatever it was, and it did not seem appropriate to push her into making a commitment.

  chapter

  8

  BROOKE REALIZED SHE had begun to look forward to Gareth Montrose’s visits. Warned to be careful, she had been inactive so long that she had started comparing herself mythically to Tennyson’s wistful Lady of Shallot, who saw life only as a reflection in the mirror above her loom. But Gareth’s vigorous, alive presence was making a difference; she was using this metaphor less and less. She could feel his energy, his vitality, his strength. In spite of warning herself not to become dependent, she had begun to anticipate his arrival.

  It was only once in a while that she worried a little that his feelings for her might be growing deeper than friendship, perhaps even becoming romantic. But she ignored it. She didn’t want anything to disturb this pleasant relationship. Why not enjoy this attractive, interesting young man’s company? After all, she wouldn’t be here that long. She had only signed a six-month lease.

  But Brooke was a sensitive, introspective woman—or had become so in her long illness, the nature of which she had not fully disclosed to Gareth. In her years in Japan, Brooke had absorbed something of the Oriental stoicism, the reluctance to reveal personal problems. Possibly there was an even deeper reason why she had not discussed her condition with Gareth, one she found hard to admit even to herself.

  She was afraid. Her illness had once robbed her of a happiness she had felt sure was hers. She had been young, just nineteen, recently returned to Japan, hopeful, idealistic, romantic. She met Justin Wilburn, a young missionary newly out of seminary. He had been full of zeal for the life he had chosen, and he wanted Brooke to share it. She had fallen in love with him almost at once, long before he expressed a similar attraction to her. They spent hours together, reading the Bible, discussing it—well, not really discussing, because Justin expounded on it to her. He was working as an assistant in the local church while awaiting a mission assignment from his denomination’s missionary board in the States. Knowing that Justin’s appointment would be enhanced if his wife were a trained nurse, Brooke entered nurses’ training school at the American mission hospital. Upon her graduation they could marry and go into the mission field as a team.

  The rigorous training had been physically too much for Brooke, and she had collapsed. She was diagnosed with tuberculosis. The treatment of choice then was complete bed rest, isolation in a mountain sanitarium. No visitors were allowed, because the disease was considered highly contagious.

  Brooke had tried to be brave, had tried to believe that this was somehow part of God’s plan for her life, that there was something important for her to learn from this. All during the long months as she lay in bed on the sanitarium’s screened porch, bundled against the cold, clear mountain air, Brooke prayed for patience. She clung to the faith that eventually she would be healed so she and Justin could go on with their plans.

  But that didn’t happen. Fifteen months crept by, and then she received two letters. The first was a short one from Justin, saying only that he had received his assignment and would be leaving Japan for Kenya on the next ship. The second letter was from her mother, breaking the news as kindly as possible that Justin was marrying a woman missionary who had recently arrived in Japan, that they had been seeing each other since shortly after Brooke had been taken to the sanitarium.

  Brokenhearted as she had been at the time, Brooke did not blame Justin. She had always known that she had come second to his life’s calling, the Lord’s work. She had been an asset only as she could fulfill and support his vocation. Now that she could no longer share that goal, he had to be free. Slowly she began to understand and feel less and less sorry for herself. Perhaps if she and Justin had married, it would have been a disaster—maybe she would have failed him, maybe her health would have broken later in Africa. There were a hundred may bes….

  In the end she admitted that God’s ways are not our ways and that maybe some other role was hers to play. When she improved and was released from the hospital, she returned to her parents’ home. She began to teach private English lessons, tutoring students who were going to the States for special education. Soon she had other challenges to face. Brooke had been a late child of middle-aged parents. Now they were both aging and in failing health. Eventually both died and Brooke was alone. A year after their deaths Brooke had a relapse and was hospitalized for a short period. It was during this time that she decided to come to the States and seek further medical treatment.

  The American doctor, a medical missionary who had known her parents, was the one who had suggested that she see a colleague of his at the university hospital in his native state of Virginia, then spend a few months there for rest and relaxation.

  Going over all that had happened to her, Brooke wondered if it had all been for some purpose. Was it so that she would come to Arbordale and meet Gareth Montrose? Nothing happens by chance for a Christian. Everything that comes into a person’s life does so by God’s permissive will. It seemed ironic that she would travel all this way and see the possibility of happiness and love so far from the land she had come to think of as her own.

  But to love Gareth and to allow him to love her was too dangerous. It would mean taking too great a chance. And always there was the risk of her health. She could not be a real wife to any man now
. Especially to someone like Gareth, a man of the outdoors, a man of strength, and younger than she at that. A man who would certainly want a family … something Brooke could never give him. She had been told earlier, even when she was still quite young, that childbearing might kill her. This was her secret sorrow.

  The weeks of summer passed in enjoyable companionship. Gareth brought flowers and vegetables from his abundant gardens at Avalon, and Brooke always asked him to stay for some refreshment, served by the shyly smiling Mitsuiko.

  These times lengthened. Gareth urged her to tell him more about her life in Japan. She delighted in telling him, because he was so interested, attentive.

  “As a little girl, I wanted desperately to be Japanese like my friends. I wanted to wear a kimono and zoris and, of course, to celebrate Girls Day like the others.”

  “Girls Day?”

  “Yes, in Japan March third is Girls Day. Sort of a national birthday celebration for girls. There are parties and special gifts for the girl in the family, and she invites her friends to come see the new doll she probably got to add to her collection.” Brooke’s smile was nostalgic. “My mother was very wise; she allowed me to enjoy Girls Day. As a result I have a wonderful doll collection, as you probably noticed.” She pointed with a delicate hand to the china cabinet.

  Embarrassed that he had not noticed, Gareth glanced at the china cabinet, where in most American homes precious pieces of heirloom china or cut glass were displayed. Now he saw that its shelves were filled with dolls of all sizes, in all sorts of Japanese costumes.

  “Oh, my niece would love those!” he commented.

  “Your niece?”

  “Yes, the Maynards’ daughter.”

  Brooke smiled. “Well, you must bring her by someday to see my dolls.”

  “Are you sure?” Gareth looked concerned, as if he’d spoken out of turn.