Courageous Bride

by Jane Peart

  “Of course. I’d be delighted.”

  “But you’re supposed to be recuperating, aren’t you? Not having company or entertaining?”

  For a moment a shadow seemed to pass over her face, darkening the violet blue eyes for a few seconds. Then Brooke said gently, “I’m not an invalid, Gareth. I like having guests, and I enjoy sharing what I love. My dolls, for instance.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—,” Gareth began.

  “I know you were just being considerate.” Brooke smiled, then added, “You are a very nice man.”

  As it turned out, Gareth did not bring Cara-Lyn to meet Brooke or see her dolls, after all. Somehow he didn’t want to share any of his time with Brooke. He had the feeling that the days of summer were going by fast, speeding in fact, faster than in any summer he had ever known. He was careful not to stay too long on his visits. He was conscious of the watchful presence of Mitsuiko. She was ever alert to the slightest hint of tiredness in Brooke. Then she would immediately but tactfully let it be known that it was time for Gareth to make his departure.

  The day came when Gareth took Brooke to Avalon. Brooke looked lovely in a lavender dress, its V-neck ruffled in delicate lace. As she seated herself in the boat, she raised a gaily decorated Japanese paper parasol with a bamboo handle. Before he pulled away from the dock, Gareth impulsively said, “My father would love to paint you.”

  She smilingly accepted the compliment. Gareth hoped he hadn’t embarrassed her with the remark. But it was true. The sun, shadowed by the parasol, gave a special light to her face, an iridescent quality to her dress. They rowed across in silence, hearing only the dipping of the oars, the sound of the water splashing against the side of the boat, a birdsong from somewhere in the top of the trees lining the banks.

  When he secured the boat at the dock, he helped her out, then led her up the stone path to the garden. Where the little rise gently sloped down to the lily pond, there was a gracefully shaped bench over which a gentle breeze lifted the drifting fronds of a weeping willow tree.

  Brooke drew a long breath. “Oh, Gareth, this is beautiful. It’s like a fairyland.”

  “Actually, it started out as an English country garden. My mother was English—well, no, she was really an American; both my grandparents were Americans, but Mama was born in England. Anyway, she liked the random look of a garden, with flowers and colors all mixed up, no formal beds nor paths, nothing that looked too planned or arranged.”

  “Japanese gardens are just the opposite,” Brooke told him. “They have a beauty all their own. No profusion of colors, variety of flowers. Rocks are more important almost—the arrangement of them is a real art. There is something quite serene…. Providing serenity seems to be the underlying purpose of gardens in Japan. And water, the sound of running water, flowing musically over rocks perhaps—it is hard to describe but really soul-refreshing.”

  “Which do you like best?” Gareth asked, knowing that what he really wanted was for her to express a preference for his. Brooke looked at him with tender amusement.

  “Do I have to choose?” she asked, laughing lightly. “Rather, ask me what kind of garden I would have for my own if I could.”

  “All right. Tell me.”

  “I don’t know really. I never imagined having one of my own or thought about what I would like to grow and have my eyes feast upon. When I was in the sanitarium and lying outside, I would daydream about being well, try to place myself in some beautiful, tranquil place—a garden. Of course, having grown up with Japanese gardens, I suppose that’s what I envisioned. Japanese gardens are usually small but are created to seem larger, the ends of paths and tiny streams concealed. This gives the impression of hidden space. Symbols are important to Japanese gardeners, and they use them in planning their gardens. Pines, for example, symbolize longevity; the bamboo for strength, the plum tree for delicate beauty, water in small fountains, flowing over rocks into little pools—all combine to express serenity. Japanese gardens tell a secret story not told in bold colors but left to the imagination of the viewer to reflect upon in quietude. In my make-believe garden there were blurred soft colors and meandering paths leading—I don’t really know where they led; I never got that far.” Brooke halted and laughed softly. “I think I must have drowsed off by then. Still, I remember it made me happy to think about it. A lovely fantasy.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a dream, Brooke. Tell me what you want, and I’ll make a garden for you.”

  Brooke touched his arm gently. “Oh, Gareth, you are reckless! Maybe it is best just to have an inward garden, to contemplate, to wander through, a kind of spiritual place where one can meditate, refresh oneself from everyday realities.”

  “A real garden could be that.”

  “Maybe,” Brooke sighed. Then she gestured to the expanse of rocks, of pinks, lobelia, dahlias, in shades from yellow to pale lavender. “To create a garden like this takes a long time …” Her voice trailed away, and for some reason Gareth felt a chill on his heart. It was almost as if Brooke were saying too long, as though … but he didn’t even want to finish the thought.

  Gareth sat quietly, watching Brooke. He still thought her the loveliest creature he had ever seen. She had stopped talking and seemed lost in thought.

  It was then he knew he loved her and would go on loving her for the rest of his life, no matter what.

  Later when he took her inside the house, she exclaimed, “Oh, Gareth, it’s just the way I imagined William Morris’s Kenscott.”

  “Maybe that’s what my parents intended; it’s probably where the idea came from. Morris, Burne-Jones, and the others in that group were my father’s inspiration.”

  “Everything is so beautiful.” Brooke glanced around appreciatively, taking in the tapestries, the heavy carved Jacobean furniture, the panels with scenes of festivities and medieval village fairs that Jeff Montrose had painted.

  “My parents often quoted William Morris’s golden rule for decorating: ‘Have nothing in your houses which you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.’”

  Brooke turned to smile at Gareth. “That’s very much the same philosophy the Japanese have for their homes.”

  And you fit in perfectly, Gareth thought, gazing at her fondly. Her classic features, the dark hair that waved softly about her face, the slender neck, the flowing ruffles on her pastel dress … Oh, Brooke, my darling, you belong here if ever anyone belonged at Avalon. Gareth’s heart was near to bursting. He longed to sweep Brooke into his arms, kiss her lovely mouth, tell her how much he loved her, longed for her to fill his life, which had been so empty until now….

  “I think you’d better take me back now, Gareth,” her low voice broke into his thoughts.

  Suddenly he felt contrite. There were shadows under her eyes, a look of weariness on her face. It had been too much for her, he thought guiltily. After all, she was recovering from a long illness.

  “Of course. We’ll leave right now.”

  She leaned on his arm as they went down the winding path to the dock, so light a weight it might have been a child holding on to him. He carefully put her in the boat, and they rowed across the river to the other bank, where he helped her out. Then as he assisted her up into the passenger seat of the pickup, Gareth belatedly was struck by its inappropriateness. He should have borrowed Lynette’s sedan. All the way back on the short ride to Shadowlawn, he chastised himself for his thoughtlessness. Brooke deserved a better vehicle to ride in than this.

  As he escorted her up to the porch steps, a worried-looking Mitsuiko came out. Speaking rapidly in Japanese, she came rushing to Brooke’s other side and assisted her up the porch steps. She gave Gareth a fierce look. It was the first time the Japanese lady had ever directly looked him in the eyes. Why, she’s angry, Gareth thought with surprise. Then he realized Mitsuiko was upset because she felt the day had been too much for her friend.

  And he was responsible. At the door Brooke turned to Gareth with a wan smile. “Thank y
ou for a beautiful afternoon, Gareth. I enjoyed it very much.” Gareth felt dismissed. He also felt concerned and unhappy. He wanted to do something to help. He wanted to get back into Mitsuiko’s good graces, to explain he hadn’t meant to keep Brooke longer than was good for her. But he didn’t have a chance. “Good evening, Gareth,” Brooke said and went into the house. Mitsuiko firmly closed the door, leaving him standing on the porch.

  The next afternoon he came by with a huge bouquet of mixed flowers. Mitsuiko met him at the door and coolly told him Brooke was resting. She took the flowers and bowed politely and thanked him.

  “Please give Miss Leslie my regards,” he said. “Tell her I hope she will be feeling better”—the door was already closing—“soon,” he finished weakly.

  That evening Gareth could not settle down. He was worried and not a little irritated with the high-handed way Mitsuiko had treated him. All the way home Gareth fumed. Had the trip over to Avalon been too much for her? He blamed himself if it had exhausted her.

  In the morning he drove back over to Shadowlawn. This time he kept Mitsuiko from shutting the door on him, by opening the screen and planting himself firmly in the frame. “I’m concerned about Miss Leslie, Mitsuiko. I don’t know if she has a local doctor, but if she doesn’t—”

  Just then he heard Brooke’s voice calling. Mitsuiko inclined her head, listening intently. A slight frown brought her dark-winged eyebrows over her almond-shaped eyes. Her mouth pursed slightly, then she stepped back, bowed. “Miss Leslie say she would like to see you, Mr. Montrose. She is out on the side porch.”

  Relieved, Gareth went inside the house and out to where Brooke was reclining on the wicker chaise. She was wearing a kimono and looking well. In fact, he thought she looked blooming. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. He didn’t realize she was running a fever, always a danger sign for one with her condition.

  “Mitsuiko is sometimes overprotective,” Brooke said, smiling. She took the bouquet Gareth handed her. “I have to remind myself sometimes not to overdo it. Especially when I am having such a good time.”

  Gareth felt relieved. Everything was all right. “I’m glad. I was afraid I’d worn you out, bored you …”

  “Bored me?” Brooke laughed her marvelous lilting laugh. “Heavens, no! You’d never do that, Gareth. I loved seeing your garden, your home. It gave me a real window into your childhood and why you grew up to be such”—she hesitated, as if not sure how to say it—“an interesting man.” It wasn’t exactly what she had intended to say, but she had not wanted to embarrass him by using words like “sensitive” or “poetic.” American men took great pride in being thought masculine.

  However, Gareth felt a warmth sweep all through him. The fact that Brooke understood and appreciated even the things he left unspoken made him happy and grateful. I love you, Brooke Leslie, don’t you know that? Dare I tell you?

  “Thank you again for your thoughtfulness,” Brooke said.

  She was tactful but he also felt he wasn’t to stay longer. At least not today.

  He got back into his pickup. But he felt too elated, too full of excess energy, to go back to Avalon, to be alone. He had to tell someone, talk about Brooke to someone. Not reveal everything he was feeling but just talk about her. He’d go see Lynette.

  chapter

  9

  Washington, D.C., was beastly hot in June, and Richmond was worse. Lynette Maynard fanned herself. It was delicious to be home at Spring Hill, with nearly two months of relaxation ahead before Frank had to start campaigning again. She leaned her head back against the chintz pillows on the white wicker rocker on her screened-in porch. She fully intended to enjoy every minute of her vacation from the social whirl of being a state senator’s wife. Cara-Lyn was working as a camp counselor in the mountains, and Lynette and Frank could look forward to a blissful, quiet time together, far away from politics, the press. She closed her eyes and sighed. How restful it was here.

  Her respite was short-lived. A few minutes later the roar of a motor coming up the drive startled her. She sat up just in time to see her brother’s pickup pull to a stop, scattering the gravel stones in front of the house. He jumped out of the cab of his truck, waved.

  She put down her fan, got up, and walked to the edge of the porch. “Gareth! What on earth! … What brings you out here in the middle of the day? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, Sis. In fact, everything’s pretty near perfect.”

  Lynette frowned. “Well, come on up and tell me all about it!”

  An hour later she watched his truck disappear down the drive. She sat back in her chair and rocked steadily for a few minutes. Who would ever have dreamed it? Of all the attractive, eligible young ladies she had trotted out on various occasions, hoping one of them would catch her elusive bachelor brother’s eye, he had gone and fallen in love with someone behind her back. And someone totally unsuitable, at that. Well, maybe not unsuitable exactly, but someone so unexpected. A missionary—isn’t that what the realtor had told them? Or maybe Frank hadn’t got it straight. Whatever, something was lost in the translation. She had assumed that a middle-aged male missionary recovering from a serious illness was to rent the Maynard house for six months. Certainly not the beauty of intelligence and charm Gareth had described.

  Well, there was nothing to do but go and see for herself. After all the years she had spent worrying about her brother, his reclusiveness, his solitary lifestyle, he had fallen completely head over heels in love with someone she didn’t know. Of course, that could be taken care of right away. She would send a note to Miss Brooke Leslie and ask if she might call. She was sure Gareth had exaggerated. People in love always did. She would find out for herself if Brooke Leslie was the paragon of beauty and virtue he had rhapsodized about.

  Lynette drove over to Arbordale in her own small green coupe. Dressed in a beige pongee ensemble, a silk straw hat, bone pumps, and matching gloves and handbag, she was the epitome of a Southern lady making a courtesy call. Of course, it was much more than that.

  The bonds between all the children of Jeff and Faith Montrose were unusually close. Lynette not only loved her brother dearly but felt protective and proprietary toward him. If he was to be in love and marry, it had to be to the right person. Because of their rootless, motherless childhood, Lynette felt Gareth needed someone who would make a real home for him. Someone who would support, encourage, and love him unconditionally. Who was this Brooke Leslie? she asked herself. What was she like to have so quickly and completely captured Gareth’s heretofore elusive heart?

  Well, she’d soon find out, she reminded herself, as she braked her small car in front of the porticoed porch.

  A young Japanese woman in a kimono patterned in indigo blue and gray opened the door to her, took the calling card Lynette handed her, then shyly ushered her into the living room.

  Lynette stood in the center of the room and slowly pivoted. Her tenant had changed things a great deal, she noted. The last time Lynette was here, the house had been cluttered with overstuffed furniture, heavy draperies, framed dark landscapes. Now it looked serene and spare. Slatted bamboo curtains now hung at the windows, letting in light; striped cotton slipcovers concealed the ornate tapestries of sofa, armchairs. Artistic flower arrangements replaced the clutter of knickknacks favored in the Victorian era, when the house had first been decorated.

  Lynette’s eyes were drawn to the mantelpiece, on which were displayed a collection of strange little figures. She walked over to examine them. Less than two inches high, they were superbly carved of ivory or some rare wood. There was a small turtle, several funny little men doing various kinds of work, a basket of fish, and a tiny rabbit gazing up with a whimsical expression. As Lynette leaned forward to take a closer look, a soft voice behind her spoke.

  “You’re admiring my Netsuke collection.”

  Lynette turned to see a tall, willowy brunette standing in the arched doorway.

  “Yes. I’ve never seen anything like t
hem. They’re delightful.”

  “Thank you. And welcome. I’m Brooke Leslie, and you of course are Gareth’s sister. I would know that anywhere. There’s a strong family resemblance. I suppose everyone tells you that.”

  “Yes, we do look alike, except for our younger sister, Bryanne, who is blond.”

  “Do sit down.” Brooke gestured to one of the armchairs. “Will you have tea?”

  “That would be nice. I must apologize for not calling upon you sooner. My husband was kept at the state capitol longer than usual—several pending bills—and we just arrived home last week. Actually, I’ve just been catching my breath, being lazy.”

  As if on cue, Mitsuiko came in, bearing a tray with tea things. Lynette noticed the small decorated teapot, the handle-less cups, of Japanese porcelain. When Brooke introduced Mitsuiko as her companion, Lynette was a little taken aback. She had assumed she was the maid.

  “Mitsuiko’s father is a professor at the university. Her family kindly allowed her to accompany me to the States,” Brooke explained.

  While Brooke poured their tea, Lynette observed her hostess. Brooke Leslie was beautiful, as Gareth had said. However, Lynette saw things a man like Gareth would not notice. She saw fine lines around her eyes and around her mouth. Whether these were caused from her illness or possibly her age, Lynette was not sure. Were those a few threads of silver in the massed dark hair? These too could be brought on prematurely by a long illness. Lynette felt she must be at least a few years older than her brother. Gareth was thirty-two. Brooke Leslie must be at least thirty-five or thirty-six.

  Her age and fragile health could be a problem. Lynette had always hoped her brother would marry, have children, carry on their branch of the Montrose family.

  The visit was like a deep pond—it was smooth and pleasant on the surface, but underneath, in the consciousness of both women, swirled many conflicting thoughts. There were subjects that needed to be explained or discussed but which, both of them knew, would never be.