Courageous Bride

by Jane Peart

  He was on his knees now beside her chair. His arms circled her waist and he looked up at her.

  Brooke’s resistance broke. She was being offered the pearl of great value, the one thing she thought was lost to her forever. The devotion, the love, of a man. And such a man. Maybe this was God’s gift to her. She would be ungrateful not to accept it.

  “Oh, Gareth, dearest—” Her voice trembled. “If you really think … if you really want …”

  “I do! Say, yes, Brooke, say yes!”

  They talked for another hour, an hour happily mingled with long, tender looks, soft words, gentle kisses. Brooke explained she had to go ahead with her plans now but would return and then, God willing, they would be married. In the meantime Gareth would look for mountain property, start designing their rustic retreat.

  “How long will you be gone?” he asked, as if the words hurt him physically to say.

  “A few months at the most. I’ll have to close up my little house, say good-bye to friends.” She smiled. “You know, the usual things—packing up belongings, books, and so on I left behind.”

  He looked so miserable, she touched his cheek with her palm, stroking it lightly. “Gareth, dear, it won’t be long. The time will pass before you know it.”

  She tried to make the tone of her voice optimistic. She had to ignore the dark premonition lurking in her heart. She knew she must keep her own fears, her foreboding, to herself, not let it spill over and somehow darken his bright hope.

  Gareth, my love, remember that I love you, that we love each other. No matter what the future holds, this time we’ve had together will always be one of my most cherished memories—

  As if he had read her mind, Gareth burst out, “Please let me come with you. I could help you tie up loose ends, do whatever needs to be done. That way it would go faster. We could come back together—”

  She shook her head. “No, that would be impossible. In Japan things are not done that way. Americans are always in a rush; they want to get things done, finished, as quickly as they efficiently can. In Japan there is protocol, the formal way of doing things with courtesy, tradition.”

  “I can hardly stand to think of your leaving. I never wanted this summer to end. I wanted us to go on and on. I love you and will love you for two thousand years. Forever.” He looked at her with great intensity. Her gaze met his and held and lingered as if they were looking into each other’s souls.

  After a lingering good-bye, he left and went down the path, through the gate, in a haze of anguish.

  When the sound of Gareth’s truck faded and finally could not be heard, Brooke turned from the front door. She felt suddenly exhausted. The emotion of their parting had wrung her. She went to the staircase and stood there, holding on to the newel post before starting up to her bedroom.

  As she took the first step, her legs trembled. She clung to the railing for support, wondering if she could make it up the stairway. Her heart beat rapidly. “Mitsuiko!” she called weakly. She felt the choking cough come. “Mitsuiko!”

  At Avalon, Gareth tossed restlessly. He told himself things always seemed worse at night. In the morning everything would seem better. Things would work out. In the sunlight—when corners were not filled with shadows, and the gloom was not seeping in like fog into the room, wrapping itself around his heart and mind, dragging him down—everything would regain its normal perspective, its ordinary size, not loom over him like monstrous giants of despair.

  The day Brooke was due to leave for Richmond to take the train to San Francisco, she woke unrested from a dream-ridden sleep. She felt she had spent a sleepless night. It was gray dark when she woke up, the furniture hardly discernible in the dimness of the room. Her heart was heavy.

  Yet during this long night—mystics sometimes call it the dark night of the soul—Brooke had begun to see that it was not a question of courage, was not that she felt she could not relinquish her responsibility to Mitsuiko’s family. It was what Gareth asked, what he deserved, what her love for him longed to give. She could have made the commitment in good faith in happier days, but now there was always the dark possibility hanging over them that she might not live to return and fulfill her promise to marry him.

  She had not told Gareth about her bad spell. Mitsuiko, alarmed at her call, had come running from her bedroom to help Brooke up to bed. Brooke protested that a day’s rest would revive her. But there had been too much emotional strain. The idea of their approaching departure had been taxing. It was the very thing the doctors had warned her about. She called Gareth the next afternoon, disguising her weariness. Giving the excuse that she and Mitsuiko had many things to attend to, she told Gareth that it would be better for him not to come for a day or so. He offered help but finally accepted her word.

  In those few days when she did not see Gareth, an inner knowing grew within Brooke that was more than intuition. She felt bereft. She tried to shake it but it would not go away. It was something she couldn’t define. A shadow hovering on them, threatening their future happiness.

  On the day of their departure, Gareth, already fighting sadness and depression, drove Brooke and Mitsuiko to the train station. Brooke sat in the front beside him, and he held her hand most of the way, except when he had to shift gears. Mitsuiko, in the back, which was piled high with their luggage, smiled happily. Why not? She was going home. It would be a long trip, but at the end of their journey she would be welcomed by parents, family, friends. She was going to something she knew and loved, not leaving anything behind.

  At the station there was much to be done to get them settled in their compartment. He helped them stow their luggage, demonstrated to Mitsuiko how the little table between the windows came up, and opened the door to show her the tiny washroom. She smiled, bowed, shiny almond eyes sparkling. Then they heard the conductor coming through the train, down the aisle. It was time at last to say good-bye, for Gareth to get off and watch the train pull out, taking his beloved with it.

  “You will telegraph as soon as you get to San Francisco, let me know how the trip was, won’t you?” he said, and his voice sounded unnaturally stern. “Or phone long distance from the hotel. I’ll wait for your call.”

  Brooke protested. “Oh, Gareth, I don’t know. There’s a time difference, you see, and—”

  “I want to hear your voice, Brooke,” he said, and his own broke a little.

  “All right,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Yes, I will.”

  They looked at each other for a long time—an eternity, it seemed—each memorizing the face of the one they loved.

  “You’d better go, Gareth,” Brooke said at last.

  “I know.” He took her slowly into his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder, and she closed her eyes, feeling for one last time the strength of his embrace as his arms tightened around her slender waist.

  “God keep you, darling,” she said.

  He found it impossible to speak. She turned her head and their lips met in a kiss.

  In that kiss was everything they felt for each other. But mingled with it was the heartbreak of inevitable farewell.

  They heard the conductor’s last call coming from outside. “All aboard!”

  “You must go, Gareth, love.” Brook drew back from his embrace. “Good-bye.”

  “Take care of her, Mitsuiko,” he flung over his shoulder as he left the compartment, rushed down the aisle, not looking back. He swung down from the car and stood on the platform until the train started rolling along the track. Then he began running alongside as it moved forward, gaining speed. Brooke pressed her cheek against the window, keeping his tall figure in sight as long as possible. Then with a deep sigh she fell back against the upholstered seat, shut her eyes, two tears rolling down her pale face.

  It must be some form of masochism, Gareth told himself roughly as he swerved his pickup into the driveway of Shadowlawn. Already the yard and garden showed signs of neglect. He needed to check with Lynette, find out what she and Frank planned to do with the
house over the winter. He got out of the cab, slammed the door, and went around to the side of the house where he and Brooke had spent so many languorously happy hours together.

  He felt her presence strongly, as if she were about to enter the garden, come through the trellis, look up from her book with a smile—Brooke, Brooke! Her name was like a sharp stone in his chest. He missed her so much. He longed to see her, to kiss the gentle mouth, smooth back the fine silky hair from the pale brow, the shadows of her long lashes on her cheeks …

  For a minute he stood very still and let the sense of her presence come over him. It was almost as real, as tangible, as her absence. But it was gone almost before he could grasp it…. He certainly could not hold on to it. He was reminded of the haiku she once read to him out of a slim book of Japanese poetry: “Happiness is like a butterfly, impossible to capture; all one can do is hope it will alight on your shoulder for a brief moment.”

  Gareth clung to every memory they had shared. Holding on to them made Brooke seem closer. But even as he willed it, the reality of it slipped away. Each empty day, each day without her, made the memory of those months dimmer. Her letters were few and far between. He read them line for line, hoping, praying, for some definite word of her plans to return. Weeks went by, slipping into months, and then …

  Lynette, in her dressing gown, was at the breakfast table, eating a leisurely morning meal. She picked up the newspaper still folded at her plate. Then she saw the headlines: “Japanese Intern All Foreigners, American Nationals.” She gasped. She wondered if Gareth knew. She didn’t think her brother even took a daily newspaper. He did get the Messenger that was delivered once a week, when he went into Arbordale to pick up his mail, but sometimes she didn’t think he even bothered to read it. She put the paper down and went into the hall, picked up the phone. With stiff fingers she started to dial Gareth’s number.

  Then she replaced the phone. No, that would be too big a shock if he hadn’t seen the paper. She would have to go over there, tell him herself. She turned and rushed up the stairs to get dressed.

  She ignored speed limits as she drove over to Arbordale, her hands clenching the steering wheel of her little car, her mind already rehearsing how she would break the news to Gareth if he hadn’t heard. Oh, dear God, this was tragic. Lynette had always thought his romance with the lovely Brooke Leslie had been doomed from the beginning, for a number of reasons. But this was so unexpected.

  At the landing she did not wait to be ferried across to the island but instead hired a small boat and rowed across to Avalon on her own.

  She hurried up from the dock and found Gareth in the gardening shed. He looked startled at her sudden appearance, and his cheerful greeting died on his lips with one look at her face.

  “What is it, Sis? What’s happened?”

  Wordlessly she showed him the headlines.

  Gareth turned ashen. He took the paper she handed him and scanned the lead article, then dropped it, sank down on the wooden bench, and put his head in his hands. “Dear God,” he moaned.

  Lynette stood there helplessly. Her heart was breaking for her brother. She made a tentative move toward him. But how could she comfort him? What could she say that would help?

  Finally he raised his head and looked at her with haunted eyes. “Internment. Do you know what that can mean? I’ve read what the Japanese do to their prisoners. The atrocities they committed on the Chinese they captured …”

  “But these are civilians, Gareth, not soldiers. There are international laws about the treatment of civilians, and we’re not at war with the Japanese.”

  “We may well be soon, if things keep going as they are. Brooke told me there was a strong military presence in Japan that constantly talked about expansion, about how they needed more land …” He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I’m so worried. The conditions in those internment camps can’t be anything but horrible. Brooke’s health …” He lifted his head and looked at his sister with tortured eyes. “My God, Lynette, she could die there.”

  Deeply moved by his emotion, Lynette reached to take his hand, searching for something, anything, to say but knowing all she could offer was to listen tenderly and sympathetically and let him pour out his heart.

  chapter

  12

  Montclair

  December 7, 1941

  CARA HAD SPENT THE DAY ALONE. Kip was at the airfield, and the house seemed so empty without the old sounds of voices echoing, feet running upon the stairs, dogs barking. She even missed the pile of muddy boots in the front hall, the dogs romping in when they were allowed. She missed Niki more than she told anyone, more than she had imagined possible. And Luc was in flight training in Texas.

  Reports from England of the night air raids by the Nazi Luftwaffe, which was kept at bay only by the small, brave British air force, were frightening. How long could they hold out? Cara was afraid of what Luc might do once he got his wings. Might he follow his father’s example? In the last war against Germany Kip had joined the Lafayette Esquadrille, the group of American flyers who had volunteered to fight for France. Ever since Luc had returned from France after the summer of 1939, he had talked of joining the Canadian Royal Air Force in order to help the Allies. He had had a renewed sense of his own link to France. Luc’s French mother, Etienette, had been an ambulance driver in the last war, as had Cara herself.

  Cara shuddered, pushing away some of her horrible memories of that time. Do something, she ordered herself firmly. Keeping busy was the best way to fight the loneliness that threatened to overcome her. She decided to start a job she had put off for months—years, even. That was getting the family’s photograph album in order.

  At one time Niki had become an avid “shutterbug,” after being given a small camera for Christmas. Soon, as happened with many of Niki’s enthusiasms, the novelty had worn off, and she had gone on to some other hobby. Cara was then designated to become the chronicler of the events of their lives. Now she got out the large leather album choked with dozens of assorted photos. She sat down at the table in what had formerly been called the library at Montclair but through the chaotic years of their haphazard life had been humorously dubbed the “multipurpose room.”

  As Cara sorted through the pictures—some still in their original envelope from the developers, others thrust in a hodgepodge of bunches between the covers—she discovered that it was not the chore she had anticipated. Rather, she was enjoying it. Looking at the snapshots of Niki and Luc as little children brought back so many happy memories of the years they were becoming a real family. Luc in the cowboy outfit he’d asked for and received for Christmas. Niki, looking adorable at six, dressed for Easter Sunday in a smocked dress and flowered hat. Luc in his VMI uniform, and another of him at the Mayfield horse show, standing beside his horse and proudly holding his trophy. Niki with her beloved Shetland pony, Sugar, then later with her horse, Maggie. Still another of her, in sharp contrast, looking demure in her white graduation dress, carrying a bouquet of roses tied with a satin ribbon on which was written “Class of 1939.” That was in June, right before she left for what was to be a summer in France.

  There were many of Kip. Cara noticed this with some amusement, because they had usually been taken by her when she was trying to finish a roll of film. Kip with both children at various ages, on horseback or behind the wheel of the vintage roadster that he refused to sell or trade in for a more modern car. He periodically polished it, even though he no longer drove it. Cara studied her husband’s face, thinking how little he had actually changed. Of course, there was some gray at his temples, but that only made him look distinguished. He was still as handsome as he’d been in his twenties. She came across one she had not taken. Somehow this had got slipped in among the more recent ones. It was of Kip in front of his plane, looking confident and with that slightly amused expression, as if he found the world continually surprising. Where had this been snapped? Cara squinted, looking closer. At an airfield in France? And by whom? Ki
tty? Her twin had once been engaged to Kip. Or was it the French girl he had fallen in love with who became Luc’s mother?

  Cara was totally absorbed in what she was doing, and the afternoon passed almost unnoticed. When she heard the sound of tires on the gravel driveway, she looked up at the mantel clock and was astonished to see it was nearly five o’clock. Kip was home! Outside, the winter day was darkening. She heard his footsteps on the porch, the front door opening and slamming shut behind him. Then he was standing in the arched entrance to the library.

  One look at his face and immediately Cara knew that something was dreadfully wrong. She felt a cold fist of dread in the pit of her stomach. Had something happened to one of the children? To Luc? Or Niki? She started to get up, and all the loose snapshots spilled from the album she had on her lap.

  “Haven’t you had the radio on?” Kip demanded.

  “No, I’ve been—” She stopped abruptly. “Why?”

  “The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor. It means war.”

  1942

  chapter

  13

  AFTER DECEMBER SEVENTH, Gareth could no longer put aside the wrenching conflicts of his conscience. Boyhood friends were joining up before they got drafted, making choices as to which branch of the service they wanted to join. He could no longer avoid the issue, no longer equivocate, no longer study how he could put his knowledge of horticulture, landscaping, to a creditable war use. Still, his lifelong horror of war persisted, influenced no doubt by the attitude of his father, Jeff, and the pacifism of Kitty Traherne. He finally convinced himself that if he tried to enlist in some kind of alternative service, it might be construed as “draft dodging” and bring down the scorn and wrath of relatives like Stewart and Luc, who had already joined, respectively, the navy and air force. He could no longer sit on the fence; he had to act.