by Jane Peart
Garnet found that Mrs. Beasley was up and, though sleepy-eyed, busily arranging the tea tray. Satisfied, she returned to the library. Of all the rooms in the house, this had been the favorite of Jeremy, her late husband. It had floor-to-ceiling oak bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics, and was furnished with deep, comfortable chairs. Over the mantel hung the painting Jeremy had loved most, a portrait of Garnet and their daughter, painted when Faith was fourteen by a well-known society portrait artist.
Charles, the butler, pushed the tea trolley into its place by Garnet’s chair, and she poured the steaming, fragrant liquid into Wedgwood cups. Observing that Luc and Alair were in an animated conversation, she signaled Cilia to pass the plates of thin cucumber, watercress, and creamed-salmon sandwiches around to the others.
Luc helped himself generously to the plate Cilla offered him, while saying to Garnet, “This is a wonderful house, Aunt Garnet. I don’t think I noticed it when I was here before. I’ve been thinking about possibly going into architecture as a profession. That is, I was, before the war.”
“Yes, it is lovely. And quite old, but well built. It was constructed in the 1850s, we were told. Craftsmanship was a matter of pride then. It’s much too big for a woman living alone, but when we first came here, it was different, of course. We used to do a great deal of entertaining….” Garnet’s voice held a trace of melancholy as in her mind’s eye she saw the picture of long-ago summer afternoons, the women in their embroidered, lace-trimmed white dresses, veiled hats, the men in blue blazers, stiff collars, white flannels—playing croquet and gathering for tea served underneath the trees.
She glanced over at Luc. She could see in him traces of both his father, Kip, and grandfather, Jonathan, Garnet’s beloved “foster son.” Underneath the cheerful chatter, Garnet felt a wave of depression and fear. There were so many reminders in this scene. Luc looked so young and confident in his uniform, but behind him rose the specter of other young men in uniform. Confederate gray and Union blue, the khaki of 1914…. Garnet suppressed a shudder. It wouldn’t do to let the young people see under her facade. She had seen too much of war in her lifetime, what it did to young men, to women who loved them, to families. The first terrible war with Germany still was a scar in her memory. In 1917 she had turned Birchfields into a recuperative center, a place where men could come and be healed—physically and emotionally. It was something she had never thought to do again. Not that she was repeating that effort. Only on the weekends this time, and without the help of Bryanne and others, she would not have been able to do that. But life must go on. One must be cheerful and do what one could.
How long had it taken her to learn that? To accept life, to bow to fate, to become resigned to her losses, her pains, problems, challenges—and also her great happiness. She had known love and had been loved. What more could one ask? She smiled ruefully, thinking, I sound like Grace Comfort. Maybe I should write a column. She glanced over at Cilia and a smile lifted her mouth. The fact that Grace Comfort was really Cilia’s father, Victor, was the well-guarded family secret.
Then Garnet glanced at Alair, who was listening with rapt attention to some humorous story Luc was telling. There was an expression on her pretty face that brought a slight stab of recognition to Garnet. She looked dazzled. This was not exactly surprising. Luc was certainly any girl’s romantic idol, and the uniform added to the glamour, which often led many to mistake infatuation for love. In wartime so many dangers darkened these quick love affairs. But young people nowadays were more knowledgeable, more sophisticated than in other times, and Alair was a sensible girl, not one to easily let her heart rule her head—at least Garnet hoped not. She felt a responsibility to the girls’ mothers, since she had enlisted their daughters to help her hostess these weekend parties.
The best thing was to keep them all busy and moving in a crowd, no pairing off, so they don’t get romantic ideas. Garnet turned to Luc and asked, “Did I tell you that Fraser Montrose, from Scotland, is stationed nearby? He came for a visit recently. I practically raised his father, Jonathan, you know. You’ve met Fraser, haven’t you?”
Luc smiled. “You mean my Uncle Fraser?”
“Uncle?” echoed Alair, looking puzzled.
“Another of the Montrose family’s complicated relationships,” Luc explained. “My father and Fraser are half brothers. Jonathan is their father. His first wife—Dad’s mother—died, and Grandfather married Phoebe McPherson later and had a second family, Fraser and Fiona.”
“Oh, you Virginians! It’s so mixed up! I can’t keep all these relationships straight.” Cilla rolled her eyes as if in exasperation.
“You don’t have to,” Luc said, grinning. “I was a bit wary when I came over in 1939 and went to Scotland—to get acquainted, you see—but I felt right at home.” He smiled at Cilla. “Wait and see. You’ll like Fraser.”
“Niki will be down this weekend,” Garnet said, “and if Fraser comes, it will be a real family reunion. I have an idea.”
“What is your idea, Aunt Garnet?” asked Cilla, the practical one.
“Why don’t you have a picnic? Make a day of it?” Garnet suggested. She herself had always loved picnics, as a young girl and even after. She loved the informality, the gaiety, that seemed to be a special ingredient of such times.
“Do we have enough petrol?” Luc asked. “I only requisitioned enough to get here and back to the base.”
“You can take my station wagon, and no need to go far. There are some lovely spots within a short distance. I’ll have Mrs. Beasley pack you a basket.”
Niki did not arrive. She called Garnet, and although it was hard to hear with the crackling on the line, Garnet got the message that something had come up and Niki could not come. When Garnet told her Luc was at Birchfields, she sounded very disappointed. But there was no help for it. Wartime, as everyone accepted, made the best plans go awry.
“Well, I hope you’ll have better luck next time, honey,” Garnet said consolingly.
“So do I,” Niki said. Garnet could hear the sadness in her voice. To have missed a weekend at Birchfields was bad enough; to miss seeing Luc was worse.
Neither did Fraser show up. But the other three “cousins” enjoyed themselves anyway.
Since it was Friday and the beginning of the weekend open house at Birchfields, some of the regulars from the airfield came over that evening. Invitations to the picnic were extended to them, as well as to some of Alair’s and Cilla’s special girlfriends.
The following morning when Luc came downstairs, breakfast was set out in the English manner, and both girls were already at the table. Through the glass French doors a glimpse of the magnificent sweep of green lawns and gardens could be seen. It was such a peaceful scene that it was possible to imagine that there was no such thing as war.
Luc helped himself to the wide selection of dishes, remembering what Aunt Garnet had told him: in the country, the deprivations of wartime were not so obvious. Birchfields raised its own pigs and chickens, so there were grilled sausages, eggs, and jam made from berry bushes in the kitchen garden.
“You’ve certainly got a day for a picnic,” Garnet remarked, stopping in the doorway on her way out to the kitchen to check on the baskets being packed for them. In the pantry, she looked through the cabinets and saw the neatly arranged rows of canned ham, chutneys, jars of marmalade, mustard, luscious preserves. She was glad she’d gone to Fortnum and Mason before she left London last time, and had stocked up on some goodies. When she bought the delicacies, she had not thought about a picnic, but now it seemed the perfect use for them.
She put out her hand for a bright tartan container of Dundee cakes, thinking to include it in the basket. Then she thought better of it. She enjoyed them as her bedtime snack, and since one never knew when they might be scarce, she decided to keep them for herself. Old age has to have some compensations, she thought, chuckling a little at her own joke and her own selfishness. Young people had youth and the possibility of love, which was more than she
had and far more enjoyable than cream crackers.
Several of the young men from last night arrived in an overcrowded jeep just as Luc and the girls finished breakfast.
By ten o’clock she had seen them off. The favored airmen piled into the army jeep, and their “dates” crowded into an old jalopy, a relic resurrected by necessity from a wrecking lot. Luc apologized that his Austin-mini had room for only a single passenger. Somehow Alair found herself seated in it. Cilla, at the wheel of Garnet’s station wagon—which was loaded with the picnic baskets, blankets, pillows, and a box containing a badminton set—took the overflow from the jeep, and the caravan started off amid much laughing and shouting.
The place Garnet had suggested was a lovely tree-shaded glade with a sloping path to a quiet lake. Actually, it was at the end of Birchfields’ vast property.
Everyone spilled out of their cramped transportation and scattered to explore the beautiful site. Some of them set up the net for the badminton game, handed out rackets, and chose teams.
The game was fiercely played, hotly competitive, the girls vying to win as the fellows wielded their rackets and sent the shuttlecock soaring over the net with strong strokes.
A great deal of laughter, teasing, challenges, ensued as they argued about points. It was all in good fun and, declaring it a draw, they finally all sought the cool shade under the huge trees. They opened the picnic hampers and started bringing out the food. Lemonade and chilled cider were poured, and everyone ate hungrily of the sandwiches and ham, the fruit and cakes.
The earlier high spirits seemed to gradually dissolve into quiet conversations. Some of the players stretched out on the grass, worn out from the strenuous exercise, lulled by the humming warmth of the afternoon, feeling the unusual relaxation of this peaceful spot. Some even closed their eyes and drifted off.
“All my life I’ve heard it quoted, ‘Oh, to be in England, now that April’s here.’ Now I know what they mean,” Luc said to Alair.
“Yes, it is lovely. Oddly enough, it seems especially so this April,” she remarked. “It’s so peaceful that it’s hard to imagine—”
Luc looked at her with a surprised expression. “You must be reading my mind. That was almost exactly what I was thinking. That I’m here in England, at this spot, at this particular time in history. Half the world is at war and there are a lot of bad things going on, and yet we’ve been given this beautiful afternoon.”
“I do know how lucky we are,” Alair murmured.
Each of them silently added to themselves, It’s as if the war did not exist.
Luc rose from the grass, held out his hand to Alair, and pulled her to her feet, saying, “Let’s walk down to the lake. I see some swans, and I’d like to see them closer.”
All right,” she said, and together they walked down the hill.
Still holding her hand, Luc looked down at her. Meeting his gaze, Alair was suddenly aware of the feel of his palm against hers. An excited little thrum of her heart made her feel breathless, and grasping for something to say, she blurted out, “Did you know that all the swans in England belong to the Royal Family?” Once the words were out of her mouth, Alair thought, What a stupid remark to have made.
But Luc merely answered seriously, “No. There’s a lot about England I don’t know. But I’d like to learn.”
They were at the lake now, standing under an old elm tree, watching the swans glide over the water in a seemingly effortless way, hardly rippling its surface. It was so still, Alair could almost hear herself breathe. From behind them, where the others were still on the grassy knoll, the sound of voices and laughter floated down to them as if from a long distance away. Luc glanced over his shoulder, then put his arm around Alair’s shoulder and drew her to him. She turned, looked up at him, and he leaned to kiss her. Alair stepped back and Luc was instantly apologetic. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t even have tried,” he said. “But you looked so beautiful, so—”
“It’s just that … we hardly know each other.”
“Don’t we? I guess you’re right; it’s just that I had the feeling we’d known each other a long time and that—”
Just then they heard their names called and turned to see Cilla and two of the airmen heading in their direction. Cilla held up a paper bag.
“Leftover bread. Crumbs to feed the swans.”
Whatever more Luc might have said was gone now, and Alair felt sad that somehow she had missed something important, that a special moment had passed and might never come again.
However, she did know it was a day she would always remember.
It was late in the afternoon by the time they packed up the picnic things and reluctantly left the lovely site and returned to the house.
As soon as they got back, Alair hurried upstairs, bathed and changed, and came downstairs earlier than Cilia, hoping that somehow she might have time alone with Luc. She felt shy, fluttery, not at all herself, remembering the almost kiss under the ancient elm by the lake. She had been down there many times in the past, had examined the bark scarred with dozens of entwined hearts carved with initials, and had often wondered, Who was JM and FD? And did TW truly love BF? And where were all those lovers now? She went into the library, walked over to the window, and looked out at the garden. A purple dusk was falling, and everything looked incredibly beautiful, softened and touched with violet twilight.
Alair felt rather than saw Luc come into the room. But as she slowly turned and saw him coming toward her, she felt a tightening under her heart. What on earth was happening to her? For a moment they simply looked at each other. A line from a poem she had once copied into her scrapbook ran through Alair’s mind. It came and went so swiftly, she could not quite recall the words or why it was important….
The moment did not last. With a burst of laughter a group of couples came into the library, and the room was filled with people. The usual group of young airmen had invaded Birchfields. The room came alive with the sound of voices, laughter, singing, and dance music. Some of Alair’s and Cilla’s girlfriends had returned, bringing other girls with them from the village, to provide dance partners, serve refreshments, and add to the lighthearted fun.
Frightened by the intensity of her feelings, Alair murmured some excuse and hurried into the dining room, where the punch bowl and platters of sandwiches and cookies had been spread out. For the rest of the evening she kept herself busy, serving, chatting, gaily going from one dance partner to the other. Out of the corner of her eye she occasionally saw Luc. He wasn’t dancing. He was watching her. When their gazes met, he smiled but did not tag the shoulder of any of her partners in order to dance with her. Alair was both relieved and bewildered. Still, she felt too unsure of what she was experiencing not to be afraid it would show.
Garnet only stayed long enough to greet some of the newcomers, welcome them to her home, display the charm she had used all her life to make guests feel comfortable and at ease. But she tired soon these days and, leaving the hostessing to the younger women, made her way upstairs, the sounds of congeniality following her.
In a way, this wartime scene brought back her memories of the hectic gaiety of Richmond at the height of the War between the States. Even when they began to realize they were fighting a lost cause, the gallant Confederates danced and sang the nights away. It was somewhat the same now in England. Even though parts of London were burning from the German air raids, at times people still needed to laugh and be happy.
Dance music wafted upstairs to Garnet’s room. She had left her door open to listen. The songs, the lyrics, were all different from the ones she remembered. But so much was the same about the evening—pretty young girls dancing with uniformed young men, trying to be happy, forgetting for this one evening what they would soon have to face again. Gradually she began to sway to the melody, then to dance … round and round, slowly turning in the pattern the moonlight cast through the windows, humming softly…. Once she had waltzed and spun to music, once she had been in love with life and romance
, once she had been young …
It wasn’t until after midnight, when many of the servicemen had returned to the base to make curfew, that Alair and Luc had a chance to be together. Three of Cilla’s friends, Sara and Anne Aldrich and Betsy Crane, were going to stay overnight, and when they had seen the last busload leave for the airfield, they all gathered in the library to have a snack and to finish the punch.
“My feet are killing me!” wailed Cilla, sitting down and kicking off her pumps and wriggling her toes.
“That’s what you get for being the belle of the ball,” Luc teased. “I didn’t see you sit down all evening.”
“I know. But some of those fellows need dancing lessons.” She rubbed her stocking toes with a pained expression.
“Good idea. Why don’t you give them?”
“I feel like I did tonight,” she retorted.
“Listen, everyone, I need your help,” Alair said and everyone turned to her. “About the fund-raising fete Mama and Aunt Lalage are giving at Blanding Court—I have an idea for the program. Since it’s going to be on April twenty-third, I thought we’d have a pantomime and have people guess the theme, and the one who gets it right will win a prize. That way the children can all be in it. They can be villagers—they’d love screaming with fright and running about.”
“We’ll have to make costumes, of course,” said Sarah.
“That won’t be a problem,” countered Alair.
“Except for the dragon. That will be a real job. What could we use for his scales?”
“Paper mache?”
Everyone leaped in with suggestions until finally Luc tapped on his punch cup with a spoon and held up one hand, saying, “At the risk of being nominated as some kind of idiot, will someone please tell me what this is all about?”
A moment of dead silence followed. Luc looked around from one blank face to the next, then said, “From the way everyone is staring at me, I’ve exposed my ignorance to a monumental degree, and no one is going to enlighten me. Am I the only one who doesn’t know what any of this has to do with April twenty-third?”
