by Jane Peart
Luc did not see her right away, so she called out to him. She took a few steps, then halted. She couldn’t seem to move any farther. Then she held out her arms, tears streaming down her face. His gait was awkward as he hobbled toward her. Dropping his cane, he went into her arms. She felt him sag against her, felt his shoulders shaking as they clung to each other wordlessly.
After a few minutes Alair gently disengaged herself, stooped and picked up his cane, handed it to him. “Come, darling, we’re going home.”
“Home?” he echoed, as if he’d never heard the word.
“Blanding Court, for now,” she said, and holding his arm, she guided him toward the car parked at the curb, where Lady Blanding’s chauffeur, Manning, waited, his own faded-blue eyes misty as the couple made their way toward him.
Luc stood looking down into the crib at his sleeping son. He put a gentle finger alongside the rosy cheek, touched the chubby hand, the golden curls. Alair came up beside him, slipped her hand through his arm. He turned and gazed down at her.
“Although I prayed for this day, I don’t think I really believed it would ever happen,” he said, smiling ironically. “That says a lot for my faith, doesn’t it?”
“But darling, two years is a long time.”
“It seemed an eternity. Sometimes I thought it would never end. To get through each day, I had to drag out what I could remember, what I had to come back to.”
“The letters you wrote were full of faith, Luc. You made me believe. You kept me strong.” Alair pressed his arm, leaned her head against his shoulder.
“We’ve lost so much time together,” Luc sighed.
“We’ll make up for it, darling,” Alair said soothingly. “Mama has arranged with Jill Cameron for us to have Larkspur Cottage. We’re to take little Noel and go away, just the three of us, so we can get to know each other all over again and so you can get to know your little boy.”
“I can’t seem to think very far ahead, about the future…. I guess I’m so used to just thinking an hour at a time.”
“It’s all right, darling. Everything will be all right. We’ll just take it one step at a time.”
“I understand now why Aunt Kitty felt the way she did,” Luc said. He might have said more, but he saw Alair’s expression tighten and he realized she didn’t want to talk about the war or what it had done to him, to both of them. Maybe he’d just have to keep his thoughts and feelings to himself for a while, until he was able to handle them. He’d have to keep them prisoner as he had been a prisoner. He had heard that unless you’d experienced it yourself, you couldn’t understand. The attitude most of the POWs maintained—had to maintain, for their own protection, their own sanity—was to keep their emotions locked, never let their captors sense a vulnerability, a weakness. It was the only way to survive in a prison world. Luc was strong-willed. He had fought those black times when the despair and depression would overwhelm him. He’d learned how to close himself off from his own feelings. It had meant iron self-discipline. He’d lose track of time altogether. Days would go by and the black cloud would envelop him. Freedom came with a price. He would have to reverse what prison camp had taught him, not let Alair see that it was always hovering just behind him, over his shoulder, ready to pounce.
It was his problem, his battle to fight. He’d have to remember that. Alair had been through enough. He was determined not to burden her with his memories. He would eventually get over it, he prayed. In the meantime it was probably a good idea for them to go away together. He did feel somewhat like a biblical “stranger in a strange land.” He had to learn to be normal again, had to build a life with Alair and their little son. Luc knew for sure that he wasn’t ready to go back to America, to Virginia. He was still in shock after learning his father had been killed while he was in prison camp. Aunt Cara had closed Montclair afterward. Even so, Luc did not have the energy, the strength, the incentive, to go back to Mayfield and take over. He felt weary; he felt a hundred years old. Would he ever feel young again?
He didn’t have to decide anything right away. Alair was already talking about packing, getting things together to leave for Jill’s little cottage. There they would find each other again, find the love that had first brought them together, the love that had kept them together through the years of separation. At Larkspur Cottage, surely it would all come together for them again.
chapter
31
Blanding Court
ALAIR WANTED HER LIFE BACK, the lazy, golden days of that last summer when their love had been new—“love and the world well lost.” She wanted Luc back, the way he was then, the Luc she had fallen in love with.
He sat on the terrace, his shadow falling on the sun-splashed stones. It seemed symbolic—Luc was a shadow of the man he had once been….
The smile on his gaunt face with its hollowed cheekbones—the smile that never reached his haunted eyes. What was he looking at? What did he see? Lost comrades? The men with whom he had shared the brutal prison life? The ones who hadn’t survived to come home—those who would never come home?
Alair’s heart was wrenched. She felt a chill as the clouds passed over the sun, blocking it momentarily.
She chided herself, refusing to spoil what God had given her back. Hadn’t she prayed night and day for Luc’s return? Any way, any how, just so he would come back?
She remembered those long years of separation. It had always seemed to be winter. She knew that months had passed, that one by one the seasons had come, the spring turning into summer and then into fall … and yet to her, frozen in her longing, her grief, it had always seemed dreary, cold.
Then miraculously Luc had come back; against all odds he had been restored to her. Now it was up to her not to lose the future. God would bring it about, if only she would believe the promise, the one she had clung to through all those dark days: “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” How she had held on to that, desperately, blindly. She must hold on to that now as well. God had brought her through the valley; she could depend on him to bring her through this too.
One day Luc would laugh again—how she missed that! He would look at his little son and see him, really see him. What we have once loved we can never lose—she’d read or heard that sometime, somewhere.
The sun came out from behind the clouds. Alair felt its warmth against her back as she went up the terrace steps toward Luc. She was carrying a box of plants, primroses to put in the flower box that edged the terrace. Planting was an act of faith, if anything was. Placing tiny seeds or starts in the earth and believing, hoping, that in time they would emerge in glorious blooms.
That was her belief, that Luc and she would again know the great intimacy, the closeness, they had once taken for granted. Even if her faith was just a tiny seed now, with God’s grace it would strengthen and grow, just as would Luc’s health—emotional, physical, spiritual. Alair knew in her heart of hearts that was so.
Luc’s progress was slow and precarious. It was evident that he did not have the stamina, the energy, nor the desire to return to the States, take over Montclair. No one could expect that of him in his condition. That was quite clear to Cara when she came to see him at Larkspur Cottage.
Alair was very protective of him, and one evening after dinner, when Luc had excused himself, the two women talked long into the night.
“I don’t know if Luc will ever regain his full health, Aunt Cara,” Alair told her earnestly. “Quite frankly, I don’t want him to tax himself in any way—after what he’s been through these last three years. He must be given time to recover and get well. Here he will have every comfort, everything he needs to regain his strength. He’s under the care of a very fine doctor, and mother and father want to give us a trip to Switzerland, to a wonderful resort there—for however long it takes for Luc to get back his health. I don’t want him under any kind of pressure.”
For all her gentleness, Alair’s voice was very firm, her intention unmistakable.
Cara knew a
nd understood what Alair was saying and what she had left unspoken as well. Kip was dead, Luc unable to take on the management of Montclair. Well, then, there was only one option left to her. Fraser. She would have to go to Scotland, talk to Phoebe and make her proposal.
Birchfields
Niki and Fraser walked along the path that led to the lake.
“It seems strange here without Aunt Garnet,” she said.
“She was a remarkable lady. I wish I’d had a chance to know her longer. I wish she’d known about us.”
“I think she did. After she met you the first time, she said to Bryanne, ‘Now there’s a man strong enough for Niki.’” Niki laughed. “She was a romantic, you know. One of her favorite sayings was a French quotation, ‘Dans la couer vous avais toujours vingt ans’—‘In your heart you are always twenty years old.’”
Fraser halted, pulled Niki close. She put her arms around him, lifted her face for his kiss. After a while they began walking again, swinging hands.
“Shouldn’t we be making plans?” Fraser asked.
“What kind of plans?”
“Wedding plans, of course. I thought women were the ones who liked to talk about weddings.”
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Then it’s time you did.”
“Let’s wait until Tante gets here,” Niki suggested.
“In the meantime?”
“I was thinking I’d like to go to France. Pick up my search again …”
“I don’t think this is a good time, do you? If things were bad when you were there before the war, they’d probably be chaotic now.” He waited a minute to see how she’d respond, then said, “Darling, when it’s the right time, I’ll go with you.”
“You will? But it’s not important to you …”
“Niki, don’t you know that anything that’s important to you is important to me? From now on we’re in this—whatever it is—together. That’s the way I want it. Always.”
1946
chapter
32
Scotland
CARA’S MEMORIES OF SCOTLAND were of her long-ago training as an ambulance driver in the Great War, the one they now called World War I. Please, God, she prayed, may there never be a third. She thought of Luc and Alair’s baby, nearly the same age as Luc had been then. Cara controlled a shudder. Why, now that it was over, did she sympathize more with what Kitty’s attitude had been all along? In her recent position with the Red Cross, Cara had dealt firsthand with the men flooding into veterans’ hospitals. She had seen the hopelessness in their eyes, knowing they faced months, perhaps years, of multiple surgeries and rehabilitation therapy before they could resume their normal lives—if that would even be possible.
Of course, being with Luc had brought it all closer than before. She was almost thankful Kip had not lived to see Luc in his present condition. It would have broken his heart. God has a purpose for everything, even the tragedies of our lives, Cara thought, remembering how Owen had tried to tell her just that.
Now she had to face a new responsibility, and it weighed heavily upon her. Montclair. Who would take over what they had naturally expected would be Luc’s inherited role? That’s what she had to discuss with Phoebe.
Cara recalled the vibrant, pretty young governess Aunt Garnet had hired for the children during the family reunion at Birchfields in 1897, the year of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. She and Kitty had been six years old and full of mischief. Evalee had been there, too, and Phoebe had managed them all with patience, good humor, and tolerance. How surprised they had all been when Uncle Jonathan married her after Davida’s death.
But she was exactly right for him. Down-to-earth, sensible, practical. Intelligent, understanding, sympathetic.
Cara was looking forward to renewing her acquaintance, especially now that they would have an even closer connection. She smiled, thinking of Niki’s shining eyes and Fraser’s glowing expression when they had met her in London and told her of their engagement.
Would Fraser be willing to come to Virginia and manage Montclair, the only home Niki had ever really known? How strong were his ties to his native land, his obligation to the family hotel business? Did Phoebe expect him to take over her job eventually? All this had to be found out, discussed, when Cara laid out her proposal to Phoebe. If it was turned down, then what? Cara did not even want to consider the alternative. Sell Montclair? The house where a Montrose had been master for over two hundred years?
The train rattled into the tiny station, and Cara left her compartment and stepped out onto the platform. The air was sharp, crisp, and damp. Cara turned up her coat collar and glanced around. She had not expected to be met. Trains were still running on irregular schedules as they slowly were converted from wartime troop transportation, and she had not been sure of her exact arrival time. Phoebe had told her the McPherson Arms was only a short walk and from the depot could be seen at the crest of the hill.
As Cara started up the winding street, she glanced about her with pleasure. Kingaren looked just the way a small Scottish town was supposed to—picturesque and charming. Stretching beyond it were rolling hills covered with heather and gorse, and the sweeping curves of distant mountains.
The McPherson Arms, which commanded the hillside it overlooked, was a timbered stucco-and-brick building. She entered the lobby and thought it more resembled a laird’s country house than a hotel. Paneled walls were hung with pictures of men in full Highlander regalia. Comfortable chairs in faded plaid slipcovers were arranged in conversational groups before a wide stone fireplace, where a fire welcomed and warmed the weary traveler. As she stood on the threshold, she heard a soft voice with a musical lilt say her name. A tall woman came toward her, holding out both hands.
“Phoebe!” The two women embraced. “It’s so good to see you.”
“And you too. To think that we’re going to be mother-in-law for each other’s children!” Phoebe laughed. Its delightful sound took Cara back to her childhood, when Phoebe had joined in their play. “Come along. We’ll have some tea straight away and a chance to talk.”
Phoebe took Cara’s arm and, passing the reception desk, said to the smiling young woman behind it, “This is my—what? My cousin? From America, Ellen. We’re going back to my apartment. Will you have Annie bring us some tea, please?”
In Phoebe’s apartment a small coal fire glowed, shining on the polished brass fender. “Do sit down and be comfortable, Cara. There’s so much to talk about, so much I want to hear.”
Cara hoped Phoebe would be open to her proposal and agree with her that Fraser was now the rightful heir to his father’s estate.
Tea was brought in by a rosy-cheeked, cheerful maid. Cara, who had only had a hurried cup of tea and a stale bun at the London terminal tea shop, appreciated the hearty repast provided—freshly baked scones, shortbread, marmalade and lemon curd, and rich, strong tea. After the initial catching up was done, Cara brought up what she had traveled so far to discuss. She watched the other woman’s face as she outlined her plan.
Phoebe had lost some of her youthful softness; her cheekbones were prominent and her eyes were thoughtful. She listened to all Cara had to say. Then she asked, “And have you discussed this with my son?”
“No, I wanted to talk with you first.” Cara smiled. “Fraser was so besotted with Niki at the time, I didn’t know whether he could discuss anything sensibly for a few weeks.”
“I know. He is deeply in love with your daughter. I saw that when they were here.”
“I believe he would do anything to make her happy. Montclair is Niki’s home. She realizes that now more than ever. You know her background, of course?”
“Yes,” Phoebe said, nodding. She was quiet for a long time. Then she spoke. “Like every mother whose son went to war, I suppose, I eagerly anticipated Fraser’s safe return. Not that he ever wanted to take over the hotel. Oh, he worked here on school holidays and during the summer. But he’s really a farmer. He talked often of having hi
s own farm, raising sheep. So I should think the idea of having a place like Montclair would seem ideal to him.” She paused and her eyes glowed momentarily with the brightness of tears. “And I think Jonathan would be very pleased.”
chapter
33
Mayfield June
1946
SOUTHERNERS ARE PARTICULARLY AWARE of the significance of heritage. So people in Mayfield buzzed with excitement at the announcement of Niki’s engagement to Fraser Montrose. That the young couple would make their home at Montclair seemed singularly appropriate.
After all, the house had been built for Claire Fraser, the bride who had come to Virginia from Scotland to be its first mistress. Everything now seemed to fall perfectly in place with Niki and Fraser’s marriage.
It was a storybook wedding. The Mayfield church was decorated with flowers from the gardens of many of the family’s friends. Because there were still wartime shortages to be dealt with, the bride’s dress was one borrowed from her Aunt Evalee. However, it was rumored to be a Chanel creation worn by Evalee at her wedding to a Russian prince. Niki’s veil was an heirloom lace that had been worn by other Montrose brides. Her three cousins—Nora “Scotty” Cameron, Natasha Oblenskova, and Cara-Lyn Maynard, the senator’s daughter—and the bridegroom’s sister, Fiona Montrose, were her bridesmaids, gowned in pastel shades of organza.
In place of her late father, Captain Kip Montrose, the bride’s uncle, Scott Cameron, would give the bride away.
In the vestibule Niki fidgeted while Aunt Jill adjusted her headdress of orange blossoms. “Hold still,” Jill whispered.
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m too excited,” Niki apologized. Jill smiled. She had never seen a happier bride. How wonderful that everything had worked out so well.
Who would be the next bride? Jill wondered, casting a speculative glance at her own daughter. Scotty had had several wartime romances but nothing serious. Last night at the rehearsal dinner when they had cut the “prophecy cake,” in which were baked tiny silver charms, Scotty had drawn the ring denoting the next engagement. Well, we’ll have to wait and see, Jill thought. Scotty didn’t give any inclination of settling down. Natasha had drawn the clover promising fortune. Maybe she would become a famous model, as her cousins were urging her to do, and make lots of money. Cara-Lyn had drawn the tiny wishing well, meaning she would get her secret wish, whatever that was. She was the serious, career-minded cousin, so who knew? The beautiful Scottish girl, Fiona, had drawn a star, and no one knew exactly what that predicted. It was lovely that she and Phoebe could come for the wedding.
