by Lisa Prysock
Polly turned around to the slate blue hutch located on the wall across from the table. She opened one of the cupboard doors and produced a loaf of bara brith[7] from within. She cut a few slices of the speckled bread and set them on a china plate matching the tea cups and saucers they were using. She added a few orange wedges and a mold of butter in the shape of a leaf to the plate before placing it on the table. Then she joined Miss Rosemont, sitting down with her own cup of tea for a break from cooking before beginning the process of changing the linens in two of the three upstairs bedrooms.
Mama had gone to visit Geneva’s older sister Lillian, now Mrs. Frank Edwards, for the afternoon. Lillian and Mama would work on their embroidery or small sewing projects while Frank operated the mercantile below stairs. In the evening, Father would arrive to retrieve Mama in the buggy so she wouldn’t have to walk home in the cold.
Geneva considered the cottage vicarage they had lived in since arriving in Cardiff when she was ten years old, the year she had given her heart to Jesus. The house had a certain charming quality about it. A covered front porch running the width of the house remained firmly among her favorite features. There was room enough for a bench swing, two rocking chairs, and a small table between those on one side of the porch. A tea table with two chairs remained covered in winter on the opposite end of the porch. A stable behind the house next to the kitchen garden, dormant at present, housed a cow named Bertha; one horse named Paddy; and the buggy Father maintained.
The front door opened into a foyer and staircase leading upstairs. The foyer led to four small rooms on the first floor. The parlor was situated on the left and Papa’s study on the right. Further down the hall, a dining room was on the left and the kitchen, on the right. A curtained arch in the kitchen led to the pantry. Upstairs, Geneva had the front facing bedroom to the left. Her parents occupied the front facing bedroom to the right. Across from these were Lillian’s bedroom transformed into a guest room and a powder room.
“Sometimes the good Lord asketh hard things of us, Miss Rosemont,” Polly said as she buttered a slice of the bread and handed it to Geneva. “Ye must do wha’ever ye can live with. Sometimes ‘tis best to forget bad things we’ve seen and trust God to the outcome.”
Geneva did not know it, but Polly’s remark would repeat in her mind many times over in the days ahead. Another week went by before a January thaw brought several days of warmth, a welcome reprieve from the snowy, harsh winds sweeping up from the sea wrapping Cardiff beneath a blanket of ice, rain, and snow in previous weeks. Geneva moped about the little cottage with a heart as heavy as a bag of rocks during the harsh weather when she wasn’t working at the mission. The change in weather was a real lift in her spirit.
Rachel Rosemont observed the changes in her daughter with growing concern. Rachel believed her youngest daughter wrestled with something complex; something bigger than any of them could understand. Vicar Rosemont, James Alexander as Rachel called him, remained oblivious, though he would soon have cause for alarm.
“The weather is nice today,” Mama commented from her rocking chair with her head bent over an embroidery hoop one sunny afternoon during the reprieve.
“Yes,” Geneva replied softly as she tried to read a page of the book in her hands for the third time since sitting down on a comfortable pillow at the parlor bench near the fireplace.
“How were your classes at the Fenway Street Mission this morning?” Mama inquired a few moments later.
“They were fine,” Geneva answered without looking up from her book.
“How is little Freddy? Did he like the socks I gave you to give him?” Mama stopped her stitching to search her daughter’s face for a reaction.
“Oh, he is delighted with them. He seemed quite appreciative,” Geneva replied, again without looking up.
“Did Maribelle like her mittens?”
“Adores them!”
“If they are careful not to lose them, perhaps they won’t be so cold during lessons and at night when they are sleeping,” Mama remarked. She waited for her daughter to look up, but when she did not, she put her head back down and continued making a row of tiny stitches in the handkerchief she was sewing. It would make a lovely birthday gift for one of her daughters.
About five minutes more passed, a long silence between them except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle. Geneva finally looked up and studied her mother’s face. She closed her book and laid it aside on the wooden bench. “It was very thoughtful of you to make those items for them, Mama.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said pleasantly, the corners of her mouth turning up in surprise.
Rachel Louise Rosemont had been a Wilmington before marrying Vicar Rosemont. Of both Irish and Welsh descent, her lower middle-class upbringing as the daughter of a farmer had served her well. She had learned to clean, cook, bake, sew, and garden; all while being frugal. These were the attributes a woman needed to make a valuable contribution to her husband’s household, or so Mama always said. Thankfully, the Wilmingtons had remained avid readers and resourceful commoners over the centuries preceding Rachel’s arrival. Rachel Rosemont could read and write as well as any of Geneva’s teachers. Eventually, Rachel’s family settled in Wales, purchasing a small farm at the foot of the mountains in northern Glamorganshire. The Wilmington sons in recent generations each learned two trades. They learned to mine with the other miners in the mountains, as well as to farm the land. The women learned to bake the best pies and make the prettiest gowns in all the Welsh countryside. Though Geneva favored her father of both Scottish and French descent with his dark hair and blue eyes, she often wished she had her mother’s Irish looks as her sister did. Rachel and Lillian shared creamy skin, brown hair, and brown eyes. She didn’t think she was as beautiful as her mother and sister, though everyone said all three of the Rosemont ladies were great beauties. Geneva’s good looks were breathtaking, but a generous dose of humility and insecurity prevented her from the knowledge of it.
Geneva stood up and smoothed her dark green and blue plaid skirt. She pulled the long sleeves of her white blouse to her wrists as she crossed the parlor to the foyer. She quickly snatched up her cloak and donned it. “You’re absolutely right, Mama. The weather is lovely today. I think I’ll go for a short walk before supper.”
“Ydw, dear. Don’t be too long. Your father will be home soon.”
“Ydw, Mama. I smell a delicious apple bread from here. What else are we having for supper?”
“Potato and corn chowder,” Mama replied as Geneva tied the ribbons of her bonnet beneath her chin and dashed out the front door.
She ran directly into someone’s chest as she turned around from closing the front door behind her. She attempted to step back from the collision as Bryn caught her hands and steadied her while she looked up to see who it was. “Oh, Bryn! I hadn’t expected to see you today.”
She still held her gloves, though she hadn’t put them on yet. He hadn’t yet released her and stared into her eyes with a passion she hadn’t detected since his return from abroad. “Bryn Palmer, let me go!” she insisted. Part of her felt he was the last person in the world she ever wanted to see again, though a glimmer wanted to melt in his embrace.
“Not until I kiss you!” He drew in his breath sharply. “Rhowch cusan i mi[8], Geneva!”
“Aros! Gad lonydd i fi!”[9] She cried out, but his lips crushed hers, muffling the sound of her voice. She struggled against his embrace and squirmed, trying to push him away. He held her there until he had stolen a long, hard kiss. She finally relented and stopped struggling, wearied by the years of pushing him out of her mind and turning him away. When he finally loosened his grip on her forearms she was gasping for breath, three shades of red, and her eyes flashed up angrily at him. He still hadn’t let go of her. She pushed with both of her hands against his chest with all of her might. Her strength seemed to make little difference against his, but he finally took a step backwards.
“Why did you have to go and do a fo
ol thing like that?” she spit out at him as she pushed against him again until he released her arms completely, freeing her to step around him.
“All I did was dream of you while I was abroad, Geneva.”
“Judging from your behavior, you certainly did more than dream of me!” She marched down the front porch steps. Suddenly she halted, Bryn following.
This time it was Bryn who stumbled into her on the walkway leading to the drive beside the house. “What? What did I do wrong? It’s not foolish when you know there are sparks between us!”
Geneva refused to turn around to reply, no matter she could not deny there had always been a spark between them; though it surprised her these emotions resurfaced at such an inconvenient moment. She supposed there would always be this bit of attraction between them. In any case, she had done nothing to initiate what had transpired and in fact, despised his efforts to capture her affection. Nonetheless, it was too late for words. They had a much bigger problem to consider. There on the street corner, about fifteen yards beyond where she stood frozen to the walkway, she watched Elizabeth Berkley flee in another direction. Her dearest friend had witnessed the entire despicable scene.
“Now look what you’ve gone and done Bryn!” she groaned, clutching her crumpled gloves in one hand. Both of her hands were tightly balled up fists.
He looked beyond the front lawn to observe what Geneva stared at in time to see Elizabeth rounding the corner and disappearing around a house, likely returning to the solace and comfort of home. He stepped back and ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling his unruly locks in exasperation. “Ack!”
Geneva turned around and glared at him, her hands planted firmly on each hip. “Don’t just stand there! Allow me to make myself perfectly clear if I haven’t done so before. Spark or no spark, I am never, ever going to marry you. Go after her!”
Shock registered slowly on his face as he absorbed the words. The realization he had greatly underestimated the power she had to make her own decisions finally registered. He took one last look at her and squeezed his eyes shut with agony. He was listening this time. When he opened them he wondered why it had taken him so long to see the defiance and determination in her face. Frustrated he could not win the battle for Geneva, he swung around and paced a few feet away from her, but in the opposite direction of Elizabeth.
“I don’t love Elizabeth as I do you,” he finally admitted as he turned back around to face her. “Don’t the memories of our history together mean anything to you? Horseback rides, the walks we’ve taken, the talks we’ve shared… I gave you my heart and would give you the moon if I could.”
Her voice softened. “Of course they do, but y-you’ll come to love her in time, and more deeply than you ever loved me. We were too young and all wrong for each other. Elizabeth is the woman you need! She will help you live up to the man you are meant to be. She is steady and everything that is good. Don’t you see? After what I saw two weeks ago, I can assure you, you don’t deserve Elizabeth… and you certainly don’t deserve me! Besides, Bryn Palmer, I’m too headstrong. I have a destiny… and it’s not here in Wales. I have things to do, places to go! Now go, before ‘tis too late. Pray God forgives you, but pray most of all she forgives you! Marry her!”
More shock registered on his face, but he had already stepped back away from her toward Elizabeth. “What things to do? What do you mean, after what you saw two weeks ago? My father owns a shipping company. I can take you anywhere you want to go.”
“No, no you cannot Bryn. You may be able to depend on your father’s coat tails, but I will not. You don’t really and truly even know me! We have barely spoken in two years other than as merely friends. You certainly don’t know your own self yet. Go! Just go!” Exasperated, she turned her back on him and began walking in the opposite direction.
Torn between the two women he loved, Bryn, a haunted expression lingering in his eyes, finally shrugged in frustration and took off running toward Elizabeth.
Geneva kept walking without a backward glance as a tear slid down her face. Keeping her pace steady and firm, she kept walking. She set her face like flint and tilted her chin. Letting go of Bryn twice had been hard to do, but the still, small voice whispered well done daughter. She had to trust in faith and assurance she would one day meet the man God intended for her.
Chapter 3.
This Too Shall Pass
For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favor is life: weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. Psalm 30:5
Tension filled the next few days when life as Geneva Elaine Rosemont had known it changed drastically. She fled the vicarage cottage to the beautiful sea cliffs overlooking the channel. She sought solace to soothe a myriad of feelings ranging from agitation, to apprehension, and disgust; and larger than these loomed thoughts of doubt. Had she had done the right thing in letting go of Bryn? Was she making a terrible mistake? Had she heard the voice of the Lord correctly? How could she make things right with Elizabeth? Above the cliffs overlooking the water she paced, pondered, and prayed. She poured her heart out to the Lord. “I need you Father! Abandon me not in my hour of need!” She watched the waves crashing on the cliffs and the rocks below, but she only saw her life as troubled as the waves. When the water flowed gently over a patch of pebbled, sandy land in the distance, she prayed the Lord would lead her to peaceful, gently flowing days again. Returning home late after the disastrous scene on the front porch, she shed her gloves, bonnet, and cloak in the warmth of the foyer and joined her parents in the dining room.
“You’re late dear, after I expressly asked you not to be,” Mama scolded as Geneva slid into her seat, placed a napkin across her lap, and bowed her head in a short, silent prayer. “We held up supper for you as long as possible.”
“I’m sorry,” she managed as she reached for a slice of apple bread.
“You should have invited Bryn to dine with us,” Father reprimanded.
The butter knife slipped out of Geneva’s hand and made a clanging noise on the edge of the dinner plate with the bowl of chowder before her.
“I glanced out the window and saw Bryn Palmer talking to you near on the front walk,” Mama explained, raising an eyebrow.
“I also happened to see him on his way home, apparently from a visit here,” Vicar Rosemont added.
“Bryn won’t be coming to dinner ever again if I have anything to do with it!” Geneva threw her napkin down on the table as she pushed her chair back and rose from her seat. She fled for the comfort of her room, lifting her skirts as she marched into the hall from the presence of her parents and proceeded up the walnut staircase as fast as her walking boots would carry her. Slamming the door to the small room, she flung herself onto the bed, causing the scrolled iron frame of the head and foot boards to creak and rattle. She kicked off her boots letting them drop to the floor with a thud and buried her sobs into an array of pillows, wishing Bryn was not part of her life. Would they ever stop pushing her toward marriage? Perhaps she desired Bryn a little, but the greater part of her knew he was not the one God had chosen for her. She had released him fully, twice.
Downstairs, a perplexed Vicar James Alexander Rosemont held his apple bread suspended between mouth and bread plate.
“Give her time,” Rachel soothed. “I will talk to her later. She is headstrong.”
“I think we are the last to understand everything! She seems to be throwing away the most suitable marriage in Cardiff. I thought when he returned from Europe they might patch things up between them.”
“Perhaps…” Rachel poured a cup of hot tea thoughtfully. “Perhaps there is more to the story than meets the eye.”
A little while later, the concerned couple sat together in the parlor, a fire crackling gently. Occasionally, the sound of a horse and buggy trotting down the quiet street on the northern edge of Cardiff disturbed the peaceful sunset. The ticking of the clock on the mantle was the only other sound they could hear except when the Vicar turned the pages
of the evening paper from the comfort of his arm chair, or when his wife reached for her scissors to cut a piece of thread from her needlework. A sharp and continuous knock on the front door startled them both, even echoing upstairs, rousing Geneva from the sleep she had succumbed to after shedding more tears.
The Vicar answered the door and beckoned a stoically faced Mrs. Berkley inside. She began a lecture upon them in a grievously, rude manner. Geneva shook herself out of her sleepy state, straightened the bodice of her gown, and crept down a few steps to hear the conversation. She remained huddled near the top of the staircase until she realized it was Elizabeth’s mother’s voice railing at her parents. Though she detested eavesdropping, if Bryn’s selfish actions might destroy her, she at least wanted to hear what her accuser had to say. If she held her breath, she could make out some of the conversation with little trouble.
“Suffice it to say, Geneva is no longer welcome in our home after her actions; and if I have anything to do with it, she won’t be welcome in anyone’s home before this is over with!”
“Now, just wait a moment Mrs. Berkley…” Father’s calm voice responded. “Why don’t you sit down and start at the beginning. What has happened?”
“I will not just wait a moment while my daughter’s heart is broken! Frankly, I find this behavior from Miss Rosemont completely unacceptable. We will not be attending your parish any longer! My husband and I thought you should know why-- before your daughter destroys my Elizabeth’s future with her jealous inclinations. Bryn has explained Geneva’s display of lurid behavior, and with his engagement to our daughter days from being publicly announced, you can imagine how utterly despicable we find your daughter’s—”