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Daring Bride

Page 6

by Jane Peart


  She could wait for the rest of her life, and Jeff Montrose would not change. She had her own future to consider. Her future as an artist, too. From somewhere the passage of James 1:17 came into her mind—"Every good and perfect gift is from above and comes down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow of turning.” The words suddenly had a new meaning, a personal meaning. Her talent was a gift, and her grandmother’s offer of the trip to Italy was a gift. Gifts should be appreciated and accepted.

  When Bryanne told her father, he indeed quite easily accepted her decision to leave. The day she left for London, he was enthusiastically setting off for a day of painting. He gave her a hearty hug and a handful of pound notes and sent his regards to her grandmother. “Tell her I’ll be down to Birchfields at the end of the summer, and then we’ll have a grand reunion.”

  On the train, Bryanne thought again about what Phoebe had helped her to understand. She had been harboring a vague image of her father as a hero of a magical childhood. That was fantasy, not reality. She must accept Jeff Montrose as he was or not at all.

  By the time she reached Birchfields, she had decided to “put aside childish things” in order to find richness and meaning in her own life.

  chapter

  7

  Birchfields

  GARNET LIFTED THE polished silver pot and poured them both a second cup of coffee. Sun shone through the French windows of the dining room as they were breakfasting.

  “I wish I were going with you, Bryanne, but I’m just not up to everything that travel involves nowadays. All those foreigners you have to deal with, shouting in languages I don’t understand. When Jeremy was alive, he always took care of everything, made it all so easy. He was such a cosmopolitan, a world traveler, you see. He spoke French fluently and could make himself understood in both German and Italian.” Garnet made a face. “I’m hopeless without an interpreter.” She sighed. “Still, it would be lovely this time of year in Italy—not too hot, as it would be later in the summer___”

  Bryanne nodded understandingly. “I know, Grandmother. I’m sorry, too.” She touched the thin pile of mail beside her plate, the letter containing her visa, her passport, a letter of credit from Garnet’s bank, a letter from Lynette. She looked over at her grandmother affectionately. The sun had created a lovely aura around the perfectly coifed head. Since Garnet’s back was to the sun, her face was shadowed, concealing any lines or wrinkles that might have marred the illusion of youth. She was wearing a morning gown of pleated, peach-colored chiffon, lavish with lace, and as usual looked queenly.

  Bryanne loved her grandmother dearly, but truthfully she was glad to be going by herself. If Garnet were accompanying her, they would have had to stay at all the best hotels, have first-class accommodations everywhere, dine in elegant restaurants catering to wealthy tourists. This way, on her own, she could experience the country differently. She planned to stay at pensions, eat at neighborhood cafes, walk the streets, visit the countryside, talk to people, wander as long as she liked through the galleries and museums. The thought of such freedom was unbelievable.

  “Yes, I do think this is the perfect time for you to go,” Garnet said. “Most of the tourists will be gone. Then when you come back, we can have a lovely, leisurely visit. We’ll have plenty of time for you to tell me all about everything.” Garnet gazed at her granddaughter fondly. “It will be quite an adventure. I rather envy you. In my day, it would be unheard of to allow a young woman to travel alone"—Garnet tipped her head to one side, her eyes twinkling almost mischievously—"and her grandmother would probably go with her, giving her all sorts of advice, admonitions. But seriously, dear, I must caution you. Freedom does have its hazards. For some reason, some Europeans think that all Americans are millionaires, so tourists are fair game. Do hold on to your purse. And don’t take any chances. Be careful about accepting help or offers to take you somewhere.”

  “Of course, Grandmother. I’ll be careful. Don’t worry,” Bryanne reassured her.

  “And another thing,” Garnet said, laughing and wagging a playful forefinger, “whatever you do, don’t talk to strangers.”

  At last the day came for Bryanne to set out on her great adventure. She left Birchfields, took the train to London, and from there traveled to Dover to take the channel boat to France.

  Not until she was on board did Bryanne at last feel it was real. Her first chance to travel completely alone. The days before had been hectic. So much to be done. She listened with patience and as much grace as possible to the advice, the suggestions, the warnings, and received quite gratefully gifts of money to be exchanged for francs.

  About twenty minutes into the English Channel, Bryanne had occasion to remember one of her grandmother’s admonitions, the one given partially in jest. A tall young man stood a little distance from her, looking down at the choppy water swirling in the wake of the boat.

  There was a kind of eagerness about his stance as he leaned against the rail, his thick, tawny hair blowing in the brisk wind. From his expression, he seemed to be enjoying everything—the sea spray in his face, the roll of the deck under his feet, the rough sea. The collar of his tweed jacket was turned up, and he had a camera, its strap slung over one shoulder. He was definitely looking forward to whatever lay ahead on the other shore.

  As if aware of being observed, he turned, caught her glance, and smiled. A wonderful, wide smile that lit up his face and caused little crinkles to appear around his clear, gray-blue eyes.

  “Great, isn’t it?” he asked.

  Bryanne nodded. He looked to be in his late twenties, probably about her age, and he too seemed to be traveling alone. When she had first noticed him boarding at Dover, there had been no one with him.

  Just then a family, a couple with three children ranging in age from about eight to fourteen—obviously French, judging by their rapid exchange—came up to the rail and stood there, blocking Bryanne’s view of the young man.

  For a minute she felt vaguely disappointed. It might have been interesting to exchange a few remarks, find out where he was going and so on. That is, if she were able to initiate the kind of casual conversation fellow travelers sometimes do. Basically, however, Bryanne was shy. She had lived a sheltered existence, had grown up mainly among adults, surrounded mostly by family. She had never acquired the social skills her older sister, Lynette, seemed to have come by so naturally.

  Unconsciously Bryanne sighed. Maybe it was just as well that she had begun no conversation with the good-looking young man she was sure must be an Englishman. Bryanne smiled, recalling Garnet’s last-minute warning—"Be careful who you strike up conversations with. There are clever rogues on the lookout for vulnerable, inexperienced tourists. Sometimes they just want to get information—such as what hotel you’re staying at or what train you’re catching—for their own devious reasons.”

  Privately Bryanne had determined to ignore all those overly cautious travel warnings, to be a free spirit for a change, go where the whims of fate took her. Still, she could not help remembering. She had been too well brought up to feel completely unfettered from convention. Not that the English passenger resembled in the slightest the kind of person her grand-modier had warned her about.

  Regretfully she turned away from the rail and went below deck to the safety of the passenger salon. There she got a cup of tea and sat down, opened her guidebook, and studied it. She didn’t see the young man again until they docked at Calais. He must have remained on deck the whole trip. That might have been much pleasanter than her own experience, she thought. The salon had eventually become crowded, warm, and noisy with people.

  At Calais, Bryanne caught a train to Paris. She was tired, because she had been too excited to sleep much the night before. Upon reaching Paris, she decided to take her grandmother’s advice and check into the luxury hotel Garnet had recommended and get a good night’s rest. In the morning, she would start out for her real destination—Italy, whose wonder and glory awaited her. />
  She changed trains at the Italian border and found a compartment that was already occupied by a German couple, who ignored her and spoke only to each other. A prosperous-looking businessman of some kind entered, sat, and unfolded a newspaper. He was followed by an elderly woman with a young boy, possibly her grandson, to whom she proceeded to talk in a torrent of Italian. Luckily Bryanne got the window seat, and as soon as the train started to move, she became immersed in the passing views of the countryside. She was so preoccupied with the scenery, she hardly noticed the compartment door sliding open and another passenger entering. Then she looked around and saw the same young man who had been on the boat with her. At the same moment, he met her gaze, and both registered surprise.

  He nodded and smiled, raising one hand in a gesture of greeting. “Hello!” he said, speaking across the Italian grandmother and boy. The German couple turned their heads and gave him a hostile stare.

  “Hello,” Bryanne replied, aware that all the other occupants of the compartment were watching.

  “On your way to Rome?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she nodded. Then she realized that since Rome was this train’s destination, his question had been largely unnecessary. The thought made her smile.

  He seemed to catch the humor of his question and grinned. “Steven Colby,” he announced.

  Since he was introducing himself, she could do no less. “Bryanne Montrose,” she responded, now very conscious of the German couple’s disapproving glances.

  “On holiday?” he asked.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “The same,” he said. They smiled at each other again.

  Carrying on a conversation was virtually impossible under the circumstances. So Bryanne, feeling rather foolish, returned to looking out the window.

  When the train finally pulled into Rome, Steven, who evidently traveled light, offered to help Bryanne with her baggage. He took the larger of the two bags, and they made their way out of the train. For a minute they stood on the platform together amid the wild chaos of the busy terminal.

  “Is anyone meeting you?” he asked.

  “No, but I have a reservation at a pension. I’ll get a taxi.”

  “Let me help you,” he said, shifting her large bag to his other hand. They walked to the station entrance, where rows of taxis were lined, their drivers yelling out the names of hotels in aggressive tones.

  “I’m staying—at least temporarily—with some friends of my family,” Steven told her. “Then mostly I’m going to be on my own. No itinerary.”

  Just then a wild-eyed driver shouted, “Here, Signorina!” and motioned toward a car parked with its motor running.

  “I’d better take it,” Bryanne said breathlessly. The driver was already tugging at her suitcases, and Steven surrendered them.

  “Thank you very much for your help,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried after her luggage.

  “Have a nice holiday!” he shouted.

  “You too!” She waved, then ducked into the taxi. When she looked back through the window, Steven Colby was still standing at the edge of the curb.

  chapter

  8

  ARMED WITH A guidebook and a pocket-size English-Italian dictionary, Bryanne started out the next morning. Rome was overwhelming. She hardly knew where to begin. But the first thing on her list of must-sees was the Sistine Chapel.

  Although she had seen its beautiful ceiling reproduced in photographs in dozens of art books, viewing it firsthand was an indescribable experience. It was with a sense of awe that Bryanne gazed upon this masterpiece. The entire ceiling beautifully portrayed the biblical stories of the creation of the world, the fall of man, the Flood, all magnificently painted by the artistic genius Michelangelo. It had been begun in 1508 and had taken him four years to complete. Sadly, the original colors were dimmed by dirt and dust. Still, it was breathtaking.

  The magnificent statue of David left her awestruck. With her interest in sculpture, Bryanne was most intrigued by this type of art. Even though she had studied the history of Greek and Roman sculpture, viewing these works with her own eyes was absolutely inspiring.

  Every day, she went to some other famous landmark. She watched people throw coins into the famous Trevi Fountain. Then she noticed little boys jumping in to scoop them up when the people left. Bryanne was amused, since this seemed to defeat the legend that tossing in a coin would make wishes come true. Perhaps it would for the boys! she thought with a grin.

  Bryanne made side trips to Pompeii and Naples and Florence. But it was Rome that had captured her imagination, and after two days in Florence, she took the train back there. Even her visit to the Uffizi and other famous museums filled with art and statuary had not dimmed the inspiration that the Eternal City held for her. She knew she could spend all the rest of her time in Europe there in Rome and still not exhaust its splendor.

  She had found a pension that was clean, comfortable, and not too expensive, within easy walking distance of most of the sites she wanted to see. For trips farther afield, she had learned to use the public transportation. Her days took on a certain pattern as she fell more and more under Rome’s enchantment. She understood how easy it must have been for the nineteenth-century American expatriots to succumb to the beauty and leisurely pace of this most famous of all Italian cities.

  In Italy the stores closed from noon until four for lunch and a siesta, then reopened until ten or so. One afternoon, after checking to see if she had any mail, she wandered into the Borghese Gardens, as she often did. There was a little out-of-doors cafe behind a black iron fence, where a set of small antique statues had been placed at intervals. It was cool and quiet there after the heat of the day. There she would usually order an espresso and sit to read her letters or, more often, just observe the ever interesting “passing parade.” Families with children, lovers with arms intertwined, elderly couples walking slowly, devotedly attentive to each other. It was like watching the world go by, Bryanne thought.

  “Miss Montrose,” a male voice spoke. Startled to hear her name, Bryanne looked up into the pleased face of Steven Colby. He appeared freshly scrubbed and alert, wearing a fawn linen jacket, an open-necked white shirt. His camera was still slung over his shoulder, and he was holding a notebook.

  “What a great surprise!” he exclaimed. “May I join you? Or are you waiting for someone?”

  “No. I mean yes. Do sit down.”

  She was disarmed by his smile, put at ease by his open friendliness. It was somehow heartwarming to see someone familiar in a city of strangers, to be recognized in such an exotic and unfamiliar setting.

  As they enjoyed one of the famous Italian delicacies, gelato, her curiosity about him was partially satisfied. She found out his reason for this solo trip to Italy. “I was at Oxford,” he said, “when suddenly it all seemed rather a waste of time. I can always go back, and I probably shall. It’s just that the time to travel is when you’re young and relatively free of responsibilities, before anything happens”

  “My grandmother’s given me this trip,” Bryanne confided. “And it’s a chance to do exactly what I want, see the things I want to see. I’ve traveled some earlier, but it wasn’t the same.” She smiled and he thought how beautiful her eyes were, lit up with enthusiasm, excitement. “It’s such an adventure.”

  “I noticed your sketchbook,” he said. Then he flushed a little. “Truthfully, a few days ago I thought I saw you sitting near the fountain, sketching—”

  “Yes, the children. Italian children are so joyous, so free. No nannies lurking"—she laughed—"or parents keeping them in check. I wanted to capture some of that.”

  “You’re an artist, then?”

  “In a way. I sculpt. Oh, I’m nobody famous or anything like that. But I’m learning to turn sketches into figures in clay, and later I’m hoping to learn to cast them in bronze or porcelain.…”

  Steven was leaning forward, chin resting on his clasped hands, elbows on the table. She realized with
a sharp little sense of pleasure that he was really listening, really interested. Bryanne wasn’t used to people paying so much attention to what she was saying, and suddenly she felt shy.

  She remembered sketching the children as she sat on a row of steps in view of the Trevi Fountain. The baroque sculpture was the grandest of all the fountains of that city of fountains. Drawn by two rearing sea horses led by tritons, the sea god Neptune stood in a huge seashell amid the splashing of rushing water that poured in cascades into the stone bowl.

  To think Steven had been there at the same time. Had he been too shy to come up to her and speak? Or was he simply so innately polite that he hadn’t wanted to disturb her concentration?

  “The fountain is unbelievable,” he said. “Have you seen it at night?”

  Bryanne shook her head. She had not quite had the nerve to venture too far alone at night.

  “Oh, but you should. It’s an even lovelier sight. The Palazzo Poli is transformed into a stage setting, lit by street lamps and the lights from the shops surrounding it. The light is reflected on the water—it’s truly like a glittering rainbow.”

  How eloquently Steven was describing it. His command of words was amazing. Yet he didn’t seem at all pretentious. Bryanne wondered what was in the notebook he carried. A journal? Notes for a travel book? Sketches?

  Suddenly the gardens were empty. Bryanne and Steven seemed to be the only people left. Bryanne gathered up her handbag, stuffed her brochures and guidebooks into it, and stood up, saying, “I guess I’d better be going.”

  “May I take a picture or two before we go?” Steven asked, pulling his camera out of its case. “It’s such a beautiful setting.”

  He snapped several of her. Then he promised that when they were developed, he’d send her the prints. “I can have them in a day or two. Will you still be here?”

  “I’m going to Venice tomorrow,” she told him.

  He looked disappointed but then asked, “Will you be coming back here?”

 

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