by Jane Peart
“I suppose that’s best.”
He escorted her across the foyer, and Evalee realized that there was hardly anything here that she had not personally selected and purchased for the home. The satin draperies hung perfectly at the long windows. The English hunting scenes on the walls were framed in ornate gold. She couldn’t help but wonder. Who would finally be mistress at Wemberly?
MacGowan walked her to her car and placed her carefully inside. When she dug into her small evening bag and got out her keys, he leaned into the open window, cupped her chin with one hand, and turned her head toward him. “You’re absolutely sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly. He drew back, stepped away from the car. She turned on the ignition, shifted gears, and started forward. When she looked in her rearview mirror, she saw him still standing there in the driveway.
She drove in a kind of trance. It was only when she turned onto the county road and a car coming in the opposite direction blinked its headlights that she realized with a start that she hadn’t turned on her own.
At Gatehouse she parked, got out of the car, and walked toward the house. A silver slice of moon shone through the branches of the trees. On the door an envelope was tucked under the brass knocker.
How about you, Natasha, and me going for a ride in the country to have a picnic? I’II call in the morning after church.
Alan
Evalee read the note, smiled. A picnic with Alan Reid sounded just great.
chapter
20
New York
1938
AFTER A SERIES of readings and book signings for Richard’s poetry at two midwestern colleges, Kitty had traveled to Santa Barbara for a long-planned visit with her mother, Blythe. Early in September Kitty returned to New York.
Among her accumulated mail was an advance copy of her book, with a note.
Fresh off the press. Thought you’d like to see this.
Craig
She held it for a minute, admiring the glossy jacket with its photograph of a French cemetery. White crosses marched diagonally across the front cover. On the back was a short author biography (she had insisted that it be brief, that it simply identify her as having been a nurse at the front). There was a small picture of her in her nurse’s uniform. Cavanaugh had persuaded her to let him use the photograph. She stared at it now. Had she ever been that young, that optimistic? Richard had taken the picture when they were newly in love. She was standing in front of the gothic chapel, wearing her crisp headband and short veil—which hid the hair she had whacked off impulsively—and her apron with the Red Cross emblem on the front. Behind the chapel was the chateau that had been turned into a field hospital. It all happened so long ago…And yet her book had brought it all vividly back to her.
She turned the book over and over. It was real. It was here in print—all the words, the emotions, she had dredged up about that time in her life. And now people would read it. What effect would it have? Her knees felt shaky and she sat down, still holding the book in both hands. This had come out of her very soul. It had been written to in some way vindicate the suffering men she had nursed who had died and could not speak for themselves. She had dedicated the book to Richard. It was not his story, but he had been its inspiration.
Please, God, she prayed, let it change some minds, chill some hearts, make some people reconsider their views about war,
Montclair
Cara walked out onto the back porch, took a long breath of the crisp autumn air. At the squeak of the screen door, the old setter sleeping in her wicker bed raised her head. Seeing Cara, she thumped her tail, rose stiffly, and slowly came over to her. Automatically Cara’s hand dropped to the dog’s head, and she said softly, “Hello, old girl.” As she rubbed the silky ears, she said in a low, conversational tone, “There are a hundred things I should be doing here, but I feel so…I don’t know, at loose ends.”
She did not know what was making her so restless. I need to talk to someone, she thought finally. Ten minutes later she had saddled her horse and set out upon the woodland path to Cameron Hall. The Mayfield Monitor had “gone to bed” the day before, and Scott, having been at the office until midnight, was probably taking the day off at home.
Soon she saw Cameron Hall in the distance. Mellow afternoon sunshine had turned the pink bricks golden. Her heart squeezed a little, as it always did at the sight of her childhood home.
In recent years she looked back on that time with a kind of amazement that she had grown up and accepted without thought all the privilege and position Cameron Hall represented, never having known another kind of life. That had been before the war. After that everything had changed—herself included. Her twin had changed, too. As Cara tethered her horse to the iron hitching post in front of the house, Cara thought about Kitty and the estrangement that existed between them.
The war had traumatized Kitty in a way that nobody realized. Richard’s death had been the final blow, and it had galvanized her hatred of war, her vigilant pacifism.
In contrast, somehow she and Kip had been able to come back home, pick up their lives, and go on. Even though both of them had also lost a loved one—Kip, his wartime French bride, Etienette, Luc’s mother; Cara, her first love, Owen, an army chaplain. How was it that she and Kip had been able to accept their losses and focus on things that gave life its pleasure—like the children, their work—while Kitty had let the taste of bitterness poison her outlook?
Cara frowned. She needed to talk to her brother. She gave her horse an affectionate pat on the neck, then ran up the front steps, opened the door, and walked inside. In the hallway she noticed a blue-and-white Meissen bowl filled with late hydrangeas on the hall table. She paused a moment, then called, “Hello! Anybody home?”
“In here, Cara,” Scott’s voice answered.
Cara crossed the hall. As she entered the library, she saw Scott rise from one of the deep leather chairs in the windowed alcove, slipping a marker in the book he was reading. “Sorry to barge in on you uninvited,” she said.
“Nonsense. This is still your home as much as ever,” Scott protested. “Come in, sit down.”
“I don’t know for sure why I came.” Cara shrugged. “Instinct, maybe? Like a homing pigeon.”
“You don’t need a reason to come, or an explanation either,” Scott said. “Actually, I’m glad you came. I was just thinking about you and Kip, as a matter of fact.” He held up the book in his hand. “I wondered if you’d seen this?”
“You know I hardly ever have time to read. What is it?”
“It’s an advance copy of Kitty’s book. It came to the paper and I brought it home to read. So you haven’t got one or heard anything from her?”
Cara frowned. “No, why? You look…I don’t know. Worried? Concerned? What?”
“It’s the introduction. I mean, Kitty has every right to say whatever she wants. We all know her convictions. And the publishers can certainly publish what they want…. It’s just that in making her point—well, it’s very personal. Here.” He handed the book to Cara. “Read it yourself.”
Cara took it, then sat down in one of the wing chairs. She looked at the cover—No Cheers, No Glory: A True Account of a Field Nurse in Wartime France by Katherine Cameron Traherne.
She glanced at Scott, who lifted his eyebrows and made no comment. Cara opened the book to the introduction.
I make no apology for what this book contains. I hate war. I hate its destruction of men, minds, souls. I nursed soldiers from America, England, France, and Germany. They were horribly wounded, and they were all boys. Somebody’s son, brother, husband, father. If this book sounds angry, that is no mistake. I am angry. I am angry at people who encourage and glorify war, denying that war is, as a famous Civil War general declared it to be, hell. I know it is—I saw it firsthand.
Cara’s eyes raced down the page until she came across this paragraph.
For some, even those who served in the war in whatever capacity, there was some
thing that intoxicated, that somehow blinded them to what was really going on. I can only pity men for whom the war was the peak experience of their lives. For them, nothing that followed has matched the sense of excitement, the thrill of danger, the feeling of accomplishment—that is, if any form of killing, be it from the trenches, from a ship, or from the air, can be called an accomplishment. As a result of that gun being fired, that bomb dropped, someone died! How can they forget that? To give them the benefit of the doubt, perhaps distance has now dimmed the horror. But it is because I cannot forget, and because I want others to remember, that I have written my true account of what I saw in France at a field hospital on the edge of no man’s land during the last two years of the war.
Cara looked up from the page.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
Cara let out a long, low whistle. “Well, our Kitty says what she thinks, doesn’t she? I had some idea of what she was going to say when she told me she was going to write a book. I was afraid to ask too much about it.” She tapped the cover of the book with her forefinger. “I guess I’ve tried to forget the things I saw in the war. Ambulance drivers were in the middle of things, too, you know.” She gave a small shudder.
“How will Kip react to the book? She comes down pretty hard on people who were over there and didn’t turn against warfare.”
Cara shrugged. “I don’t know. I doubt if he’ll even read it. Kip knows how Kitty feels. She believes that he should feel the same way she does. Well, he does, in a way Kip is just going about it differently He thinks a strong air force is the greatest deterrent to war.” Cara closed the book. “I told him that Kitty and I had another quarrel. She had stopped by Montclair and said she was planning to stay at Eden Cottage to write her book. When she found out Kip was training pilots, she left, terribly upset.” Cara paused. The memory of the parting with her twin was still raw. That they were still unreconciled was painful. “She hasn’t been back, you know.”
“Well, she’s been traveling, doing her readings and such. Then she had a long visit with Mother in Santa Barbara.”
“That’s not the reason she’s not come to Mayfield, Scott!”
Scott was silent a moment. Then he indicated Kitty’s book. “What I’ve read of this is very good, Cara. She writes exceptionally well, and all her emotion comes through. However, I’m afraid some people will put it down before they finish it. It’s pretty explicit stuff. But the ones who do finish it—well, it will have an impact.” He paused. “By the way, there’s a statement in the back to the effect that all accrued royalties will go to a well-known peace organization. So no one can accuse Kitty of exploitation. And her book is published by a very reputable company” He shrugged. “I think this is an important book. Whether it will accomplish what Kitty hopes, I don’t know.”
“In a way I admire her. At least she has the courage of her convictions.”
“Visionaries are usually without honor in their own country,” Scott said, paraphrasing the Scripture. “I’m curious as to how the book will sell.”
Talking about her sister had brought up a great deal of emotional turmoil that Cara wasn’t prepared to deal with. She handed the book back to her brother and got to her feet, saying, “I’d better be on my way. Thanks for sharing this with me, Scott.”
He walked to the front door with her, placed a hand on her shoulder. “I hope this hasn’t upset you too much.”
“No, I’m glad you showed me the book.” She smiled ruefully. “Forewarned is forearmed, right? Now at least I’ll be prepared if Kip explodes when he hears about it.”
Cara went home by way of the county road and stopped to pick up their mail at the gates of Montclair. Among the bills and circulars was a package. She was sure it was a copy of Kitty’s book, as she recognized the publisher’s name on the address label.
Thrusting everything into her saddlebag, she remounted and rode slowly back up to the house, wondering if she should show the book to Kip.
chapter
21
September 1938
THAT FALL, EVALEE decided to go to New York and attend a sale at one of the most prestigious auction galleries. She had received the catalog and it looked interesting. She had some new clients, whose decorating needs might be met with some of the items for sale. Several of these commissions had come as a direct result of Wemberly. For that she was very grateful. But she had no regrets about her firm refusal to discuss MacGowan’s proposal further.
Evalee prepared for her trip to New York with excitement. Setting out on her own to the big city made her feel like a real professional. Maybe this was God’s plan for her life.
Natasha would be with Druscilla, and Scotty would come to sleep over at Dovecote. Everyone was delighted with these arrangements. The train trip from Richmond to New York took only four hours, and Evalee relished the feeling of being free and on her own for the first time in years. She spent the time making lists, planning for her days in the city.
It was a whirlwind week. She felt happy and enthusiastic about the things she had purchased for Gatehouse Interiors, and hoped her clients would be just as pleased.
Two days before she was to leave for home, there was a message for her at the hotel desk, giving a number for her to call.
To her amazement, it was Alan who answered the phone. “What are you doing in New York?” she gasped.
“I’m on a quest,” he told her, laughing. “I’ve rented a car and am driving up to Connecticut. The New England foliage is gorgeous this time of year. Would you like to come with me?”
She hesitated. There were still some dealers she might see, and perhaps she should put business before pleasure. But without question Evalee wanted to go with Alan. So before she could change her mind, she said quickly, “Yes. I’d love it.”
When Alan picked her up, Evalee was happy to see him. It was good to look into those steady blue eyes, to hear his laugh. He put her in the passenger side, then went around and slid behind the wheel. As he started the car, he asked, “So how has it been?”
“Oh, it’s had its moments of splendor. I had a glorious time at the galleries. This was my first swim in the big pond, you know, and I was scared to death half the time. But I must say, I did bid on a few things, and I think they were good choices.” She paused, then said sincerely, “I’m really glad you called and suggested this trip. It will give me a chance to touch base with reality.”
Alan frowned as if puzzled. “Reality? What have you been doing in New York all week—living in fantasyland?”
“You might say that,” she sighed.
“I was afraid you might get dazzled by the bright lights and want to move to the big city.”
Surprised, Evalee glanced over at him. Although his remark had sounded casual, his expression, his eyes, seemed worried.
“Not a chance,” she said.
“That’s good,” was his only comment.
The farther from the city they drove, the more spectacular the scenery became. Autumn foliage painted the landscape with vivid scarlet, glimmering bronze, against the dark green of pines, all of it brilliant in the sun of a cloudless blue sky. They passed through storybook towns that looked exactly the way New England villages were supposed to look. Neat town squares, white-steepled churches, shingled saltbox houses with picket fences, behind which bloomed giant blue hydrangeas and bright-red geraniums.
They drove along in the easy companionship of friends who do not need to force conversation, remarking once in a while on something they saw. After spotting a sign for a Howard Johnson’s restaurant, Alan said, “Let’s stop for lunch.”
They pulled off the highway and went inside. After ordering coffee and sandwiches, Alan asked, “Would you like to know the real reason we’re doing this?”
“Yes, I guess so. Although I’ve come to realize you thrive on serendipity.” She smiled. “But I’m waiting with bated breath for you to tell me.”
“You know so much about me already, Evalee, I don’t think y
ou’ll be too surprised. I’m up here to check out a job.”
“At a New England school?”
“No, it’s not a teaching job,” Alan said. “It’s something else entirely. You know that my hobby is collecting old books. I’ve been in touch regularly with a book dealer up here for a number of years. He’s found me some real gems. Certain authors I particularly like. They’re not rare editions or anything too expensive, but it’s been a really rewarding friendship. Well, the thing is, I’ve just learned that he’s retiring. His bookstore and its entire inventory is for sale.” He paused. “It’s an established, successful business, and I have a chance to buy it. That’s what I’ve come up here for. To look it over. See the place, the town. Decide whether I want to do it.”
At first Evalee didn’t know what to say. “That is quite a surprise. Not so much that a bookstore might be something that would interest you. But I guess I just assumed you’d stay on at Briarwood until—”
“I became headmaster or another cMr. Chips’?” he said, laughing, referring to the fictional English schoolteacher made famous by James Hilton’s book. “Well, I never pictured myself like that. I wasn’t sure what else I would do, but—well, this would be a dream come true. Actually, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than have a bookstore, be around books, help people find great books to read, to cherish.” He added rather shyly, “You might say books are one of my passions.”
“I think I did know that.”
“But the reason I wanted you to come along with me was"—he hesitated—"because it’s important to me for you to see it, give me your opinion.”
“I’m flattered.”
“You shouldn’t be. I have a very high value of your opinion.”
Their sandwiches came and Evalee realized how hungry she was. When they finished their lunch and ordered a second cup of coffee, their waitress convinced them to try the famous hot apple pie with cinnamon sauce.