by Jane Peart
But Blythe had not grown up without any knowledge of the Scriptures. Her Pa cherished the old Bible that had belonged to his mother, and every evening after they finished supper, he read aloud a chapter or one of the Psalms.
Still, Blythe was surprised to see the number of church folk who had come to celebrate the union of two who were not fellow members, and now turned smiling faces in her direction as she started down the aisle on Mr. Coppley’s arm, and she smiled back in gratitude.
Malcolm stood at the front, his face composed, his expression grave. As she came forward, he offered his arm and she turned to meet him, eyes shining, mouth softly curved, body tensed with excitement.
If there was anything the Reverend Clarence Burke liked better than delivering a eulogy at a funeral, it was conducting a wedding ceremony. This he did with a flourish and flair that could have earned him a pulpit in some big city church. At least, so the ladies in Lucas Valley often said at their Sewing Circle. Today was no exception, and his deep, well articulated words resounded in the tiny wood structure as he began.
After he had asked each in turn to respond to the promises of love and honor, he offered a benediction of grace on their union: “I pray that your love will endure long; that you will be patient and kind to one another, never envious nor jealous, never acting in unbecoming ways. That you would never insist on your own rights, but bear all patiently, ready to believe the best in all circumstances. Remember, love never faileth, and God will never forsake those who obey his commandments.”
As Blythe listened, tears came unbidden to her eyes. With Malcolm, it should not be too difficult to abide by these precepts. She hoped only that she would be a wife worthy of him.
“Now, Mr. Montrose, you may kiss Mrs. Montrose,” Reverend Burke suggested, his cherubic face wreathed in smiles.
Blythe lifted her face hopefully, and Malcolm bent down and brushed her lips lightly. It was, she realized, their first kiss.
chapter
6
BLYTHE PERCHED on her trunk in the midst of the turmoil on the San Francisco dock. Her eyes were wide with excitement, her cheeks flushed, her heart pumping wildly as she watched the noisy confusion around her.
Never before had she heard such a jumble of voices and languages, breathed in an atmosphere of such assorted sounds, smells, and sights. Swarthy stevedores loading cargo rilled the air with foreign-sounding words that Blythe was sure would burn her ears if she knew their meaning. Chinese men, with saffron skin and flying queues, wearing cotton smocks and straw sandals, carried trunks and large boxes that looked much too heavy for their skinny backs. Carriages of every description crowded down the hilly street to the wharf, bringing men, women and children dressed for travel—all prospective passengers for the same ship Blythe and Malcolm were waiting to board.
Anyone without Blythe’s youthful sense of adventure might have been overwhelmed by now, for their whole trip from Lucas Valley had been a series of mishaps. But so far, she had met each one with the resilience and resourcefulness of a seasoned traveler. A few hours out of Lucas Valley the stagecoach, hurtling down a narrow mountain road, had broken an axle and lost a wheel, nearly toppling down a steep gorge and dumping the passengers to almost certain death. Fortunately, no one suffered anything more serious than a few cuts and bruises.
After the driver assessed the damage, all the men bent their efforts to repair the axle and reset the wheel, but it was useless. At last, the driver unhitched one of the horses and rode to the next station for help. The passengers had camped on the hillside under a makeshift lean-to and, bundled in their own cloaks, spent a damp, uncomfortable night.
Blythe had to stifle almost hysterical laughter when she realized she was spending her wedding night huddled on a hillside next to the only other woman passenger!
By the time the driver returned with the new wheel, it was midday, and darkness was creeping on before the stagecoach was fit to move again. The passengers piled back in and continued the bumpy ride to the Junction where they were fed a slap-dash meal, then herded back into the stagecoach to continue the journey. With the trials of travel, the camaraderie among the passengers began to diminish, and they rode in gloomy silence the rest of the way. Malcolm had given up his seat inside to ride on top with the driver, so that the stout older woman could have more room. She had complained pitiably of her rheumatism and what the accident had done to her joints.
Blythe didn’t mind. She had been so proud of Malcolm, the only one who had shown himself to be a gracious gentleman in spite of all the tribulations of the journey. She curled up in one corner, rolled her cape up into a pillow, and was soon sound asleep.
She had been awakened with a jerk when the stagecoach came to a jolting halt. Someone was shaking her. There were moans and groans as the other passengers stretched stiff muscles and gathered themselves and their belongings together.
Malcolm was at the door to hand her down. He looked troubled. ‘We’re at an inn, still quite a distance from San Francisco,” he told her. “With all these delays, we’ll be lucky to make the city by our sailing date.”
The inn was old and musty, and the only accommodations were communal dormitories—one for the men and another for women. But Blythe was too tired to care. She followed her elderly traveling companion up the steep stairway and, with her cape still wrapped around her, shared a creaky, lumpy bed.
After a hasty breakfast of bitter coffee and hunks of stale bread, they boarded the stage again. When they arrived in San Francisco, Malcolm had immediately hired a hack to take them straight to the dock.
There he had set Blythe down with the trunks and boxes and instructed her not to move while he went to see about the tickets for their passage.
All that Blythe had experienced so far had given her a heightened awareness of what it was like to be fully alive. It seemed to prove Mrs. Coppley’s prophecy that she was in for high adventure, and she reveled in the panorama unfolding before her. In fact, so caught up was she in the drama of the fascinating scenes that she did not see Malcolm, pushing his way through the crowd, until he was almost upon her.
“Sorry to have left you so long,” he said, “but it is a madhouse here. And there has been a mix-up about our passage. Oh, we’re still going,” he reassured her, “but it seems they have overbooked, and we will have separate cabins, each of us having to double up with other passengers. Well, there’s nothing to be done about it. We’re lucky they didn’t sell our space when we were a day late checking in—”
Not waiting for her reaction, Malcolm turned, collared a passing Chinaman, and managed to convey his need for someone to carry Blythe’s trunk while he shouldered his own belongings. Then, grabbing Blythe’s upper arm, he began maneuvering a path through the crush of people toward the gangplank.
A ship’s officer glanced at the tickets Malcolm thrust at him, then pointed them vaguely to the right. Still gripping Blythe’s arm firmly, Malcolm forged ahead, down a narrow passageway crammed with other passengers trying to find their quarters. At last, he stopped in front of a closed door and rapped loudly.
It was opened in a minute by a pale, pretty woman looking a little disheveled. She was holding a child of about two in her arms.
Courteously, Malcolm introduced himself and explained their predicament.
“Of course, I understand,” she said and gave Blythe a tentative smile, then added, “I’m Mrs. Arnold Thompson,” Then she stepped aside so that Malcolm could enter and allow the Chinaman to shove Blythe’s trunk underneath one of three tiny bunks.
“Sorry for the intrusion,” Blythe said shyly.
“Oh, it will be nice to have company,” the other woman said sincerely. “I hope you like children. A few minutes ago, one woman refused to share this cabin. Made quite a fuss, she did. Said she couldn’t abide the thought of spending two months in such close confines with a ‘squawling brat’! Imagine! My Daisy’s no brat, but a sweet, well-behaved baby.”
“I’m sure she is.” Blythe smiled at
the golden-haired child who smiled back and held out a dimpled hand to her.
“Well, I see you’ll do nicely here.” Malcolm looked relieved. “I’d better go see about my own quarters. I’ll be back later.” He nodded to Mrs. Thompson. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I know you’ll find my wife a congenial companion.”
When he left, Blythe surveyed the small space in which she was to spend the next eight weeks.
“Do call me Amelia,” insisted Mrs. Thompson, laughing at the look of dismay on Blythe’s face. “In these close quarters, we’ll soon become well acquainted, so we might as well start out on a first-name basis.”
“I suppose you’re right, so you must call me Blythe.” She smiled, her disappointment in not being with Malcolm dissipating somewhat in the warmth of this new friendship.
“I’m on my way to join my husband,” the young woman confessed happily. “Arnie is an Army officer stationed in Louisiana. We’d been together only a short time when he got his orders, so though we’ve been married three years, we’ve barely seen each other at all. You see, during the War, men who posted out West were not brought back to fight in the South. So poor Arnie had to stay in the dreary Northwest, at Fort Humboldt. But a good Army wife never complains when her husband’s future is at stake,” she explained, “so I haven’t minded too much spending six weeks here in San Francisco until I was able to book passage back.”
Amelia finally paused for breath. “Your husband is very handsome,” she declared. “Such a distinguished-looking gendeman. … How long have you been married?”
Blythe counted the days on her fingers.
“Oh, my! Then you’re practically still on your honeymoon! But how wonderful to spend it in New Orleans after this awful trip. Your husband seems a sophisticated, cultured man of the world, so I’m sure he’ll take you to the best of restaurants and perhaps the theater when you arrive.” She frowned in a pretense of petulance. “I almost envy you, for I shall have to set up housekeeping in Army headquarters right away. And you should see some of the places we Army wives have to make into a home!”
Even at twenty and for all her worldly experience, Amelia did not seem much older than Blythe, so it was easy, in the forced intimacy of their cabin, to become friends. A good thing, Blythe thought, for there were as many vicissitudes to this sea journey as there had been on the overland trip.
The first befell them very soon after the ship pulled out of the harbor and crossed the bay. Amelia became miserably seasick, and Blythe found herself both nurse to her new friend and nursemaid to little Daisy.
Because of the crowded conditions on the ship, she was able to get only minimal help with changes of linen, fresh water, and other necessities required to alleviate poor Amelia’s condition. Malcolm proved to be of some help, coming around each day to check on Blythe and to see if there was anything he could do for her or her cabinmate.
Other than that, however, Blythe saw little of Malcolm. He told her the occupants of his own cramped quarters were pleasant enough, and he had found some gentlemen who enjoyed whiling away the long, boring days at sea with card games.
This rather surprised Blythe. She had never thought him the type to play cards. When he jokingly remarked that he had already won enough to make up for the money spent on their trip, she had been even more shocked. Games of chance were linked in her mind with the saloons and gambling establishments at the other end of Main Street in Lucas Valley—the section of town where “decent people” never set foot.
Pa had always looked down on the men he knew who gambled away all their hard-earned money, and often quoted the maxim: “Gambling is the Devil’s own way of leading men straight to perdition.”
But when, in a burst of confidence, she had voiced her concern to Amelia, the young woman merely shrugged. “Oh, think nothing of it. Your husband is just bored and resdess. Card-playing is a harmless diversion that will end with the journey,” she said with an air of authority. “My Arnie told me that the men at Fort Humboldt nearly perished from boredom. It turned out the Indians weren’t hostile at all, so the men spent many nights at cards. Believe me, there could be worse pastimes.”
“But I never dreamed Malcolm would be the gambling kind,” Blythe persisted.
“How long have you known him?”
“Over a year.”
“Men are a marvelous mystery,” Amelia remarked philosophically. “No matter how well you think you know them, they constantly surprise you.”
Blythe reluctandy conceded that her friend’s superiority of age and years of marriage gave her more wisdom in such matters. Gradually, she dismissed her nagging fret over Malcolm’s new interest. She would have felt a little abandoned indeed had it not been for Amelia’s lively companionship, and the long days at sea were happy enough.
Never having had a sister or even a best friend, Blythe delighted in getting to know Amelia. Because her cabinmate’s sunny disposition and optimistic oudook were much like her own, they laughed away many of the trivial problems and inconveniences of the journey. Indeed, they even used some of them as subjects for merriment, giggling together like school girls.
Amelia had been reared in a family of sisters and knew many feminine secrets that Blythe had not yet discovered. One of them was the enhancing use of beauty.
“You have such glorious hair,” Amelia complimented her. “Let me show you some more becoming ways to wear it,” she suggested, loosening the braided coil that Blythe had attempted to maintain since the day Mrs. Coppley had wound it for her.
As Amelia brushed and swirled the luxuriant tresses, Blythe remembered a filigreed tortoise-shell Spanish comb that had belonged to her mother, and fetched it from her portmanteau.
“Perfect!” Amelia exclaimed. “See? You can wear it above the figure-eight roll at the nape of your neck.” And she proceeded to show Blythe how to secure the comb.
“Your husband should be proud as a peacock with such a pretty bride!”
Blythe hoped Malcolm would notice her new hairstyle when he came to the cabin for their daily walk along the ship’s deck. This he never failed to do even though she sensed it might be an interruption from the congenial company of his fellow card players. But that day Malcolm had seemed distracted, and they had taken their promenade silendy.
When he left her again at the cabin door, he apologized, explaining that he had been dealt a bad hand in that day’s game.
“That’s to be expected,” he shrugged. “Lady Luck is fickle, She’s bound to change with the next deal.”
Even though Malcolm passed it off lighdy, it troubled Blythe that Malcolm should spend time that they could be together with strangers. She missed his companionship, longed for when they could become closer, get to know each other intimately, have the real “honeymoon” Amelia teased her about.
In the weeks the two had spent together, Blythe felt she had never been as close to anyone as to Amelia, had never known another human being as well. She began to wonder how she would manage to part with someone who had become such a dear friend.
They had talked about so many things—their childhoods, their families—Amelia declared the romance of Blythe’s parents was the most romantic story she had ever heard. They also shared their hopes, dreams, secrets they had never told anyone else. Blythe learned the details of Amelia’s long and ardent courtship with Arnold, one of West Point’s finest, and was dismayed by the comparison to her own courtship with Malcolm. Why, he had kissed her only once … and that, on her wedding day!
Blythe was tempted to ask Amelia for answers to some of her vague questions about married life. She knew only that there was more to be known. A flustered Mrs. Coppley had made a few stumbling attempts at explanation of what she termed “a husband’s rights,” but Blythe had not the slightest notion of what she meant. But, somehow, Blythe could not bring herself to approach Amelia on this subject, and so let the opportunity pass.
At length, the long and eventful journey came to an end. The ship docked in New Orleans, and the two
young women who had become so close, finally had to bid each other affectionate and tearful good-byes.
Malcolm came for Blythe, helped her gather her belongings, motioning to a black man he’d hired to carry her trunk. Together, the four of them—Amelia, Blythe, and Malcolm carrying Daisy—made their way for the last time through the narrow passageway, out on deck, and down the gangplank.
They were halfway down the ramp when, out of the throng of people on the dock, a deep, male voice shouted, “Amelia! Over here! Darling!”
Blythe saw him at the same instant Amelia did—a big, broad-chested man, resplendent in a dark blue uniform shining with braid. He shoved his way forward, waving his wide-brimmed blue Army hat.
Amelia clutched Blythe’s arm. “It’s Arnie! Arnie, we’re coming! Oh, Arnie!”
Rushing ahead of Blythe and Malcolm, she flew into his arms as he swept her off her feet and into a long embrace. When he finally set her down, Amelia, straightening her tipped bonnet, turned around and beckoned Blythe and Malcolm.
“Arnie, I want you to meet Blythe, my dear friend. We were bunked together because the ship was overcrowded and she was such a dear, and such a help with Daisy. Oh, Arnie, see how Daisy has grown?” Amelia reached for the baby Malcolm was still holding. “And this is Blythe’s husband, Mr. Montrose.”
Captain Thompson, smiling broadly, tore his eyes away from his little daughter to thrust out his hand toward Malcolm. “Very pleased to meet you, sir.”
To Blythe’s astonishment, Malcolm made no move to shake the captain’s outstretched hand. Instead, she saw the grim set of his mouth, the telltale flexing of the muscle in his jaw, felt his fingers press into her arm.
“Come, Blythe, our carriage is waiting.”
As he tried to lead her away, Blythe resisted, seeing the startled expression on Captain Thompson’s face, Amelia’s hurt and bewildered one. “Malcolm!”
He dropped her arm and walked away, leaving her behind.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know—” Blythe stammered. Then, giving Amelia a quick hug, she kissed Daisy and, flushed with embarrassment, hurried after Malcolm.