Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  “Ruined it? I’ve rescued it. If we weren’t leaving on the train tomorrow, I’d try to remedy this fiasco entirely! But there isn’t time. You’ll have to finish picking the threads so it will look half-way presentable.” He flung the jacket over the footboard of the bed.

  Malcolm then proceeded to put on his own waistcoat, adjust his cravat.

  “Will we be dining out?” Blythe asked hopefully.

  “I think I best order something brought up here for you, since it will take you the better part of the evening to repair that damage.” His voice was iced with sarcasm.

  “But I thought—aren’t we going to see something of New Orleans?” protested Blythe.

  Malcolm was already moving toward the door as if the conversation were at an end. “I saw quite enough of New Orleans during the months I spent here before sailing to California. Those were not the best months of my life, I might add, although educational in many ways.” He paused in the doorway. “I don’t think you’d particularly enjoy it, Blythe. Get a good night’s rest. We start a long journey tomorrow.”

  If he noticed her disappointment, he did not act upon it. Instead, he told her, “I have been invited to a private club here by some friends I met on shipboard. I shall probably be late. Don’t wait up.”

  After Malcolm left, Blythe looked at the ravaged dress, the deplumed bonnet. Was it really so inappropriate? Her face burned with humiliation as she wondered what Madame Francine and Justine had really been thinking. Even now, they must be laughing at her ignorance, her naïveté.

  Maybe Malcolm was justified to be so horrified at her selection, but did he have to be so harsh? He was doubtless under some great strain. But what wounded her most deeply was the feeling that the real reason Malcolm had not wanted to take her to dinner was that he was ashamed to be seen with her!

  chapter

  8

  Montclair—1870

  BLYTHE WOULD always remember Montclair as she saw it first across what seemed like acres of golden daffodils. Seated in the hack Malcolm had hired at the Mayfield railroad station, she exclaimed, “It’s so big. I never dreamed it would be so big!” She turned in amazement to Malcolm, but his closed expression halted any further comment.

  He had barely spoken a word since they left the train from Richmond. His face was a mask, except for the tell-tale muscle quivering in his cheek, a sign she had come to recognize as extreme stress. It was the look of pain in his eyes, however, that bewildered her. Why, now, when they were so close to his beloved home, did Malcolm seem so anguished?

  She turned away, gazing out the window. On the long trip from New Orleans to Virginia, she had had much time to ponder their relationship, to reflect on the man who was now her husband—the man she thought she knew. Now she realized that her knowledge of Malcolm had been very limited.

  He had been unfailingly courteous and considerate in the past hours, but with each mile they traveled, they had moved further and further apart. By the time they reached Richmond, the gulf between them seemed impassable.

  Had it begun with the scene with the Thompsons when they had landed at the dock in New Orleans? Or the terrible display of anger in the hotel room? She did not know. All she knew was that Malcolm’s stony silence had become almost more than she could endure.

  The carriage, obviously as old as it was shabby, swayed precariously and groaned to a stop as they drew up in front of the deep porch with its tall pillars and long, shuttered windows.

  Malcolm stepped down, exchanged a few words with the black driver when he paid him, then leaned back inside the carriage and extended his hand to Blythe. “We’re here,” he said flatiy.

  Blythe stepped out and looked around her. The place seemed to be deserted, no one about.

  She tugged at her jacket, straightened the brim of her bonnet, adjusted the bow under her chin. “Do I look all right?” she asked anxiously.

  But Malcolm did not answer. He was staring up at the house, and her eyes followed the direction of his gaze. This was no story-book palace. She could see now that the broad steps leading to the veranda were sagging, the paint peeling from the siding and on the pillars.

  Bewildered, Blythe turned to Malcolm, but he just took her by the elbow, and said brusquely, “Come. Let’s go in.”

  He hesitated in front of the wide paneled door, put out one hand to the tarnished brass door handle, then pushed it open and went inside, leaving her to follow.

  Tentatively, she walked into the high-ceilinged entrance hall. Her eyes took it all in—the large framed paintings, the parquet floor, the graceful curving stairway, a huge crystal chandelier hanging from a sculptured obelisk. She drew in her breath and held it for a long moment.

  Almost immediately, she felt the chilling sensation. There was a strange stillness. No sound of voices, no activity. And even though she whispered, Blythe’s words seemed loud. “Isn’t anyone here, Malcolm? Didn’t you let anyone know we were coming?”

  Malcolm frowned. “No. It wasn’t necessary. This is my home.”

  He didn’t say our home, Blythe thought, and a lump thickened her throat.

  In a few long strides, he crossed the hall and flung wide the louvered doors opening into a huge room. Blythe slipped up beside him.

  “What a beautiful room!” she murmured as she moved with him into the center. Or it must have been … at one time, she thought, for the brocaded damask draperies, the flowered carpet, the carved mahogany furniture with its tapestried upholstery were all worn thin and stained from years of neglect.

  Blythe saw Malcolm’s pained expression and realized that he was surely remembering how this house used to be, how he had last seen it. If s like someone has died, she mused, and he’s grieving for all the years he can*t call back.

  Impulsively, she reached out her hand in a comforting gesture. But he moved away from her touch, walked over to one of the shuttered windows, opened it, and stared out.

  Standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, Blythe caught sight of her reflection in the large, gilt-framed mirror hanging above the white marble fireplace. Her beautiful ensemble, now devoid of its trimming, looked plain and ugly to her … like this house must appear to Malcolm.

  Just then, Malcolm wheeled about. “Someone must be here … one of the servants, surely,” he said, and he strode past Blythe and out into the long hallway, toward the back of the house. Blythe had to hurry to keep up. At an open door he stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him.

  “Garnet!” she heard him say.

  The name he had called meant nothing to Blythe, yet there was a tremor in his voice as he spoke it. Curious, she crowded near to look into the room.

  A young woman, her arms filled with daffodils, was standing near a table in the middle of the room. At Malcolm’s greeting, she dropped the flowers, and a yellow spray of blossoms spilled out of the vase where she had been arranging them.

  “Malcolm! Malcolm, is it really you?!” Her cry held a mixture of emotions—shock, disbelief, then exultation. For a moment she stood absolutely still, and Blythe had a chance to get a good look at her.

  Dressed in faded calico, the woman was as slender as a wand. Her small face had paled, emphasizing the prominent cheekbones and making the chin appear a bit too square. But her eyes, widened in shock, were magnificent, Blythe thought—the color of deep amber-and her hair, a lovely tawny gold.

  “Oh, Malcolm, I can’t believe it’s true!” She uttered the words in a low moan.

  “Yes, Garnet, I’ve come home,” Malcolm said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. But, I can assure you, I’m very much alive.” And there was that soft, teasing tone that Blythe loved but had not heard in Malcolm’s voice for much too long.

  At this, Garnet rushed forward, her arms outstretched. In the next moment, they were embracing. Blythe lowered her eyes, feeling like an intruder.

  Finally, Malcolm said quietly, “Garnet, may I present my wife, Blythe. Blythe, my sister-in-law, Garnet Cameron Montrose.”

  B
lythe lifted her head and looked into the other’s stunned gaze. Garnet’s face had gone chalky-white, even as Blythe felt hot color rise in her own cheeks. The expression on the woman’s face, as she struggled for composure and comprehension, was embarrassing to see. She looked as though she had been struck a blow.

  The silence seemed to stretch mterminably. Blythe became conscious of the loud ticking of a clock keeping pace with her pounding heart. There was a tension here she did not understand but could acutely feel. She put out her hand in greeting, but Garnet evidently did not see it, for her own frail hand fluttered to her throat as if she were choking.

  Garnet looked from Malcolm to Blythe and back again. She moistened her lips. “I must prepare your mother, Malcolm. This will be too great a shock for her if you just—” She halted, struggled to go on. “If you’ll excuse me.” She inclined her head to Blythe, then brushed past her. They could hear the sound of her light footsteps in the echoing silence.

  Finally Malcolm turned and, with a kind of helpless gesture, said, “Garnet’s my brother Bryson’s widow. He was with Mosby. But then you probably don’t know anything about the Raiders or about the War—” His eyes fixed upon her for a piercing moment, then he sighed and turned away. “Of course, you were too young … too far away—”

  Blythe again felt the urge to cry out in protest, to defend herself… but against what? Malcolm’s upspoken, yet implied, criticism. Could she help it if she had been only a child during the great War that had split the eastern part of the country?

  “I’m sorry, Malcolm.” Blythe spoke softly. “About your brother, I mean.”

  He made no reply, but moved distractedly around the small room that formed an alcove off the main dining room. Then he stepped through and walked around the long table, ran his hand along the backs of the graceful chairs, and stopped to finger a glazed blue vase, to pick up a bowl, holding it up so that the sunlight caught the prisms cut deep into the glass and threw dancing rainbows against the wall.

  With a kind of inner knowing, Blythe sensed that he was reacquaint-ing himself with the things he had almost forgotten—all the dear, familiar things. All that had gradually become vague images in his mind were springing to life at his touch.

  Suddenly Blythe became aware that her mouth was dry, her throat parched. She was terribly thirsty. The train ride from Richmond had been long and tedious, followed by the dusty drive along country roads from the Mayfield station to Montclair. She had had nothing to eat since early morning, and her head had begun to ache with a dull throb.

  She was about to ask Malcolm where she might find some water when Garnet reappeared.

  “Malcolm, Fve broken the news of your homecoming to your mother. Of course, she wants you to come up right away. She is very excited—” She paused, looking at Blythe. “I haven’t told her yet about … I think perhaps you should tell her yourself.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right. I’ll go to her.” He started to leave, then remembered Blythe. “Mama is very frail,” he explained. “Too much excitement might—”

  Blythe nodded, feeling numb.

  “Perhaps you should come with me, Garnet … in case—”

  “Of course, Malcolm.”

  Without another word, the two left the room, leaving Blythe standing there alone to absorb this strange twist in their homecoming.

  This was not how she had pictured Montclair. She hadn’t been at all prepared for the present reality of it. She had always seen it through Malcolm’s eyes, as it was before the War, before his two younger brothers were killed, before the South had lost its long struggle. Not like this.

  Suddenly she, too, was overcome by a bone-deep fatigue. She untied her bonnet strings and took off her bonnet. In the rush of the day’s activities, some of the hairpins had fallen out of her hair, and she idly plucked the rest before shaking out the thick mane of russet curls. Putting her hand to her scalp, she massaged it gently. It felt good to be free of the confining headpiece, the grip of the pins.

  Her thirst grew demanding, and her stomach was queasy. Since it appeared that Malcolm and his sister-in-law would not be returning right away, she set out to find the kitchen for herself.

  Cautiously, she walked to the door opposite the one they had entered and pushed it open. It led into a narrow room with built-in cabinets from floor to ceiling on either side. This must be the pantry, she guessed, and the kitchen must be nearby. Instead, she found a door opening onto a back porch and a breezeway with a ramp leading out to a small brick house. She remembered now. Malcolm had told her that, in the South, the kitchen was often separated from the main house because of the heat in summer. This, then, must be where the dishes were kept. A short search produced a glass. Happily, she also found a kitchen pump in the corner and filled the glass with water.

  She was drinking thirstily when a deep, masculine voice from behind her said, “Hello!” It startled her, causing her to jump. The glass flew out of her hand and shattered on the floor. She spun around and saw the tall figure of a man standing in the doorway of the outside porch.

  “I am sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice had the same slurred softness of a native Virginian as Malcolm’s. “I thought you were my sister Garnet.”

  He took a few steps forward into the room, and Blythe noticed that he walked with a slight limp. There was a distinct family resemblance between this man and Garnet, although his features were strong and masculine, and his wind-tossed hair and mustache held a reddish tint rather than gold. His hazel eyes were curious as he regarded her.

  “I beg pardon for walking in on you. Pm so used to coming here … as if it were my own house. Sorry, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Rodrick Cameron, Rod, Garnet’s brother.” He paused expectandy, waiting for her response.

  “I’m Blythe,” she said shyly. “Blythe Dorman … I mean, Montrose. I’m Malcolm’s wife.”

  She saw the same expression of disbelief that had earlier crossed Garnet’s face.

  “Malcolm! Malcolm is here? He’s come home?”

  “Yes, today. We just arrived from Richmond … or rather, from Mayfield. But we’ve been on our way from California for weeks … months, really—” Her voice trailed off, uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny.

  He shook his head as if to clear it. “Does Mrs. Montrose know? Does Garnet?”

  “Yes, they’re both upstairs with Malcolm’s mother now.”

  Rod shook his head again as if he still found it hard to believe. “Well! I hope she doesn’t have a heart attack. What about Mr. Montrose? Has Malcolm seen him yet?”

  “No. We’ve seen no one else.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Garnet said he was away. I forgot.” Rod leaned against the wall and turned his broad-brimmed hat over and over in his hands. “Well,” he said again, “this is a great surprise.”

  Then he bent stiffly and began to pick up the shards of glass scattered on the floor. Blythe stooped to help. He dumped them in a basket near the door, then brushing his hands, said, “Maybe you didn’t know, but none of us has seen Malcolm in over seven years. In all that time, we had no idea if he were dead or alive. He just … disappeared. Oh, we knew he’d gone out West, but there has been no communication … no word at all—

  “You see,” he hesitated a second, then continued, “we all grew up together. I live on the neighboring plantation, Cameron Hall. Malcolm is like a brother … we were all so close—”

  Again Rod paused, and gave Blythe a long, sympathetic look. “This must be just as hard for you … coming here like this. Forgive me if I seem … well, you couldn’t possibly understand. But it’s almost as if my real brother, my twin, Stewart, had come walking back into our lives. Of course, Stew was killed in the War. I don’t even know if Malcolm has heard … so many … so much was lost—”

  She nodded, miserably uncertain as to what was expected of her, whether she should offer her condolences. Then he seemed to become aware of her unease and continued in a compassionate tone.

&nb
sp; “But you’re too young to know about the War, aren’t you? We’ve all grown old here … before our time. You look so very young—”

  “I’m sixteen—nearly seventeen,” Blythe said a little defensively.

  “Sixteen!” Rod shook his head and continued staring at her. “And how long have you and Malcolm been married?”

  “We were married in December, then we boarded a ship in San Francisco for New Orleans. The voyage took two months, and we’ve been traveling by stage and train for the past two weeks.” She cocked her head, musing aloud. “This is March … so I guess we’ve been married for four months.”

  Whatever Rod might have said next, Blythe would not know, for just at that moment, Garnet’s voice rang out from the doorway. “Rod! Oh, Rod, I’m so glad you’ve come. Malcolm is here! He’s come home!”

  She flew past Blythe as if she were invisible and into her brother’s arms. He held her for a full moment. “I know, little Sis,” he said softly. “I know.”

  Straightening her slender shoulders, Garnet moved out of his embrace, smoothing her hair. When she turned to face Blythe, her countenance was calm and composed. “Malcolm is with Sara now. I left them alone for a while after giving her an extra dose of laudanum. So much excitement—” A tiny frown puckered her smooth forehead then and she asked Rod, ‘There’s nothing wrong at home, is there? I mean, was there any special reason you came this afternoon?”

  “No. No special reason. I just happened to be out for a ride and decided to stop by to see you.”

  A brief smile touched Garnet’s lips. “You must have known, somehow, that I’d need you. Of course, you’ll stay for supper? You must. Malcolm will want to see you.” Again Garnet glanced at Blythe. “It won’t be much—we weren’t expecting guests.” She gave a short laugh and said with a tinge of bitterness, “We rarely have guests at Montclair these days. Excuse me while I see to dinner.”

  Left alone at Garnet’s departure, Blythe and Rod eyed each other selfconsciously. Then he smiled encouragingly. ‘This all probably seems very strange to you just now. But I’m sure you’ll soon feel right at home.” After another long pause, he asked, “How … where did you and Malcolm meet?”