Gallant Bride

by Jane Peart

  The woman, propped against a profusion of ruffled lace pillows, had once been a great beauty. Blythe had seen the proof in her magnificent portrait. Even now, the fine bone structure was evident, although deep lines flanked either side of her delicately arched nose, stopping short of a mouth whose downward curve pronounced petulance. Two wings of stark white accentuated the dark hair swept back from her face. The large mauve-shadowed eyes that might once have sparkled as brilliantly as sapphires had faded to an icy blue. Sara Montrose had a britde fragility, but Blythe sensed that under that frail beauty was an iron will, a survivor’s strength.

  “Sit down, child. Malcolm, the coffee,” Sara directed, gesturing with an arm covered in creamy velvet, ruffles of ecru lace edging the sleeve.

  Blythe took a chair opposite Mrs. Montrose’s chaise lounge, politely answering Sara’s questions about her life—first at the boarding school in Sacramento, then the isolated existence of the ranch in Lucas Valley. Sara listened intendy, nodding her head at intervals.

  “It seems even you, at your tender age, have had your share of loss and tragedy,” she said. “I, too, lost my mother in early childhood—a loss, I might say, that is never fully assuaged, no matter how much love one receives in later life.”

  As their gaze met, Blythe was aware that Malcolm’s mother was taking her measure and that some bargain had been struck. It was as if Sara Montrose had decided to accommodate the differences in their backgrounds and that, with Malcolm as their common denominator, they could live as allies, if not friends.

  When Sara’s attention drifted from Blythe back to Malcolm, and the conversation gradually shifted to people and places that held no meaning for Blythe, she looked about her with interest, absorbing the ambience of the room. She had been told that Sara Montrose had spent most of her adult life, at least since the accident, in this wing of the house.

  Oddly enough, this suite showed less damage than the other rooms at Montclair. Everything was pastel, whether by design or simply with the passage of time. The walls were a dusty rose, the moiré draperies pale blue, the furnishings as delicate as the woman who lived within these walls.

  Blythe sipped her coffee from the egg-shell thin cups while Malcolm and Sara talked quietly. Observing the devotion of mother and son, she felt a tiny tug of longing, a little envy. Would she ever become part of the small circle of shared intimacy here?

  At length Malcolm rose. “We shouldn’t tire you, Mama. We’ll go now, and I’ll come back later and read to you for a while.” He leaned over and kissed the hand he had been holding.

  “All right, sweet boy. You know how I’d enjoy that.” Sara patted his cheek affectionately. Then she turned to Blythe, “We’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, my dear.” She smiled and, in that moment, Blythe saw the magic that must have once been Sara’s to charm and fascinate.

  As they left Sara’s rooms, Blythe said, “I think I’ll go change my dress. It is rather warm for this climate besides being black” she added with a smile.

  But Malcolm did not seem to catch her joke, just nodded disinterestedly. “Good. I’ll take the tray downstairs, then I’m going for a walk.”

  He didn’t ask her to accompany him, though she would have loved to tour the grounds with Malcolm as her escort. So she walked toward the room she had occupied last night, and Malcolm continued down the stairs without another word to her.

  Taking off the offensive black dress, she put on the skirt to her ill-fated traveling suit and took out one of the cotton blouses of flowered calico that Mrs. Coppley had made.

  Hearing voices outside, she went to the window and looked out to see Malcolm greeting a group of black men, farm workers judging by their garb. He stood talking with them for a few minutes, then they parted, and Malcolm went on alone. Blythe watched him go through a gate and proceed up a little hillside until he disappeared from view.

  She was hungry. She had had only coffee, and her healthy appetite was asserting itself. She wondered if it would be proper to go down to the kitchen and find something to eat. She should have asked Malcolm.

  Self-reliant since childhood, Blythe did not hesitate long. She went down the circular staircase, pausing every so often to gaze at one of the portraits.

  As she reached the bottom step, she noticed a pile of luggage—a trunk, a wicker basket, and two hatboxes—standing by the door. Seeing these weren’t hers and Malcolm’s, which he had arranged to be sent out from the Mayfield freight office, Blythe wondered briefly whose they were, then went on toward the pantry.

  There she found Garnet sitting at the table.

  “Good morning, Blythe,” she said, looking up from a list she was writing. “I’m glad you’re here. I have quite a few things to go over with you. For instance, show you how Sara likes her tray set up. She’s very particular, so you’ll have to listen carefully, or else she’ll fuss.” Garnet spoke matter-of-facdy. “She prefers the lily-of-the-valley china for breakfast, but the set with yellow buttercups at lunch.”

  Blythe was puzzled. Why was Garnet telling her all this when she had been in the house barely twenty-four hours and had only just met Mrs. Montrose?

  “It’s not that she means to be difficult,” Garnet continued. “It’s just that she has come to expect having things as she wishes them. I suppose we’ve all indulged her. She’s had so much to bear … the accident… the War. … Even then, we—” Garnet’s voice trailed off momentarily. “When Lizzie left, Sara was inconsolable. Lizzie was her personal maid, trained from childhood, and none of the other servants ever measured up. They were clumsy or forgot how she liked things … or just made her nervous—”

  “But since you know her so well, know how to please her, why are you showing me?” Blythe asked bluntly.

  Garnet paused and stared at her for fully half-a-minute. Then she spoke evenly, “Because, from now on, it will be your responsibility.”

  “But I’ve never done anything like this, I mean … taken care of an invalid. I may be every bit as clumsy and awkward as any of the servants, not please her any better. She may even resent me,” protested Blythe.

  “She’ll have to accept you, won’t she? You’re Malcolm’s wife. Besides, I won’t be here.”

  Blythe looked at her blankly. “You won’t be here?” she echoed.

  “No, I’m leaving. This afternoon. They’re sending the carriage for me. I’m going home to Cameron Hall, where I grew up and lived before I married Bryce … before the War. I’m needed there more than I am here … now.” She spoke with an air of finality. “My mother runs a boarding school. My sister-in-law, Dove, has been helping, but with more students expected … well, they’re short-handed.” She stopped suddenly as if there were nothing more to say. “Come along. I want to show you about the linens. Suzie or Lonnie will come for the laundry. They do it out in the laundry shed, but you need to know how to count it and sort it and where it all goes.”

  In a kind of daze, Blythe followed Garnet as she led her through a variety of explanations, showing her the pantry, the cupboards, the storage bins for flour, corn, rice, grits, instructing her on what to direct the cook to prepare in quantities, and how to fix the family meals.

  “There is really not much to that. Mrs. Montrose has the appetite of a bird. And when Mr. Montrose is here … well, he never really knows, or cares what he’s eating. I-I don’t know about Malcolm—” Her voice drifted off indefinitely. Then she sighed wearily. “I guess that’s about all. You’ll have to find your own way just as I did when it was all thrust upon me after Rose died.”

  Blythe drew a deep breath, gathering up as much poise and courage as she could muster. “I kept house for my father. I think I can manage. At least I’ll do my best.”

  She felt overwhelmed by this sudden change. More puzzled, still, by the fact that Garnet was not staying to help her make the transition.

  During Garnet’s careful instructions about Sara’s dosage of laudanum, the sound of the brass knocker at the front door resounded throu
ghout the house.

  “That’s probably Josiah,” Garnet said briskly, and hurried to open the door.

  A black man stood there. He swept off his hat and flashed a wide, toothy smile. “Mawnin’, Miss Garnet. Yo’mama, Miss Kate, say you want me here promp’ly at noon, so here I is.”

  “Thank you, Josiah. There are my things. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  Blythe felt momentary panic. Garnet was actually going, and Blythe was not at all sure she could remember everything Garnet had told her that morning.

  “Garnet, wait! Does Malcolm know you’re leaving?”

  Garnet was busy tying her bonnet strings. “Not yet.”

  “He’s taking a walk. Why don’t you wait until he comes back?”

  Garnet turned around. For a moment, a look of sympathy passed across her face. “Malcolm may be gone for hours,” she said. “He’s up on the hillside … visiting Rose’s grave.”

  Desperate, Blythe persisted, “But why must you leave?”

  Slowly Garnet turned to face Blythe, those amber eyes riveted upon her. Instinctively Blythe knew that steadfast gaze was meant to communicate something significant. But what?

  Then Garnet spoke. “Surely, you do not expect me to stay. As Malcolm’s wife, you are the Mistress of Montclair now”

  chapter

  10

  COMING DOWN from Malcolm’s mother’s room with her breakfast tray, Blythe fought tears of discouragement. It seemed hopeless that she would ever be able to please Sara as had Garnet or even the constandy lamented Lizzie.

  She set the tray down on the hall table, sighed, and looked longingly out through the tall windows at the lovely May morning.

  Today Sara had been particularly difficult. She had drawn her finely etched brows together and said crossly, “I don’t see why Garnet felt she had to leave. After all, Montclair is as much her home as Cameron Hall. She came here as Bryce’s bride when she was just a girl. … Oh, it’s really quite vexing! I need her as much or more than her mother does. Just when I get used to someone, off they go. And Lizzie! I shall never forgive such ingratitude. Lizzie had all sorts of special privileges the other servants didn’t have—”

  Blythe wondered when Lizzie would have had time to enjoy “special privileges,” what with anticipating her mistress’s every need, catering to her every whim.

  At last Blythe had settled Sara on her chaise with her writing portfolio on her lap, the pillows arranged just so, and with her languid permission to leave. Oh, well, it will get better soon, Blythe told herself optimistically. PU learn what suits her … and what doesn’t!

  Blythe had taken on the care of Sara with a good heart. She wanted Malcolm’s mother to love her, of course, but she also tried to treat her as tenderly as if Sara had been her own mother.

  Still, there was so much to managing such a large house—one that used to keep twenty or more servants busy. Now she had only the two black women who came to help with the laundry and cleaning a few days a week.

  A soft flower-scented breeze wafted through the open front door and, unable to resist, Blythe walked out onto the wide pillared veranda.

  The air was sweet with the fragrance from the apple orchard, those trees with their delicate pink petals mingled with the white lacy blossoms of the pear trees nearby. A soft wind sent them scattering as Blythe watched.

  How beautiful Montclair must have been before the ravages of war, time, and neglect had left their mark. No wonder Malcolm was heartsick and keeping more to himself with each passing day. He had come back to find a very different picture from the one he had carried in his mind so long. He had found the house falling apart, the fields unplowed and implanted, no longer yielding the corn and tobacco that had provided the vast fortune needed to maintain Montclair.

  Blythe had expected that, when Malcolm’s father returned, the two men would work together to bring the plantation back to some semblance of its former productivity. But it took only a few days after meeting Mr. Montrose to realize that here was a broken man. Despite his courteous and gracious manner, his eyes were haunted, his face deeply lined with the sorrows and defeats he had known. Although he was not yet sixty, he moved and spoke like a very old man, without energy or enthusiasm.

  Blythe tucked her skirts about her and sat down on the top step of the porch. The roses, blooming at random in the untended gardens, were still rich and lovely. She must cut some of the buds for Sara’s dinner tray.

  Just then her attention was diverted by the sight of a graceful figure on horseback, cantering up the driveway. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she recognized the approaching rider. It was Garnet.

  Blythe watched her as she flung the reins over the iron hitching post, admiring the grace of her movements, her figure, accentuated by the nipped-in jacket and the softly flared skirt of her dark blue riding habit.

  Garnet, seeing Blythe, seemed to hesitate slightly. She stood for a moment, slowly pulling off her leather gloves.

  The woman looked glowing, Blythe noted, not as thin and pale as she had been when they first met. Her red-gold hair under the small-brimmed pancake of a blue hat was bundled into a netted snood.

  “Good morning! Pve come to see Miss Sara,” she explained, fastening the edge of her skirt into a loop at the side. “I hope she’s not resting.”

  Blythe scrambled to her feet, genuinely glad for Garnet’s company. Oh, she’ll be so happy to see you! She’s missed you.” She almost added, “We all have,” but something in Garnet’s cool gaze stopped her.

  “Then I’ll just go on up,” she said and started up the porch steps. As she passed, Blythe caught an intriguing spicy scent.

  She followed Garnet into the house in time to see her skim up the winding staircase with quick, light steps and all the confidence of one who belongs. At once Blythe felt that feeling of isolation. How long would it take her to feel a part of life at Montclair?

  Still, she was glad Garnet had come. Her visit would be sure to cheer Sara.

  Blythe hurried out to the pantry. She would surprise them with a tea tray, she decided. Surely Mrs. Montrose would be pleased with a tray of fresh tea and some of the dainty ginger cookies she liked.

  Blythe arranged the tray, and when the water boiled, she poured it over crushed jasmine leaves, let it steep thoroughly, then put the top on the china teapot and, over it, the quilted cosy.

  Satisfied that she had followed Garnet’s instructions to the letter and that even Sara would approve, she lifted the tray and moved confidendy up the stairs and down the hallway toward Sara’s wing of the house.

  Nearing the closed door, she could hear the murmur of voices. She paused outside and shifted the tray slightly to free one hand. But as she started to knock, she heard her name mentioned. Instandy, she halted.

  “Blythe? But Blythe doesn’t matter.” That was Garnet speaking.

  “If only Malcolm hadn’t made this terrible mistake. If only he had waited—” Sara’s voice was anguished.

  Mistake? Malcolm’s mistake? What mistake? Then very slowly, the truth dawned upon Blythe. They meant her! She was Malcolm’s mistake.

  Rooted to the spot, she stood unable to move, an unwilling eavesdropper. Then she heard her name again.

  “Blythe? She makes no difference. We all know Malcolm can never fully give his heart to anyone but Rose.” Garnet’s voice was tinged with a bitter sadness. “Sara, believe me, it would not have changed things if I had waited for a hundred years. But now I have a second chance for happiness, and I’m going to take it. Please … be happy for me,” she pleaded.

  Blythe had heard enough. Too much. Gripping the tray firmly, she turned away. Garnet’s voice followed her as she tiptoed back down the hall. She was not sure where she was going, what she would do. All she knew was that she must get hold of herself before she could risk going into Sara’s room, facing both women as though she had not just heard news that had shaken her world on two fronts. Garnet loved Malcolm! Malcolm still loved Rose!

  Blythe j
ust reached the top of the stairs when she saw Malcolm coming in the front door. She whirled around, but not in time.

  Looking up, he saw her and bounded up. “Oh, you’re taking Mama’s tray in to her. Good! I was just going in to visit for a while. Didn’t I see one of the Cameron horses hitched outside?”

  “Yes, Garnet is visiting your mother,” Blythe managed through stiff lips.

  “Garnet? Wonderful!” Malcolm’s eyes lighted up. “She should be a real tonic for Mama. Here, I’ll take that in.”

  She relinquished the tray, then let her hands drop limply to her sides. She half-turned and watched him, his step livelier than she had seen it in a long time, as he walked along the hall to his mother’s room.

  It did not strike her at first that she had not been asked to join them. Her senses were too frozen for reaction. She went down the stairs, holding onto the banister, and without any real idea of where she was going, walked out of the house. Outside, she took the path through the kitchen garden along the meadow and down toward a spot where the woods began at the edge of the lawn.

  The breeze felt mercifully cool to her flushed cheeks, and she closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. It wasn’t what she had overheard that hurt so much as the realization that all she had instinctively felt since coming to Montclair was true. The only thing she hadn’t understood was Garnet’s role. Now that, too, was clear. Garnet had been in love with Malcolm, expected to marry him when he returned. That explained her abrupt departure from Montclair upon their arrival.

  Yet, the thing that saddened Blythe most was that her dreams of happiness with Malcolm had faded as quickly as a rainbow after summer rain. Now it seemed hopeless to cling to her vision of a marriage that would take the normal course of others she had observed in the small community of Lucas Valley. There, young couples got married, and as babies began to arrive, they became a family. Innocent as she was, Blythe was not ignorant.

  In all the weeks since they had arrived, Malcolm’s behavior had bewildered her as he continued to sleep downstairs, never approaching the bedroom she occupied. Now she knew why. Garnet had put it into words. Malcolm could not love her, or any other woman, because he was still in love with Rose. His daily pilgrimages to the hillside cemetery proved that his heart was buried there with her.