by Jane Peart
Sara wiped away the tears with the edge of a lace-trimmed handkerchief and said evenly, “Malcolm is a changed man, Blythe. You would have had to know him before to understand how drastically different he is now. I hesitate to say ‘broken,’but defeat was never in his experience … and it is bitter. Perhaps, if Malcolm had been … lucky … out West? Perhaps if he had been able to do for Montclair all he had dreamed—” Again Sara sighed, lifting her shoulders helplessly. “It would take a miracle, I believe, to bring Malcolm back, to give him the incentive to begin again.” Sara’s gaze fastened on Blythe. “Maybe you could bring it about. You’re young, full of life, and I know you love him. Love can sometimes work miracles. But … I don’t know … perhaps it is too late, even for that—”
The silence that fell between the two women was heavy with unspoken doubts. Blythe felt the weight of the task Sara had bequeathed her, knowing her inadequacy.
“The only reason I agreed with Clay to go to Savannah, you know, was because I saw him growing older every day.” Sara broke the silence at last. “Living here at Montclair the way it is now is like rubbing salt in his wounds. Why else would I leave all this? I am perfectly comfortable here. Oh, yes, I know I complain … a pampered invalid’s old habits.” She waved aside an imaginary rebuff. “But now I am to uproot myself, accommodate myself to other people, a different routine, a strange place … yes, strange, for I’ve been away from Savannah for over thirty years. It is for Clay I’m doing this.”
Blythe was amazed. She had observed Clayborn Montrose’s devotion to Sara, but she had not suspected his wife’s deep love for him.
Suddenly Sara looked very weary; the animation had left her expression, and the lines deepened in her face. “Put this back now,” she sighed. “I feel very tired. I think I need to rest a little.”
Blythe returned the box to its hiding place. She had slipped the betrothal ring into her apron pocket, not wanting to place it on her finger until she spoke to Malcolm about it. She was not even sure it would fit … or that she herself would ever fit the image of former Montrose brides.
As she arranged Sara’s pillows more comfortably behind her head, Sara grasped her wrist with one thin hand. Looking up at Blythe with an expression of sympathy, she said, “Poor unsuspecting child. What have you walked into? But soon you will be rid of two burdens—a helpless invalid and a melancholy old man.”
Blythe started to protest, but Sara interrupted. “Oh, my dear, I know, I understand. I came to this house as a bride, too, but it was so very different then. Montclair was blooming like the orchards and the gardens … ah, you’ve never seen such flowers. And the house was so splendid … everything in readiness for Clay’s bride. A whole new world of luxury awaited me here. Nothing was forbidden to me, everything was possible. My word, my slightest whim was law. Every young woman should know such love, such happiness, such sweetness. … Even though it has all passed away now, and I’ve gone through the valley—” her voice broke a little—“I shall always have my memories … but what will you have? Poor, poor child.”
When Blythe left her mother-in-law’s suite, she felt strangely subdued. A lingering sadness followed her downstairs. She wandered directionless through the rooms, trying to imagine what it must have been like when Sara first came here. Sara and the others … Garnet and … Rose.
Suddenly, Blythe was gripped with a curious restlessness. She left the house, waUdng through the untended gardens, past the orchards, and along a worn path leading up a hillside. It led to a small graveyard. The Montrose family’s burial ground!
Blythe pushed open the ornate black iron gate and walked in. Stepping reverendy between the headstones, she found the one she was looking for:
ROSE MEREDITH MONTROSE
1839-1862
Beloved Wife of Malcolm
Mother of Jonathan
“Love Is As Strong As Death”
She stood for a long time reading the words engraved on the tomb, over which hovered the stone figure of a brooding angel.
A little vase of wilted black-eyed Susans had been placed at its base. By Malcolm before he left for Massachusetts?
Blythe picked up the arrangement, took it over to the edge of the cerjietery, emptied it. Then she plucked some Queen Anne’s lace growing wild nearby, filled die vase, and brought it back, placing it gendy on top of the slab.
Kneeling, she began to whisper a prayer … no, it was more like a conversation: “Rose, I want to help Malcolm. I know he loved you and mourns you still. You’ll always come first in his heart. I can accept that. And if he brings Jonathan home, I promise you I’ll do all I can to make up to both of them for losing you.”
chapter
16
STEPPING OUT onto the side porch one morning, Blythe felt a slight nip in the air that signaled the approach of faü, although it was only the first week in September.
Malcolm had been away for nearly a month. No one knew when he would be back. Not even his father had heard from him. Of course, Massachusetts was a long way, Blythe comforted herself, and travel difficult.
Suppressing a longing to escape the house and the overflowing basket of clothes waiting to be ironed, Blythe went back inside. There was no use waiting for Suzie to come or Cora, for that matter. They came whenever it suited them. Not that Blythe blamed them. They were paid very little, and they had their own families to care for, besides working alongside their husbands in the small plots of land former Montrose slaves had been given for their own use.
Lonnie was different. She came as regularly as clockwork to tend to Sara’s rooms. She had been trained under the “late-lamented” Lizzie, she told Blythe, and her loyalty to the “Missus” ran deep.
Anyway, Blythe did not really mind the ironing. In fact, she rather enjoyed it when the weather wasn’t too hot. She had always done up her Pa’s shirts.
She set the flat irons on the small stove in the kitchen annex to heat. One thing about ironing, she thought, it left her mind free to wander at will. And, lately, there had been a great deal to think about—mostly about Malcolm and how things would be when he returned. If he brought lonathan with him—and she sincerely hoped he would—she felt that the whole atmosphere of the house would take on a new vibrance and joy. Yes, Jonathan might be the answer. His coming would bring life and laughter to a house that had long been waiting for something … someone.
She picked up one of the irons, pressing the heel across the dampened, starched shirt, seeing the wrinkles vanish. If only life’s wrinkles could be smoothed out half so easily', she mused. She turned the garment, again lifting the flatiron from the stove and banging it, hissing, against the collar of the shirt. As she worked, her constant question repeated itself. How could she become a woman Malcolm could respect, admire and, perhaps someday, even love?
Achingly anxious to please him, Blythe had observed Kate Cameron and Dove, tried to practice—when she was alone—how they moved, carried themselves, sat, lifted a teacup.
She had found a book on the shelves in the library, The Lexicon of Correct English Usage, had borrowed it and studied it when she was alone in her bedroom. She loved the library, not only because of the books, but because there was a portrait of Malcolm, standing proudly, handsome in his Confederate uniform, the gold epaulets and braid, the saber at his side.
It was a Malcolm Blythe had never known—young, vibrant, eyes full of hope, dark wavy hair untouched by silver. This was the Malcolm both Garnet and Rose had known and loved, she thought wistfully.
But Blythe tried not to dwell on these things. From early childhood, she had been taught three things that stood her in good stead during these difficult and often confusing days—to take things with a brave face, refusing self-pity; to follow through on all endeavors ventured; and, above all else, to be kind and cheerful.
It was the latter quality that was so much a part of Blythe’s oudook that she was able to bring sunshine to the darkest days at Montclair. Buoying her spirits was a habit instilled at the con
vent school, that of beginning each day by asking God’s blessing, reading a passage from her Bible, and praying. She had learned, from this practice, to anticipate answers to her prayers, thus building hope, strengthening faith. Indeed, the days did seem to pass much more happily.
Preoccupied with her own thoughts, a voice behind her saying, “Ifs much too nice a day to be inside!” made her jump.
Startled, she set down the iron, burning her finger in the process, and saw Rod Cameron at the open back door.
“Come on!” He motioned her out. “Fve something to show you, a surprise!”
“A surprise?” she repeated, the burned finger at her mouth. Her eyes, alight with childish excitement, were damp. She pushed back the coppery curls clinging to her forehead and smiled at Rod expectantly. “What kind of surprise?”
“Come with me and you’ll see,” he urged, holding out his hand.
She whisked the half-done shirt off the ironing board and stood the iron on its end, then took Rod’s hand and ran with him down the porch steps.
A sleek, chestnut-colored horse was tethered beside Rod’s roan, its arched neck and flowing blond mane tossing skittishly.
“Oh, what a beauty!” she breathed in a soft voice, approaching it quietly, then gently stroking the velvety nose.
“I brought her over for you to ride,” he told her.
“For me?”
“Yes, I remembered hearing you say that you rode into town to school from your ranch, and guessed you must miss riding. Since they don’t stable horses at Montclair now, I thought you might enjoy a ride.”
“Today?”
“Of course, today.” He smiled at her.
“Oh, I don’t know—”
“Why not? There’s no reason, is there?”
“I was ironing—”
He dismissed the chore with a wave of his hand. “Oh, the ironing! The ironing can wait,” he chided her gently. “Don’t make excuses, Blythe. You know you want to come.”
“But there’s Mrs. Montrose—”
“Mrs. Montrose was a fine horsewoman in her day. She’d be the first to insist on your taking time out on such a fine day.”
Tempted, Blythe still protested. “But, Rod, I see you have her saddled. I usually rode bareback on the ranch or sometimes—” she blushed—“astride. I’m not sure I could manage a side-saddle.”
“I’ll teach you. After all, that’s my profession, you know.” He made an elaborate bow. “Besides, my horses need exercising, so you’ll be doing me a favor. Now, don’t dream up any more excuses.”
“Well … I’ll go see if Mrs. Montrose needs anything first.”
He smiled broadly. “All right, but hurry! We’re wasting time.”
To her surprise, Sara raised no objections, merely asked Blythe to fetch another shawl and a book and some fresh water before she left.
“I think you’ll find an old riding habit of Garnet’s somewhere and a pair of boots if you need them,” she suggested. “You’re about her size.”
Within minutes, Blythe was buttoning on a riding skirt she found in the room Garnet had vacated in such a hurry. It was rather short, for she was an inch or two taller than Garnet, but the boots fit, and she hurried downstairs and out to the drive where Rod was waiting.
He gave her a hand up, showed her how to throw her leg over the saddle bar, and she picked up the reins, again following his direction.
“There, you see. It’s easy. We’ll take it slow at first and follow the path through the woods.”
He swung up onto his own mount, then came alongside her, smiling his encouragement.
Keeping the horses to a walk, they went down the driveway, then cut over into the meadow, crossed a narrow rustic bridge, and moved into a gende canter on a woodland bridle trail.
Blythe could not help smiling. Everything about this experience—the breeze on her face, the easy rocking motion of the horse beneath her, the sun playing on them in shifting light and shadow as they rode through the pine-scented woods, Rod at her side—all elicited a delicious warm glow.
Presently, they came to a clearing. Beside a mossy-banked stream overhung by willows, where water rushed over the rocks in a miniature fall, Rod dismounted. He covered the distance between them in an easy stride. She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her down.
This close to him, so close she could smell the leathery scent of his vest, the sun-warmed cotton shirt, Blythe’s pulse quickened. She realized that she had never been this close to any man, except for her father … or Malcolm.
Not in months, however, even to Malcolm—not since the day Pa died and Malcolm, in comforting her, had put his arm around her shoulder and she had rested her head against him, sobbing. But never since had Malcolm embraced her, held her, kissed her. She had waited, hoping desperately that he might come to her—
Blythe thrust away these troubling thoughts, aware that she and Rod were still standing only inches apart. She stepped back, a little awkwardly and Rod simply moved over to the edge of the hill to look down at the stream.
As she followed, Blythe was newly aware of his rugged good looks. She wondered why he had never married* Had he left a sweetheart behind when he went away to the War and returned to find her, unwilling to wait for him, married to another?
Blythe’s musings were diverted by Rod’s beckoning motion. “Look. Here. The water is so clear you can see the fish,” he said, pointing to a flash of silver in the sun-dappled stream below.
For a while they watched quietly, then Rod looked at her, saying, “Blythe is such a pretty name, unusual. How did you come by it?”
“It may sound silly but rather sweet, really. Did you ever hear the old rhyme—
Monday’s child is fair of face;
Tuesday’s child is full of grace;
Wednesday’s child is loving and giving;
Thursday’s child works hard for a living;
Friday’s child is full of woe;
Saturday’s child has far to go;
But the child who is born on the Sabbath day Is blithe and bonnie and good and brave.
“And since I was born on a Sunday—”
“They called you Blythe,” he finished for her. “ ‘Blithe and bonnie and good and brave,’“ he recited quietly. “It suits you,” he said softly.
She was suddenly conscious of Rod’s gende gaze resting upon her. And something more. She saw in his eyes a look she had never seen before … not in any man’s eyes. All at once something swept over her, a breathless sensation of excitement and—danger!
Abrupdy she turned away and started toward her horse, calling over her shoulder, “I must be getting back. Mrs. Montrose likes to have her tea and cake promptly at four.”
Rod followed, holding the horse’s head while she swung into the saddle.
“Well, there’s always tomorrow,” he said confidently. “With the students away for the summer holiday, I really need to keep these horses fit. You’d be rendering a great service … and a personal favor … to help me exercise them each day.”
Blythe hesitated for some inexplicable reason, then looking into Rod’s clear eyes, his direct expression, she thought, why not? Rod was Malcolm’s friend and now he was offering to be hers. And Blythe needed a friend. What harm could it do to accept? So she smiled and said, “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good. Then it’s settled.” Rod gave her a little salute before he swung into his own saddle, and they turned their horses toward Montclair.
chapter
17
THEREAFTER, Rod arrived every afternoon with two horses. Blythe was always waiting eagerly. Their daily ride had become die high point of the otherwise monotonous pattern of days at Montclair.
One afternoon, when Rod walked in through the kitchen door as had become his habit, he was carrying a bouquet of yellow roses.
“The last of Mama’s roses until next year, I’m afraid.” He held them out to her. “She picked them for you.”
“Oh, how lov
ely!” Blythe gave a small cry of pleasure and came forward to take them. Their fragrance filled the room, and she buried her face in their dewy freshness. “Mmmm, how sweet they smell.”
Rod watched with an unexpected little catch in his heart as she bent over them, then lifted her head to smile at him.
“Mrs. Montrose will enjoy having some in her room. It was thoughtful of your mother to send them, Rod.” Still holding the bouquet, Blythe turned to the cabinet behind her. “One of the crystal vases should do nicely.”
As she started to arrange the flowers, one of the top-heavy blossoms dropped onto the table, the stem breaking about halfway down. “Uh-oh!” She took it up, held it to her nose, breathing in its scent. She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Too bad!” she said, laying it aside and putting the finishing touches on the arrangement.
Satisfied, Blythe picked up the vase. “Fll just take this up to Mrs. Montrose, then we can go for our ride,” she said, and hurried out of the kitchen.
Once she was gone, Rod picked up the discarded rose still lying on the table, held it to his lips, then slipped it into his jacket pocket.
In Blythe’s memory, that afternoon always shone with a particular brilliance—the sky, a cloudless blue; the woods and fields, breathtaking in their splendor; the gum and oak trees, a deep crimson; the maples, gleaming with gold.
They rode the ridge straddling both Montclair and Cameron Hall properties and commanding a view of the entire valley. It was from that vantage point she glimpsed a clearing, where the sun sent cathedral-like rays of light slanting through the tall trees. Nesded behind a clump of maples was a cottage, its sloping roof, dormer windows and columned porch reminiscent of another.
“Oh, look, Rod!” exclaimed Blythe, drawing rein. “What a darling little house! It looks just like—”
“Montclair.” He nodded. “It was the model of the big house. They used to build them to scale in the olden days so that the owners could actually see how their mansions would look, and—” he added—“to make any changes at that time instead of having to correct them later, a process which would be both time-consuming and expensive. Of course, expense was relatively unimportant since most of the work was done with slave labor. Thank God, we have rid ourselves ofthat blight, at least.”