Senator's Bride

by Jane Peart

  Pleasantly surprised that her grandson was continuing to demonstrate his resourcefulness, Garnet could not resist broaching the subject of his future. "What are your plans, dear? I mean, after the summer?" she asked, taking a sip of the very good coffee. "I can't understand why you didn't want to go to college. Or even come to England and attend Oxford. I would have been more than happy to have you make Birchfields your home if that had been your decision. You could have come there for holidays and such."

  "This may sound strange to you, Grandmother," Gareth said, "but I hated the idea of four more years of school. I like being outdoors. Maybe it was growing up here at Avalon, with all this freedom, or being with my father in New Mexico. I love gardening, Grandmother. And I like working with my hands . . . love the smell of the earth . . . enjoy sawing wood and stacking it. I can't explain it. I just like it, that's all."

  There was a stubborn jut to his chin that stabbed Garnet. It was Faith all over again, she realized with a start. She was reminded of her daughter's arguments with her about attending debutante parties, trying to persuade her to like what she herself had loved as a girl. How trivial such things seemed now. Why on earth had she made such a fuss over them?

  But it was futile to spend time in regretting the past. There was the present to think about. Her grandson Gareth. She must help him map out his future. But this time she would be more careful. She would not be dogmatic or dictatorial but tactful and persuasive. After all, a man had to do something, be somebody.

  So the days passed. Garnet settled in, if only temporarily. Privately she fretted over the lack of communication between Jeff and his son. Gareth seemed perfectly content with the situation and eventually with the idea of his grandmother's staying on at Avalon.

  Garnet took upon herself the task of hiring a couple to clean, cook, and maintain the large house. Meanwhile Gareth spent his days as he had for the past year when he had chosen to stay here rather than accompany his father to Taos for the winter. He worked in the garden, built and repaired fences, and rode his horse through the acres of woodland on the island.

  Almost a week after moving to Avalon, Garnet braced herself for a visit to the master wing once occupied by Jeff and Faith. It was a suite of rooms comprised of a bedroom, sitting room, boudoir, and dressing room. As Garnet walked through the door, she had the sensation of stepping back in time. The suite was decorated in a style reminiscent of medieval paintings—rich velvet bed draperies, elaborate tapestries, heavy carved thirteenth-century furniture.

  She hesitated before she could bring herself to open the door into the adjoining sitting room that had belonged to her daughter. Here Faith had spent hours working on her tapestry designs and reading to her children. Through the diamond-paned windows, Garnet could see an enclosed garden where fruit trees, espaliered against a stone wall, were in full bloom.

  Faith's tapestry frame, a partially finished piece stretched upon it, had been placed in an alcove near the windows. Garnet moved slowly across the room and stood behind the frame. She studied the design being worked. Taking shape was a border of intricately petaled roses in varying shades of red—delicate pinks to deep mauves—interwoven with ivy leaves. On a table to the right was a basket of bright-colored yarns. Propped against a vase that held a few dried brown roses that must have been Faith's models, was a card on which was printed a poem—probably the verse Faith was going to work into her tapestry.

  Too vain to wear glasses even though it was now difficult for her to see to read, Garnet lifted the lorgnette she wore on a silver chain around her neck and leaned closer to read the verse:

  My life is but a weaving

  Between my Lord and me;

  I may not choose the colors He worketh steadily;

  Sometimes He weaveth sorrow—

  And I in foolish pride,

  Forget He sees the upper,

  And I the underside.

  Faith had begun to copy the poem onto her design. A needle was poised in the tapestry cloth as if Faith had been taking a stitch when called away for some reason, intent on returning to finish it.

  Tears blurred the lettering, and Garnet swallowed over the painful lump in her throat. Feeling once again the keen loss that had not diminished in nearly fourteen years, she turned away quickly and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Struggling to control her emotions, Garnet went outside. She stood for a moment, taking deep breaths, hoping that the sunshine and balmy breeze would help her regain her equilibrium.

  Walking around the side of the house, she came upon an addition that had been built when Jeff and Faith moved here to live. It was Jeff's studio. She could tell from the windows facing north and the slanted skylight built to catch the late-afternoon sun.

  Garnet had never been inside Jeff's studio, had never seen his work except in galleries. Curious, she approached the room. Ivy grew thickly on either side of the front door, and a rambling rosebush clambered over as if attempting to conceal it from passersby. Pushing the vines aside, Garnet tried the door handle, expecting it to be locked. To her surprise, it moved easily and, with a slight pressure, yielded to her touch.

  One would think that Jeff would have locked up before he left, she mused. Maybe he had taken all his paintings with him. Or perhaps all of them were placed in galleries somewhere. On the other hand, since Jeff was in Taos doing a whole new set of paintings, it was more likely that he had stored his canvases here.

  Cautiously Garnet entered. Light streaming into the high-ceilinged room revealed that it was amazingly neat and orderly. Garnet had always assumed that artists' studios were cluttered and untidy, but this one was organized and workmanlike. A large easel, draped with a dun-colored linen cloth, occupied the center of the room. Beside it on a square table were containers of brushes of all sizes, bottles of turpentine, varnish, and a palette encrusted with dried paint, as if it had only just been laid aside.

  Looking around, Garnet recognized this as the studio of a true professional, a man passionate about his work. Canvases of all sizes and shapes were turned to the wall all around the room. Along the back wall was a storage area with a length of wooden upright shelves in which unframed canvases could be kept.

  Suddenly aware of the cold, Garnet shivered. There was a wood stove in one corner, probably to provide heat when Jeff was working in here. But since the studio had been unused for months, a damp chill permeated the place.

  Rubbing her arms briskly to warm herself, Garnet walked over to the concealed canvas on the easel. This must be something Jeff had been working on and had not had time to complete before he left. Reaching out with one hand, she gently tugged away the drape.

  Upon seeing the painting, Garnet let out a sigh that was almost a sob and stepped back as if struck. Although she knew that Jeff had often used Faith as his model, seeing that beloved face so accurately reproduced was a shock. Garnet had not seen her daughter since that morning in Southampton when she had kissed her and sent her off with a "Bon voyage!" to board the ill-fated Titanic.

  The emotional impact of seeing this lifelike portrait of her cherished daughter was intense. Then, slowly, she began to take in details of the painting.

  Jeff had become known for his allegorical paintings as well as those with a religious theme. Even in its incomplete state, the portrait was proof that Jeff was a master of his craft. Garnet's eyes moved over the picture, she could see that this work was to be a depiction of the New Testament incident known as "The Woman at the Well."

  The background was as yet unfinished, but it was the face that caught and held one's rapt attention. The woman's expression was that of a person who has just been given the most wonderful gift imaginable. The eyes were shining; the skin, glowing; the mouth, full and sensuous, smiling, lips parted as though praises were rising from a heart overflowing with happiness.

  "Oh, my darling child!" The words broke from Garnet's lips, more a cry of pain than exclamation. In all the years since she had first heard the news of the dis
aster, her grief had not abated. It came flooding forth now in heartrending sobs. Putting her head in both hands, she wept brokenly, her shoulders shaking.

  Finally, after a period of time she could not have measured, the tears stopped. She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes and look once more at the beautifully rendered work. It was Faith, but it was a transcendent Faith.

  Garnet drew up the high, wooden artist's stool in front of the easel and sat down, staring at the painting. She was unaware of time's passing. The questions she had never dared to ask for fear of hearing the answer, came now.

  "Why, God? Why my Faith? She was so young, so happy, so loving and beloved, with so much to live for? I don't understand. I'm angry that You took her!"

  Gradually her rebellious spirit calmed. It was as if from somewhere deep within her, she was given answers and, with them, peace. Why not Faith? she seemed to hear. She never lost her delight with life . . . with the beauty of things, her spirit filled with wonderment and her virtue as radiant as a star. In the memory of those who loved her, she will always be young and fair.

  Garnet did not know the source of this reassurance, had never been a reader of poetry or the Bible, had never appreciated fine music, yet the words flowing through her heart and mind that afternoon were like a divine melody.

  She thought now of the epitaph that Jeremy had chosen for their daughter's memorial stone before he himself died two weeks later. A literary man, he had taken some selections from a favorite passage in Thackeray's The Newcomes: "If love lives through all life and survives through all sorrows, surely it is immortal. Though we who remain are separated, if we love still those we love, can we altogether lose those we love?"

  How wise, Garnet thought with new appreciation for her husband. She wished she had shown him more respect and gratitude while he was alive.

  But this was not the time for remorse. Much as she had resisted coming to Avalon, she would not have missed this afternoon, with all its bittersweet truth.

  With growing clarity, Garnet now began to realize that she was on the way to becoming an embittered old woman, filled with resentment, old hurts, imagined slights, and offenses where none were intended. Trying to run other people's lives, being indignant when they shunned her advice.

  Life was too short for all this, she decided. Her own life—the nearly seventy years of it—had passed with frightening speed, but she had been left here when others much younger were already gone. Perhaps there was some purpose in it.

  She must make the most of what time was left to her. Do better, be kinder, more forgiving, more understanding, more accepting of the differences in people, the changes in the times. . . .

  Garnet was not sure how long she remained in Jeffs studio. It seemed a very long time, yet when she came out again, the sun had barely moved through the trees, and the birds were flocking around the birdbath in the garden.

  That evening, when Gareth came in, she made no comment on his tousled hair, his disheveled clothing. She did not even urge him to wash up and change his shirt. She only told him when supper was ready, a rich Brunswick stew that she had made because it was cook's night off. To her surprise, he came to the table with his curly hair plastered down and with a fresh shirt on.

  But it was he who was surprised when Garnet announced, "I've decided to make plans to leave in a few weeks. My house in England has been completely restored, and I'm anxious to get back. The gardens will be in bloom." She took a spoonful of the stew. "My gardens at Birchfields are quite beautiful. You really should come visit me there."

  Gareth smiled, the same smile that had reminded Garnet so sweetly of Jonathan. "I'd like to do that, Grandmother. I really would."

  chapte

  25

  PATCHES OF pink dogwood scattered among the evergreens were breathtaking along the country roads leading into Mayfield. Crystal gripped the steering wheel tensely, trying not to succumb to the fairyland beauty. She was here against her better judgment. All the way down from Richmond, she had been tempted to turn back. But she had promised Kip she would come. So, in spite of everything her innate good sense warned her might happen, she was keeping her promise.

  The exhibit had gone well. Gallery owners showing her photographs were pleased. Thirty had sold at the Opening, with orders placed for others. "Last Look," as the exhibit had been entitled, had been an unqualified success.

  Still fighting the impulse to turn around and flee to New York, Crystal squared her shoulders and pressed on. A promise was a promise. Besides, she was already on the outskirts of town, only miles now from Montclair and Kip.

  Kip! There he was! A picture of Kip, larger than life, stared down at her from a billboard. Startled, she pulled over to the side of the road to get a better look.

  She drew in her breath sharply. It was a blown-up print of the photograph she had taken of him on that October day at the airfield. Underneath, she read the slogan: "KIP MONTROSE, WAR ACE, OUR CHOICE. Montrose fought for peace. Now he fights for progress. Kip's the kind of hero we need!"

  Still shaken, she started the car again and drove into town. Along the way she passed still more signs, bold and colorful: "OVER THERE, A HERO! OVER HERE, A LEADER! VOTE KIP MONTROSE." There were other signs, too, smaller, less flamboyant, announcing the candidacy of Frank Maynard. That must be Kip's opponent? What was he? And what was he like? Kip would be a hard act to follow.

  Somehow, even with the numerous billboards declaring his involvement in the race, Crystal hadn't received the impression that Kip was serious about the campaign. It seemed more like a pleasant pastime for him, another lark. Still, she had to admit there was much more at stake when she caught sight of a red, white, and blue banner draped across a store front on which foot-high letters spelled out: "KIP MONTROSE CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS."

  She shifted gears and sped by. Unconsciously following the memory of the turn that took her out onto the broad road leading into the countryside, she passed the Dabneys' white-pillared mansion and went straight by the gates of Cameron Hall, heading intuitively for the private road that led to Eden Cottage.

  Abruptly she braked and pulled to a stop. Through the wooded glen she could see the house. The windows were shuttered, the place had a closed look. And there on the sloping hillside stood Montclair, the house that so held her in thrall.

  A sigh escaped her. Why did I come back? I should have listened, should have obeyed.

  Since that singular experience in the little church at the Crossroads, Crystal had bought herself a Bible and had begun to read it. Much was puzzling to her, but some parts spoke to her heart, particularly the psalms and proverbs. Now, with her thoughts in turmoil, she took a deep breath and tried to recall a particular verse that seemed meaning­ful: "Trust in the Lord and lean not on your own understanding."

  Slowly she recalled that day at the airfield, the day she had taken Kip's picture, the very one he was now using in his campaign. Vividly she recalled that flash of insight that had come to her so clearly . . . that the glory lavished upon flyers during the war had spoiled him for ordinary things. Kip craved continual adulation, excitement, challenge, the "roar of the crowd." Coming back home after such a heady experience had been a letdown for him. And when she had asked him facetiously what he was going to be when he grew up, he had quipped, "Maybe I'll run for public office."

  Poor Kip, she thought sadly. He'll never change. His head is literally in the clouds. Whoever shared his life had better be prepared to pick up the pieces when the balloon burst.

  Well, that was not for her. For the second time, Crystal sighed and said out loud, "I should have listened, Lord, believed what You were trying to tell me when I was here before. . . ."

  Minutes passed. It was quiet out here in the shadowed woods. Gradually peace stole over Crystal. She turned on the ignition, swung her station wagon around, and started back into town.

  She couldn't leave without seeing Kip. And since it was too late to drive back to Richmond tonight, she'd take a room at the
Mayfield Inn and call him in the morning. She needed time to think things through before she saw him.

  Crystal's resolve faltered when she heard his enthusiastic greeting over the phone. Luckily for her, he had a campaign commitment, so they arranged to meet in the coffee shop the next morning. She had chosen that public place, knowing that she would need all the support she could get to withstand Kip's persuasive charm, to stand firmly.

  And at the sight of Kip, Crystal felt a quick surge of joy she could not completely conceal. He stood for a moment at the entrance, looking for her and giving her a chance to observe him. He was so handsome, so confident and charming. He seemed charged with a new vitality, perhaps fueled by the challenge of the campaign.

  Seeing her, he strode over to the booth where she waited. Sliding into the seat across the table, he reached over and took her hands. "I'm so glad you've come, Crystal! So glad you're here . . . and just in time."

  She tugged gently to disengage her hands. "No, Kip. It's not what you think. I'm not staying. I've checked out of the hotel and will be leaving as soon as we're finished."

  He looked stricken. "What do you mean—leaving? I want to take you to the headquarters, show you off. . . . "

  "Kip, just listen," she begged. Crystal chose her words carefully, hoping that the note of insecurity in her voice would not betray her fear that he would somehow talk her into staying. She repeated all her carefully rehearsed arguments, adding to them the fact that she was not cut out to be a politician's wife. She was an artist, a professional who must pursue her own goals. He would have to understand and accept that.

  If she didn't know better, Crystal might have detected a pleading tone. "I wish you wouldn't say that. Wish you didn't believe that," Kip said earnestly. "It's only going to be for a few months, and then it will be over and we can go on with our lives . . . our life together."

  "But what if you win, Kip, what then?"

  "I intend to win, of course, but that shouldn't interfere. . . ."