Senator's Bride

by Jane Peart

  He had spent most of last week laboriously scraping and sanding in preparation for the big job. It was one of the major decisions he had made upon Luc's recovery—to stop procrastinating and begin the renovation of Montclair in earnest. Viewing the mansion as a legacy to his son, Kip had a new sense of family pride, a new dedication to preserving Luc's heritage.

  He smiled to himself. Of course, all these resolutions had been made in the unseasonably rainy last week of May. Now the Virginia summer was in full swing. Kip wiped his forehead with the back of one arm and scowled. The prospect of spending the afternoon wielding a paintbrush with the hot sun beating on his head was an unpleasant one.

  "Hello there, Kip!" called a voice from behind him, and he turned to see Gareth coming up the drive from the woods.

  "Well, hello yourself!" Kip greeted him cheerfully, glad to see his young cousin as well as having an excuse to delay his task longer. "What brings you over here on this warm day? Not that I'm not happy to see you. What's the latest news of the family?"

  "Actually, that's what I've come about," Gareth said, stopping in a patch of shade provided by the huge oak in front of the house.

  "Nothing wrong, I hope."

  "No, it's about Lynette. You know she's getting married—to Frank Maynard. . . ." Gareth paused, feeling a little embarrassed. He wasn't sure how Kip felt about his former political opponent.

  "Sure, yes, I know. Frank's a fine fellow. I've no hard feelings. What about them?"

  "Well, Lynette has her heart set on being married in the little chapel in the woods . . . you know, the Avril Dumont Montrose chapel?"

  Kip looked doubtful. "Well, I don't know, Gareth. It's been boarded up for I don't know how many years. No telling what kind of condition it's in."

  "I was just over there, checking the place out, and it's built pretty solidly. I don't think it would take much to get it fixed up so it could be used . . . that is, if you'd give me permission. I'd like to tackle the job . . . a wedding present for my sister," he explained. "I'm pretty good with my hands." He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, suddenly aware that he might be perceived as bragging.

  Kip glanced at him with new respect. "I guess I didn't know that, Gareth. Well, sure, it's fine with me if you want to take it on. Maybe I'll even help."

  Gareth's eyes lighted up. "That would be great, Kip. With two of us working, it shouldn't take long at all! And since the wedding isn't until September, we've got plenty of time."

  The painting could wait. Kip had years to work on Montclair. But getting the little chapel in the woods ready for a wedding couldn't.

  Kip whistled as he hammered. He was working alone today, since Gareth had to drive his Grandmother Devlin to town to do some shopping. Now, as Kip positioned a nail in a warped window frame and drove it home in a few well-placed strokes, he felt inordinately happy. He was getting pretty good at this. It had been therapeutic, helping Gareth ready the little chapel for his sister's wedding.

  Unconsciously, he was whistling Lohengrin's "Wedding March" as he pounded in the final nail and started down the ladder. Just as he reached the ground, he heard tires on the pine-needled drive in front and turned to see Kitty pull up in her small green car.

  "It's looking wonderful, Kip!" she called to him. "I've been wanting to see what you two were up to." She got out and walked over to join him.

  "Come see the inside." Kip slid his hammer back into his tool belt and preceded her up the chapel steps, then opened the door for her.

  "Oh, it's lovely," she said in a hushed voice. "I can see why Lynette wanted to be married here. It's perfect for a small wedding."

  Kip beamed. "So you think we did a passable job?"

  "More than passable, I'd say. I'm really surprised. I wouldn't have thought you'd enjoy doing this kind of work." There was a flicker of interest in her eyes.

  "I've changed, Kitty," he said seriously. "About a lot of things."

  She gave him a long steady look. "Yes, I believe you have, Kip."

  "I'm glad you believe me, Kitty. That's important to me."

  Ignoring his insinuation, she glanced around. "Lynette is going to be so pleased. And, of course, Frank, too." She paused, then asked, "Any regrets?"

  "About Frank? About the election?" Kip shook his head. "No, not one. Frank's a fine man. He'll make a good senator . . . and a good husband. . . . " He hesitated, then went on, "But other regrets? Plenty of them. Let's sit down, Kitty. There's something I want to say to you."

  Somewhat warily, Kitty followed Kip to one of the back pews where they sat down. He took one of her hands in his.

  "Kitty, I didn't dare speak to you about this when it first occurred to me. It seemed too soon . . . after Luc's illness, I mean. I didn't want you to think I had any ulterior motives." He halted, stroking the soft skin on the back of her hand. "Luc's being so sick helped me to see things differently. It was like what they say about a drowning person. My whole life flashed before my eyes when I thought Luc was slipping away . . . that I might lose him." He looked up, his eyes clear and shining. "You asked about regrets, Kitty. I regret that I've treated you so shabbily in the past."

  "You were young, Kip. We were both young."

  "But that's no excuse. Even though it's late, I want to say I'm sorry about that, Kitty . . . and to tell you . . . that I love you." His fingers tightened on her hand. "Do you think there's any way we could . . . that there would be a chance . . . "

  Kitty drew in her breath. These were the words she'd longed to hear ten years ago. But she was no longer an infatuated, starry-eyed girl but a woman who had gained a hard-won independence.

  Uncomfortable with her silence, Kip asked, "Unless it's too late. Is it too late, Kitty?"

  She nodded slowly. "Yes, Kip, I'm afraid it is," she said gently. "Nothing stays the same, you know, no matter how much we may want it to. Everything changes. We're different people now."

  "But, Kitty . . ."

  "No, Kip," she said firmly, cutting him off. "You mustn't mistake gratitude for love."

  "It's not just gratitude, Kitty. I do love you. . . ."

  "Of course you do, Kip. And I love you. But it's a different kind of love, and it's no substitute for the kind marriage requires. After all, we've both had that. . . and it would be wrong for us to settle for less." She paused again. "I planned to tell you when I rode over this afternoon that I'm leaving for New York tomorrow. The publishers of Richard's first book of poems are interested in putting out a second collection. And since there are still dozens of unpublished ones . . . well, they've asked me to help select the ones to put in the volume. So, it's a new beginning for me, Kip." He walked her out to the car. "Wish me luck."

  "I do—the best, Kitty." Leaning down, he kissed her lightly.

  "There will be a new beginning for you, too, dear Kip," she told him.

  "I hope so," he said.

  "I pray so." She smiled. "Bless you, Kip."

  "You, too, Kitty. God bless."

  From the May field Messenger, September 1926:

  In a private ceremony attended only by family members and a few intimate friends, Miss Lynette Montrose became the bride of Senator Frank Maynard.

  The noon wedding was held in the historic chapel on the grounds of the bride's ancestral home, Montclair. The small, white frame building was built on the property in 1830 to accommodate the many traveling preachers who were guests of Mr. and Mrs. Graham (neeAvril Dumont) Montrose during their lifetime.

  The chancel area was flanked with masses of lavender-and-white gladioli in white wicker baskets. The bride entered the sanctuary on the arm of her father, the celebrated artist, Geoffrey Montrose.

  Her bridal gown was ivory taffeta, the French illusion veil held by a pearl bandeau bangled at the front with a teardrop pendant to be detached and worn later as a lavalier. The neckline of her dress framed a strand of pearls, a gift of the bridegroom. Her bouquet was a borealis arrangement of stephanotis and small white carnations, centered with a purple-throated wh
ite orchid resting on a pearl-edged white Bible.

  The bride was preceded down the short center aisle by her maid of honor, her sister, Bryanne Montrose, wearing a periwinkle blue French voile dress, sashed in darker blue satin, and a picture hat of braided straw.

  The bride's uncle, Scott Cameron, stood with the senator as the bridegroom's best man.

  Following the ceremony, a reception was held at the home of the bride's fraternal grandmother, Mrs. Blythe Cameron, at the family home, Cameron Hall, attended by friends and many of Mr. Maynard's political associates and constituents. An honored guest was Mrs. Jeremy Devlin, the bride's maternal grandmother, the former Garnet Cameron of Mayfield, now of England.

  Following the wedding, the couple left for a wedding trip to White Sulphur Springs and will be at home next fall in the capital city when the senator assumes his seat in the state legislature.

  Part VI

  Paris

  1928

  chapter

  30

  IN THE SPRING of 1 9 2 8 Kip received an invitation to the dedication of a Memorial in Versailles in honor of the American volunteer aviators who had served with the French during the war. Since Luc was now fully recovered from the serious illness that had nearly taken his life, he decided to take the boy with him to France. Etienette's parents had written several times saying how much they longed to see Luc, and he would leave the boy to stay with them while he attended the ceremony.

  The Boulangers wrote back immediately saying how delighted they were at the prospect and how welcome they both would be in their home.

  The Adantic crossing was smooth, the weather pleasant. The ship, filled with American tourists now flocking in droves to peacetime Europe, offered an active social life. Given Kip's looks and personality, he was often the object of some of the lady travelers' interest and was issued many invitations to the many parties and other shipboard events.

  But Kip spent most of his time with his little boy. Luc's illness had forged a deep bond between father and son and Kip had determined to never again let any self interest take precedence over that relationship.

  After docking at Calais, they took the train to the village where Luc's mother had been born and where her parents still lived. Much of the countryside they passed through was familiar to Kip, for he had flown over it. It was hard for him to believe that nearly ten years had gone by since those days when he had been a young, reckless pilot.

  It all started coming back to him, the daily recognizance flights into battle zones. He could almost feel the tightening in his stomach, the dryness in his throat as he mounted into the sky, hear the throb of the engine, the hammering of his heart, the roaring in his ears. He reexperienced the tenseness in his neck as he kept moving his head from side to side, always alert, watchful, on the lookout for enemy planes with the Maltese crosses on their wings, zooming out of nowhere, feel his fingers move from the throttle to the machine rat—rat-ta-tutttt—the rush of elation when he made a hit followed by the sickening sensation, the sour taste of nausea as the other plane spiraled slowly down in flames and black smoke—even as he thought, that could have been me falling to a fiery death.

  Shuddering, Kip dragged himself back to the moment. That had been war. Now it was over. Please God, there would never again be that kind of horror. Still shaken, Kip looked over at Luc. The little boy was kneeling on the seat, his face pressed against the window, enjoying the picturesque countryside through which they were passing. It all looked so peaceful. The world, too, seemed peaceful enough now. An uneasy peace, perhaps, but—Kip repeated his heartfelt prayer that his son would never have to experience the horrors of war.

  Etienette's village still bore some of the scars of the war. Small towns had not the money nor the resources that the larger cities had. Many of the young men had not returned from the war or were disabled, and rebuilding had gone slowly, her father explained. All that was left of the church where Kip and she had been married was rubble, the result of bombardment. The old priest who had married them was dead, and a younger man came only twice a month to hold services in the school. That was the first thing to be rebuilt, Mr. Boulanger, the schoolmaster, was proud to say and showed Kip the new classrooms with justifiable satisfaction.

  Their house had sustained minor damage in some of the German strafing raids, but these had been repaired. The Boulangers welcomed Kip and Luc with tears and kisses, exclaiming over how much le petit had grown and how much he looked like Etienette. Mr. Boulanger wanted to show Kip their large garden in back, and Luc helped his grandmother select vegetables for the salad she would serve with a delicious French meal.

  If there was time before dinner, Kip said, he would like to see Etienette's grave. Sensitive enough to realize that he would rather go alone, Mr. Boulanger walked with him to the gate of their low stone fence and pointed the way down the road beyond the remains of the church.

  The cemetery had been kept trimmed and planted, the neat white crosses gleaming in the bright sunshine. Kip found Etienette's grave right away. The stone was glistening, newly scrubbed, adorned with fresh flowers. Seeing her name engraved on its surface brought a lump to Kip's throat. It was hard to connect the pretty, laughing girl he had known and loved with the formal epitaph: Etienette Montrose, nee Boulanger, VingtAns. Only twenty years old when she died; he, only a few years older. He could hardly remember being that young.

  "Rest in peace, sweet Etienette," he whispered. "I am trying to be a good father to our son. I promised you I would. I've failed miserably often in the past. But—I renew that promise now and with God's help, I'll keep it."

  After leaving Luc with the Boulangers, Kip traveled to Versailles to attend the ceremonies at the War Memorial. It was a much more emotional experience than he had anticipated. Since the nightmare of Luc's illness, Kip had discovered that his emotions were much nearer the surface than before. At the dedication of the magnificent stained glass window designed by an anonymous artist picturing an American eagle escorting planes over the Atlantic, a beautiful poem written by an English poet, Richard LaGallienne, and inscribed on the tomb was read. Listening to the words—"France of many lovers, none more than these, hath brought you love of an intenser flame. Their golden youth they gave, and here are laid. Deep in the arms of France for whom they died. . . . " Kip was profoundly moved.

  He did not linger long after the ceremonies concluded. He needed an antidote for the painful memories evoked, so he took the next train up to Paris. He would see the sights, perhaps take in some of the tourist attractions, go the Louvre, visit the cathedrals, things he had no time nor inclination to do when he was on leave during the war.

  It was not the Paris he remembered. That one had first been seen through the eyes of a young man on the brink of adventure. A few months later as a swaggering, newly certified aviator proudly wearing the uniform of the French Flying Corps, he and some of his buddies had come on leave to "do the town." There had been an unspoken rule among them to live life to the fullest, however long that would be. Then he had met Etienette and fallen headlong in love. After that, everything changed for Kip. In that magical spring there must have been other starry-eyed young lovers strolling along the sidewalks, sipping coffee at a little cafe in those same afternoons; but too absorbed in each other, they had been unaware of them.

  He and Etienette had only had a few weekends, the brief ceremony in her little village church, two days more, then he had gone back into combat and she to report to duty as an ambulance driver. They had hoped for a lifetime together. What they got was the equivalent of a month of days strung out a few at a time. Then it was all over. Her death soon after Luc's birth, coming as it had only a few weeks after the Armistice, had been a bitter blow.

  Now, in Paris again after all these years, Kip felt at loose ends. For two days he wandered around the city alone, systematically checking off some of the things he felt he should see, revisiting some of the places he vaguely remembered. The third morning, feeling desperately lonely, he took out
the address Kitty had given him and made a phone call.

  Kip took a taxi from the hotel, handing the driver the slip of paper upon which he had written the address that Cara had given him over the phone. His French being rusty, he was not sure that his pronunciation would land him in the right street. While the man studied it, frowning, Kip wondered if maybe his phonetic spelling was as confusing to the driver as his verbal directions might have been. At last, the man nodded in understanding and exclaimed, Ah, oui. Alors, allons nous.

  It was a wild ride, careening around corners, alternating jerking spurts of speed with hair-raising jolting stops. Finally, with a slam of the brakes, they came to a screeching halt in front of a formidable gray structure behind black wrought-iron gates. "Voilà!" the driver announced triumphantly.

  Kip got out of the cab, handing the driver a crumpled franc. With a wave the cab departed. He surveyed the austere building dubiously. It looked more like a convent for cloistered nuns than a home for children. Then he saw a tarnished brass plaque on one of the stone pillars, which read Maison pour Les Enfants de la Guerre. He pulled the leather thong at one side, and the bell it activated resounded into the chill morning air. He pushed the gate, and it creaked open. Entering the cobbled inner court, he approached a massive oak door. He turned the door handle and walked inside. Almost at once he felt a change in atmosphere. From somewhere deep within the building he heard children's voices and laughter. Fainter still, a piano playing a sprightly tune and the marching sound of small feet.

  He stood in the tiled vestibule uncertainly for a minute. Then a door opened to his left and a pretty, young woman stuck her head out. "Bonjour, monsieur."

  "Madame Brandt?"

  "Ah, oui! Un moment," she nodded, smiling, and disappeared again.

  He looked around curiously. From the look of it, this must have been some wealthy family's town house, turned over to some organization for the care of orphaned and abandoned children, the saddest consequences of war. This could have been Lucien's fate, too.