by Jane Peart
She knew Robert loved her unconditionally. He teased her, made her laugh, plied her with compliments, set her at ease. Now she was being asked to relinquish the one person in the world who made her feel cherished and needed. Because of her childhood pain, the rejection she had felt at the hands of her imperious sister-in-law, there resided a deep insecurity beneath Noramary’s tranquil manner. This feeling stemmed from the time she had. been sent to live in a strange land, among strangers, though her sense of isolation had gradually diminished in the busy, cheerful Barnwell household.
Instinctively, Noramary equated love with being lovable. She concluded if she were helpful, well-behaved and sweet-tempered, she would win the love she yearned for. It was this wistful longing to belong that drove her to be more obedient, more generous, more gracious than any of the other children and so earn a place for herself.
Since the Barnwells had treated her with the same affection and tenderness they had for their own daughters, Noramary felt she could refuse them nothing—not even her life.
She must go now! Noramary wiped away the tears. Robert would be growing impatient. How to break this terrible news to him? She knew she could not put off any longer the painful task that lay ahead of her.
Unconsciously she ran her fingers through her hair, and, feeling the silky strands catch in the straw hat still hanging from its ribbons, she loosened the ties and took it off. Then she went over to the dressing table to brush her tangled curls.
Appalled by the ravages of shock and tears reflected by her image in the mirror, she set about to repair them. As she did, her gaze fell upon the framed miniature of her mother. Noramary picked up the small portrait, a copy of the life-size painting hanging over the massive fireplace in the library of Noramary’s ancestral home in Kent, England.
The artist had captured all the legendary Celtic charm of Eleanora Cary Marsh—her graceful figure was shown to advantage in the fitted green velvet jacket of her riding habit, the glowing complexion, intensely blue eyes, the masses of dark curls spilling out from under the small plumed hat. In the background was her prancing black horse upon whose curved neck she rested one graceful hand; in the other she held a riding crop. Every detail was expertly executed, even to the exact rendition of the Tara brooch worn on her shoulder, its emerald and diamonds sparkling.
Noramary studied the painted face in the ivory oval, then looked searchingly at her own reflection. The words of her old nurse, Nanny Oates, came to her.
“You’re the image of your sweet mother, darlin’, and you’ll be just like her when you’re a young lady.”
Noramary recalled that a variation of these words was given to her later as an explanation as to why her brother Simon was sending her to live with the Barnwells in Virginia. Why must she leave Monksmoor Priory forever? Cross the vast ocean alone? she had demanded tearfully.
“It’s because you’re beautiful and she’s jealous,” Nanny Oates had told Noramary bitterly as she packed her little trunk for the journey.
The old memory stirred uneasily as she examined her reflected face. Had Noramary, as Nanny Oates predicted, grown up to look like her beautiful mother? Her face seemed quite ordinary to Noramary. In her naïveté, she did not realize that even a work of art viewed daily begins to appear commonplace.
She had never known her mother, for Eleanora had died giving her birth. Instead, she had been reared in a house that mourned its young mistress, the second wife of a deeply grieving master. Nanny Oates had done her best loving Noramary as dearly as she had loved Eleanora before her. Simon, a half-brother and older by twelve years, had inherited everything at their Sadler’s death—the palatial manor house, the vast lands and properties. There had been no provision in the will for Noramary. It was simply assumed that, when the time came, Simon would arrange a dowry and a suitable marriage for his little half-sister.
No one had counted on Simon’s marrying a woman who would bring such drastic changes in the heretofore rather careless life of the Marsh home and eventually send away the girl child whose promising beauty she feared.
Now Noramary pieced together the truth and was learning that beauty can, indeed, be a curse—a cause of unhappiness in the life on whom it is bestowed.
“But why must I go?” the childish Noramary had demanded of Nanny.
The old woman’s face contorted as she replied, “Because not many can stand the sight of beauty that’s not their own. Ofttimes it brings out the worst in people—lust in men, envy in women.” She had jerked her head meaningfully in the direction of the suite occupied by the Lady Leatrice Marsh.
“She’s jealous, she is, my pet. She can’t abide the thought that in a short time, you’ll outshine her. Pier’s is the kind of beauty that fades quickly. Give her a few years of child-bearing—and she must have at least three bairns, a boy among them—and her looks will go. You have the bones and bearin’, the inner glow, that makes beauty real, makes it last!”
Thinking back to that long-ago day when all the arrangements had been completed for her departure for America, Noramary remembered when the reality had struck her full force. It was when she realized Nanny Oates would not be coming with her! She had flung herself into the old nurse’s arms, sobbing.
Rocking her as she tried to comfort her beloved charge, Nanny had murmured over and over, “It’s God’s will, dearie, God’s will. Tisn’t ours to question. We must accept it.”
Now Noramary wondered, was this, too, God’s will for her? Turning from the mirror, Noramary threw herself onto her knees beside the bed and buried her face in her hands as she hugged the miniature to her breast.
“Oh, why must it be like this! Dear Lord, help me understand!” she cried.
Then Noramary recalled what she had so often seen Nanny Oates do in times of stress. She raised her head and glanced at the small Bible the old nurse had packed into her belongings to bring with her to Virginia. She picked it up and turned the pages slowly until she came to a passage she had heard Nanny pray many times: ‘Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, a light unto my path.’ Dear Lord, give me the guidance I need this day.”
Opening the Bible at random, she slid her finger down the page, her eyes following it to the fifth verse of the first chapter of Joshua: “I will not leave thee nor forsake thee; take courage and be strong.… Take courage then and be very valiant. Obey my laws and do not depart from them.” Noramary thought quickly of the commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother.” Surely Aunt Betsy and Uncle William had been like parents to her. She read on: “Fear not and do not be dismayed, because the Lord thy God will be with thee in all things wheresoever thou shalt go to.”
Noramary closed the Book. Certainly those instructions were clear enough. She straightened her slender shoulders. Now all that was left was to tell Robert.
chapter
3
NORAMARY COULD SEE Robert waiting for her as she hurried along the path toward the meadow. He was leaning against the gnarled old oak tree which, when they were younger, they had used as a hiding place for secret messages. Sometimes, even recently, Noramary had found a note from Robert hidden in one of the knotholes there.
At the thought that now there would no longer be such notes, no longer the camaraderie they had shared through the years, Noramary felt a wrenching in her heart. It was so unfair! Hers and Robert’s life irrevocably altered. All because of two irresponsible people.
What would Robert say when she told him? He had always thought Winnie a silly, empty-headed flirt. And when he found out that she would bring about a drastic change in his own life, his whole future—change everything— Noramary halted, chilled by the thought of Robert’s reaction.
Noramary stood there a moment longer, unconsciously delaying the telling. She watched Robert stoop, gather up a handful of pebbles and send them skipping over the smooth surface of the pond at the end of the meadow.
How handsome he is, she thought, how free and graceful the movements of his lithe body as he tossed the stones, the full
sleeves of his white linen shirt billowing, the sun glistening in tawny lights on his brown hair.
Noramary’s heart felt sore and heavy within her. How could she give Robert up to marry a stranger? Robert, who knew her better than anyone else, who loved her with all her faults, who made her happier than she had ever been!
Knowing Robert’s enthusiastic, impulsive, intense nature, Noramary dreaded his reaction to the new circumstances that would change their future plans. His situation with his uncle was entirely different from her own with the Barnwells. Would he understand her sense of obligation, her conviction that it was her duty to fulfill their request? All she could do was try to make him see what to her was a clear and certain path.
As she stood there uncertainly, Robert, spinning around to fling another pebble, saw her and waved both arms in greeting. He tossed the pebble, then started running to meet her.
“Noramary! What took you so long? I’ve been waiting for ages!” he demanded, the twinkling brown eyes belying the stern tone of his voice.
“My aunt and uncle…” she began hesitantly. ’They wanted to talk to me.…”
“Well, no matter, now that you’re here at last!”
He caught both her hands in his and smiled down at her, his square, white teeth contrasting with the glowing tan of his lean face, his dark brown eyes shining with happiness. His arm went around her waist. At his touch a familiar tingle, swift as quicksilver, coursed through Noramary. She dared not look up at the tall boy who led her over to the shade underneath the sprawling limbs of the old oak. He knew her too well. She needed still more time to gather the courage to tell him what must be told.
There had never been anyone like Robert. Up to now all their times together had been happy. From childish play and games, they had grown to enjoy so many of the same things, shared so much—the love of music and dancing, poetry and plays. They had laughingly called themselves “kindred spirits.” They had laughed much together, Noramary thought wistfully. Robert had always been able to make her laugh even when she was a little melancholy.
“Let’s sit down here for a minute,” Robert suggested.
He spread his jacket on the grassy bank for Noramary to sit upon, then scooped up a handful of pebbles and tossed them one by one into the water. Watching as the circles spread wider and wider, one circle making another and another, Noramary suddenly thought how much—like the circles on the water—life was. In life everything affected everything else, one’s words, one’s actions touched everyone else’s. As the poet John Donne had written—“no man is an island.” Careless Winnie never imagining how her action would shatter all Robert’s and Noramary’s hopes, dreams, plans, like a pebble tossed thoughtlessly into a pond.
When Robert put his arm around her shoulder, took her chin in his other hand and gently tilted it upward to kiss her, she drew back.
“What is it?” he asked, the hurt showing in his voice at her unexpected movement.
She swallowed over the rising lump in her throat. “Oh, Robert,” she began, her distress making it difficult to go on. “Something has happened at home, something that affects you and me… us. My aunt and uncle have asked something of me that I have no right to refuse, and…” She stumbled awkwardly through the difficult recital while he stared at her in growing disbelief.
Even though Noramary had anticipated his dismay, she had not expected him to react so violently. When her stammering explanation trailed off with a plea for his understanding, Robert jumped to his feet.
“No! I can’t understand! Noramary, you love me, I know you do. How can you think of marrying another man? You must wait for me, darling. Another year and then I shall be of age. I’ll have my inheritance—a house in Williamsburg and property besides. I’ll be a physician, an honorable profession. We’ll have a place in society. You will have everything I can give you. What more could the Barnwells want for you? Of course, Montrose is a wealthy planter, I know that, but they have three other daughters. Why could not one of them take their sister’s place as his bride? Why you? Blast Winnie and her fancy French tutor… what right has she or anyone else to rob us of our happiness?”
Noramary shook her head sadly. “Robert, dear, listen… please listen. I’ve given my promise. I can’t do anything else. No matter how we feel, my darling. I do love you, I shall always love you.… But, Robert, they gave me a home when I had no home. They were my family when my own family turned me away… they have treated me as their own daughter.… I can do no less than give them the same obedience and love I would give my own parents.”
“Respect, gratitude, obedience—to a point! I can understand that! What I cannot understand is blind obedience— giving yourself as the sacrificial lamb!” Robert declared furiously.
With that, he turned to Noramary, reached down and grasped her wrists and pulled her to her feet. His face was very close to hers, so close that his eyes seemed almost black, the pupils dilated with anger. His voice was harsh and bitter.
“And is our happiness to be sacrificed then?” He grabbed her shoulders. “Doesn’t that mean anything? Noramary, I love you! You can’t do this to us! I won’t let you!” he said with desperate intensity.
Then he crushed her against him, his arms holding her fiercely, and kissed her with a passionate urgency neither had dared reckon in themselves before.
As he held her and kissed her, she felt for the first time the fire flaming up in them both, that promise of a rapture that would blind them to anything else. It had always been there, she knew. Perhaps both sensed it; yet, knowing instinctively that it was for later, they had been willing to await its fulfillment.
Now, suddenly, there would be no tomorrow for them, no future, only this day, this moment.
In spite of her brave words, all of Noramary’s resolve melted as their kisses deepened, intensified. It was with immense effort that she finally broke away, breathless and shaken. “Oh, Robert, we can’t—don’t make it harder for me.…” With a broken sob, she turned from him quickly, and, lifting her skirts, she started running back toward the house, a slim, graceful figure, fleeing like some woodland creature—from danger.
On and on she ran, stumbling at times on the hem of her gown, sobbing helplessly, the sharp pain in her side matching the one in her heart.
Behind her, she could hear Robert’s pleading voice calling her name. “Noramary, wait! Noramary!”
But Noramary never stopped until she reached the garden gate—and never turned back.
chapter
4
A CURIOUS PALL seemed to descend upon the usually cheerful Barnwell household in the days immediately following Winnie’s elopement. Even the younger girls, Sally and Susann, seemed strangely subdued in the wake of their older sister’s rash action. Laura, on the other hand, reacted with rare excitement at the unexpected event that had plunged her parents into such a dismal mood, and she wanted to talk of it endlessly.
Noramary, usually Laura’s willing confidante and indulgent listener, was quiet and uncommunicative. And in the face of Laura’s protestations that the turn of fate casting Noramary as Duncan’s bride was highly romantic, the older girl maintained her stoic silence.
Behind closed doors, there was constant discussion between the older Barnwells as to how to break the news of their daughter’s betrayal of her promise to Duncan Montrose and how most tactfully to suggest to him the idea of Noramary as his substitute bride.
’The sooner done, the better!” declared Betsy emphatically.
It was Squire Barnwell’s unhappy task to be the bearer of such tidings. So at the end of the week, armed with a miniature of Noramary to refresh Duncan’s memory of Winnie’s pretty cousin, William left Williamsburg for Montclair.
Even though Montclair was situated on the James River, a hard day’s ride from Williamsburg and thus removed from the possibility of quickly circulated gossip, the Barnwells, nevertheless, wanted to be sure the news of their daughter’s folly was delivered to the jilted suitor with as much dignit
y as the situation afforded. Thereby, it was fervently hoped, the news would be received with understanding and forgiveness by Duncan Montrose.
Although Squire Barnwell’s pride made him reluctant to set out on such an undertaking, he agreed with his wife that no time should be lost. Too, he was anxious to make the trip before late spring rains might worsen the wretched country roads, which was in places little wider than a trail for a single horseman.
In spite of the unforeseen event of the elopement and the aftermath of despair they had felt briefly, both Barnwells were fairly optimistic of the outcome of the journey. Actually both Squire and Mistress Barnwell secretly agreed Duncan would be getting a far better bargain with Noramary than with their own daughter. Not only was the younger girl beautiful, but a sweet-tempered, gentle girl with a delightful disposition, in contrast to Winnie, who could be petulant and willful. Noramary was also gifted musically, accomplished in needlework, painting, dancing and spoke French fluently. Yes, Noramary would make an ideal wife for the wealthy planter. Truthfully, she was much better suited to the role than Winnie would have been, they concurred.
Still, even with this hopeful outlook, William had a few nagging doubts as he left for Montclair. What if Duncan, insulted by Winnie’s rude and thoughtless act, should refuse their offer? Worse still, what if he considered the dowry already paid simply a debt of honor as compensation from the Barnwells for their daughter’s dereliction of duty? Given his recent business losses, that would be a disastrous turn of events, indeed!
“Drat that headstrong girl! And that despicable Frenchman!” grumbled William as he jogged along the rutted road toward Montclair.
A much more cheerful William returned from the Montclair plantation. To his anxiously waiting wife he reported that Duncan, although greatly surprised by the news, had received William’s apology with admirable restraint. It was his sister, Janet Montrose McLeod, a “formidable Scotswoman,” lately arrived from Scodand for the express purpose of helping her brother prepare his newly built home for his bride, who had evidenced the most indignation. She seemed to take it as a personal affront to the entire Montrose clan.