Shadow Bride

by Jane Peart

  Savannah homes were stately, Blythe decided, mostly of Regency architecture built of stone or stucco and etched with exquisite ornamental work like black lace against the pastel of the walls. It was a city of churches, too, Blythe noted as they passed first a white-spired building, then a twin-towered cathedral facing the square.

  Blythe took a long, deep breath, hoping the mingled fragrances would soothe her nervousness. The thought of seeing Malcolm’s parents after all these years was daunting. Yet both of them had responded to her letter, expressing their delight at hearing from her and their happy anticipation of her visit.

  “I cannot tell you how your message cheered Sara,” Clayborn had written in his fine Spencerian hand. “She is counting the days until your ship docks and you and our grandson will be here.”

  In spite of these reassurances, Blythe still felt some apprehension. Before she had left Montclair and Mayfield, she had sent them a letter, explaining as best she could the disastrous circumstances under which their home and land had fallen. Written in the shock and grief of Malcolm’s death and the loss of the Montrose estate, the letter had contained only the bare facts. Blythe herself had acted in panic and run away.

  For many complicated reasons, Blythe had never felt really welcome nor accepted at Montclair. Even though she was carrying Malcolm’s child at the time, she had felt the best thing she could do for them was to disappear from their lives. Maybe, if there were no reminders of Malcolm’s unfortunate second marriage, they would recover all the sooner.

  But now, nearly seven years later, she was coming back into their lives. What happened next was in God’s hands.

  Before they left England, Blythe had bought a book about the southern part of the United States, full of pictures. She and Jeff had pored over it for hours, turning the pages as she read to him about the places they would see. Now, it was all coming alive for them.

  She looked over at her handsome son, sitting up so straight, looking from right to left as they rode along. Now they were at the outskirts of town, turning into the country road leading out to Sara and Clayborn’s cottage on Lucie’s plantation. The road was lined with tall pines on one side and on the other with vast marshes where herons and spindly-legged cranes waded.

  “Look, Mummy!” Jeff exclaimed, pointing to the strange-looking birds, his eyes shining.

  How handsome he is, Blythe thought, feeling that sweet little jolt of love and tenderness as her eyes rested on her son. The morning sun had dusted his dark curls with a golden light, giving his hair a mahogany sheen. He looked like Malcolm, and yet she could see something of herself in him, too. Blythe wondered for the hundredth time what the Montroses would think of Jeff.

  The carriage slowed, then made a right turn through gates onto a crushed-oyster-shell drive shaded by arching live oak trees hung with mysterious gray moss. The drive led to a majestic, white-pillared house at the far end. As they came closer, Blythe realized she was actually holding her breath. Almost before the carriage came to a complete stop, she could see the graceful figure of a woman gliding out from the house to stand at the top of the steps.

  This must be their hostess, Lucie Leighton Bowen, Blythe thought as the driver opened the carriage door and handed her down, then lifted Jeff out to stand beside her.

  “Welcome to Windhaven,” the lady called to them in a softly accented voice.

  “Thank you,” Blythe replied, and she and Jeff mounted the steps to the porch.

  I’m Sara’s sister, and, of course, you’re Blythe.” When Lucie spoke, the cadence was low and musical, the distinctly southern one Blythe had all but forgotten.

  Lucie held out both hands to Blythe, then leaned down to hug Jeff.

  “And I’m your Aunt Lucie, young fellow. Come along, I’ll take you right to Sara. She’s been on pins and needles for days, waiting for you two to come!”

  Following her into the cool interior of the house, Blythe was struck by both its simplicity and its quality. The hall, hung with mirrors on either side, extended the length of the house, seemingly endless. Through this hallway they walked out onto another veranda, the twin of the one in front, down steps and along a flagstone path to a small house nestled under the thick shade of towering oaks.

  “We built this as a guest house for overflows in the days when we did much more entertaining,” Lucie explained. “And when Clay suggested Sara would be better off in our milder winter climate, this seemed made to order for them. Everything’s on one floor, so much easier for Sara, and it’s convenient to our house and for the servants—” Lucie’s radiant smile utterly transformed what might have been described as a rather ordinary face.

  Recalling Sara’s remarkable beauty, Blythe had been a little surprised that her sister was so very different in appearance, but there was a sweetness of expression and a tranquility that she had always found lacking, even in the perfection of Sara’s features.

  “Sara! Sara, they’re here!” Lucie called as they neared the flower-edged brick terrace. There curlicued white iron furniture was arranged, and overhead purple wisteria garlanded the trellis, giving both color and shade.

  Lucie caught Jeff’s hand in hers. “Come, darling, don’t be shy. Come meet your grandmother,” she urged gently.

  Jeff looked to Blythe for reassurance, then marched up onto the terrace just as Clay’s tall figure filled the cottage doorway. Blythe drew in her breath sharply. Mr. Montrose looked much as she remembered him, yet decidedly older. His wavy white hair was smoothly combed, the flowing cravat and ruffled shirt of his white linen coat, immaculate.

  “My dear Blythe,” he said, his voice husky with emotion. Then his gaze fell on the little boy who had halted on the threshold. There was a moment of absolute stillness when the only sound to be heard was the slow rustling of the wind stirring high up in the trees, the muted flutter of bird wings.

  After a long minute he said, “So this is Jeff. What a fine boy you are, and very like your father. Wait until your grandmother sees you.” Over Jeff’s head Clay’s eyes met Blythe’s. ‘Thank you for coming, my dear, thank you for bringing our grandson.” Then he called over his shoulder, “Yes, yes, Sara, darlin’, we’re coming!”

  He took Jeff by the hand and led him inside, and Blythe followed.

  In the small parlor just off the entrance hall, Sara waited on a lounge chair placed between the French windows opening out onto the terrace.

  Though Blythe had expected to find her mother-in-law aged, she was surprised to see that Sara was still lovely. Gowned in a lavender taffeta dress, its neck and sleeves ruffled in lace, she held out her arms, tears darkening her blue eyes to sapphire gems.

  “Darling boy!” she said as Jeff stepped shyly forward. “How I have longed for this day!” Her eyes feasted on him, then she looked past him to Blythe. There was only a second’s hesitation before her smile included the boy’s mother in its welcome.

  “Blythe, if you don’t look every inch an English lady!”

  Blythe’s cheeks flushed hotly. Sara’s compliment was ample reward for the time and care she had taken in dressing for this, their first meeting after all these years. She had chosen a walking suit of taupe bouclé-knit expertly tailored to sculpture her slimly curved figure, its cream-colored revers and cuffs decorated with trapunto embroidery, the skirt fashionably gathered into a short train in back. Completing her stylish ensemble was a biscuit straw hat, trimmed with beige grosgrain ribbons and set artfully atop her coppery curls.

  That first afternoon the four adults, their attention centered on one small boy, sat on the shaded terrace enjoying a refreshing tea of delicious iced lemonade, a feather-light pound cake, and the first fresh peaches of the season with a lemon sorbet. The conversation was pleasant, with no sad memories brought up nor any sort of recriminations for Blythe’s long silence. There would be time later to speak of the years between. It was enough now to enjoy this unexpected reunion and speak only of happy subjects.

  When Clay took Jeff to explore the large garden wi
th its goldfish pond and waterfall, Sara reached for Blythe’s hand and squeezed it gratefully.

  “How good of you to come all this long way, my dear, and bring this darling child so that we could get to know him a little.” She paused, “You have done a magnificent job with him. He has obviously been brought up with a good balance of love and discipline … something, I’m afraid, I never accomplished with my sons. I loved them extravagandy and spoiled them totally.” Sara sighed, then gave a small, involuntary shudder. “I’m only sorry that we’ve already missed so much of his childhood … But—” she shook off the negative thought—“we shall just make the best of the time we have!”

  The next time the two women had to be alone was on an afternoon when Clay took Jeff to the harbor to see the many ships being loaded and unloaded with their exotic cargoes of cotton, hides, wood, wine, fruit—merchandise from all corners of the world. It was then Sara and Blythe first spoke of Malcolm and the self-destructive end of his life, weeping unashamedly in their mutual loss of this man they had loved.

  “It wasn’t all Malcolm’s fault,” Blythe told Sara. “I was the wrong wife for him. If he had married someone strong like Garnet, he might not have slipped into despair. I was too young, too ignorant to help him—” Her voice broke.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself, Blythe, nor burden yourself with guilt. What’s done is done. We’ll never know if what we did was right or wrong until eternity. Each of us lives out his or her own destiny. We make decisions that, once set in motion, affect us and everyone around us.” Sara sighed deeply. “My deepest regret is that Malcolm did not live to see this wonderful boy, his son. It would have given him something to forge a new life for, a reason to bring Montclair back into the Montrose family.”

  Seeing Blythe’s teacup nearly empty, Sara poured another steaming cupful. “You know, of course, that Montclair has been taken over by the very man who won it in the card game with Malcolm?”

  Blythe bit her lip and nodded. How well she remembered that awful day, just before Christmas, when the county sheriffs messenger had delivered the eviction notice. Later, on the very same train she was taking out of Mayfield, Randall Bondurant had passed her on his way to his private car through the day coach where she sat grieving.

  “In spite of everything, Blythe, I think you should take Jeff to Virginia, back to Mayfield, let him see Montclair—if only from a distance. He has a right to know his heritage. Who knows? Maybe he will be master there yet!” Sara shook her head. “One thing I have learned is that one never knows what lies ahead. Life presents such twists and turns that one should never give up hope.”

  Blythe could never recall a time in which her mother-in-law had looked on the hopeful side of things. But as the leisurely days passed, Blythe glimpsed more and more of this new Sara.

  Of course Sara had aged. The dark wings of hair were now predominantly silver, framing the perfect oval of her finely lined face, the toll of years of illness and many sorrows. But there was a new serenity in Sara that Blythe had never seen, and she wondered if she would learn its secret.

  This came about on one of the last afternoons of her visit, when Blythe decided at the last minute to decline Lucie’s offer to go calling on some of her friends and see some of Savannah’s historic homes and sites. Instead, she said she thought she would spend the time with Sara.

  Sara seemed pleasantly surprised when Blythe appeared at the little cottage. Almost simultaneously, a small black boy came shyly onto the terrace where Sara was reclining on her chaise.

  After greeting Blythe, Sara turned to the child. “Tell the other children we’ll not have a reading lesson today, Toby. Miss Blythe’s visiting me this afternoon, so you tell Bessie and Joel to come over tomorrow and we’ll read the story about Daniel and the lions’den, all right?”

  The little fellow nodded. His big dark eyes rolled toward Blythe curiously, then he ran through the garden and back toward the kitchen area of the big house.

  “Am I upsetting your plans?” Blythe asked.

  “No, my dear, not at all. One day is the same as the next to children.” She smiled. ‘That was Tobias, the cook’s boy. I’m teaching him and his sister and cousin to read. And at the same time they’re learning about the Bible.” As if slightly embarrassed by this admission, Sara shook her head. ‘Who would ever have believed it of me? Rose would be so pleased, if she knew.”

  Blythe sat down opposite the older woman, gazing at her thoughtfully.

  As if reading her mind, Sara said softly, “Oh, yes, my dear, I’ve changed. You bend or you break, you know.”

  The two women began talking quietly, Blythe sharing with Sara some of her uncertainties about Jeff’s future.

  “There are some fine schools in Virginia,” Sara reminded her. “I never approved of sending Southern children up north to be educated, and I suppose I feel the same way about American boys going to English boarding schools.”

  “Maybe I’ll look into some while I’m there,” Blythe said. “I’ve decided to follow your suggestion and take Jeff to see Montclair.”

  “What a good idea, my dear!” Sara commented as if she had not suggested the idea. “And if you were not so far away, you could come for visits and we would really get to know our grandson.”

  As the sun shifted, shadows fell onto the terrace where they were sitting, and Sara gave a little shiver.

  “It’s getting cool out here. I suppose we should go inside before we get a chill.”

  Blythe rose, then hesitated. Light as Sara was, could she manage to carry her into the house alone?

  At this moment, Sara pointed to the latticed screen behind her chaise lounge. “Please hand me my crutches, Blythe.”

  Startled, Blythe stared at her mother-in-law. She had never known Sara to use crutches. Always she had been carried or wheeled about in an invalid’s chair.

  Sara met her glance with a wry smile.

  “Yes, I use crutches. I have for years, though no one knew about it. Now you will discover another dark truth about me, Blythe. When I was first injured, it was thought I would be bedridden for the rest of my life. However, gradually, due to my basically strong constitution, I suppose, my back mended even though my legs were useless. The doctors I consulted said I could manage to get around on crutches.”

  Sara shook her head. “Although I learned how to use them, my movements were so awkward and ungainly that I was bitterly resentful. I had always been light on my feet, a graceful dancer, and an accomplished rider and could not bear to have anyone see me struggle to cross a room so wretchedly. Of course, Clay knew and my maid, Lizzie, but no one else. Oh, Blythe, I was so proud, so vain! I deprived myself and my family of a much more mobile, more involved wife and mother! I am ashamed to confess it, but it is true.”

  Spontaneously Blythe leaned down to embrace Sara, then found the crutches and helped her stand. Bonded now in a new understanding, the two women went into the house.

  “Will you call on the Camerons while you are in Mayfield?” Sara asked the day before Blythe and Jeff were to leave for Virginia.

  The question caused Blythe’s heart to beat erratically. She was sure that Sara had never suspected the strong attraction she and Rod Cameron had had for each other. Why should she? As far as Sara was concerned, the Camerons were just family friends whose sons had grown up with her own.

  Now she hedged her answer. “I don’t know, I’m not sure. They may have forgotten all about me.”

  “Oh, no! I’m sure they would be delighted to hear from you and especially to see Malcolm’s son.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Blythe murmured, then added, “But please don’t write that I’m coming. I’ll decide when I get there.”

  Sara looked puzzled, but acquiesced gracefully. “Of course, that’s up to you.”

  The time of their departure for Virginia was bittersweet. New memories had been made, replacing in part the strained and tenuous ties of the past. Clay and Sara were now more than Malcolm’s parents. They were Jef
f’s grandparents and, perhaps even more significantly, her friends. Leaving them now brought a kind of sadness for what might have been.

  What’s gone and past help should be past grief—Shakespeare

  chapter

  9

  Mayfield, Virginia

  BLYTHE HAD NEVER planned to return to Mayfield. In fact, until her long talk with Sara, Mayfield was the very last place she ever imagined going. But Sara’s argument had been convincing.

  On the sunny days aboard the boat traveling up the coast from Savannah, Blythe thought often about that afternoon she and Sara had spent together and how Sara had confided in her so intimately, as if she felt compelled to share with Blythe all that she herself had learned so tragically.

  “It’s the things I didn’t appreciate that I miss most,” Sara had said. “Now, I know that joy in most lives is as fleeting as a summer rainbow. And we must cherish those times. The day of my accident that changed my life forever was such a happy one. Clay had just given me a beautiful new Arabian as a gift after Lee’s birth. I recall mounting, then turning back to see Clay and Malcolm standing on the porch steps, and thinking how wonderful my life was!” A sad smile touched Sara’s lips. “So, you see, as it says on the sundial in Noramary’s garden at Montclair: COUNT ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS.”

  Upon their arrival in Mayfield, the train’s conductor informed Blythe that the Mayfield Inn always sent a carriage to pick up prospective guests. An official of the inn would dien take care of the passengers’ luggage, and they would be driven to the front entrance. At his suggestion, Blythe signaled the driver, and soon she and Jeff were seated in the open carriage en route to the Inn.

  On the way, Blythe was amazed to see how well Mayfield had recovered from the ravages of war. The first time she had seen the town, it had borne the scars of frequent skirmishes between Union and Confederate forces. As a county junction, Mayfield and its railroad were strategically located and had been fought over, won, and lost a half-dozen times by each side, and in the last year of the conflict, had been occupied by the Yankees. Now it had the look of a flourishing community.