by Jane Peart
When they drew up in front of the imposing new façade of the inn, Blythe would not have recognized it as the shabby, weathered building she had known. Everything about it had been refurbished, from the nattily uniformed porters and bellboys to the plush carpeting and baroque furnishings of its interior.
As she approached the desk, a smiling clerk greeted her.
“Welcome to Mayfield, ma’am.” To Jeff, he said, “Howdy, young fellow.” Then he dipped a pen into the inkwell and handed it to her as he pushed the registration book forward. “And how long will you be staying with us?”
“I’m … not sure. I have some business to attend to. Actually … I am looking for some property—”
“That’s mighty fine.” The clerk beamed. “I know of just the person for you to contact, ma’am—Richard Pembruck, as fine a gentleman as you will ever meet. Deals in properties of ail kinds. I know he’d be happy to show you around. Now, if I might have your name—”
Blythe hesitated. One of the risks of coming to Mayfield was the name “Montrose,” so readily associated with the prominent family. The hyphenated “Dorman-Montrose” she had used in England had gone unnoted, since that usage was fairly common. Here in Virginia, however, it might seem pretentious and draw unwanted attention, or worse still be immediately recognized and beg questions.
“Mrs. Blythe Dorman—” she said finally, rationalizing dropping the last name. It was protection, a precaution, not really a lie, she told herself.
“With your permission, ma’am, I’ll let Mr. Pembruck know of your interest in seeing some of the available places hereabouts, and then you may make an appointment at your convenience.”
Blythe signed her name with a flourish. “Perhaps in a day or so, but I think I’d like to look around on my own a bit first. Could you arrange for me to have a carriage and driver for a few hours tomorrow?”
“Anything you say, ma’am,” the clerk agreed heartily.
Their room was a spacious one, with a large canopy bed for Blythe, and a small trundle bed for Jeff. The windows overlooked Mayfield Square. Here, surrounded by flower beds, the statue of a confederate soldier at parade rest presided over an octagonal park. Placed at random intervals were benches where people sat chatting or simply meditating on all that the stone soldier represented.
Later, when Blythe and Jeff went down to the elegant dining room for the early dinner service, they were shown to a table by a dignified, white-coated black waiter, who introduced himself as Clarence.
Jeff, as friendly as a puppy, soon struck up a conversation with him as their glasses were filled with ice water. From Clarence, they learned that the inn maintained a large play yard with slides, swings, and a merry-go-round for the children of guests.
“Oh, could I go there, Mummy?” Jeff asked eagerly.
“Yes, dear, perhaps—” Blythe murmured as she studied the menu.
“Now?”
“Too late this evenin’, suh,” Clarence told him. “Play yard closes down at five. Mebbe tomorrow, if yo’mama says—”
“Tomorrow then, Mummy?”
Blythe glanced over the top of her menu at his excited little face.
“Well, not tomorrow, Jeff. I thought we’d take a carriage ride. There’s something I want to show you.”
His look of keen disappointment changed to curiosity.
“What is it, Mummy?”
“A house—”
Jeff’s face fell. “A house?” he repeated. “Why would I want to see a house?”
“It’s a very special house, Jeff. It’s where your father grew up, where he lived when he was a little boy. It’s called Montclair.”
Clarence, who was waiting to take their order, shook his head. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but it ain’t called Montclair no mo’. That place b’longs to Mr. Randall Bondurant who married Miss Alair Chance. So they call it ‘Bon Chance’ now.”
Silently Blythe repeated the new name. The words felt strange on her lips—Bon chance—with her limited knowledge of French, Blythe knew it meant “Good luck.” How ironic, for a house lost to a gambler in a card game. It might have been his good fortune, but not Malcolm’s, and certainly not Jeff’s.
The next afternoon Blythe and Jeff waited on the veranda of the inn for the hired carriage.
“Drive out along the river road,” she instructed the driver as she climbed in.
The tree-lined country road had not changed quite as much as the town, but Blythe noticed freshly painted white fences surrounding lush pastureland on which well-fed cows and sleek horses grazed. The passing panorama kept Jeff busy and interested. But the farther into the country they drove, the more Blythe felt a nervous anticipation—an indefinable mixture of longing and dread.
The closer they came to the familiar bend in the road where she knew the Cameron property began, the faster her heart beat. She leaned forward, her gloved hands twisting in her lap, as they passed the stone gates of Cameron Hall.
The old pain clutched her throat, old questions surfaced—the ones she usually did not allow herself to dwell upon. What had the Camerons thought when they learned that she had left without telling them why she was going? How ungrateful Mrs. Cameron must have thought her, after all her many kindnesses to Blythe. And Rod—what must he have been thinking all these years?
But what else could I have done? Blythe agonized.
Just then the driver’s voice broke into her anguished thoughts, as he called down to her. “We’re coming to ‘Bon-Chance’now, ma’am. Want me to ring the gatehouse bell?”
“No, we’re not going up to the house. Just stop outside the gate, please.”
“Why can’t we go in, Mummy?” Jeff asked.
“Because we don’t know the people who live there now.”
He looked puzzled but accepted her answer.
When the carriage came to a stop, she said, “Come along, Jeff.”
When Blythe got out, he scrambled out behind her, then ran ahead to the closed gates. Leaning over her son’s head, Blythe gripped the railings, squinting her eyes through the masses of blooming pink and white dogwood for a glimpse of the house she had last seen on that drizzling, long-ago December day.
All she could see was a long stretch of velvety manicured lawn and, in the distance, a section of the gleaming white columns on the deep porch, the slanted slate roof, the sparkle of sunlight on the windowpanes framed by dark blue shutters.
“I can’t see anything, Mummy!” complained Jeff “Can’t we go in?”
“No, Jeff.”
“But if it was my father’s house, won’t they know us?”
“It was a long time ago, Jeff. Your father’s dead. Someone else owns it now.” Her voice was unusually sharp as she struggled with her own reaction to seeing Montclair again after all these years.
The little boy was quiet for a moment as if pondering his mother’s meaning. Then he ran back and forth along the stone wall, stopping now and then to try to peer through the railings. Tiring of this activity, he ran back and tugged at Blythe’s skirt. “Let’s go now, Mummy. I’ve seen enough.”
I have, too, she thought, her throat swelling with sadness as she looked down into the upturned face of her small son. This should all have been his. There should be no locked gates keeping him out.
With one hand she touched his curly head, then his plump cheek. “Yes, darling, it’s time to go.”
She took his hand and together they walked back to the carriage and climbed inside. As the carriage started back toward Mayfield, Blythe was sorry she’d come. It had probably been a dreadful mistake!
On the way back to town, Blythe stared unseeingly out the carriage window. She had not been prepared for the storm of bittersweet memories that stirred within her—that early spring afternoon when Malcolm and she had traveled this same road as newlyweds, Malcolm’s old homeplace, the first sighting of the mansion, her heightened anticipation. The meadows bordering the grounds of the house had been golden with daffodils that day, and when they had go
ne inside, they had found Garnet arranging armfuls of them into vases. Garnet!
Blythe thought of the stricken look on Garnet’s face when Malcolm had introduced Blythe as his wife. Unbeknownst to Blythe, Garnet had been in love with Malcolm even before his marriage to Rose Meredith and had loved him with a desperate passion for years—
Love can be so cruel, as she knew—
“Mummy! Mummy, look! Here comes a man on a horse!” exclaimed Jeff, pressing his face against the carriage window.
Jolted back to the present, Blythe turned her head in the direction Jeff was looking and saw a horse and rider approaching on the other side of the road.
It was like a dream out of the past. His wind-tossed hair and the horse’s mane were nearly the same tawny color, and there was something heart-catchingly familiar about the way the man sat in the saddle. Suddenly Blythe knew it was no dream. Instinctively, she drew back, forcing herself against the leather seat, out of sight of the passing rider. Even before he cantered by the carriage, she recognized him. It was Rod Cameron!
Back in her room at the Mayfield Inn, Blythe battled her turbulent emotions. That passing glimpse of Rod had unnerved her. All the thoughts and feelings she had thought so safely locked away had sprung open—a Pandora’s box of memories.
Seeing him on horseback recalled their rides together through the lush woodland trails adjoining their two plantations. One unforgettable day demanded remembering. They had ridden deep into the woods, and had dismounted and sat in the grape arbor of Eden Cottage, the honeymoon house for Montrose brides and grooms. That day they had come close to declaring the truth in their hearts of a love forbidden to them by all they both held sacred.
Blythe knew Rod to be a man of honor, strong loyalties, and firm faith. He lived by a code he would never betray.
But what of now? What would happen if she suddenly reappeared in Rod’s life? Would he now declare that love? Or was it a hope she had preserved in her heart alone? The thought had a paralyzing effect.
Blythe knew it was dangerous to remain in Mayfield where, at some unplanned moment, they might encounter each other again. She wrung her hands, stifling the moan that sprang to her lips. There was so much guilt surrounding their relationship—guilt that she, a married woman, had been in love with her husband’s best friend, guilt for the shabby manner in which she had treated his family—
It had been particularly difficult for Rod’s mother, Kate Cameron, who was always the soul of grace and tact, even though Blythe’s coming had meant a second heartbreak for her daughter Garnet. And Rod’s cousin Dove had welcomed her as a sister-in-law. No, she must not take the chance of meeting Rod unexpectedly.
Blythe knew now that if she planned to stay in Virginia so Jeff could be educated in the land of his fathers, it could not be in Mayfield. It would have to be somewhere else.
She wished she had not made the appointment with the realtor for tomorrow. But the desk clerk had already made the arrangements, and Mr. Pembruck had followed up with a note, saying he was sure he had some properties in which she would be interested.
Yes, she would have to keep the appointment. But after that, she would take Jeff and leave.
Jeff, left in the care of a cheerful black maid named Mattie, was playing happily in the play yard of the inn when Blythe accompanied Mr. Pembruck the next day on a tour of houses and lots in the Mayfield vicinity.
She looked at all the property he had in mind for her and listened politely as he cataloged the selling points of each one, waiting until the appropriate time to tell him she would prefer something a great deal farther from the town.
“You see, I really don’t intend to stay much longer in Virginia on this trip, Mr. Pembruck. My son and I will be leaving soon for our home in England. But I would appreciate it if you would keep in touch with me and let me know if you should find something suitable,” Blythe told him when he escorted her back to the inn.
“Most assuredly, Mrs. Dorman. You have been explicit in outlining your needs—particularly proximity to a good school for your son. Be certain I will be in touch with you.” He tipped his hat and bowed as he left her at the front entrance. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, and I hope the two of you will soon be Virginia residents.”
Blythe thanked him, passed through the lobby of the hotel, and went up the stairs to her room. Doubts about the wisdom of planning to live again in Virginia troubled her. And yet it had seemed so right when she discussed the possibility with Sara. Maybe it was having seen Rod that had disturbed her so much.
Suddenly she felt an overwhelming urgency to pack and leave Mayfield as soon as possible. Even though she had booked passage on a ship sailing two weeks from today, she could take Jeff up to Richmond and Washington to see some of the historic sites there—Yes, she would notify the management that she would be leaving sooner than planned, ask them to prepare her bill and make train reservations at once.
Feeling weary after the long day of viewing property with Mr. Pembruck, Blythe decided to ring for room service and relax for a while before Jeff, with all his boundless energy, returned from the play yard.
When the maid appeared with tea and tiny sandwiches, Blythe noticed a folded newspaper on the tray beside the silver pot. It was the latest edition of the Mayfield Herald.
“I didn’t order a newspaper,” Blythe told the maid.
“It’s a courtesy of the Inn, ma’am,” she replied, bobbing a little curtsy as she left the room.
Blythe poured her tea, then unfolded the paper, thinking it might be interesting read the local news. Later, she was to think it strange that she had not the slightest premonition, not one, of what she would find when she turned to the society page. There, in bold black print, she read: TWO PROMINENT LOCAL FAMILIES TO BE UNITED.
“Mrs. Elyse Maynard announces the engagement of her daughter, Fenelle, to Mr. Roderick Cameron of Cameron Hall—”
The words blurred before Blythe’s eyes. She read the rest of the article rapidly, registering only phrases here and there—“wedding plans undetermined at this time. Miss Maynard … visiting relatives in England … where she will enjoy a London season this summer.”
Blythe’s hands were shaking when she put the paper down. She rose from the chair and went over to the window. It was open to admit the soft, spring breeze, but she shivered and pulled the window shut. She felt cold. Weak. Devastated.
But why? Had she really expected Rod to wait for her, without a word, without hope? How could she have been so foolish? Still, she knew that in her heart she had secretly harbored a dream that somehow she and Rod would—What? How?
You fool! she chastised herself. Why didn’t you contact Rod when Jeff was horny when you were both free? Blythe shuddered and turned away from the pale afternoon sunshine streaming through the window. Even the sun had grown cold.
How much later, she was never sure, she began to remove articles of clothing from armoire and bureau drawers. There was no question in her mind now what she should do.
“But why do we have to leave?” protested Jeff when she told him that evening. “I like it here!”
Blythe looked up from her packing. “It’s time we went back home, darling. Don’t you want to see Dotty? I’m sure she misses us. And Captain Prescott’s Labrador, Jet, must have had her puppies by now. He promised you one, remember?”
Seeing this seemed to satisfy Jeff temporarily, Blythe pressed her advantage. “You liked sailing on the ship, didn’t you, Jeff? Well, we’ll be going back on an even bigger one this time—” While her voice sounded cheerful enough as she embellished on the pleasures of their return ocean voyage, Blythe’s mind was far removed from what she was saying.
“I guess so—well, yes, I did like that!” Jeff agreed. Then he jumped down off the bed. “What shall I call my puppy, do you think, Mummy? I like the name Rex or Prince, don’t you?”
Thank goodness, Jeff was so amenable, so ready to accept whatever came along, Blythe thought with relief. This was such an easy age
. If he had been older, it might not be so simple to explain her change of mind.
Two days later, all her arrangements were complete, and the morning they were to leave for Richmond, Jeff was so eager to be off, that, in desperation, Blythe sent him down to the lobby to wait for her there.
“Go tell Clarence good-bye, why don’t you, darling?” she suggested.
“Oh, that’s a good idea, Mummy, I’ll do that!” he said, and went skipping off down the stairs.
Blythe put on her bonnet and adjusted the veil. Her small chin was set determinedly, her mouth firm, but she felt the turmoil within her, the terrible churning, the heaviness in her breast that made it difficult to breathe.
Feeling faint, she sat down on the edge of the bed to regain her equilibrium. just a case of nerves, she thought. Good thing she was so very healthy, though she hadn’t quite been herself since seeing Rod on the road back from Montclair.
Would she ever get over Rod Cameron? The sad truth was that she had lost him twice. If she had acted sooner, written him, anything … maybe … Blythe shook her head at her reflection in the bureau mirror. Too late, too late—
Resolutely, she rose from the bed, picked up her handbag and gloves, and left the room. The carriage from the Inn would take them to the Mayfield station for the train to Richmond. But first, she had to settle her bill and check out at the desk.
Descending the stairs into the main lobby, Blythe heard Jeff’s voice. She halted, glanced around the lobby, and spotted him talking to two men. Their backs were to Blythe, but there was something familiar about the set of the taller man’s shoulders, and her hand tightened on the banister. Instantly aware of her thundering heart, she moved behind one of the columns, where she could see and hear but was herself hidden. Every nerve quivering, she heard that deep drawl she recognized immediately.
“So, young fellow, what’s your name?”