by Jane Peart
He hesitated, as if expecting Blythe to interrupt his recital. But she, amazed at his sensitivity, could find nothing to say.
“Now I feel I can’t wait, Blythe, because … I love you. I want to ask you to marry me.”
After the words were spoken, they hung there, bringing a tension never before felt between them.
Corin reached for Blythe’s hand and took it in both of his, raising it to his lips. “I’ve loved you for a long time, Blythe,” he confessed. “May I hope? Is there a chance for me, for us? I love Jeff, too, you know. It would be very easy for me to love him—as my son.”
“Oh, Corin, I wish you hadn’t—” Blythe began.
“Don’t give me your answer now, please,” Corin interrupted her. “Wait until we both come back. That will be time enough. We have so much together, Blythe—friendship, common interests, like values, shared faith … It could be a wonderful marriage—”
“Corin, I’m honored that you should ask but—”
“Is there someone else, then, Blythe? Someone in America?”
She thought of Rod and felt the old heart hunger even as she knew it was hopeless to keep on thinking of him.
“Not exactly,” she replied, wondering how truthful she should be with Corin. “I thought something was over, and I found it wasn’t, but I know we can never go back—” She hesitated. “I hadn’t thought of anyone else—”
“Then do, Blythe. I’ll wait until you’re ready. I’ll not pressure you, and if you can’t accept the possibility of… marriage … then we’ll go on as before. I wouldn’t want to lose you, not even as a friend.”
“Corin, you are so very kind. I wish I could promise you more—”
“There’s no need, Blythe, It will mean so much more if you give yourself time to get used to the idea. Now good night, my dear.” He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Then he walked away through the gathering dusk.
Blythe stood at her gate and watched his departing figure until he disappeared into the darkness of the summer evening. Then with a sigh she walked slowly into the house.
Dotty was in her upstairs sitting room mending a rip in Jeff’s trousers when Blythe reached the top of the steps and looked in on her.
“Was it a nice service?” Dotty asked.
“Very nice.”
“Captain Prescott walked you homer” Dotty’s comment was more statement than question.
“Yes.” Blythe nodded. Then, because there was no way to ease into the subject, she said in a rush, “Dotty, tomorrow I want you to get down my traveling cases. I’m planning to take Jeff to Spain the first of September, and I had thought that while we’re away you might want to visit your sister.”
“Maybe so,” Dotty said noncorrimittally, but her bright blue eyes probed Blythe sharply. She put down her sewing and, with the license of long familiarity asked, ‘What are you running away from, ma’am?”
Blythe’s shoulders stiffened, and she wondered if somehow Dotty had witnessed the scene with Corin in the garden. Averting her gaze, she answered enigmatically, “How do you know I’m not running toward something?”
Since we cannot always get what we want, let us be content with what we get—Spanish Proverb
chapter
12
Spain
September 1876
FROM THE MINUTE she arrived in Granada, this city of her maternal ancestors, Blythe had the strange sensation of recognition.
The first morning after their arrival, as if responding to some inner call, she awakened early and stepped out onto the little balcony of their hotel room and was met by a breathtaking view. Beyond the hills rimming the city, snow-capped peaks glistened in the dazzling sunshine like jewels against a blue velvet drape.
For the next week, often leaving Jeff playing happily with the innkeeper’s grandchildren to whom language seemed no barrier, Blythe went sightseeing. On sun-warmed afternoons she walked down the cobbled streets winding narrowly through the city. A soft, clear light Blythe had never seen anywhere else bathed the ochre-colored stucco houses and red-tiled roofs in a mellow gold tint and gave brilliance to the flowers overflowing ornate black iron balconies. Buildings and centuries-old walls bore the patina of time. Blythe felt moved back into another time period.
An undeniable romantic aura permeated the very air she breathed. The quiet streets held their own secrets; the historic stones told their own stories.
Before coming, Blythe had read to Jeff everything she could find on Spain, its history, its people, its legends. They learned that the Moors had come to this country as conquerors, later merging their culture with that of the peoples they conquered. Remnants of the hundreds of years of their occupation were evident in the variety and style of architecture—arches and domes of the Moorish structures standing side by side with the spires and towers of Christian churches. When at last they were forced to surrender to the armies of Ferdinand and Isabella, they left behind them an amazing blend of the two cultures that lingered hauntingly.
Blythe had particularly looked forward to seeing the Alhambra, the magnificent palace built by Moorish caliphs. But neither pictures nor words had prepared her for the reality of its architectural perfection. Through a maze of fantasy gardens with dozens of fountains, courtyards opened out into smaller courtyards. She had read that the Moors, coming from their desert country, had attempted to recreate their vision of a paradise on earth, since in their Koran, heaven is described as “a garden flowing with streams.” The sound of splashing water must have been soothing music to the thirsty souls of the first Moorish kings who had lived here, Blythe thought, as she wandered in a dream-like state through the arched rooms exquisite with tiled mosaics and twisted marble pillars.
How the one-time conquerors must have hated leaving this beautiful place. She recalled the story of the last Moorish ruler of Granada who had paused in defeat to look back from a place called the Suspiro del Moro to mourn the loss of his kingdom. His mother, Queen Aicha, had mocked him cruelly in his grief, saying, “Cry like a woman for what you did not know how to keep like a man.”
That bridge was now called “the sigh of the Moor,” and once Blythe had seen the Alhambra and Granada for herself, she understood the name.
When it was time to leave for Seville, Blythe had mixed feelings. Her father had told her what little he had known of her Spanish mother’s background. Blythe knew only that she had been born into a gypsy family from the region of Granada. With a little research, she learned that the gypsies lived in caves in the Sierra Nevada foothills above the city, a self-contained world with its own laws, traditions, language, and customs. Children were educated according to their system, and their religion combined Christianity with superstitious beliefs and rituals handed down from one generation to the next. Thought to have been descended from nomadic tribes migrating from India, the people were a fiercely beautiful race, highly sensitive and emotional.
Carmella Montrero, Blythe’s mother, the dark-eyed dancer with whom Jed Dorman had fallen madly in love on sight, had been “sold” as a child by her gypsy stepfather to the leader of a traveling dance troupe, and it was with this band of gypsy dancers that she had come to the American West where she had met the lanky young gold miner who became her husband.
Blythe realized her own looks were a blend of the two. Her velvety brown eyes and high coloring were surely inherited from Carmella; her height and hair from the lean, red-headed Kentucky mountain boy.
What she wondered most about were her personality traits. The strong, independent part of her nature must be Jed’s legacy, while the sensitive, emotional side, her mother’s contribution. Did they battle or blend? She sometimes felt torn between the two different pulls of her character. And what an odd combination to pass on to Jeff! What strange forces from the past shaped his life.
One afternoon upon her return to the inn after a day of sightseeing, Blythe encountered her landlord in the lobby, who told her, “Senora, you asked about the gypsy dancers?
They will be performing at the cantina tonight! It will be a festive occasion. You can take the nino. It is an evening for families.”
As darkness began to fall, Blythe and Jeff were seated at one of the tables in the patio of the cantina. Ornamental lanterns swung from the walls while bright flowers trailed from clay pots and circled the tiled space in the center, reserved for dancing.
Jeff had taken to Spanish food as though he were a native, Blythe observed, and was busily eating his plate of paella, a typical Andalusian meal of rice, chicken, and shellfish in a spicy sauce. This was served with vegetables—tomatoes, onions, and artichoke hearts, along with chunks of toasted bread sprinkled with cheese. Blythe sipped a cup of strong coffee and waited impatiently for the entertainment to begin.
Some deep chord of familiarity echoed within Blythe at the first strum of guitars. Then with a shout of “Ole!” the dancers swept onto the stage, feet clattering, the women swishing their bright-colored skirts like so many vivid “whirligigs,” the men in tight, black pants and balloon-sleeved white shirts.
The rhythmic sound of the tapping shoes beating out the famous “flamenco” was hypnotic. Round and round they stepped in measured movements as ritualistic and yet seemingly spontaneous as the melody. Behind the thrumming guitars was the rat-a-tat of the castenets held in the dancer’s hands, precisely snapping in tune with the exciting music. The dance increased in intensity as the music grew louder and more insistent. The dancers circled wildly, stamping their heels with the click of the castanets, until it ended suddenly in a final climactic synchronization of sound. “Ole!”
The applause that followed was deafening, and Blythe found herself clapping her hands until her palms tingled. She had been caught up in the fiery dance, imagining her mother as she was pictured on old playbills in her trunk—satin-black hair pulled back at the nape of her neck, the stylized curl at her cheek, the glint of gold hoops swinging from her ears, the flashing eyes.
One dancer had caught Blythe’s eye from the first. Watching the slim figure in her ruffled gown, the twirl of fringe on her silk shawl, the flying high heels with their silver buckles, she felt a subtle kinship. And when the dancers took their final bows, this performer did a last little flip of her scarlet skirt, and for a single moment her eyes met Blythe’s. An instant communication as fleeting as quicksilver seemed to pass between them—an invisible bond flowing from one to the other, uniting them with the child who had been bargained for and taken to a far country to become Blythe’s mother.
Blythe knew that the connection was part fantasy, part memory of the poster advertising Carmella as the “Spanish Gypsy.” But for an instant the beautiful flamenco dancer had recreated her mother in Blythe’s mind. From this time on, Carmella would remain young, beautiful, and alive, as if the daughter had actually seen the mother dance in the place from which she had come.
Later, as Blythe took a sleepy Jeff back to their rooms at the inn, she could hear the music still playing in the cantina. She knew some of the people would stay on to dine and dance long after the gypsies left. But she had seen enough. This night would linger forever in her memory, linking her with another important part of her past, and Jeff’s. She knew now what had drawn her so irresistibly to Spain.
It was in Spain that Blythe’s thoughts about Jeff and his future became both more complex and clearer. It seemed increasingly urgent that this son of hers and Malcolm’s should know the best of each separate inheritance. And wrong, somehow, to bring him up in England, with no real understanding, knowledge, or affection for the country of his parents’ birth.
It was during this time that Blythe made her decision. Jeff must be educated in Virginia. She must take him back to America.
But, first, she must give Corin his answer. …
chapter
13
Switzerland
BLYTHE DECIDED to return to England by way of Switzerland while it was still early enough in the year to avoid the extreme cold and snow of the Alpine country. This stop would give her an opportunity to tell Corin her decision on neutral territory.
Before they had left for Spain, Corin had urged Blythe to bring Jeff to the village where he spent his annual mountain-climbing vacation. He told her he would like to introduce the boy to the exhilarating sport. Of course, Blythe knew that Corin also wanted her to share a special part of his life she had never seen.
The train from Lucerne wound steeply through mountain valleys from which sparkling sun-crested, snow-capped peaks were visible. The view was awe-inspiring and a bit frightening as they chugged up the inclines, the train whistle tooting shrilly, sounding for all the world like the whistle on Jeff’s toy train set.
The train climbed steadily, hugging the mountainside, past deep valleys of soft purple shadows and clear mountain streams. Doll-house chalets dotted the floor of the valley and nestled snugly against the foothills. Herds of cows, their bells clanging in a strange kind of symphony, munched on the last of the sweet grasses.
When they finally came to a stop and Blythe and Jeff stepped out on the platform at the picturesque station, the air was crystal clear, so pure it almost hurt their lungs to draw it in.
Corin had made reservations for them at the same hotel where he always stayed, and they were greeted by one of its representatives who was attired in a braided, beribboned uniform resembling that of a military general. He quickly transferred their luggage to an open carriage, and they started up a mountain road, climbing higher and higher with each turn, their route marked by pine forests standing guard like tall sentinels on either side of the road.
The hotel overlooked a lake so blue it dazzled the eye. Built of natural woods, it had a sloping roof and dozens of balconies with decorative designs of birds and flowers and flower boxes brimming with pink and red geraniums. Although the building was very large, its architecture reminded Blythe of one of those amusing little carved clocks whose doors pop open on the hour to emit a tiny wooden cuckoo bird.
Welcomed as expected guests by the hotel staff at the desk in the lobby, Blythe and Jeff were escorted to their suite. The room was typically Swiss. Starched lace curtains hung at the windows. Alcoved beds were piled high with eiderdown quilts and fluffy pillows.
The scene from the window looked like a Christmas card—all frosted evergreens and soft mounded snowdrifts and tiny houses set into the hillside like the toy villages some people place beneath their Christmas tree.
After depositing their luggage, the uniformed bellboy told Blythe, “Herr Prescott left a message for you this morning before he went for his day’s mountain climb that he would meet you for dinner at seven.”
That evening in the lobby a smiling, sunburned Corin seemed so happy to see them that Blythe decided she could not spoil their first evening together by disappointing him with her answer. There would be a better, more appropriate time later, she procrastinated.
They spent a pleasant dinner hour together, Corin full of plans for their stay in the village he had visited a half-dozen times in as many years. He was eager to show and share its delights with Blythe and Jeff.
Though Blythe had every intention of seizing the very next opportunity to tell Corin of her decision, no such opportunity presented itself in the full agenda of the next few days. There was so much to see and do, and the hours passed quickly.
On the third day Corin had planned to take Jeff on a day’s hike. But first, the boy must be outfitted with sturdy boots and the traditional Alpine climber’s lederhosen and a jaunty brimmed hat with its feathered brush. Then the right size knapsack for Jeff to carry on his back must be selected and purchased.
Jeff awakened early, without being called, and could hardly be persuaded to eat a good breakfast, so eager was he to be off. Corin was waiting in the lobby, boyishly eager to initiate Jeff in the basics of the sport he himself enjoyed so much.
Blythe waved them off. Then, left on her own for the day, she took the twelve-mile train trip into Lucerne to shop. Armed with a guidebook, she did a
ll the touristy things one does in Lucerne, visited the historic churches and other noteworthy sites.
In the shopping district she browsed in the many stores on either side of the long street, astonished at the variety of intriguing merchandise on display—the exquisite embroidery, the jewelry designed in vari-colored tiny mosaic stones, hand-painted wooden triptychs of religious subjects, toys of all kinds. In one store she debated long over a wonderful Noah’s ark, wondering if Jeff were too old for it, then on second thought decided against the purchase of all fifty pairs of animals! She went on to another gift store, lingering over a wide selection of music boxes, looking for just the right one to take back to Dotty.
As the afternoon wore on, Blythe’s feet began to tire; and after seemingly endless debate, the only purchase she ended up making in the last store was a small paperweight, a domed scene of skaters that produced a miniature blizzard when shaken. Wearily, she found a seat at the table in an outdoor garden restaurant facing a flower-bordered square, promising herself she would come back another day during her stay to do some serious shopping. While she waited to catch her train for the return trip to the village, she ordered an ice and chose a layered cake from the pyramid pastry stand, which proved too rich for her to finish.
An hour later she settled at last into the windowed compartment on the train returning to the village, marveling at the magnificent scenery along the route.
As Blythe came in, a tired but still enthusiastic Jeff was just entering the hotel lobby with Corin, both talking at once in their desire to share the events of their day. Jeff declared he had had a “capital time,” and Corin announced Jeff had the makings of a “real Alpine climber.”
Pleasantly exhausted, they had an early dinner and retired early, even Jeff willing to call it a day. Blythe’s last thought before drifting off to sleep was that she really must make the opportunity to talk with Corin privately. She had only arranged to stay in Switzerland for a week, and time was passing quickly. At the end of the week she and Jeff would be returning to England.