by Jane Peart
The next morning at breakfast Corin announced plans for a picnic, and Blythe felt a childlike anticipation. She had not been on a picnic for ages!
Outside the hotel, two open carriages waited to transport a congenial group of guests to the picnic site. Blythe and Jeff, assisted by Corin, climbed in and found seats along the sides while heavy wicker hampers containing the picnic food were brought out, lifted into the back of the wagon and secured with straps.
Drawn by the largest, sturdiest-looking horses Blythe had ever seen, the carriages rumbled off, leaving the hotel grounds and turning onto forest-lined roads where they climbed into the foothills.
The air was fresh and sweet as they rode by the pungent pines along the steep, narrow roads. The meadows were colorful with golden, blue, and orange wildflowers, the sun slanting through the thick, sweeping pine boughs.
Enjoyment of the outing was a universal language bridging the various backgrounds, and communication flowed easily among the guests. There was an easy camaraderie that left Blythe feeling happier than she had felt since her return from America, and she relaxed in the glow of pleasant companionship and the beauty of the day.
As they rode along, Blythe had a flash of insight about herself. The little ranch girl she had been, naïve and uneducated, had become a woman who spoke at least a smattering of four languages, had traveled two continents, and was comfortable in any setting. How much she had learned! How she had changed!
She looked over at Jeff who had quickly made friends with a small Italian boy and was carrying on some kind of “international” conversation. Corin caught her glance, and they exchanged a mutual message of amusement and understanding.
At length, they arrived at a broad, high meadow where the carriage wagons stopped, and the drivers unhitched the horses and led them away to graze. Two members of the hotel staff spread rugs and cushions and crisp checkered cloths down upon the flower-strewn grass, then unloaded the huge hampers of food.
The mountain air had given everyone an appetite, and the picnic provided by the hotel was bountiful and delicious. Blythe forgot that she had consumed a huge breakfast before leaving and ate as heartily as if she had fasted. There was thin sliced ham, crumbly goat cheese, freshly baked bread, creamy butter, chilled fruit, wine and coffee to drink, and a variety of desserts—flaky pastries filled with apples or berries, and rich chocolate cake. A feast “fit for a king” in any language!
Blythe’s heart was suddenly filled with gratitude for the gift of this perfect day. She closed her eyes briefly, lifting up a little prayer, relishing the sound of rushing wind in the tops of the pines, the far-off tinkle of cowbells in the valley below, the warmth of the sun on her back. One of the hotel employees had brought his zither and began to play, and the wistful music spun a spell over the drowsy listeners.
When the shadows lengthened, the staff packed up what was left of the lunch and the picnickers reluctantly climbed back into the wagons for the return trip to the hotel.
The following evening, Corin took Blythe to the weekly band concert held in the main town square. It was an interesting event because, besides the lively music for folk dancing, there were also bellringers dressed in colorful traditional Swiss costumes.
They walked back to the hotel in the silvery glow of the moon rising over the lake below, sending luminous mother-of-pearl streamers out over the glassy surface of the water. Blythe realized guiltily that she had not yet brought up the subject of her decision—the decision that would alter Corin’s hopes dramatically.
But the silence and serenity of the night seemed far too magical to shatter by such a declaration. Blaming herself for cowardice, Blythe simply thanked Corin for a lovely evening and bid him good night.
Perhaps, she rationalized, her last night in Switzerland would be the best time to break the news that she could not accept his proposal of marriage. That way, since Corin had planned to remain another few weeks to do some more strenuous climbing, he would have time to get over whatever disappointment Blythe’s answer might cause. By the time he returned to England, they would be able to resume the relationship that had been so satisfactory, at least to her.
However, even her last night in Switzerland did not present the right opportunity. Quite unexpectedly, it was announced at breakfast that morning that the hotel owner and his wife were celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary, and all the hotel guests were invited to a gala party.
It was an unforgettable evening of gaiety, music, dancing, laughter, and entertainment of all kinds, and when the next morning Corin saw Blythe and Jeff off on their train to Zurich and Calais for the Channel crossing to England, there was time only for last-minute wishes for a safe journey and pleasant trip.
When the train whistle signaled imminent departure, Corin leaned forward and kissed Blythe lightly, thrusting a bouquet of flowers and a box of chocolates into her hands, cheerfully telling them he would see them within a month’s time.
As the train clattered down the tracks, Blythe followed Jeffs example, pressing her face against the window for a last look at the towering mountain peaks, the forested hills, and the sight of Corin’s tall figure on the train platform waving his Tyrolean hat.
In her heart Blythe wondered if perhaps Corin himself had suspected and dreaded her decision, and so had delayed hearing it for as long as possible.
Farewell, God knows when we shall meet again—Shakespeare
chapter
14
Larkspur Cottage
Kentburne, England
UPON HER RETURN from Switzerland, Blythe found a letter from Richard Pembruck, the realtor in Mayfield. It began:
My dear Mrs. Dorman,
I believe I have found the ideal property to fulfill the requirements and aesthetic desires you expressed for a domicile for you and your young son. Located about thirty miles from Mayfield on approximately twelve acres of woodland, it abounds in gentle wildlife and boasts a clear stream running through it. There are also many old bridle paths which, although now overgrown with brush, could be quickly and easily cleared.
The building on the property, once a hunting lodge owned by members of a private club for gentlemen and their guests, is, I am afraid, in a state of deterioration after years of vacancy and neglect. The roof has fallen through in places; the clapboard siding has rotted and warped; windows are broken; doors unhinged or missing. Major repairs would be necessary to make it again habitable. However, the native stone foundation is sound; the basement with its stone and granite walls has withstood the years well and is dry, the underflooring solid, and the native heart-of-pine floors could easily be sanded and refinished.
The property itself is the prize. Nowhere could you find such self-contained privacy in such a beautiful setting. But to be honest, I would have to say that a new house could be constructed upon the foundation much more easily, faster and less expensively than restoration of the ruins of the present building.
If you want to acquire this property, I could arrange an architect to send you a design and working drawings to consider. I believe this could be done well within the cost we discussed when you were in Virginia.
Since you said you were interested in Virginia’s early history, I am sure you’d be intrigued by this building’s strange and fascinating history. It is rumored to have been used as a ‘safe house’ for the Underground Railroad in transporting runaway slaves to the North, chosen because of its isolation and proximity to the river.
The isolation I refer to would not, I hope, deter you from seriously considering acquisition of this property because, although it offers all the privacy you prefer, it is easily accessible from the town of Arbordale by bridge or by ferry. Lest you imagine from this description that this property is situated on a remote island, I hasten to correct that impression by comparing the house to a medieval lord’s manor surrounded by a moat.
I also want to assure you that I can see to all the arrangements of the construction, hiring and oversight of the building cre
w without your having to travel to Virginia. With good luck and good weather, it could be ready for occupancy by next fall when, you stated, your son would be entering school.
This leads me to the next advantage—easy traveling distance of an excellent Christian school for boys that your son could attend either as a day pupil or boarding student.
In addition to all of the aforementioned points in favor of this property, I have made a thorough title search and have found this property to be free of liens of any kind. It was held corporally in the name of the Hunt Club, then, due to lack of payment of taxes, was forfeited to the county.
These back taxes will be waived if the property is purchased immediately. Thus I urge you to come to a decision as quickly as possible. A desirable property such as this, at the price for which it can be obtained at this particular time, will not remain on the market long. I have taken the liberty to place a HOLD payment on it to give my letter time to reach you in England and also time for your consideration of the matter.
I hope to receive an affirmative answer from you soon. I remind you once more that I am anxious to be of service to you in any way. With best personal regards, I am,
Sincerely yours,
Richard Pembruck
Blythe reread the letter twice before folding it and replacing it in the envelope. Mr. Pembruck had mentioned the urgency of prompt action. She remembered his telling her when they were together, that wealthy Northerners were still buying up Virginia property at the depressed prices brought about by the fact that most of the original owners had been bankrupted by the war and needed ready cash.
The strange history of this house intrigued Blythe. The fact that it had been a “safe house” on the Underground Railroad gave her pause—it seemed a singular link to Rose Meredith Montrose, Malcolm’s Yankee bride, who was strongly suspected of working with those who, at great personal danger to themselves, had helped slaves to freedom.
Mr. Pembruck’s reference to a “medieval manor surrounded by a moat” also appealed to her, bringing to mind the Arthurian fantasy that the King, thought to have been fatally injured in the last battle with Modred and the rebel knights, had been taken to a distant island where he miraculously recovered. From this had sprung the legend of “the once and future King” who had declared that he would return to rule England again in all the glory of the ideal Round Table.
What had they called the island? “Avalon”? Yes, Avalon would be the ideal name for a home for herself and Jeff.
Blythe was strongly tempted to sit down at once and write to Mr. Pembruck, instructing him to buy the property in her name immediately. Only one concern remained. What would Corin say to her plan to leave England and return with Jeff to Virginia? Would he feel doubly betrayed when he learned of her decision not to marry him?
Perhaps she should wait for his return from Switzerland. After all, he was her good friend and deserved more than a hasty note. On the other hand, if she waited, perhaps the property would be gone, snapped up by some avaricious Northerner. Everything about the place sounded ideal—a good school for Jeff, the privacy and beauty of a woodland estate, a place to keep horses, room for friends Jeff might want to invite home from school—
What should she do? Perhaps she should consult Edward and Lydia? This seemed the logical next step, since they were so close and adored Jeff. She knew Edward thought it was all settled, that the boy would be attending his old school. They would, no doubt, be heartbroken at the thought of her leaving England with Jeff.
But, no, before she consulted anyone, she would pray. As had become her custom, she got out her Bible and thumbed through it, stopping here and there to read a passage or verse, searching for God’s Word to use in her prayer for guidance.
She turned first to the Psalms because she loved them and read them often just to delight in their beauty. In the twenty-fifth, she found words of great relevance for her dilemma: “Show me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths. Lead me in Your truth and teach me. For thou art the God of my salvation: on thee do I wait all the day.”
But it was in the thirty-third chapter of Exodus that Blythe discovered the prayer that most nearly met her need: “Lord, show me Thy way, that I might find favor with Thee. If Thy Presence does not go with me, do not lead me from here.”
In the combination of both Blythe found her direction. She repeated the passage from Exodus over the next few days as she “waited” on Him.
Within a week she was at peace about the course she should take. She sat down at her desk to write to Mr. Pembruck in Virginia, authorizing him to act in her behalf, to acquire the property, and to contact an architect for preliminary designs for a house.
When she had posted the letter to America, she had to write a second letter. This one, to Corin in Switzerland, telling him of her decision and plan, took much more prayer and thought. She wanted to prepare him before his return, feeling it extremely unfair to delay any longer.
Difficult as it was to write this letter, Blythe knew it was the only honest, honorable thing to do. She loved Corin, but only as a friend, not as a potential husband. Under these circumstances it would be kinder in the long run to make the break cleanly and swiftly and not further prolong the uncertainty for him and for herself.
As she addressed the envelope, Blythe prayed her decision would not prove too painful for this kind and gentle man.
The early October morning sun slanting into the garden touched everything with a lovely golden light. The flowers—blue delphiniums, purple gentians, pink phlox—mingled in vivid colors against the rock wall. It was as if nature had conspired to arrest the certain onset of the cold, dreary English winter with a burst of glorious beauty these last weeks of fall.
Blythe took her coffee from the cottage kitchen to sit on the circular wooden bench around the gnarled apple tree in the middle of the yard. Breathing in the mingled fragrance of the dewy-petaled flowers, Blythe closed her eyes and rested her head against the bark, thinking how lovely and peaceful the morning was and wondering idly what she should do with the rest of the day.
Should she dig up some bulbs, store them for spring planting? Or maybe prune back the rambling rose bushes that clambered in disorderly but beautiful profusion over the stone wall? Surely these lovely days would not last, and she did not want to be taken by surprise by the first frost.
Her mental meandering was interrupted by the sight of Mr. Bryley, the village postman, pedaling down the winding lane on his high bicycle. She waved absently, thinking he would go right past. Blythe did not receive much mail. But today he stopped at the gate and drew an envelope out of the leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Montrose. Have a letter here for you,” he announced, leaning his bicycle against the stone wall. “Got a foreign stamp on it, it has. Switzerland, from the postmark,” he added, examining the envelope a moment before handing it over to her.
She smiled politely, but Mr. Bryley seemed inclined to visit.
“Nice day, isn’t it, now?” he said, tipping his beaked hat to her. “But there was a nip in the air for sure earlier when I started on my rounds. Won’t be long ‘till fall, I ‘spose. Well, I’ll be on my way then. Enjoy your letter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bryley,” said Blythe, her amusement about to get the best of her. The postman had clearly recognized Corin’s bold handwriting and was waiting around in the hope of hearing firsthand that he was right.
No doubt the old fellow would have enjoyed a tidbit to pass along at the next stop: ‘The master of Dower House is corresponding with the American widow at Larkspur Cottage.” Well, she hated to disappoint him, but this was one “secret” that she would not confirm to be bandied about the village.
Blythe took the letter back to the bench and opened it. As she did so, a spray of dried flowers fell into her lap. She picked it up and studied it. It looked something like the tiny star-shaped blossoms of the familiar forget-me-not. She began to read:
My dear Blythe,
Y
ou and Jeff have only just left, and yet it seems a very long time since you were here. Everywhere I look reminds me of the happy times we spent together here. Jeff is growing up so fast it is almost alarming, for it confirms the feeling I have more and more of time’s rapid passing. It seems just yesterday I first met the young fellow when he was an apple-cheeked infant in a pram! Now, I feel he is much a part of my life, at least, of the past five years.
Needless to say, I feel the same about his mother. It is my deepest desire to make you both a part of my life forever. I know we didn’t speak of it while you were here, as I felt a reluctance on your part to bring up the subject, and in deference to that, hesitated to say anything myself. But it was never far from my mind.
I want you to know I love you with all my heart, Blythe. Nothing would make me happier than to spend the rest of my life taking care of you and being the best possible father to Jeff. I believe I could. I think Jeff already considers me a friend and would accept such a change in our relationship if you would do me the great honor of marrying me.
I trust, since I first spoke of this months ago, that you have been considering my proposal and that when I return to England, you will make me the happiest man in all of Britain by agreeing to become my wife.
Perhaps this letter will seem out of character. You’ve teased me about being a reserved, rather staid Englishman. I suppose you are justified in that observation, but you have never seen me as I am now—a man very much in love, persistently hopeful. I enclose a spray of edelweiss, the Alpine flower known for that same quality of stubborn optimism, growing and flourishing in the starkest of circumstances, appearing to surprise and delight where no other flower dares. I found it surging up between two barren rocks on a steep hillside on the climb I made yesterday.