Shadow Bride

by Jane Peart

  Blythe looked long at the familiar building. Corin’s touch was there and before his, Blythe’s own ancestor, Jedediah Dorman, the pargeter, had left his own destinctive mark.

  She was never sure when the idea struck her. Probably that day or soon after. But once it formed in her mind, no matter how she tried to argue herself out of it, it returned with insistence. Finally, she made an appointment with an architect and a building contractor.

  Yes. Yes, it was possible, though it would be costly, to dismantle the structure of Dower House and transport it to America to be rebuilt on Virginia land. She had already received the estimate from Mr. Pembruck for building a house there. The expense of moving Dower House did not exceed that figure by much.

  Blythe had lived very simply at Larkspur Cottage for the last six years. The principle of her inheritance from her father had been barely touched, and his many investments yielded yearly dividends that more than covered her living expenses. It seemed right to go ahead with her inspired idea to transplant this ancient house.

  With all its treasured memories, as well as its visible link to her own family’s heritage, rebuilding the house in Virginia as a home for herself and Jeff seemed a reasonable and inherently valuable thing to do. Blythe hesitated only a few minutes. Then, drawing a long breath, she made her decision, and the unusual project proceeded.

  chapter

  15

  The Maynard Home

  Mayfield, Virginia, Fall 1876

  FENELLE MAYNARD waited in the small parlor of her family home, moving nervously from window to fireplace. Expecting Rod to arrive momentarily, she was filled with anxiety.

  She stared at the newly laid fire, which had not as yet caught, gazing at the struggling flames abstractedly. This would be the first time she had seen her fiancé since she and her mother had returned to Virginia. What she had to tell him she had confided in no one—least of all, her mother.

  Their homecoming had been nearly a month later than planned because of a terrible cold contracted by Mrs. Maynard. It was, she declared, brought on by the “horrid” English weather. she had been confined to bed for weeks at their relatives’ London town house. So they had taken the last possible sailing date before the onset of winter made an Atlantic crossing treacherous.

  Outwardly sympathetic and concerned, Fenelle had been secretly and guiltily delighted to spend more time in England for reasons she now had to explain to Rod.

  For all her aunt’s and mother’s manipulation, Fenelle’s “London season” had been an ordeal for her. She had gone dutifully to all the parties, balls and events required of a debutante, hating every moment, wishing she were anywhere else. Then something unexpected and wonderful had happened—

  Fenelle drew in her breath. If her mother had not been ill that night it might not have come to pass at all, since little concerning her daughter ever escaped Elyse Maynard’s sharp eyes. Although her mother could not have been unaware of the bouquet of red roses and the note that was delivered to her cabin on board ship before they sailed. Of that Fenelle was certain.

  The piercing ring of the doorbell pealed through the house, and Fenelle gave a little start. She heard footsteps along the hallway as their only servant, Essie, went to answer it.

  Looking out the window, Fenelle saw Rod’s horse tethered to the hitching post outside the front of the house. She had been so focused on her own thoughts that she missed seeing him arrive.

  The parlor door opened and Fenelle whirled around as Rod’s tall figure stepped into the room. For a moment they looked at each other, then, in a few long strides, Rod crossed the room, took Fenelle’s outstretched hands, and bent down to the cheek she had turned for his kiss.

  “Welcome home, Fen,” he said.

  “Thank you, Rod,” she replied, smiling. With a delicate gesture, she motioned him to the wing chair by the fireplace. “It’s been a long time.”

  Taking a seat, he said, ‘Too long. And how was the crossing?”

  “Very pleasant. There was cordial company, beautiful weather, smooth waters.” She seated herself gracefully on the loveseat opposite him.

  She looks lovely Rod thought. Her months among English society had given her a polish, a kind of poise she had lacked before. Where Fenelle had been shy and rather hesitant in her movements, she seemed perfectly at ease now, her hands in repose in her lap. Although he was not usually particularly observant of women’s fashions, Rod noted that the periwinkle blue dress was well suited to her pale blond beauty and that she was wearing her hair in a new way.

  “Rod, I have something to say that will probably come as a surprise,” she began quietly.

  Immediately Rod was attentive, aware of a firmer tone, a new decisiveness in her voice. Even this was unusual, for Fen hardly ever initiated conversation, responding, instead, to others.

  “I wish to be released from our engagement,” Fen said, as calmly and directly as if she were commenting on the weather.

  Caught off guard, Rod sat up straight in his chair. This was hardly what he had expected. On the way over this afternoon his own emotions were mixed at the prospect of seeing his fiancée again after all these months, especially after his meeting with Blythe. The thought uppermost in his mind had been that Fenelle probably wanted to discuss a mutually agreeable date for their wedding. He had certainly not anticipated her desire to break their engagement.

  But his voice was calm as he asked, “You have met someone else? Someone while you were in England?”

  She nodded. “That’s true. His name is Clive Rensaler. He has asked me to marry him, but I told him that before I could give him an answer, I had to return to Virginia and talk to you. I want you to know that I regarded my promise to you as binding unless—but—” Fen paused a second before continuing, “there are things you don’t know about me, Rod, things my mother did not want you to know.”

  With a quick, nervous movement, Fenelle rose and walked over to the fireplace, put one hand up to straighten the porcelain figure of a shepherd boy.

  “It has bothered me a great deal even from the first, long before I met Clive. I never believed there should be anything concealed from someone you have promised to marry … the person with whom you will stand before God and vow to love, honor, and cherish.” Her slim fingers twisted the base of the little figure as she went on. “I’ve been to enough weddings to know that in the marriage ceremony, the minister always asks for anyone who knows any reason why the marriage should not take place, to speak now ‘or answer in the dreadful Day of Judgment.’ It worried me greatly that I might have to live with that prospect.”

  Rod frowned. What possible deep, dark secret could this lovely, innocent young woman have that would necessitate such a prenuptial confession?

  Fen’s eyes were wide and clear, free of guile as she looked at him.

  “Rod, I know I was not your first choice for a wife. Not that it mattered to me. I have always admired and respected you. But, truthfully, I have never been in love with you. And if we are both honest, neither are you in love with me. Our marriage—” she halted as if correcting herself—“this marriage, if it were to take place, would be a compromise on both our parts. I realize that, as the last of the Camerons, marriage for you was more a necessity to ensure your family line. You want, need children to carry on the name, to inherit your estate.”

  Rod interrupted. “I am very fond of you, Fen, very fond indeed.”

  She held up her hand, halting any further interruption.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are, Rod, and I of you. But it really isn’t enough, is it? Especially not if there can be no children.” She paused. “You see, Rod, what you don’t know and what my mother would not allow me to tell you is that a childhood illness left me with a defective heart. It is most doubtful that I could ever bear children, or at least, healthy ones. If I could even deliver a baby, the doctors are very sure it would not survive—”

  Rod opened his mouth to speak, but again Fenelle motioned for him to hear her out.


  “No, please, let me finish. I don’t want you to blame Mama, Rod. Things have been so difficult for her since the war—Papa’s death … she was used to so much more … Well, you know how it was before—” Fenelle’s gesture encompassed the room.

  Rod’s gaze followed, taking in the small parlor, the worn carpet, the faded draperies, the lighter squares on the wallpaper where paintings had been removed to be sold. The Maynards’ fortune had died with the Confederacy.

  “Not that Mama would ever have lied to you in any way, Rod. She meant well, wanting only that I be safe and secure. Marriage to you would guarantee that.” A small smile lifted the corners of Fenelle’s sweet mouth, “As for my … condition, in Mama’s generation, it would have been indelicate to mention such a thing.

  “But, it would be wrong of me to marry you, Rod, knowing this about myself and also being realistic enough to understand you need to have an heir for Cameron Hall. But please don’t feel sorry for me. Clive, the man I met in London, knows about… me, and it doesn*t make any difference to him. As the third son of a very wealthy father, his older brother will inherit everything. Children are not … necessary—” Again Fen paused, blushing a little. “It always troubled me that we had concealed from you something so important to your future.”

  Slowly Fen removed the citrine and diamond ring from the third finger of her left hand, placed it in her open palm, and held it out to Rod.

  “Thank you, Rod, for doing me the honor of asking me to marry you. I’m certain that, had I revealed this information and there were no Clive, you would have gone through with the marriage. I know how honorable you are. But it would not have been right. So, now I free you to find someone else you can really love. You see, I know the difference now between affection and real love. I have found that it exists, because I have found it with Clive, and I would not deprive you of that for anything in the world!”

  Rod got to his feet and walked over to Fenelle, taking the ring she was offering him. The prongs of the setting pressed into the skin of his palm as his hand closed over it. How ironic this scene suddenly seemed. His thoughts were coming too fast for him to make sense of most of them, but the one thing he knew he must do was assure Fen that he understood. What courage it must have taken for her to confront him without consulting her mother!

  “You are a beautiful, courageous lady, Fenelle,” he said, meaning every word. “No matter what the circumstances, I would be honored to have you as my wife. But I do give you your freedom, and I wish you every happiness. This Clive Rensaler is a very fortunate man.”

  Tears sparkled in Fenelle’s eyes as she murmured, “Thank you, Rod. I do pray you find the same happiness I have found.”

  Riding back home to Cameron Hall later, Rod was wrapped in deep thought. What a strange turn of events! How inexplicable the timing of his life! It always seemed too soon or too late. If only Fenelle had broken their engagement sooner … before Blythe returned to Mayfield. If he had only known then—

  Unconsciously, his jaw clenched, his hands jerked on the reins, causing Sable to toss his head indignantly.

  Suddenly an old bitterness of regret rose up like bile. He felt heat flame in his face. Why? Why, he demanded, had not all this happened before he lost Blythe again?

  chapter

  16

  Winter Journey

  1877

  ROD LEANED on the ship’s rail and stared moodily out at the restless motion of the slate-gray sea.

  It had been a wretched trip. Not that Rod could blame anyone for that. Against all warnings, even his own good judgment, he had chosen to make this mid-winter Atlantic crossing.

  Most of his fellow passengers had spent the ten days cabin-bound in utter misery. Only a handful of hardy sailors like himself had ventured out on deck. From experience, Rod knew the best way to prevent seasickness was to get plenty of fresh air, and if one felt the least bit queasy, to walk briskly and breathe deeply.

  There was not much conviviality among those few passengers who managed to get themselves to the dining room. Many of the tables remained empty, and the staff stood around without much to do while the diners made quick work of meals. Then they hurried back to bundle themselves in deck chairs and avoid looking at the ocean, which on this passage, had rolled and dipped like some gray, heaving sea monster.

  Rod, usually the most congenial of men, had on this occasion welcomed the prevailing lack of company and conversation. The solitude of this strange crossing gave him plenty of time alone to think.

  He took out the letter he had received a few months ago, worn from frequent rereadings, and perused it again. The same conflicting reaction assailed him, as it had each time he read it.

  Had he debated too long to respond, or was he just off on another “wild goose chase”? Could he, as his mother asked, trust the information this man Burnham had sent? Was it reliable, or was the man some kind of charlatan, taking Rod’s money and dangling tantalizing prospects before him with no real proof that he could substantiate them?

  “Montrose,” as his mother had pointed out, was quite a common name in Scotland and England. How could Rod be sure the “Mrs. Montrose” that the private detective thought he had located was Blythe? What if, when she left Virginia, Blythe had used another name? Perhaps even taken back her maiden name, “Dorman”?

  Rod knew it was a risk, knew he was taking a chance, but he could not help himself. If there was the slightest possibility that the man he had hired to find Blythe was on the right track, he had to see for himself.

  As the ship neared the English coast, Rod’s uncertainty increased. He railed against himself. Why had he waited so long to come? He felt strangely pessimistic, possibly the result of the slow, depressing crossing, he tried to tell himself.

  Well, action was the best antidote for this kind of malaise. They would soon dock, and tomorrow he would take the earliest train out of London, bound for a small village a few hours away. Here he would settle, once and for all, if his journey was a ‘fool’s errand’.

  As the train rattled through the countryside the next day, wheels clattering on the track seemed to be repeating the old saying: “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” Where had that come from? And what did it mean? Never superstitious in the slightest degree, Rod tried to shake his gloomy forebodings.

  By the time the train pulled into the small Kentburne station, Rod’s heartbeat was accelerating. Was this the same little train station with its neat flower beds and gravel paths from which Blythe came and went? Did she stand on this very platform, walk toward the line of passenger wagons hitched to the rail fronting the road?

  Rod stopped at the ticket window, then hesitated, not knowing exactly what to ask. He did not want to create a stir by asking for Blythe by name. In such a small village she was sure to be known, and it might be embarrassing to her to have a stranger inquiring about her. Aware of how fast gossip travels, he decided instead to look on his own for the address Burnham had given him—a house called “Larkspur Cottage.”

  A light mist was falling, and Rod automatically turned up the collar of his coat before taking a deep breath and setting out. Don’t get too excited, he warned himself sternly. This Mrs. Montrose could be a gray-haired old Scotswoman, not Blythe at all. And if it were she? Then, what would he say, what would he do? He swallowed hard noticing how shallow his breathing had become. The constriction in his chest tightened as he turned down the crooked little lane located down a lane just off the main road leading from the town square, marked with a wooden post sign, MARSH ROAD.

  His steps slowed, and he moved as if through deep water, hope pumping the adrenalin though his veins, the possibility of disappointment dragging his feet. Then he saw it, the small stone house behind a low rock fence, a picket gate set in the center, a sign on the post: LARKSPUR COTTAGE.

  It has a waiting look, he thought, or was it a deserted one?

  He came closer, leaned over the wall, his gaze focused on the painted door, willing it to open in welcome.
His eyes moved to the diamond-paned windows, and he noticed that the curtains were drawn inside. It was then he noticed the sign, COTTAGE TO LET, and his heart turned cold.

  The house was empty. There was no one about. If Blythe had ever lived here, she was gone now.

  Rod never knew how long he stood there, staring at the cottage. When at last he turned away, the mist had turned into a drizzle. As he began walking back to the village, it became a steady rain.

  The village center was forsaken. All sensible people had apparently sought the cozy comfort of their own home and hearth fire. At the train station only the ticket clerk was tucked into his cubbyhole. Silently he issued Rod his return ticket to London, mumbled its departure time, then returned to the newspaper he was reading.

  Two-and-a-half hours before I can leave! Rod thought miserably. How to bridge this time here, where he had come to the end of his long hope? He stood on the station platform looking out across the sodden village green. Rain was now coming down in sheets.

  Across the green he saw the lights of a tearoom, its wooden sign swinging wildly in the wind. Some warmth and something hot to drink could be found there, he knew. Bending his head, he plunged through the downpour and pushed through the door of the tearoom to find himself its only customer.

  After ordering tea and scones, he seated himself by the window, staring out through the rain-blurred window at a distorted view of the street. The very street, perhaps, that Blythe had walked down dozens of times.

  Suddenly life seemed as bleak and gray as the scene outside. Loss of hope was almost as devastating as loss of faith, he mused. Without Blythe, Rod’s world was bereft of joy, but he had lived in the possibility that someday he would find her, would convince her of his love, and spend the rest of his life with her.

  Today all that had come to an end. The question now was how to reconcile himself to the rest of his life without even that hope?