Shadow Bride

by Jane Peart

  “And the bride?”

  “Delightful,” put in Kate.

  “And a little dictator,” added Garnet.

  “Why, Garnet!” Kate remonstrated.

  “Well, she is, Mama! Anyone can see she is leading Jonathan around by a velvet cord.”

  Amused, Rod looked from his gentle mother to his outspoken sister and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Any other news or report I should hear about?”

  Kate looked questioningly at her daughter. Would Garnet now give her brother the startling information about Blythe?

  To her surprise, Garnet shrugged indifferently. “You can see for yourself tomorrow. As good a judge of horseflesh as you are, Rod, I’d be interested in your impression of the Carpenters, père et filled With that, Garnet covered a yawn with one dainty hand and rose from her chair. “I really must go to bed. I’ll leave you two to catch up. Good night, Mama. Good night, Rod. We’ll breakfast together in the morning, all right?”

  Kate watched Garnet move to the door with her usual flair. Evidently she had changed her mind about telling Rod where Blythe was. That girl has always been unpredictable, Kate thought. No matter how old, she would never understand her!

  Closing the door to Rod’s room behind her, Garnet stood indecisively for a moment. It had been right to put off telling Rod about Blythe, hadn’t it? To spring it on him now might have upset him, diverted his attention from Jonathan’s wedding, spoiled this special occasion for them all.

  Besides, Garnet was still determined to visit the elusive widow at Avalon herself first and confront her about the silence she had maintained all these years, which had caused Rod such unnecessary pain.

  Yes, she had done the right thing, Garnet decided.

  chapter

  20

  Milford Community Church

  Milford, Massachusetts

  COLONEL (USA Ret.) Kendall Carpenter, hands clasped behind his back, paced the vestibule of the Milford community church. Although a good two hours before the wedding ceremony was to take place, Kendall had fled his normally peaceful household. This morning, because all of Davida’s bridesmaids had arrived to help her dress and add the finishing touches to their own bridal costumes, the place was a beehive of activity. Uneasy among so many females, Kendall had decided to come ahead to the church and wait for Davida’s arrival.

  The tall graying gentleman with the erect military bearing appeared outwardly calm. The truth was, his mental state belied his stoic composure. Not only was he losing his only daughter today but also under strangely coincidental circumstances. The mother of the young man to whom he was giving his daughter—Rose Meredith—had been the real love of Kendall’s life.

  As a matter of fact, he had not been inside this particular place of worship since her wedding to another man twenty-seven years ago. A fact that had left him inconsolable for a very long time.

  As he paced, he chastized himself that instead of thinking of his daughter’s future happiness he was caught up in the bitterness of his own past unhappiness.

  Vividly he recalled that he had sworn to himself he would not see Rose married to his Harvard classmate, Malcolm Montrose. But in the end, he could not stay away. Concealing himself behind a tree in the churchyard, he had watched Rose, a vision in white lace and tulle, descend from the carriage and enter the church on Professor Meredith’s arm, followed by her Aunt Vanessa who was carrying the train of her bouffant silk dress.

  That long-ago day, Kendall had slipped inside and seated himself in the very last pew of the sanctuary and in a kind of frozen rage had witnessed the ceremony. When the minister asked, “If there be anyone who knows any reason why these two should not be joined together as man and wife, let him now speak or forever hold his peace,” Kendall had barely been able to restrain himself from crying out, “I do!”

  He had warned Rose that it would be a terrible mistake to marry a slave-owning Southerner in 1858, when a violent storm of controversy over the issue was already separating the northern and southern states. No one knew then that the threat of civil war was so near. Yet only a few years later Rose was, according to Kendall’s beliefs, living in “enemy territory.”

  Impatiently he brought out his heavy, gold watch from the pocket of his waistcoat and consulted it, then glanced through the crack of the swinging doors leading into the church and heard the thrum of the organ chords. Two tall young men, Jonathan and his cousin Norvell Meredith, his best man, emerged from a door at the front and took their place by the altar steps.

  Jonathan! Unconsciously, an ironic smile touched Kendall’s stern mouth under the trim mustache. If Fate had been kinder, he might have been my son, he thought.

  He also remembered the unforeseen circumstances under which he saw Rose again after her marriage and of the first time he had seen Jonathan.

  Kendall had been one of the first to answer his country’s call to arms, rising quickly to the rank of captain, then major. Early in the war, he had been put in charge of troops penetrating Confederate territory to obtain intelligence about the resources of the rebels.

  One day, while on an expedition deep into Virginia along the James River and not realizing that his beloved was mistress of Montclair, Kendall, along with his men, wandered onto Montrose land toward the mansion in pursuit of information.

  His military mission temporarily forgotten, Kendall spent an hour or more with her trying to persuade her to allow him to escort her to safety in the North. It was then he saw all the loyalty and courage and character of the woman he had loved and lost. It was then, too, he had met her son, Jonathan.

  The minute Kendall had seen the child, he knew he wanted him. He had felt a rush of emotion at the sight of this sturdy, handsome little boy with Rose’s brown eyes and her lustrous dark hair. And the way the boy demonstrated his own brand of fearless determination in not wanting to shake hands with a “damn Yankee,” his father’s enemy, had sparked Kendall’s admiration, even as it amused him.

  His heart had twisted with longing and regret when he had finally taken his leave. It was the last time he had ever seen Rose, for she had been tragically killed in a fire that had nearly razed her husband’s home. He had since learned from her son that the accident that had set the place ablaze was caused by Rose’s typical defiance of any injustice. Secretly she had been teaching her slaves to read, which was then against the law in Virginia.

  Kendall’s reverie was broken by the rustle of silk, the whisper of crinoline, the murmur of lowered voices. He turned to see the bridesmaids, in rainbow colors, tip-toeing into the vestibule to line up for the processional. In their midst was Davida in rippling white dotted Swiss ruffles, smiling, radiant.

  Swallowing the quick lump that rose in his throat at the sight of her, Kendall, always the soldier, gave her a small salute, then stepped forward to offer her his arm to take her down the aisle to become the bride of Jonathan Montrose.

  1886

  Spring sunshine poured into the windowed breakfast room of the newlywed’s cottage. Looking over at his bride, Jonathan Montrose thought he had never seen a more charming woman.

  The light behind her sent dancing sunbeams through her brown hair, giving it a rich, mahogany hue. Roses bloomed in the cheeks of her oval face, and her eyes sparkled as she read off a long list of errands she had to attend to.

  Married less than a year, Jonathan found to his astonishment that he loved Davida more now than he could have imagined possible. They had been back from their honeymoon only two weeks, having ended their trip to the Holy Land with an idyllic cruise on the Nile where, released from the duty of required sightseeing, they had reveled in each other and fallen more deeply in love than ever.

  “I must consult Mrs. Glendon on how to get the very best cut of beef,” his new wife was saying, a slight pucker creasing the creamy brow. “Everything must be simply perfect.”

  Resignedly, Jonathan sighed. Now that they were back in Milford, Davida was preoccupied with plans for all sorts of entertaining.

&n
bsp; We owe so many people!” she had told him in feigned dismay. “All those who sent wedding presents, our friends as well as Papa’s, and of course we must have your Aunt Frances and Uncle John to dinner immediately!”

  In a town where Davida was a popular belle, her father, a prominent member of the town council, and his own relatives, the Merediths, employers of large segment of the population at their mill, it was inevitable that they would have “social obligations.” Still, while Davida anticipated the discharge of these duties with delight, Jonathan viewed them reluctantly, unwilling to share his beloved with anyone.

  With a surreptitious glance in the direction of the kitchen door, Davida leaned forward in case their young maid might overhear herself being discussed and said in a stage whisper, “I shall have to rehearse Molly about the proper way to serve when we have guests. I know Mrs. Glendon has been training her while we’ve been away, but I must oversee her myself. I don’t want any domestic disaster to spoil my first dinner party.”

  With Davida’s enchanting face so close, Jonathan could not resist kissing her rosy mouth and capturing her hand in both of his.

  “I absolutely adore you,” he said huskily.

  “Jonathan!” she exclaimed, pretending to be shocked. “Behave! What if Molly should walk in! Or maybe Papa!”

  More likely it would be Papa, Jonathan thought ironically. In the short time they had been back, he had begun to think the blessing of Mr. Carpenter’s wedding gift house a definitely mixed one! Ever since their return he was in and out of their home constantly, and not always at the most convenient moments.

  Just then, as if on cue, a brief, demanding knock sounded at the front door. They both stiffened, listening, as Molly’s footsteps scurried by on the way to answer it. Then they heard Davida’s father’s unmistakable voice and Molly’s reply.

  “Yes, sir, they’re in the breakfast room.”

  A minute later, Kendall Carpenter’s commanding figure appeared in the archway.

  “Good morning!” he greeted them heartily, his eyes lingering lovingly on his daughter. “I haven’t come too early, have I? Not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “Of course not, Papa, darling!” Davida assured him, hopping up from her chair and running to give him a kiss. “Come and have a cup of coffee with us. I’ll have Molly bring some fresh.”

  “Well, I hadn’t planned to stay—” he demurred.

  “Oh, you must, mustn’t he, Jonathan? Do please sit down, Papa.”

  “Well … if you insist.” Kendall took a place at the table. “Actually, I just came over to bring your mail.” He handed a sheaf of letters to Jonathan.

  “Thank you, sir,” Jonathan said politely, adding, “I’ll have to put up our mailbox soon … save you the trouble,” he mumbled, knowing this was one of the chores on Davida’s list he had not yet done.

  “Oh, it’s no trouble. I can always bring it over when I pick up mine,” Kendall said offhandedly, then turning to Davida. “Well, my dear, what are your plans for the day? I have to drive over to Wilburn on some business, and I thought you might like to ride along, give us a chance to catch up. There’s still so much I’d like to hear about your trip.”

  Jonathan looked up from the mail he was sorting through and glanced over at Davida. He knew Davida had planned to shop for curtain material today, and the one thing he had learned about his bride was that she did not like a change of plans. So it was to his surprise that she agreed.

  “Oh, yes, Papa, that would be lovely!”

  “Splendid, my dear. We can have lunch at that seafood restaurant that’s just opened.” Kendall beamed, then neatly ruled out Jonathan’s accompanying them. “I suppose you’re due at the mill today, my boy?”

  “Well, Uncle John didn’t specify any hard and fast date for me to start work in the office, but I guess today is as good as any other.” Jonathan tried to sound casual, but he inwardly resented having someone else cut his prolonged honeymoon short by reminding him he was now the head of a household and should be busy about the work of provider.

  “What time did you want to leave, Papa?”

  “As soon as you can be ready, my dear.”

  Molly, looking flushed, her crisp white cap slightly askew, entered with a steaming pot of coffee and set it down.

  “Pour Colonel Carpenter a cup, please, Molly,” Davida instructed the little maid, then said to her father, “You sit here and enjoy your coffee, Papa, while I go put on my bonnet and shawl.”

  Left alone with his father-in-law, Jonathan engaged him in polite conversation in spite of his eagerness to read one letter among the stack received. It was from his favorite cousin, Druscilla Montrose, now Bondurant.

  As soon as the sound of Kendall’s buggy wheels had faded away, Jonathan opened Druscilla’s letter. He smiled as he read the first few paragraphs, his cousin’s vivacious personality spilling onto the page. It was the last part of the letter that he had to read twice, however, before the reality of what she was saying actually penetrated.

  “Randall and I are deeding to you Bon Chance, along with all surrounding land. It’s the original Montrose property, and you, after all, are the rightful heir. Had things been different, you would have inherited it all in due time.”

  Slowly, out of the past, memories came flooding back. Even with a war going on, Jonathan could remember only a carefree childhood growing up at Montclair with his cousins, Dru and Alair—the orchard where they had played; gentle hands, both black and white, caring for him; the scent of apple blossoms in the spring, the woodsmoke of fall, the spicy odor of apple butter, the aroma of freshly baked cornbread. He thought of the little Shetland pony, Bugle Boy, he had ridden alongside Auntie Garnet and of the time she had taken him by train to Washington to meet his tall Uncle John. From this point, all his memories were of Massachusetts and the family there, because his aunt, with tears in her eyes, had explained that the Merediths wanted to bring Jonathan up along with their own children.

  Amazingly, Jonathan was overwhelmed with nostalgia, a heretofore unrecognized homesickness, a longing for Virginia. It seemed imperative to go there at once, as if a part of himself had been lost and now was found. It seemed important to be once more in the land of his birth, to be in the house and on the land of his forebears, to ride through the woods near Montclair, to smell the tobacco drying in the barns, to fish in the sparkling streams alive with trout on the other side of the meadow, to see the burnished brick and gleaming white pillars of Montclair, rising out of the ancient elms … to go back “home.”

  “But, I don’t understand,” protested Davida. “What does it mean?” Jonathan’s voice betrayed his excitement. “It means that at last Montclair will be back in the Montrose family! Bondurant had turned it over to Druscilla, and she has deeded it to me! It would have come to me anyway if my father had not gambled it away—you remember, I told you the story. Both my uncles, Bryce and Lee, were killed in the war, so I, as the only direct descendant, would have inherited it through my father’s legacy.”

  Davida sat immobilized, watching her husband pace back and forth. “Yes, but I still don’t understand. What does it mean to us?”

  “It means, my darling, that we now own Montclair, one of the largest and most beautiful plantations in all of Virginia!” Jonathan exulted.

  “Virginia?” she repeated through stiff lips. “Does that mean we must move to … Virginia?”

  “Of course! Not only must, but we are privileged to move there! Oh, wait until you see it, Davida. It was always a magnificent place, but Dru writes that it has been restored to the way it was when it was built by the first Montrose, Duncan, for his bride, Noramary Marsh. And now my bride will be mistress of Montclair!”

  Davida felt something heavy press against her chest. She could neither swallow nor speak. To draw a breath sent a sharp pain through the region of her heart. Move to Virginia? Leave Papa? Milford? All she held dear?

  She looked at Jonathan’s glowing face, his dark shining eyes. She saw at on
ce that this was not a subject for discussion or debate. He had already assumed she would be as thrilled as he that his ancestral home had reverted to its rightful owner, that it belonged with a Montrose as master.

  Her lips trembled into a smile as he came and knelt down in front of her, took both her hands and raised them to his lips.

  “Oh, Davida, I thank God I am able to give you this, a home worthy of you, my darling, where we can live on land that was settled by my ancestors, in the home they built for their descendants, where we can raise a family and enjoy all that was meant to be ours—”

  Ironically, words from Scripture often misinterpreted as spoken by a wife, took on a personal meaning for Davida—words she had never dreamed she would now have to apply to her own situation—“Whither thou goest I will go, where thou lodgest I will lodge, thy people will be my people—”

  Do not be silent at my tears, for I am a stranger—Psalm 39:4

  How shall we sing—in a strange land?—Psalm 137:4

  chapter

  21

  Montclair

  Fall 1886

  DAVIDA’S EYES threatened to overflow. The farther they rode out from the Mayfield train depot, the lower her spirits plunged. They passed deep meadows and vast pasturelands where horses grazed, looking up indifferently as the carriage went rumbling along the country road. In the distance she could see the ridge of blue hills that seemed to enclose her, shutting off any possibility of escape.

  Suppressing a shudder, she glanced at Jonathan to see if he had noticed. But her husband was leaning forward in his seat, eagerly looking out the carriage windows.

  A feeling of desolation crushed Davida. How could Jonathan be so happy when she was so miserable? And why didn’t he sense her misery?

  The shock of leaving her beloved home and dear Papa had only begun to penetrate, and she was not prepared for the crush of reality that suddenly hit her. Here she was, far from everything she knew. Beautiful as it was, this landscape was unfamiliar, alien. She ached with the effort of concealing the grief that swept over her, something she could not share with her husband. Worst of all was the possibility that she had made a terrible mistake in agreeing to come to Virginia so that Jonathan could take over his family’s plantation.