Folly's Bride

by Jane Peart

  By the time they had transferred Sara’s baggage to the Montrose carriage and had Lizzie settled in the enclosed driver’s seat in front beside Joshua, it had begun to snow heavily.

  “Warm enough?” Clay asked Sara once they were seated, tucking the fur-lined lap robe more securely around her.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Peering out the carriage window at the changing landscape, Sara admired the lacy frosting on trees, housetops, and lantern posts. “How beautiful it is!” she exclaimed.

  But by the time they turned onto the road leading out of town, familiar landmarks were rapidly fading, obliterated by the falling snow. The whole countryside appeared suspended in time. Even the clop-clop of the horses’ hooves was muffled by the white blanket, and the carriage proceeded as if by magic, transported by flying steeds on billowy clouds.

  Sara was too relieved to be with Clay again to notice much about the world outside their window. As they rode along, he answered her questions about the children’s activities since she had been away. Avril and Logan had been back for a brief visit before leaving for Natchez, where Logan was completing all the legalities concerning the sale of the Dumont property there for Avril.

  “They were sorry to have missed seeing you, and I’m sure Aunt Avril wrote you how deeply sorry she was about your father’s death.”

  “Yes, a beautiful letter, full of love and sympathy,” replied Sara.

  “You know they will be leaving for Jamaica from New Orleans without returning to Virginia?”

  “I’d forgotten. I’ve had so many things on my mind.”

  “Understandable, of course.”

  “And how long will they be gone?”

  “Logan wasn’t sure. I suppose it depends on the size of his holdings. You do remember my telling you that he has been retained by an old schoolmate at the English school they attended together as boys, to settle his father’s Jamaican plantation estate, don’t you?” Clay turned an inquiring gaze on Sara, and she smiled wearily, shrugging her shoulders. “Well, at any rate they will be staying in one of the guest houses on the plantation while they’re there. Logan has visited before and says the way of life on the islands is most pleasant—a lovely place to spend the winter, he says.” At this, Clay paused to look out the window. “And speaking of winter—it seems as though we’re in for a snowy one. We’ve had a few flurries, but none that looked like this!”

  The pace of the horses had slowed and the carriage moved more tentatively now. Roads already deeply rutted by heavy fall rains were glazing over as the snow continued to fall.

  For the next few minutes both husband and wife gazed out at the scene. Sara’s thoughts were of Avril and how love had come into her life a second time with the gentle sweetness of an old and cherished friendship. Avril and Logan had been married in a quiet ceremony in the little chapel built at Montclair by Graham at Avril’s request long ago. “Love suffereth long and is kind; love envieth not; love doth not behave itself unseemly; seeketh not her own; … beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never faileth”—the words from Avril and Logan’s ceremony brought back the meaning of that day.

  That was ideal love. An ideal to be strived for, if not attained. How lacking she had been in all those attributes.

  She glanced over at Clay, felt a pang of remorse, knowing that she had failed to give him the fullest expression of her love in holding on to one forbidden, lost to her forever. What folly! How could she make up to Clay all the years she had wasted, yearning after something and someone who, in the end had proved worthless?

  “Whoa!” they heard Joshua shout, and the carriage lurched, rocked unsteadily, then halted abruptly.

  Clay frowned and opened the carriage door. “What’s the trouble?” he shouted to the coachman.

  “Snowdrifts, suh. Pretty deep out here. I missed de turn into Montclair gates, dat’s all. I’m gettin’ down to lead the horse around and back.”

  Clay had to struggle to shut the door again, tugging to wrest it from the strong wind that sent whirls of snow into the carriage.

  Sara leaned forward to try to see out the snow-blurred window. “I’ve never seen anything like this!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Is this a blizzard?”

  “Not really. But it’s quite a heavy storm. I wonder—” he paused thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should check Eden Cottage before we go up to the house.”

  At Sara’s look of surprise, Clay explained, “I ought to be sure all the windows are securely fastened, the doors bolted. This wind could play havoc if there is a loosely hooked window or door left unlatched.

  “I sent Dorsey down to clean and straighten everything after Aunt Avril left,” he continued, “but I’d feel better if I made sure myself. There are so many family heirlooms there, things Aunt Avril treasures. I’d hate to see them ruined—” There was a note of apology in his tone.

  “Well, of course, Clay,” Sara assured him. “Do whatever needs to be done.”

  “Then I’ll tell Joshua we’re stopping.” Clay pushed open the door again, leaned out, and shouted the order to the coachman. Pulling the door shut once more, he brushed snow off his shoulders. “It must have been snowing harder and longer out here than in Williamsburg. It’s already quite deep.”

  “What fun the children will have!” Sara smiled, her eyes sparkling.

  Clayborn felt his heart lift. Sara had seemed so pensive, so withdrawn since her arrival. It was good to see a flicker of her usual vivaciousness again.

  The carriage came to a stop in front of Eden Cottage, built as the architect’s model for Montclair. Within the family, it was called the “honeymoon house,” since traditionally this was where most Montrose newlyweds spent their first year of marriage. Of course, when Clay and Sara were married, the reverse was true. It was Avril who had moved from the big house into this smaller cottage.

  As he started to get out, Clay said, “I won’t be long.”

  “Wait, Clay. I want to come with you!”

  He hesitated. “It will be cold, my dear. The place has been empty over a week and no fires burning—”

  “I don’t care. I want to come,” she insisted.

  He looked down at her fine leather boots with their delicate high French heels. “Your feet will get soaked in those—” he said doubtfully. “Oh, well, come, I’ll carry you.”

  She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her easily into his arms. She laughed lightly as he tramped through the snow onto the tiny porch. Still holding her, he reached for the door handle and the door swung open.

  With Sara still in his arms, Clay stepped inside.

  “I feel like a bride being carried over the threshold!” she exclaimed gaily.

  He set her on her feet. “I’ll have a quick look around and then we can be on our way,” he told her and started to the back of the house.

  Sara stood looking around. She had always loved coming to visit Avril here, although those times had been few. Avril usually came to Montclair and brought the little boys back to Eden Cottage for tea parties or special treats.

  Everything in the cottage reflected her touch. There was not a false note anywhere. Avril had maintained the integrity of the original, keeping the Colonial furnishings, most of them made by Montclair’s plantation artisans right on the land, and a few authentic antiques brought by Claire Montrose, Duncan’s mother, from her home in Scotland. Avril, though, had also placed her own individual stamp on the place.

  There was her artist’s easel standing in the alcove by the window where she could get the best north light. On the wall were the framed portraits she had done of Graham, of Clayborn when he was a young lad, and of both Malcolm and Bryce. A portfolio lay open on the table nearby, and Sara went over to look through it. As she did, she was surprised to find many sketches of her own children she had never seen, as well as the small black children on the plantation.

  She knew that Avril rarely went anywhere without a tiny paintbox, brushes,
and sketchbook. Sara had always admired Avril’s delicate watercolors of her European travels as well as the many lovely landscapes she did of the meadows and woods around Montclair. She would surely return from Jamaica with more beautiful records of this new adventure in her life.

  Sara moved over to a table to examine several objects there. A silver twin-frame held miniatures of a young man and woman costumed in fashions of the past century—Avril’s parents perhaps? Next was a small, hand-painted porcelain music box. Sara lifted the lid and immediately the tinkling notes of the minuet filled the room with the musical memories of an earlier time.

  There was a lilting quality to the tune, along with an underlying minor theme that evoked the message of love mingled with longing, happiness, and heartbreak. Someday she would have to ask Avril about this exquisite little box. There must be some story connected with it, and Avril knew most of the stories about the brides who had come to Montclair.

  Slowly Sara circled the room, sensing something here she needed to experience. The cottage had an expectant air, as if waiting for its mistress’s return. And yet there was a welcoming atmosphere as well, as if it offered its own warmth and loving acceptance to all who entered here. To the right of the front door hung a simple wooden cross on which Avril had done the words in a flowing calligraphy script: LORD AND MASTER, BLESS AND PROTECT EVERYONE WHO COMES IN OR OUT.

  “Well, everything’s fine. Shall we be on our way then?” Clay came striding back into the room.

  Sara stood, her back to him, gazing out the window. It was late afternoon now and the approach of winter dusk cast purple shadows upon the snow.

  “Clay, let’s stay the night here,” she suggested softly.

  He looked puzzled. “Here? But, darling—”

  “I would so like to, Clay. Perhaps it’s a whim, but could we? We can send Lizzie and Joshua up to the house, tell them we’ll be up in the morning. It will soon be the children’s bedtime and if we arrive now, there will be such excitement they will never settle down. Besides,” she added almost shyly, “I should like to have some time alone with my husband. Here.”

  There was a moment of silence as Clay seemed to be weighing the suggestion against some more practical considerations. Then he spoke decisively, “Of course, darling, if that’s what you want. There’s plenty of firewood, supplies, whatever we need.” He went to the door. “You sure you don’t want Lizzie to stay?”

  Sara shook her head, smiling. “No, just us.”

  A few minutes later Clay returned with an armload of firewood. “We’ll get a fire going and warm this place up,” he said heartily.

  Sara moved aside so he could arrange the kindling, place the logs, and strike the flint to start the fire. At the first crackle of the wood as it began to catch, Clay rocked back on his heels and replaced the fireguard.

  Kneeling side by side in front of the fireplace, Sara looked at Clay, and he was glad to see the old sparkle and laughter in her eyes. What a lark this is! they seemed to say.

  Soon the flames began leaping, sending out a warming glow from the logs, now burning cheerfully. Sara’s face, illumined by the firelight, seemed to Clay lovelier than ever.

  Thoughtfully, Sara held out her left hand, twisting the third finger to let the magnificent ruby in her ring catch the light of the fire. As she turned it, the deep crimson stone seemed to burn with an enduring flame. It seemed to symbolize what it represented, that love is eternal.

  Sara instinctively turned to gaze at Clay’s face, observing the new maturity in the strongly molded features, the added purpose and responsibility in his brown eyes.

  An awareness of intimacy trembled between them. The air throbbed with something vital, as if from invisible wings stirring, vibrating with consciousness of each other that was new, different from ever before.

  Slowly Clay got to his feet and held out his hands to pull Sara up with him. Together they stepped back from the fireplace. Clay, still holding her hands, raised them to his lips. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Sara leaned forward, lifting her head for his kiss. She closed her eyes and felt the world slipping away.

  When Sara awakened the next morning, she lay still for a moment, listening to the ice-clad branches of the trees tapping with silvery fingers at the window. The bedroom door was open, and when she turned her head she could see into the parlor where a cheerful fire crackled merrily.

  She had no idea what time it was. She was only aware of a deep, peaceful contentment. She had been right to suggest their staying in Eden Cottage last night. It must have been an inspiration. This place was a magical setting for love.

  Though she had often wished that she and Clay, like so many other Montrose couples before them, could have lived here in Eden Cottage for the first year of their marriage, she now suspected the time would not have been right for them then. This morning she could sense the love that had been shared here. Perhaps the beauty of the moments they had spent here would linger for others to breathe in as a presence, to encourage and inspire.

  By the time Sara dressed, and joined Clay in the small parlor, a knock at the door announced the arrival of Joshua bringing a basket of food from the Montclair kitchen. They breakfasted in front of the fire, saying little, smiling much, eyes meeting as fingers touched in passing biscuits or marmalade.

  Sara’s hair, without Lizzie to dress it, fell in lustrous waves about her shoulders, and Clay noticed. “You look especially beautiful this morning, Mrs. Montrose.”

  The sun was well up in the sky when they finally closed the door of the little cottage and started up the road back to the big house. The snow, so deep and beautiful the day before, was already beginning to melt. And both Clay and Sara felt that in their marriage they had turned a new page that was too precious for words.

  It had been crystallized in a moment the night before when they stood together at the window looking out across the snow, lighted only by stars and a ghostly crescent moon. Suddenly, across the purple darkness had flashed a shooting star—a brief streak of celestial fire almost too swift to see.

  Sara had gasped and Clay had drawn her close, “A good omen!” he whispered.

  Back at Montclair that afternoon, in her sitting room of the master suite, Sara unlocked the secret drawer of her small desk. With hands that trembled slightly, she drew out the packet of Theo’s letters. The ribbon binding them had begun to fade, and her fingers toyed with the box. She debated whether or not to untie it, to reread them one last time.

  As she hesitated, she felt a strong urge to destroy them, once and for all. In a moment of conviction, she carried them over to the fireplace and threw them, packet and all, onto the burning logs. There was a single instant of panic when she was tempted to snatch them back, but she resisted. Standing there, Sara watched the paper alight, crinkle, and curl, then vanish in a spiral of flame and smoke.

  Later that same day, as she was unpacking her traveling case containing her toiletries, she drew out the Bible she had found in Leonard’s desk. Unknown to anyone in the household, she had slipped it into her valise with her personal belongings just before leaving her father’s home. Surely, she deserved something that had belonged to him.

  Curious, she paged idly through, wondering if she would discover some other insight into his character as she and Lucie had when they found the inscription for his grave.

  She turned the pages, stopping to read the underlined passages and the penciled notes in the margins. At last she paused at a verse in Philippians that had been underlined in red: “Forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead—”

  A tremor passed through Sara at those words. There was certainly more here than she was able to fully comprehend, but she thrilled to the truth she could grasp. For now, it was enough to feel that she had taken the first step out of the old, crippling bondage of the past.

  Just then, from down the hall, came the sound of running feet and the high-pitched voices of little boys calling,
“Mama! Mama!”

  Sara turned just in time to see Malcolm rush through the door with Bryce right behind him. Her firstborn flung himself at her, clasping her around the knees, and Bryce tumbled into the arms she opened to gather both of them close.

  “My darlings!” she cried, hugging them.

  This was her life, here and now, in this precious moment. She would hold it fast and treasure it, Sara vowed. It was all she had, all she needed.

  chapter

  17

  IN THE WEEKS following her return from Savannah, Sara underwent a marvelous change. It was as if she had moved from one state of existence to another. Like a butterfly emerging from the chrysalis, Sara felt a new sense of joy, and every day she felt more in harmony with her surroundings, more as if she belonged.

  One morning, while dressing to visit Katherine at Cameron Hall, Sara stood in front of her dressing table mirror. Quite suddenly she seemed to be looking at another woman, someone she scarcely recognized. She leaned closer, studying her reflection critically. What was it that was so different?

  Searchingly Sara stared at herself. The realization of her altered expression dawned slowly. Since that night she and Clay had spent at Eden Cottage, she had unconsciously renewed her wedding vows. Belatedly, it was true, and yet not too late, she had found love in its truest sense. With this discovery had come the assurance of Clay’s lifelong commitment. She knew he would never betray her, that his was a forever love, beyond price, and that she had never fully valued it until now.

  Since then, the discouraging emptiness of life had mysteriously vanished, and her restlessness and the vague hunger had disappeared. How wonderful it was to be free of all the old doubts and uncertainties that had plagued her for so long! With the exception of a few lapses, thoughts of Theo had gradually diminished.

  With a smile of contentment, Sara put on her ostrich-feathered bonnet. Tying the satin ribbons under her chin, she called to Lizzie to bring her cloak, a persimmon velvet trimmed in mink, and asked her to tell Anson to bring the carriage around.