by Jane Peart
ZONDERVAN
Mirror Bride
Copyright © 1993 by Jane Peart
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ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-83230-0
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Peart, Jane.
Mirror bride / Jane Peart.
p. cm. - (Brides of Montclair series : bk. 10)
ISBN 0-310-67131-0
1. Family—Virginia—Williamsburg Region—Fiction. I. Title. II. Series: Peart, Jane. Brides of Montclair series ; bk. 10.
PS3566.E28M57 1993
813'.54—dc20
93-22213
CIP
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Edited by Anne Severance
Cover design by Art Jacobs
Cover illustration by Wes Lowe, Sal Baracc and Assoc., Inc.
93 94 95 96 97 / LP / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Part I New Year's Day 1900
chapter 1
Part II New England
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
chapter 8
Part III Christmas Holidays 1909 to January 1910
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
Part IV Spring 1912
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
Part V Mayfield, Virginia
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
Part VI Birchfields, England
chapter 21
chapter 22
chapter 23
chapter 24
About The Author
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Prologue
Arbordale, Virginia
At Avalon, Jeff Montrose's Studio
"OH, JEFF, it's wonderful! Rod will be so pleased!"
Blythe Cameron glanced from the portrait of her ten-year-old twin daughters to her artist son. The painting was still on the easel, the smell of oil and turpentine pungent. "I really don't know how you managed to do it . . . I mean, capture the twins' individuality while showing how much alike they look!" She smiled fondly at the tall young man in the paint-smeared smock standing beside her. "You caught the mischief in Cara's eyes and the sweetness in Kitty's without losing the essence of their relationship."
"I hope Rod will share your opinion, Mother, but—"
"Oh, darling, you know your stepfather. He doesn't pretend to know or understand a thing about art, but I'm sure he'll recognize the skill it took to do this marvelous portrait of the girls."
"It wasn't easy," Jeff admitted ruefully. "Especially Cara! What a little scamp she is! I had to use all my creative imagination to keep her still. It's a good thing I know most of the stories of King Arthur by heart, but I must confess I made up a few along the way. I was that desperate at times!"
They laughed together. Cara's restless, madcap personality was a family joke.
"And Kitty, I suppose—"
"—was an absolute angel, of course," he finished.
Mother and son exchanged a meaningful look. It went without saying how different the twins were. Cara was high-spirited, stubborn and sassy, while Kitty, although vivacious and bright, was quieter and eager to please.
"Now, what about the framing?"
"I'll see to that, Mother. You don't want anything ornate. We need to retain the subtle delicacy of little girlhood—" Jeff paused as if unsure his mother was following him. "A heavy frame would overwhelm them."
"Of course." Blythe nodded in agreement. "I trust you, dear, to select something that will set the painting off to the best advantage. Just so it's ready by Christmas. I want it to be a surprise for Rod."
"I'll find just the right thing, Mother. Don't worry," Jeff assured her.
"Well, I must be off." Blythe gathered up her fur, picked up her handbag, and slipped on her kid gloves.
"I'll walk out with you." He opened the studio door.
As they stepped outside, the wind of the early winter afternoon felt damp and chilly. Blythe shivered and adjusted her mink stole. Walking down the path carpeted with sodden pine needles to the ferry dock, she put her hand on Jeff's arm.
"I do hope that you and Faith will be joining us for Christmas dinner."
Jeff shrugged. "You'll have to check with Faith. She makes all our social arrangements."
"But we're family, for pity's sake. Besides, you rarely ever socialize," Blythe chided gently. "You two live over here at Avalon like two hermits."
"Now, Mother, that's not entirely true. As a matter of fact, Faith is visiting Davida at Montclair this very afternoon."
Blythe's expression was thoughtful, considering the young woman who was now mistress of Montclair, the property adjoining their plantation. "Well, I must say I'm glad to hear that. Having someone as cheerful as Faith about will do Davida a world of good." Blythe sighed. "I should probably do more for her myself. I have invited Davida several times to go riding with me, but she usually refuses. She doesn't like horses—" Blythe's voice trailed off as if wondering why anyone, given her choice of fine horses and beautiful countryside in which to ride them, wouldn't jump at the chance.
"I wouldn't worry about it, Mother. I'm sure Davida is happy enough. Faith says she absolutely dotes on her children."
"True. Almost too much, I'd say."
"And of course you don't" he teased.
"Well—"
"In your defense," he put in gallantly, "I'd say all mothers are much the same, aren't they? At least that's what I've observed."
"But I don't think I hover over Scott and the twins as much as Davida does Meredith and Kip, do you?" Blythe asked in all seriousness. "Especially Kip."
"He's her only son," Jeff reminded her. "And I don't suppose I was spoiled at all, was I?"
"Oh, that was different. I was a single parent for much of your young life. After Malcolm died, you were my whole world." She gazed at him through misty eyes.
"Well, the Montrose children have a father. They have Jonathan."
"Jonathan!" Blythe made a gesture of dismissal. "Jonathan is much too passive where they're concerned. He doesn't assert himself at all."
Jeff shook his head. "Mother, you can't solve everyone's problems."
"That doesn't keep me from trying?" she retorted with a touch of girlish spunk.
Just then, Harry, the Montrose family groundskeeper, emerged from the little shed and approached them, tipping his cap and asking, "Ready to go across, Miz Cameron?"
"Yes, thank you, Harry." Then Blythe said to Jeff, "Goo
d-bye, dear. Thank you again for a beautiful job. I know Rod will be pleased."
Jeff leaned down and kissed his mother's cheek, then helped her into the wooden boat. H e untied the tow line and threw it to Harry in the prow, who shoved off from the dock.
As he stood watching the boat glide over the smooth surface of the water into the distance, Jeff unconsciously composed a painting. What a picture his mother made against the gray November sky, he thought—her auburn hair a flame under the brown velvet tricorne hat, the still-firm chin in profile, the slim lines of her body so gracefully erect.
Retxirning Jeff's farewell salute, Blythe sighed. He was probably right. Perhaps she was as much of a smothering mother as she considered Davida Montrose to be. But Jeff was so special. Born after the death of her first husband, Malcolm, Jeff had been brought up in England. Even though Blythe herself was now happily remarried to Rod Cameron, with whom she had three young children, her firstborn held a unique place in her heart.
She had wanted only the best for him always—happiness, love, success. Now he seemed to be achieving most of her dreams for him. His chosen career as an artist was progressing nicely. His paintings were more and more in demand. His wife adored him—his marriage ideally happy.
She remembered how she had had to reconcile herself to his elopement. Faith Devlin was the daughter of Garnet, whom Blythe had considered her rival because she had once been in love with Malcolm.
But that was a long time ago. I will not dwell on the past, Blythe told herself resolutely. Instead, she concentrated on how delighted Rod would be with the portrait of his two little girls! She recalled how thrilled he had been when their son Scott was born less than a year after their marriage. The birth of the twins had been an added blessing.
Unconsciously, Blythe shook her head, remembering the night they were born, a night marked by a wild storm that had lashed Mayfield County. So furious was the wind and driving rain that several of the towering elms surrounding their house had been badly damaged. Cara's birth had preceded Kitty's by fifteen minutes—slightly before midnight—so that their birthday was not shared, a fact that never diminished the enthusiasm with which they celebrated the two separate events. A year later, a daughter, Meredith, had been born to Davida and Jonathan Montrose, and since babyhood, the three little girls had been staunch friends.
"Here we are, Miz Cameron," Harry called out. His voice brought Blythe back to the present as they came alongside the landing dock on the other side of the river. From here, it was only a short walk to the Arbordale livery stable where Blythe had left her smart little buggy and Deirdre, her mare.
Soon Blythe was heading back to Mayfield. She always looked forward to going home after an outing, back to Cameron Hall, to a glowing fire in the library, to her husband Rod, whom she would welcome at the end of a long day, to her children, with whom she would share those precious moments just before dinner and an early bedtime.
Part I
New Year's Day 1900
Cameron Hall
Mayfield, Virginia
chapter 1
THE DOOR TO Blythe's bedroom inched open and a child's face peeked around the edge. Taking a quick look inside, she turned to her companion and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, "Come on, Kitty, coast's clear."
A minute later two little girls tiptoed into the room. They were about ten, dressed in matching blue striped pinafores.
"Oh, Cara, look what Mama's going to wear tonight!" exclaimed one softly as she went over to the canopied bed where an emerald green satin dress was spread. Kitty's small hand smoothed its lustrous surface, fingered the heavy black lace overlaid on the bodice.
But her sister was busy at the dressing table taking the stoppers out of the assortment of crystal perfume bottles, first passing them under her pert little nose, then running them along the inside of her wrist.
"Mmmm, smell this, Kitty!" Cara closed her eyes ecstatically.
Kitty joined her and sniffed appreciatively.
Just then they heard their names being called from down the hall, and they both looked up startled. Their images reflected in the large gilt-framed mirror were identical—red-gold curls; wide, dark eyes; small straight noses and rosy cheeks.
"Uh-oh! That's Lily." Kitty's mouth made a round O. "She's looking for us. If she finds us in here going through Mama's things . . ."
"Let's wait and see if she goes by—" was Cara's advice. "Maybe she'll think we went down to the kitchen."
Both held their breath as they heard footsteps outside their mother's door, then their nurse's voice talking to herself. "Now where did those two git to whilst I was laying out their party dresses?"
Cara clapped one chubby hand over her mouth stifling a giggle. But Kitty looked worried. "We better scoot, Cara."
Cara rolled her eyes and gave an elaborate shrug. "Oh, what can Lily do but fuss? She won't upset Mama by telling on us. Not tonight anyway with the party and guests coming." She started to lift the lid of the velvet jewel box when her twin grabbed her arm and jerked it away.
"No, Cara, don't! I don't want to get into trouble tonight with Meredith and Kip coming—"
"Oh, all right." Cara sighed. Impatient but persuaded, she reluctantly turned from her fascinating exploration to follow her twin. Kitty opened the door and cautiously peered into the hallway. Seeing that no one was about, she motioned with her hand to Cara and the two scampered back to their own bedroom.
A half hour later, Blythe, wrapped in a silk quilted robe, came from her bath in a mist of fragrant rose-scented talcum. She paused briefly outside the twins' door. From behind it she heard the sound of children's voices and laughter punctuated by another scolding adult one. Lily was in charge, she could tell. Blythe smiled and hurried down the hall toward her own bedroom.
She settled herself at the dressing table to do her hair. She liked doing it herself, knowing just how to twist its heavy length into a Roman knot, a trick her maid, Tisha, had never quite mastered. After slipping in the ornate amber shell comb at just the right angle, Blythe opened her jewel case and took from it the double strand pearl choker Rod had given her on their wedding day. Could it really be thirteen years ago this October? They had been the happiest and richest years of her life. Rod was still as devoted, as much in love with her as ever and the children, their son Scott and the twins—what angels they were and how blessed she was in her family.
She fastened in matching pearl drop earrings, then opened one of the dressing table drawers to replace the jewel box. There she saw another jewel case at the bottom. Involuntarily she shivered, feeling a sudden chill. It contained the Montrose bridal set, a ruby and diamond necklace and earrings. Of course, she had never worn them, had never wanted to. She rarely opened that box. Even looking at the jewels now brought back unhappy images of her ill-fated first marriage to Malcolm Montrose.
Seeing them brought to mind her recurrent conflict about the jewels. Since the 1700's Montrose men had gifted their brides with the magnificent set, with the understanding that it should be passed down from generation to generation.
A flood of memories swirled through her mind—the loss of Montclair, her first home in Virginia, to Randall Bondurant in payment of her first husband's gambling debts; Malcolm's subsequent death; her odyssey in England, where she had fled to escape that turbulent time; Jeff's birth there—
For a moment, Blythe thought again of Jonathan—Malcolm's other son by his first wife. Blythe herself had not met the young man until her marriage to Rod Cameron when she had come to live here at Cameron Hall, but now they were neighbors. Jonathan had inherited Montclair and now lived there with his wife, Davida Carpenter.
Just as she had attempted to forget her brief and tragic first marriage, so Blythe sometimes almost forgot about this intricate web of relationships woven by Malcolm's passion and pride. She knew that as a young man he had married Rose Meredith, a young New Englander he had brought as a bride to Virginia. But the Malcolm of her memory was a dark and brooding man. When
she met him in California so many years ago, he was broken in spirit by his young wife's tragic death and the bitter years of war that he had endured.
Under unusual circumstances Blythe had married Malcolm Montrose. Eager for a life of her own, she had followed him gladly to his world—Virginia . . . and Montclair.
Hesitantly, almost with aversion, Blythe now pressed the little button that sprung the lock, opening the long velvet box in her hand. The Montrose rubies and diamonds lay against the satin lining, winking and gleaming as if to spite her. To whom did they rightfully belong? To the wife of Malcolm and Rose's son . . . or to her son's wife?
With a sigh, Blythe closed the jewel box and put it away. She would have to give the matter more consideration It wasn't something that she could decide now. But soon she really should.
At that moment, Blythe heard the sound of the children's voices coming down the hall from the nursery wing. Not that it was actually a nursery any longer. The children were growing up fast—too fast, she thought with regret. She had been overjoyed to have a second family with Rod—first, a son, Scott, to carry on the Cameron name and preserve the family dynasty; then two years later, the twins.
She could hear Cara's voice above the others, raised in a perennial argument of some kind. This child was always at the center of any storm, and Blythe wondered if having been born in the worst storm in the history of Mayfield County had anything to do with her temperament.
She rose and hurried to the bedroom door to see what her little daughter was making a fuss about now.
Opening the door to investigate the ruckus, Blythe saw the girls running down the carpeted hallway. They were already dressed in their new party dresses—royal blue velvet with wide bertha collars of Irish lace. Lily, hairbrush in hand, was following them as fast as her girth would allow. Cara's rosy face was screwed into a stubborn protest and she was shaking her head from side to side. Blythe could not tell whether Lily was trying to use the brush on the child's mass of russet curls, or to apply it to her derriere for chastening.
"Now, looka hyah, missy," Lily scolded. "You stand still and doan gib me no nonsense! Them Montrose chillen ain't come yet, and you doan hab to be out on de veranda waitin' for 'em, neither."