by Jane Peart
"Your own room, of course, Garnet, your old one," Blythe said quickly and moved with them out into the hall.
At the bottom of the winding staircase, Garnet paused again. "No need for you to show me, Blythe. I certainly know the way."
Although Garnet's remark was spoken lightly, Blythe felt rebuffed. She realized that her sister-in-law still had the power to make her feel unneeded, unimportant. Watching the two start up the steps together, chatting animatedly, she suddenly felt left out. She stood there until the figures of the woman and little girl rounded the bend in the stairway and disappeared down the corridor.
Blythe returned to the library. Despite the fire still burning brightly in the fireplace, she could not get warm. Sitting down, she rubbed her hands together.
Why did she feel so tense, so apprehensive? She knew there was more, much more for the two of them to discuss, and she dreaded it. Blythe closed her eyes for a moment. At least, Garnet had not brought up the subject of Jeff, though Blythe had steeled herself for a tirade. No doubt that Garnet would mention his irresponsibility, his neglect of his duty as a father, running off to New Mexico the way he had, and taking only Gareth with him. Jeff had been away almost a year now, and there was still no word, not an inkling of when he planned to return, to reunite his family—
But did Garnet, or even Rod for that matter, realize how devastated Jeff had been after the tragedy? Without Faith . . . literally, without faith, Blythe thought sadly . . . she had feared not only for his sanity but for his very life. His wife had meant everything to Jeff.
It was the prize-winning painting he'd done of her as Mary of Bethany at the feet of Jesus that had won him new acclaim. Perhaps he had never forgiven himself for returning to America before her to present the painting at the gallery in New York for a month's exhibit, leaving her to follow him on the Titanic a month later—
Wearily, Blythe got to her feet and rang the tapestried bellpull by the fireplace to call Fanny to come for the tea tray.
She and Garnet would have another chance to talk about the grandchildren. Blythe hoped that Rod would agree to sit in on any discussions they had. She needed his level head, his firm support, though she knew his views—that the sisters should not be separated any longer, that the cruel blow dealt the family should be healed by bringing up the two little girls together. Of course, they wanted to bring Bryanne here to Cameron Hall to grow up with Lynette, while Garnet . . . well, it was obvious how she felt—
Blythe also knew how her husband felt about Jeff's single-minded "selfishness," as Rod expressed it. In his own grief, Jeff had left his little daughters to others to comfort and nurture. Still, Rod and Jeff had never been close, perhaps never would be. Rod had never understood his stepson's sensitive, artistic soul. Not that she could defend what her son had done after he lost Faith, but in some ways, she could sympathize with it. Hadn't she, too, run away . . . after Malcolm's death?
But that was different. Yes, she knew that, and although she was not going to defend Jeff's action, neither was she going to blame or condemn him. After all, he had not left his daughters alone or with strangers. He had left them with grandparents, knowing that they'd be lovingly cared for.
Blythe put her fingertips to her temples to still the drumming that had begun. She mustn't start thinking of all this now. It would have to wait. Surely she and Garnet would have the opportunity to discuss all this rationally, intelligently. There would be time later. Now, there were other pressing problems to solve.
chapter 19
GARNET HAD learned through bitter experience that loss must be faced, pain walked through, If nothing else, the War years had taught her that, so she knew that a visit to Avalon was inevitable, not only to pick up some of Bryanne's things but to confront the fact that Faith would never be coming back.
The day that Rod drove her to Arbordale was the first time during the week she had spent at Cameron Hall that brother and sister had been alone. On the way, they spoke little. Garnet's heart was too full, her thoughts preoccupied with how quickly the years had passed since Faith had left her home in England, eloped with Jeff, and come here to Virginia to live.
Leaving the road, they boarded the old ferry to the island, then drove up the narrow trail guarded by sweeping pines and bordered with lush ferns. Seeing the house at last, she was struck again by how very English it looked with its buff-colored stucco and dark oak timbers, the low, slanting roof and diamond-paned windows.
Rod unlocked the heavily carved front door, stepping back so that Garnet could precede him across the threshold.
Though Jeff had arranged for the butler and housekeeper to remain on the place as caretakers, there was an empty feeling as they walked inside, their footsteps echoing hollowly on the slate floor of the foyer.
Garnet's first impression was of the pervading gloom. Then, remembering, how happy Faith had been here, how fulfilled and joyous in her role as Jeff's wife and mother to their three children, she realized that even the tragedy that had come to it could not completely diminish those memories. Everywhere she looked were reminders of the golden hours her daughter had lived here.
In the front hall were Jeff's Renaissance murals depicting legendary heroes, costumed ladies, angelic children at play. Silently they walked through the oak-paneled rooms hung with more of Jeff's paintings. Upstairs, they toured the children's wing, its walls aglow with fairy-tale stories Jeff had painted, some of the characters's faces bearing a strong resemblance to the children themselves! How this must have amused Faith, pleased and delighted the three little ones.
Garnet struggled with the increasing urge to weep for all the loveliness, the joy, the affectionate gaiety this home had held that now was forever lost. What was to become of these children, with their mother dead and their father who knew where? H ow could he have forsaken his two motherless girls? And what kind of life would poor little Gareth have with a depressed and unstable father?
Suddenly, overcome with outrage at the emotional wreckage that Jeff had left behind, Garnet whirled around to face her brother. Hands clenched at her side, eyes flashing, she burst out, "I never wanted Faith to marry him in the first place! He's always been irresponsible, self-centered. It was what Jeff wanted, what was best for Jeff—that's all that has ever been important to him, no matter what havoc he causes in other people's lives! Blythe has always coddled him, excused him for his weaknesses, and Faith, my poor darling, continued the pattern—"
She paused only to draw a deep ragged breath. "I pity his children, Gareth, especially. Why he took his son with him, I'll never understand. What kind of example has he set for the boy? That when life deals you a blow, you run away?"
Rod did not attempt to answer, allowing his sister to vent her grief, her anger. "Well, if I have anything to do with it, Bryanne will have a different kind of upbringing. She will be taught that life isn't always fair, and doesn't grant special treatment for wealth or talent. Nothing gives you the right to abandon your duty and responsibility to others—"
She broke off once more. Then, as if determined to bring her anger under control, she spoke with icy calm. "I have tried to understand the shock Jeff has endured, but I cannot condone his dramatizing himself, wallowing in his own grief while the rest of us get on the best we can with our lives—" She paused, then regarding her brother with a steady gaze, said, "I've come to a decision, Rod. I'm not going to bring Bryanne back here. She will remain with me at Birchfields until Jeff comes out of whatever he's in. When he does . . . or maybe I should say, if he does, and wants his daughter . . . he can jolly well come to England and get her!"
Once Garnet had made up her mind, there was no dissuading her. She packed, made her reservations, and prepared to return to England. When Blythe finally realized that Garnet did not plan to reunite the two little girls, she was deeply shaken.
In the privacy of their bedroom, she confronted her husband. Looking at him incredulously, she said, "I can't believe that you agreed with what Garnet plans to do!"
Rod shrugged, spreading his hands. "What could I do or say to stop her? You know Garnet."
"I thought you believed, as I do, that it is wrong for these little sisters to be separated, to be reared in different environments half a world apart!"
"It wasn't our doing, Blythe," Rod replied, his meaning implicit.
"You blame Jeff, don't you?"
"And who else is to blame? Should I blame God, the iceberg that crashed into the Titanic . . . whom? . . . what?"
Blythe gave a moan and buried her face in her hands. At the sight of his wife's distress, Rod was at her side in an instant, kneeling to take her in his arms. "Darling, darling, listen to me," he murmured. "Just remember we have each other—our daughters, our son, and now our granddaughter. But Garnet has lost everything. All she has now is Bryanne. H ow long she will have her, God only knows. And whether it is the wisest thing or the right thing, how are we really to know? Jeff has, at least for the time being, relinquished his responsibility, and we must do the best we can."
"For Lynette's sake, we shall try to make Christmas as happy as possible," Blythe announced bravely at breakfast the morning after Garnet's departure. "I don't want to spoil anything for her, so let's just be as cheerful as possible—"
Knowing her mother's heavy heart, Kitty promised to help make it so. This would be the first season since the double tragedy that they would be hosting their New Year's Day open house, and Kitty knew at what cost Blythe had made that decision.
A week later, when they received word that Cara would be home for Christmas, Kitty made plans to meet her at the train station. On the way, she thought of the different directions their lives had taken in the past year.
While Kitty had finished college and stayed home to help with the added responsibility of caring for Lynette, Cara, at the end of her sophomore year at Fern Grove, had convinced her parents that it would be "a waste of time and money" for her to return to college the following fall. Then she had laid out a well-rehearsed plan to stay with the family of her friend Susan Mills, in Richmond, where both would help out in a fashionable boutique owned by Susie's aunt. With Washington, D.C. nearby, there would be many opportunities to attend concerts, lectures, visit the great art galleries, and generally avail themselves of the cultural advantages of the capital city. All in all, she argued, these experiences would be much more educational than the curriculum offered at Fern Grove.
Blythe and Rod, still recovering from the shock of the two deaths as well as their care of Lynette, had neither the will nor the strength to resist Cara's persuasive arguments and finally consented.
What they did not know was that Cara's plan had been greatly influenced by Richmond's proximity to the Theological Seminary where Owen was enrolled. Nor would they have guessed that she was using her small salary to take singing and dancing lessons as well.
Waiting on the station platform, Kitty struggled with feelings of elation and apprehension at her sister's coming. Ever since that disastrous Christmas holiday years ago, the relationship between Cara and their father had been, at best, an uneven one. But all that had happened in the meantime—the tragedy, the changes, the fact that so much time had passed—gave Kitty renewed hope. As she saw the engine round the last bend and head into the curved tracks in front of the station house, she prayed that Cara's strained relationship with their parents would be reconciled.
Kitty watched Cara swing gracefully down the trains steps and speak to the conductor who had assisted her. In the moments before she turned to look for her, Kitty had time to study her twin.
She was fashionably dressed in a cinnamon brown suit of nubby wool, trimmed with darker brown velvet and a matching tam, a tangerine silk scarf tied at her throat. But there was no time to study her face, to read the message there, for at that moment, Cara saw her and started toward her, smiling.
Kitty hoped that in spite of her new sophistication, Cara was really no different on the inside, and maybe they could be close again. But as her sister came nearer, a kind of cold sensation chilled her. Behind the smile, something was altered. Though her lovely face did not betray it, in those luminous eyes lurked some secret.
An inner knowing stirred in Kitty that it was not, after all, an "old wives' tale." Even separated twins do have a special empathy; they can sense if the other is happy or sad or in danger. Kitty was convinced that Cara's coming was like a pebble spun out into a pond, causing ripple upon ripple, spreading wider and wider, changing the smooth surface just as Cara's presence always changed things.
chapter 20
As BLYTHE had hoped, Christmas at Cameron Hall took place with all the trappings of their traditional way of celebrating the holiday. The tree was glorious to behold, hung with glittering new ornaments, some especially lovely hand-painted ones sent by Garnet from Germany. The house shone with candles and was fragrant with the pungent scent of masses of evergreens brought in from the surrounding woods. Stacked beneath the tree, to Lynette's delight, were piles of beautifully wrapped presents.
Rod had selected and bought a pony for the child and gave her her first riding lesson that very afternoon. Scott arrived, laden with gifts and games, then romped and played with Lynette in a noble attempt to replace the missing father. Kitty had spent weeks painting and refurbishing an old dollhouse for her, and from the boutique, Cara had brought her a white rabbit-fur hat and muff to wear to church on Christmas Day.
In spite of the sincere efforts of all, the day was difficult for the adults. There were too many memories, too many "ghosts of Christmas Past," with no new joys to take their place or to part the clouds of sorrow that still hung over them.
The weather had not helped. There was no snow. Instead, rain fell intermittently from leaden skies, making the atmosphere damp and gloomy. Most depressing for Kitty was the fact that, although she and Cara again shared their old bedroom, the old intimacy she had hoped to regain was lacking. Although Cara was consistently cheerful and entered into all the activities with determined good grace and a willingness to participate, some spontaneity was gone.
Kitty noticed Cara's strange reaction to learning that Montclair had been shut up for the last few months. Meredith had decided to spend the holidays with her Massachusetts relatives. Jonathan, unable to bear facing the season alone, had gone to Bermuda. And, as far as the Camerons knew, Kip was still in Montana.
"Maybe it's all for the best," Cara had remarked when she was told.
Cara pushed the heavy church door open and went inside.
The pale December sun filtering into the church from the arched stained-glass windows brought little illumination to banish the shadows lurking within its raftered ceiling and stone pillars. Inhaling deeply, she breathed the spicy fragrance of pine, spruce, and cedar from the Christmas decorations still in place.
The stillness was palpable and, although the church was empty, she felt at once the awareness of an unseen Presence.
The last hectic hours had been filled with anxious preparation for Christmas. The remembrance of Christ's birth shouldn't be like that, Cara thought. Then suddenly, the dodging and avoidance, the circling around the truth, the tension of deception in which she was engaged, smote Cara like a blow. With a groan of conviction, she slipped to her knees in one of the last pews, rested her forehead on clasped hands, and almost unconsciously began to pray—
Kitty was sure that every detail of that winter afternoon would remain clear in her memory as long as she lived. The instant that she entered the bedroom late on Christmas afternoon, she felt a curious chill. Later she wondered if it had been a premonition. She went over to the window to see if it had been left open by mistake. There she paused to look out and saw windblown flurries of snow falling in the darkness.
Unconsciously she shivered, drew the curtains against the coming night, then lighted the lamps. It was then she saw the envelope propped up against the mirror on the double dressing table. In Cara's bold backhand was written "For Kitty."
Holding her breath, she drew
out the folded letter inside. "Dearest Twin," she read. Even that struck Kitty as strange. Cara hated the term when applied to herself. She read on: "I don't like keeping secrets and especially not from you. But there was no other way.
"Scott says I always stir up a storm in the family. Well, I guess this will be another one, but I thought it would be better this way. After all that's happened—Aunt Garnet's coming, the fuss over Lynette, the death of Faith and Mrs. Montrose—I wanted to make it easy on Mama and Daddy.
"Ever since we met that summer at Fair Winds, Owen Brandt and I have been in love. He fought it at first . . . well, it doesn't matter now. I managed to convince him that as long as we feel the way we do about each other, everything else can be worked out. So, since I've been living in Richmond, we've been meeting as often as possible.
"Kitty, the main reason I didn't tell you before now, knowing as I do what everyone will say, is that I didn't want to put you in the position of having to lie or cover for me. I realize that most people will think that Owen deserves someone sweet and docile, someone like Merry, maybe. I know they think I'm too reckless, too impatient, too worldly to be a minister's wife and, though I know it, too, I love him so much I'm willing to risk it. He is, too.
"Before I came home for the holidays, we met, talked it all out, and decided. Since the seminary allows students to be married, and since this is Owen's last year, we've decided not to wait any longer!
"Owen got the license and we're going away. I wish it could have been different, but I didn't want everyone trying to talk us out of it.
"Oh, Kitty, do be happy for us. I love you, and I hope . . . yes, I pray that someday you'll be as happy as I am now. Cara."
Kitty's hands, holding the hastily written note, began to shake, then her legs. She had to sit down quickly on the stool in front of the dressing table. She saw her face staring back at her in the mirror . . . Cara's face. She looked pale, her eyes dark and frightened.