Mirror Bride

by Jane Peart

  "Nothing of the kind, Mr. Montrose. Uncle would have a fit if he thought any guest of his did without a proper Scottish breakfast."

  She led the way through the dining room where rosy-cheeked maids in starched ruffled caps and aprons were putting fresh cloths on the tables.

  Phoebe ushered him into an alcove and gestured to a small table set in the bow window, then disappeared through a door Jonathan assumed was the kitchen. Within minutes, a waitress appeared, bearing a pot of coffee. She poured him a steaming cup and almost immediately Phoebe herself came with a tray of oatmeal, a jar of heather honey, and a basket of currant scones, wrapped in a linen cloth to keep them warm.

  "It's a little too late for a real Highlander breakfast, but perhaps this will do till lunch."

  "Oh, this is more than enough, thank you, Phoebe," Jonathan said spontaneously. Then, realizing that he had called her by her first name, started to correct his gaffe by saying, "Miss McPherson," when it occurred to him she might no longer be Miss! Quickly, and as discreetly as possible, he checked her hand, now occupied with refilling his cup, and was relieved to see that her fingers were ringless.

  "Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast."

  She was about to leave when he halted her. "Will I see you later?"

  "Yes, I'm on duty here until after tea in the afternoon."

  "Perhaps then, we could . . . well, talk? I could catch you up on your former charges—the Cameron twins and even naughty Evalee Bondurant," he laughed half-apologetically, knowing full well that this was only an excuse to spend some time with her, and wondering if Phoebe guessed it, too.

  "That would be very nice," she replied almost primly before she turned and went back to the lobby and her post behind the desk.

  As Jonathan watched her walk away, he felt a happy anticipation at the thought of being with her again. Then he realized with a start of guilt that she must not know about Faith nor about Davida . . and that he was now a widower.

  Back behind the desk, Phoebe found it unusually hard to concentrate on the requests for reservations that she must reply to and have ready for the postman when he arrived with the day's mail. She felt flustered and yet excited at the unexpected encounter with Jonathan Montrose. She had certainly never expected to see him again. In fact, she had deliberately put him out of her mind after that idyllic English summer when they had met.

  She recalled, with a helpless sense of impropriety, having been drawn to him from the first, drawn by his gentleness and good manners. As she had come to know him, she had also recognized the integrity, the depth of character, and later learned that his puzzling air of sadness was in part caused by a difficult wife.

  The attraction she had felt for him, especially after the day they took the children to the village fair, was wrong, she had told herself. After all, he was a married man, and she had no business entertaining any thoughts about him at all. Phoebe had been brought up on Scripture and had learned it well. Whenever a thought of Jonathan Montrose had crept, unbidden, into her mind, she quickly whispered the admonition to herself: "Casting down imaginations, . . . and bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ."

  It had been a difficult thing to do, but she had done it, and it had been years since the thought of Jonathan Montrose had bothered her. Now here he was . . . right at her doorstep, so to speak. And alone again. Where was his wife and the children he had spoken of so lovingly and longingly that summer at Birchfields?

  "Miss McPherson" came the voice of one of the staff intruding into her reminiscence, and she immediately turned her attention to the task at hand.

  So busy was she, in fact, that she had no time to ponder the strange circumstance of Jonathan Montrose's presence in Kilgaren until he returned at four o'clock, cheeks ruddied from his walk in the crisp air. Then there was only time for a brisk nod of acknowledgment.

  Scotland had become a popular resort since Queen Victoria's vacationing here had made it fashionable. The inn was full. At half past four, a group of English ladies, here on holiday with their fisherman husbands, were scheduled for a "high tea" in the smaller dining room, so Phoebe had her hands full.

  It wasn't until she was putting on her warm cape and hat to walk the few steps to the family home where she now lived alone that Jonathan presented himself as someone to be dealt with, for he was standing at the door as she was about to leave.

  "Will I see you again?"

  "Oh, yes, I'll be on duty tomorrow. I come in after church. Sunday dinner here is a regular event for some of the townspeople, and we're generally quite busy."

  "Church?" he questioned. "Where do you attend?"

  "It's the wee gray kirk on the other side of the bridge," she replied, unconsciously lapsing into the Scottish colloquialism he found enchanting.

  "Perhaps I'll go myself," said Jonathan, realizing with some guilt how long it had been since he had attended a Sunday service anywhere.

  Phoebe's cheeks became very pink again, and she occupied herself pulling on her gloves. "You'd be welcome, I'm sure."

  Opening the door for her, Jonathan asked almost shyly, "Do you live far? I mean, may I walk you home?"

  "It's only just down the street," she said tentatively.

  "Then, if it's all right, I'll accompany you. I'm finding that a brisk walk does wonders for the constitution."

  As they walked down the cobbled street, Phoebe questioned him about the Montrose relatives she had met at Birchfields.

  "Well, the Cameron twins are all grown up, of course. Cara is married to a minister and—"

  "You don't mean it!" Phoebe gasped. "Cara, the little mischievous one . . . a parson's bride?"

  Jonathan chuckled. "Your reaction is typical. I'm afraid no one could quite believe it. But it's true."

  "And is the other twin married as well?"

  "No, and neither is Scott, their brother. He's in law school, with a legal career in mind."

  "He was always quite bright and rather serious, as I recall. And then you mentioned Evalee, the enfant terrible!" Phoebe laughed merrily.

  "Evalee has become a stunning young woman, quite the socialite. You may remember her sister, Lalage—"

  "Of course. The Jubilee bride!"

  "Yes, well, she married a member of the peerage, as you may remember, and that's just the sort of life Evalee revels in. It's known that American girls, especially American girls who are also heiresses, are an attractive commodity in certain British circles. So Evalee is in her element, much to her mother, my Cousin Dru's, dismay."

  They had almost reached the end of the street when Phoebe asked, "And your children, Mr. Montrose? I believe you have two, a boy and a girl about the twins' age, you said—"

  "Yes, Meredith and Kendall. We call him Kip—" Jonathan paused and drew a long breath. 'They, too, are in their early twenties now. My daughter is married to a fine young man, a fisherman from Cape Cod, where they are now living. And my son . . . well, Kip is going through a difficult time right now. You see, he lost his mother to whom he was very devoted . . . my wife, Davida, and Mrs. Devlin's daughter were both on the Titanic—"

  Jonathan felt Phoebe's hand touch his arm gently. "Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't know—"

  "Of course you didn't—"

  They walked on in silence, then Phoebe spoke. "Well, here we are."

  They were standing in front of a neat greystone with no unnecessary ornamentation, a solid no-nonsense kind of house, Jonathan thought.

  At the doorstep, Phoebe put out her hand. "Well, good night, and thank you, Mr. Montrose."

  "Jonathan, please. I mean, if you would—"

  She seemed to hesitate, as if giving his suggestion consideration, then she smiled. "Well, then, of course," but she did not repeat his name.

  Jonathan walked back to the inn in a strangely restless mood. Over and over he thought of the unique coincidence that had brought him to Kilgaren and Phoebe McPherson after all these years. How many? Nearly seventeen, he thought, quickly calculating th
e number. She must be thirty-five, possibly thirty-six by now. And he . . . why he was nearly fifty-five! Nearly twenty years difference in their ages. Now, what had made him think of that?

  chapter 23

  STARTING AWAKE as the first light of morning silvered the sky, Jonathan grabbed his watch from the bedside table, fearful that he might have overslept and missed the morning service.

  Leaping out of bed, he shaved and dressed, then hurried downstairs through the quiet lobby and out into the misty morning.

  The service had just begun, the first hymn being sung in thin, rather quavery voices by the sparse congregation scattered throughout the small church. But as Jonathan slipped into one of the back pews, he spotted Phoebe, recognizing the sweep of brown hair beneath the brown hat with its peacock-blue feathers.

  The minister's burr was so thick that quite frankly Jonathan missed a good deal of the sermon. But somehow he felt a strong sense of reverence and combined strength in the bond of fellowship among the few worshipers. Curiously enough, as the service drew to a close, he was aware of a gradual peace enveloping him.

  He remained where he was after the Doxology, waiting for Phoebe to pass down the aisle, hoping he might accompany her back to the inn.

  On the way out, she spoke to a few people, and then suddenly seeing him, her eyes lighted up and she seemed to draw in a hurried breath. A slight smile touched her generous mouth as she approached, and Jonathan was encouraged to speak and walk out with her.

  "Today there will be quite a bustle," she told him as they crossed the little arched bridge leading back to the inn. "As I mentioned, it's quite a popular gathering place for Sunday dinner. I'm afraid I won't have much time to visit until after tea—"

  "Then I look forward to that," Jonathan said. "And maybe this afternoon I'll take your uncle up on his offer to lend me some fishing equipment and try my luck."

  "Yes, why don't you?" She brightened. "You may find you enjoy it and become as serious a fisherman as most of our guests."

  Phoebe found the rod and reel and creel her uncle had left out for him. With her good wishes ringing in his ears, Jonathan started off with not too much expectation on his part. For an hour or two, he worked a dark, promising pool in the stream to which she had directed him, but without result.

  After a while the wind came up and Jonathan, in spite of his heavy sweater and tweed jacket, began to feel chilled. Admitting defeat, he packed up his gear and walked down to the harbor where he stood for a few minutes watching the sea gulls, who were apparently having much better success than he. Reading the names on a number of double-ended purse seiners that were moored there—Fair Jane, New Dawn, Star of Hope—he realized a stirring of hope in his own heart as he turned to walk back to the inn.

  The hotel was still quite busy and so was Phoebe, so Jonathan went upstairs to his room, feeling both physically tired yet elated. He stretched out on the bed, thinking he'd rest until after the crowd left, then go down and find Phoebe. He'd ask to walk her home, and maybe this time she'd ask him in for some tea and conversation. He wanted urgently to be with her, talk to her—

  To his chagrin, Jonathan fell asleep and, when he awakened, the room was dark. After a quick investigative trip out into the hall and a look over the banister down into the lobby, he realized that everyone was gone. Only one dim light was burning at the reception desk, where the night clerk was reading the Sunday paper.

  Wide awake now, Jonathan returned to his room. He went to the window and pushed it open, breathing deeply of the salty air, the smell of fog and the sea, and leaned out on the sill.

  One by one, thoughts of his life came to him, and he examined each with a courage and resolution he had not possessed before. He thought of Davida and their love—"that first fine careless rapture," of which the poets wrote—the gradual drifting apart, the sadness he had felt at the loss of that intimacy. Then, just as they seemed about to recapture what they had both thought lost, the tragedy had occurred,

  It all came back, but by some mercy of Providence, this time without pain. For the first time since the horrible shock, Jonathan could think about Davida without the agony of regret, self-recrimination, guilt.

  He felt warmth, a release as he remembered the sweetness they had once known together and, little by little, he let the dark years go. It was as if at long last, he was being healed, the keen edge of sorrow was mercifully softened, the suffering put aside. Perhaps, he thought, when a sorrow is healed, the bitterness is gone, too, and only the best memories remain.

  Slowly, as all this came together for Jonathan, he realized that something else was happening. That numbness of emotions was disappearing, and he felt the tears come. But these were not tears of reproach but tears that somehow cleared his eyes so he could see the possibility of joy beckoning him, a hope that something wonderful lay ahead, and he was at last free to welcome it into his life.

  Phoebe was not at the desk the next morning when Jonathan came downstairs. Instead, he found Gordon, ruddier and heartier than ever, ready to regale any audience he could find with stories of his wildly successful fishing weekend.

  Jonathan was reluctant to ask about Phoebe, so, after a breakfast that introduced him to "bannocks," griddle-baked oat cakes served hot with "crowdie," a thick cream-cheese and marmalade, he went for a walk, hoping to encounter her somewhere in the village. He was, however, disappointed. There was not a sign of Phoebe anywhere in all Kilgaren. Although he strolled by her house several times, she was not in evidence there either, and Jonathan did not have the courage to go and ring her doorbell.

  He had not planned to say in Kilgaren this long, but somehow he could not convince himself to leave. Aunt Garnet was not expecting him back until the following week. Even though he had not yet seen the famous castle or cathedral in Edinburgh, he knew that he could not go until he had spent more time with Phoebe, until . . . well, until he could explore what, if anything, might develop between them.

  The weather turned cold and cloudy. The day seemed long to him after he had casually asked when Miss McPherson would be on duty and heard she was not expected until evening. He flipped mindlessly through all the magazines and periodicals available in the lounge, most of which were either on fishing or fashion, the latter for the patient wives who accompanied their husbands to this remote "paradise." At length, Jonathan grew bored and decided to walk down to the harbor again. No boats had risked setting out in the stormy weather, and only the sea gulls, screeching and soaring, gave him company. Impatient to see Phoebe, he returned to the inn.

  On the way, an image of her rose in his mind—not the picture of the youthful Phoebe who had come and gone whenever he'd thought of that summer at Birchfields but the woman she had become. She still had the same clear-eyed serenity, but there was something wistful in their depths now, some shadow. Her girlish features had a new maturity, a new beauty. How was it she had never married? With such warmth, such wit and intelligence, he was surprised that she had not found love long ago.

  That evening Jonathan was in plenty of time for dinner and sat in the lounge in front of the stone fireplace, waiting for the gong to signal the first seating.

  Waiting for Phoebe, Jonathan fell into conversation with one of the other guests and learned, to his dismay, that on Monday nights a musicale was presented by local musicians in one of the inn's larger gathering rooms. Any idea he had entertained of having Phoebe to himself was banished.

  Finally he saw her hurrying in the front door out of the wind, her face aglow, her eyes sparkling as she began to unfasten the braided clasp of her tartan cape. Wisps of brown hair had escaped from the tarn she was wearing and blew in fetching curls over her forehead and around her ears.

  At her entrance, Jonathan rose. She saw him and waved. Her smile of greeting was warm, sympadietic, understanding, and he felt something lift inside him, the feeling of possible happiness renewed, hope rekindled.

  Although Gordon McPherson was back, Phoebe assumed the role of hostess not only to the hote
l guests but also to townspeople who gathered for this weekly entertainment.

  When he got her alone for a moment, she explained. "In the olden days, long before it was ever written down, the Highland Gaels made music with spoken words. They were great storytellers and even the lilt and cadence of their tales had a stirring effect on the listeners. Thankfully," she went on, "our old ways and old language are coming alive again." And before she glided off again to welcome some arriving guests, Phoebe whispered, "Save me a seat, and I'll join you for the concert."

  Because he did not have a finely tuned musical ear, Jonathan had not anticipated enjoying the evening as much as he did. All the songs—"Annie Laurie," "Loch Lomond," "Flow Gently, Sweet Afton"—were familiar melodies, but it was as if he were hearing them for the first time. It did not occur to Jonathan that his appreciation of the music might be due to the awareness of Phoebe's nearness or the sweet scent she wore that reminded him of newly clovered meadows.

  Afterward, she told him she would be going home in the company of friends. His disappointment was somewhat assuaged by the plans for the next day.

  "If the weather's fair, I'll pack a picnic, if you like," she promised as he helped her on with her cape and went with her to the door.

  "Oh, I would like that very much," he assured her and, after saying good night, Jonathan went whistling up to his room.

  When he awoke the next morning, he lay on his bed for a few minutes, trying to recall something . . . a dream? Something hovered on the periphery of his mind . . . and then it came to him . . . a fragment of Scripture: "Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before—"

  He lay there a minute longer, savoring the significance of those words, then bounded out of bed. There was something he must do without delay.

  At the little post office that also served as the local telegraph office, Jonathan quickly wrote out a message to send to his Aunt Garnet. In it, he told her he would be staying in Scotland another week. He felt a little conscience-stricken that it would cut short his time with her at Birchfields. But he couldn't leave . . . not yet—