by Jane Peart
She did not know how long she stood in a trance-like state in front of the painting. It pulled her into the time and place that Jeff had created through his skill—a time of romance, mystery, mysticism.
Ob, Jeff, you are an artist. It has all happened for you just as you dreamed.
On the way home, Faith stared unseeing at the landscape past which the train rattled and rocked. The image of the painting was imprinted on her mind's eye. Today she had found out what she needed to know—first, that Jeff's dreams had come true and, second, that he loved Lenora.
On Friday afternoon Lenora walked alone in the garden. Her mood was both sad and hopeful. Sad, because the weekly letter she had looked for in this morning's mail had not come. She had written to Victor, telling him of the Bondurants' plans to do some sightseeing in London, where they would be staying at the Claridge Hotel until Lalage and Neil returned from their honeymoon. Lenora suggested that Victor call on her there.
With her time in England growing short, Lenora feared that he might not act on this information. For some reason she could not fathom, Victor seemed to feel that his love for her was hopeless. He had hinted of some secret obstacle that would keep them forever apart. What had he meant? Didn't he know how much she loved him? She must convince him before it was too late.
Lenora turned out of the boxwood maze and took the path down to the lake. Beautifully peaceful, it had become one of her favorite places to stroll. She loved to sit on the mossy bank and watch the graceful swans glide over the surface. Here she would take out the latest of Victor's love notes and re-read it, each one more precious than the one before.
She had almost reached the place where the broken branch of a willow tree provided her a seat when she heard footsteps on the gravel path behind her and turned her head to look over her shoulder.
"Victor!" she gasped. "What on earth are you doing here?"
He came toward her, both hands extended, looking at her with such tenderness and love that Lenora's heart melted.
"I know this may come as a shock, but I've been invited for the weekend," he told her, smiling.
"But I never thought—Uncle Jeremy didn't tell me—"
"I know?
"What do you mean? How could you know?"
"Please, my darling Lenora, listen to me before you say another word."
Lenora looked at him through her haze. "Uncle Jeremy only said he was expecting a—a guest for the weekend—"
"It must come as a surprise—"
"I only knew Uncle Jeremy had invited a prospective author, and I - I guess I thought she would be the only one."
"Listen to me, darling. Hear me out," Victor pleaded. "Why do you think Jeremy Devlin—your uncle—invited me down here this weekend?"
Puzzled by his question, Lenora asked some of her own. "Because he knew we had all become friends on board ship? Or has he known you from before? I do recall seeing the two of you talking together the day he met us at the ship—"
Victor shook his head vigorously.
"No, no! English gentlemen—or even transplanted Americans—quickly learn that a man's home is his castle. He doesn't invite just anyone—a casual acquaintance—into it—especially not to a place like Birchfields and especially not this particular summer, when it was the scene of a family reunion." Victor spoke decisively. "Now, I will tell you the real reason I'm here.
"Jeremy Devlin hopes his firm can acquire me as one of their authors. I am a writer—oh, don't look impressed—I'm no literary giant. I am what is called a 'popular writer' or perhaps even, in some inner circles of the literati, a 'hack.' You see, Lenora, I write under a pseudonym. If you were a reader of the London tabloid journals, you would recognize the name immediately."
He reached for Lenora's hands, brought them both to his lips, kissed them, then clasped them tightly as he looked deep into her eyes.
"Remember, on board ship, that last night when I told you I had a secret, something I wasn't sure you'd understand? Well, the fact is, my darling, I am "Grace Comfort'"
He waited for some kind of reaction, but none came, so he continued his explanation.
"Years ago, when I first became a reporter for the newspaper, Grace Comfort's column was written by an elderly lady in the country, who sent in her weekly 'Moments of Inspiration' from her Cotswold cottage. Unfortunately, when the old lady passed away, the column stopped, much to the dismay or, I should say, the outrage of her readers. Well, my managing editor got the idea that someone else should pick up the column and continue writing it, so I, as an eager young reporter, volunteered. I studied some of the past columns she had written, copied the style, and started writing, thinking it merely a stepping stone to my goal of becoming a real journalist. Well, as it turned out, I eventually became Grace Comfort permanently.
"These papers are read mainly by housemaids and chars—the common people of England, looked down upon by the upper classes. It may even dignify what I do to call it 'inspirational poetry.' Sometimes it isn't even poetry—just a kind of hodge-podge of thoughts gleaned from other sources and put into some rather simple, sentimental verse." He paused to study her reaction before he continued.
"Yes, my darling, I am Grace Comfort." Victor smiled. "And 'Grace' is quite successful. She receives tons of fan mail, with requests for reprints of her little biweekly column. I turn them out rather easily now after all these years and . . . to be vulgar about it . . . I have made a great deal of money."
Still Lenora made no comment.
"Jeremy Devlin wants to collect my best columns and put them in book form—you know, the sort of gift book people buy for their grandmothers and maiden aunts—Words of Inspiration by Grace Comfort. The publishers know that a book like that will sell a million copies!"
When he seemed to have run out of words at last, Lenora broke her long silence.
"But, Victor, you must do an enormous amount of good with your verses. If people love them so much—they must love you, too! I don't care what you say or who you say you are—I think I know you well, and I know you must write things that help people, give them hope and strength—"
"And 'comfort'?" Victor gave a self-deprecating little laugh "The more I write this sort of thing, Lenora, the more uncomfortable I am with the whole thing. I borrow from the great writers of all time, then capsulize and sugarcoat their words for the masses—"
"Don't put yourself down," she scolded. "When it comes right down to it, how many people do you know who read Socrates and Plato or, for that matter, Baudelaire or Thomas Carlyle? You are probably inspiring and helping more people in a week than any of those so-called 'great' writers have done in a lifetime."
"You are very dear—" began Victor doubtfully. "What concerns me is that when your parents find out who I am, they may not consider me worthy to ask for their daughter's hand in marriage—"
Lenora drew in her breath, her eyes glistening with sudden happy tears.
"Oh, Victor, you honor me by asking, but I don't think we need fear what my parents will say." She paused, then said shyly, "I am of age. I'm twenty-two, so I don't need their permission, but I know I'll have their approval and blessing. The important thing is that we love each other."
"Oh, my dear Lenora—"
She took his hand. "Let's not tell anyone until after your meeting with Uncle Jeremy. In the meantime, I'll have a chance to talk to Drucie, my stepmother. Then we'll go together to see my father."
When he still looked doubtful, Lenora spoke up. "Oh, Victor, I'm sure everything is going to work out!" She laughed lightheartedly. "Isn't that what Grace Comfort would say?"
A mischievous smile lightened Victor's serious expression and his eyes filled with merriment as he lapsed into a cockney accent. "If thet h'aint the truf—and wot's more, there's no use borrowin' trouble as me dear auld mum wuz fond to sigh! Not to crost thet bridge 'til we comes to it. We'll jest 'ope fer the best!"
Part V
The End and the Beginning
Home to America
&
nbsp; September 1897
More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
—Alfred Lord Tennyson
chapter
24
BIRCHFIELDS was strangely quiet. The guests had dispersed in all directions—the Camerons, to Ireland; the Bondurants, on their way home to America; Faith's parents, to Scotland. Faith herself had been included in the invitation to the Etheridges' hunting lodge but had declined, resisting all her mother's repeated urgings to accompany them.
"I'm not good company just now," Faith had told her, and with this, Garnet had to reluctantly agree.
"But I don't like the idea of your staying here alone," her mother fretted.
"I won't be alone. Annie will be here, and so will the rest of the staff," Faith reminded her. "And I'll have Bounty to ride. I'll be perfectly fine, really. Besides, after all the company we've had all summer, a little aloneness suits me perfectly."
Taking Faith at her word, the Devlins had gone off to the Highlands with two trunks, Garnet's assorted luggage, and Jeremy's elaborate fishing gear.
For the first few days, Faith relished the solitude. It was a relief not to have to pretend constantly, avoiding her mother's worried looks, her anxious questions, spoken or unspoken. But by the end of the week, Faith's naturally outgoing personality found the silence and the solitary meals beginning to pall.
Sensing a subtle change in the weather—the early-morning chill, a scattering of golden leaves—Faith felt a keen restlessness one morning as she walked in the garden. The aromatic odor of bonfires filled the air with a pungent scent and added to an indefinable aura of melancholy. PI She was reminded of a painting she had once viewed with Jeff, "Autumn Leaves" by Millais. The painter had depicted four sorrowful-eyed young girls, their expressions sad, as if mourning the lost summer. Where had the summer gone? Could it be September already?
Feeling lonely, she decided that the best remedy might be to take a long walk into the village and do a few errands.
The autumn sun drowsed over the village, strangely quiet at midday, with all the children at school, the men at work in field or factory, the women about their housewifely chores after the morning's shopping. Faith finished her few errands and started back for Birchfields, disappointed that her outing had not lifted her spirits much.
In London, Jonathan took affectionate leave of the Bondurants in the lobby of the Claridge Hotel. His earlier parting with his young half-brother, Jeff, had been particularly poignant. Jonathan regretted the fact that the young artist's preoccupation with his painting had made it impossible for the two of them to become better acquainted, as had been his hope in coming to England.
Consequently, he had not learned anything more about the unresolved constraint between Jeff and his mother, Blythe, over the Montclair heritage. Perhaps in time it could all be settled, Jonathan thought as he boarded the hansom cab the hotel doorman had secured to drive him to the dock. Maybe it would have been better if Dru had deeded Montclair to Jeff instead of to him anyway. At least, Davida would have been happier.
Having traveled more lightly than most gentlemen, Jonathan's baggage was soon under the supervision of a porter, who was wheeling the cart toward the steamship to be loaded. Jonathan checked his ticket and passport, then looked up and about him at the busy ship's terminal. It was then that he saw something that startled him.
Could it be? he asked himself.
Not ten feet away stood a young woman dressed in a simple but stylish blue traveling ensemble and wearing a smart hat on which a small feathered bird perched in a nest of velvet ribbons. He recognized her immediately. Impulsively, he moved forward to greet her.
"Miss McPherson!"
She turned and, for an instant, registered a look that Jonathan could not analyze. Shock? Pleasure? Or had her clear eyes really widened in—fear?
"Why, Mr. Montrose," she returned in a husky voice. Almost as tall as he, her gaze was level with his, and Jonathan saw her for the first time apart from her role as the children's nanny at Birchfields. Her face—the high cheekbones, a sprinkle of golden freckles across the bridge of her small straight nose, those clear gray eyes now showing unguarded emotion—suddenly seemed, if not beautiful, at least intensely interesting and attractive.
"Whatever are you doing here?" he asked.
"I'm on my way to America," she replied, gesturing toward the three girls standing nearby. "I'm traveling companion to the Ellender children—Margaret, Edith, and Louisa. They're going to live with their grandmother in Westbridge, Massachusetts."
"Then we'll be fellow passengers." Jonathan beamed his pleasure at the prospect. "I'm sailing on the Medea, too."
Her expression underwent a subtle change.
"Well, perhaps not, Mr. Montrose. We are booked second class, and so I doubt very much if our paths will cross often, if at all."
Suddenly Jonathan experienced a coolness in her tone that implied her reluctance to continue their acquaintance. Was it her Scottish reserve that seemed to cancel the friendly rapport they had enjoyed this summer at Birchfields, or was it something more subtle he detected in her attitude?
"And, of course, I shall be quite busy with my charges," she added, placing one hand on the shoulder of the smallest child, who moved closer at her touch.
Jonathan took his cue. "Yes, of course." Then, as an afterthought, his curiosity got the better of his judgment, and he asked, "Do you plan to stay long in the States, or will you be returning to England after you deliver your charges?"
A slow flush suffused Phoebe's face. "I'm not quite sure. I was given my return ticket. However, as long as I'm there, I thought I might investigate employment opportunities."
Jonathan nodded and tipped his hat. "Well, it was a pleasure to see you again, Miss McPherson. I wish you the best."
As he turned away, Jonathan had a moment of regret. He would have enjoyed the delightful Miss McPherson's company on the ten-day ocean voyage. Too much? came some inner cautionary query. Perhaps. Straightening his shoulders and resisting an impulse to turn back and lift his hand in a farewell salute, he mounted the gangplank and was directed to his quarters in the first class section.
If he had looked back, he might have seen the pensiveness in the clear gray eyes taking note of his departure.
chapter 25
The Claridge Hotel
London, England
WHY in the world should I feel so nervous? Blythe asked herself, noticing her hands were shaking as she fastened on the pearl choker Rod had given her for their first anniversary. She knew the answer, of course. She always felt tense before an encounter between her husband and her son.
But things should be very different now, she argued with herself. The animosity, the angry scenes, and yes, she had to admit it, the jealousy between them should be a thing of the past. In spite of Rod's opposition, Jeff had pursued his dream and—best of all—had succeeded in fulfilling it. Couldn't Rod accept that, accept Jeff as an individual with his own life plan?
Blythe's heart swelled with pride at the thought of her son's sudden fame, the recognition of his peers and critics alike. For a moment she closed her eyes, feeling the sting of happy tears.
In her memory she could see Jeff as a small boy, the lamplight on the library table at Avalon shining on his curly dark head, his hand clutching a pencil, busy on the paper before him. She saw herself sitting in a chair nearby, reading or embroidering, assuming in her complacency that Jeff was doing his homework. Blythe smiled in retrospect, remembering how often she would find that he had been drawing instead of doing his sums.
His pictures, crude as they were, showed a tremendous imagination even then—knights in full armor; horses, if indeed out of proportion, with necks too thick and legs too long, were at least recognizable. She remembered also coming across pages of heraldic shields copied painstakingly from books Jeff had inherited from Corin Prescott, their neighbor in Kentburne, England, where she and Jeff had lived for the first ten years of his life. Interest
ed in the ancient families of Britain and the feudal system, Corin had introduced Jeff to them.
Blythe had simply accepted Jeff's early scribblings as a childish pastime and had never taken it seriously, or at least had never imagined he would choose it for a career.
Blythe would never forget receiving Jeff's letter telling them that instead of using the passage money they had sent him to come to Virginia for the summer, he was using it for a vagabond odyssey to France, Spain, and Italy. There he would visit the great museums and study the old masters because—and this was the greatest shock of all—he planned to study painting!
Remembering how angry Rod had been that day, Blythe shuddered. In fact, she had never seen him so angry before or since.
Taking a last appraising look in her mirror, Blythe decided she would go down to the lobby to wait for Jeff. Perhaps they would have a chance to talk before Rod and the children joined them. After a summer of freedom to roam the vast estate at Birchfields, the children had felt confined in their hotel room and had grown restless, and Rod had taken them to the park.
This would give her some time alone with Jeff. Yes, that would be a good idea, Blythe thought, picking up her gloves and satin handbag and preparing to leave the suite. She would tactfully suggest that Jeff refrain from any kind of debate with Rod in this brief time they would all be together.
Upon entering the spacious lobby of the Claridge, Jeff saw his mother before she saw him and paused for a minute to admire her. She is really quite beautiful, he thought, seeing her objectively and with an artistic eye.
She was wearing purple and wearing it with flair, something few auburn-haired women could do. But her complexion and dark eyes, inherited from her Spanish mother, complemented her rich-hued hair. In fact, Jeff thought, she bore a striking resemblance to the the wife of Edward, the Prince of Wales—lovely Princess Alexandra, whose beauty and style were so often praised in the British press.
At the same moment he was admiring his mother, she turned suddenly and spotted him, and with a graceful wave of one gloved hand, started toward him.