by Jane Peart
ZONDERVAN
Yankee Bride/Rebel Bride: Montclair Divided
Copyright © 1990, 1985 by Jane Peart
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ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 0-310-66991-X
Zondervan Books is an imprint of
The Zondervan Publishing House
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Grand Rapids, Michigan 49506
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Peart, Jane.
Yankee bride/Rebel bride / Jane Peart.
p. cm.—(Brides of Montclair series : bk. 5)
ISBN 0-310-66991-X
I. Title. II. Series: Peart, Jane. Brides of Montclair series : bk. 5.
PS3566.E238Y36 1990
813'.54-dc20
90-12688
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
91 92 93 94 95 / AK / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Part II
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Part III
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part IV
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Part V
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part VI
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part VII
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About the Author
About the Publisher
Share Your Thoughts
Part I
Yankee Bride
Milford, Massachusetts
Spring 1857
chapter
1
"No, ROSE, you can't!" The urgency in Kendall Carpenter's voice gave it a harsh edge. "You can't mean you intend to marry Malcolm Montrose!"
"But I do and I am!" retorted the girl facing him, her dark eyes flashing with indignation.
Framed by the trellised arch in her father's New England garden, Rose Meredith had never seemed more beautiful to the distraught young man—the rosy coloring in her rounded oval face heightened by emotion; the sweetly curved mouth; the rich brown hair falling from a center part and tumbling in ringlets about her shoulders rising from the ruffled bodice of the wide-hooped muslin dress. Perhaps the fact that he knew now he had lost her, made him more keenly aware of her beauty today.
As soon as Kendall heard the news of her engagement from his classmate, her brother John, he had rushed over to Milford from Harvard only to hear the truth from her own lips. His hopes of winning Rose himself lent desperation to his argument.
Her initial indignation softened as Rose saw the genuine distress in Kendall's expression, the hurt in his eyes. She put out one delicate hand and touched his arm. "Please, Kendall, try to understand."
"Understand? It's you who doesn't understand, Rose."
Rose sighed. She knew Kendall would use all the skills at his command as a law student to dissuade her. She had tried arguing with him before to no avail. She would just have to hear him out.
"Has your father given his approval?" he demanded.
Rose smiled slightly. "Why, Kendall, that you should ask such a question!" Her tone implied a gentle reproof. "After all, this is 1857. Even my father thinks a woman has a right to make her own decisions."
Undaunted, Kendall continued. "But you can't, Rose. You don't realize what you're getting into. The South has a different culture, a different outlook on life. For someone like you, Rose, that kind of life would be slow death."
"What are you talking about, Kendall?"
"Their attitude toward women, for example, is almost medieval. Women are merely pampered little girls who never grow up because the men they marry won't let them. They are desired for decorative purposes and, well, for other reasons, of course. But Southern men certainly don't consider women their equals, any more than they do blacks. And that's another point—"
"Kendall," she interrupted, "I won't hear any more. I love Malcolm Montrose and he loves me. It's disloyal for me even to listen to what you're saying. Malcolm isn't like the men you're describing. I know him and—"
"I know him, too, Rose! I sat around debating with him often about the very things we're discussing now. Southerners are not like us. It's a different country down there."
"You're talking pure nonsense. A different country, indeed! Aren't we all one United States? Didn't our grandfathers all fight for the same freedom less than one hundred years ago?"
"No, Rose, you're wrong." Kendall shook his head. "Even then we were fighting for different reasons. Remember, I've been down South visiting just recently, and I know what I'm talking about. It is a different country with different ideas, accepted rules, traditions," he continued. "You'll find—if you're headstrong enough to go through with this ridiculous notion—that it will be like living in a place where no one speaks your language. Mark my words, Rose, it's not just that I don't want to lose you. I don't want to see you lose yourself. If you marry Malcolm Montrose—you'll live to regret it!"
Rose was startled by Kendall's vehemence. John had warned her that it might be difficult to explain her decision to the enamored young man, but Rose had confidently replied, "Oh, Kendall will understand." Still, Kendall obviously did not understand. For the first time Rose became aware that what she had considered only a pleasant friendship had meant more, gone much deeper with him. She had liked Kendall more than any of John's Harvard friends. That is, until the weekend her brother brought Malcolm Montrose home for a visit.
Almost from the beginning Rose had felt a strong attraction for the tall, soft-spoken Virginian. It was mutual, and had moved quickly from interest to affection to love, the kind of love Rose had often dreamed of but had never dared to believe would be hers.
They had learned almost at once that they shared many interests in common—a love of nature, philosophy, and literature. They had taken long walks together, held lengthy discussions on every subject, watched sunsets, and strolled through the quiet, winding country lanes around Milford—more and more absorbed in each other's company, lost in each other's words, eventually completely in love.
Malcolm was quite the
handsomest man Rose had ever known, but it was his gracious manners, gentle humor, and more than that, his poet's soul that endeared him most to Rose.
For his part, Rose knew that Malcolm not only considered her beautiful, but also often commented that her keen mind, her vivid imagination, and unconscious charm both awed and delighted him. That she could articulately discourse on the subjects that intrigued him was a cause for endless pleasure. Indeed, they often explored the new philosophies together—transcendentalism, pantheism, the essays of Emerson and other noted preachers of the day.
Rose had been well educated in a private academy that offered a curriculum for young women comparable to Malcolm's at Harvard. She had, therefore, studied French, Latin, history, botany, and even geometry and astronomy.
Theirs was, Rose was positive, a match made in heaven. She and Malcolm, in spite of misgivings others might have, were absolutely sure they were destined for each other, and nothing this passionate young legal student could say could convince her otherwise.
"Rose, I beg you to reconsider," Kendall pleaded.
"There is nothing to reconsider," she said gently. "I love Malcolm. None of your arguments can change my mind on that."
"Then, nothing matters," he said dejectedly. "There is nothing left for me."
"Oh, Kendall—my dear, dear friend—at least wish me happiness." Kendall shook his head, the firm lips compressed. "I can't! I won't!" He struggled before he burst out impulsively. "I can't because... I love you! I want you for myself!"
With that, Kendall stepped forward. Taking Rose's face between his hands, he kissed her on the mouth—at first gently, almost sorrowfully, then with a firmer pressure, and finally with a fierce intensity.
Rose pushed her small hands against his chest, forcing him to release her. Breathless and shaken by this unexpected display of emotion, she gazed at him, speechless.
Kendall dropped his head, saying brokenly, "Forgive me, Rose. I shouldn't have done that." Then he turned and walked hurriedly down the path, letting the garden gate slam behind him.
It took Rose several minutes to regain her composure. She had never dreamed Kendall felt so deeply about her. But with just a few weeks remaining until her marriage to Malcolm, nothing could mar Rose's happiness for long.
She spun around, gathering up her skirts, and ran lightly up the steps into the house. Inside she paused for a moment, listening, but the household was still. Her Aunt Vanessa must be napping. From her father's study came the low murmur of voices. He must still be visiting with some of his friends.
Rose tiptoed up the broad front stairway to the second floor. Moving down the hall, she came to the spare bedroom. Opening the door carefully, she stepped inside. In the dim light she searched out the dress form on which her wedding gown hung, awaiting only the final fitting before Aunt Van, an accomplished seamstress, would pronounce it perfection.
The gown was of ivory watered silk; the bodice, with its tiny tucks, tapered into a V and was edged with Brussels lace taken from Rose's mother's wedding gown. That dress had been too small in every way for her tall, willowy daughter. Rose's eyes misted as she touched the beautiful lace. How sad it was that Ellen Meredith had not lived to see her daughter a bride.
Rose's gaze fell on the wispy froth of veil secured to a circlet of tiny silk roses and spread out on the quilted coverlet of the four-poster. Beside it were the white silk stockings and satin slippers she would wear.
Excitement tremored through her as she lifted the wreath and tentatively tried it on. Rose smiled at her image, noticing the dimples that hovered at the corners of her mouth. Malcolm had teased her about her dimples and often kissed them when he told her how pretty she was.
"What a vain creature you are, Rose Meredith soon-to-be Montrose!" Rose scolded herself with a mock severity, taking off the veil and placing it carefully beside the slippers.
"Beauty, after all, is in the eye of the beholder. If Malcolm thinks so, that's all that matters," she told herself. Aunt Vanessa would have likely added, "Beauty is as beauty does," and directed Rose to look up the scriptural description of a virtuous woman whose price was above rubies.
With a final, satisfied look at her wedding finery, Rose left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, and tiptoed down the hall to her own bedroom.
She had always loved this room with its slanted ceiling, its windows that looked out on the lovely orchard where she and Malcolm had often walked and where he had proposed. This room had always been her place of refuge from childhood hurts and schoolgirl sorrows. Here she kept her favorite books, her old dolls; here, at her little maple desk, she had written poetry. She looked around now with a certain poignancy, knowing that within a few weeks she would be leaving it forever.
Of course, she wanted to go, to become Malcolm's bride. Still, there was a nostalgic clinging to all that would be left behind.
Everything had changed for Rose since Malcolm had come into her life. Even the things Kendall had spoken of ceased to make a difference. She loved her home, the town where she had grown up, but she loved Malcolm more. It was all well and good to point out the importance of a husband and wife having the same roots, the same background, but that did not allow for the unexpectedness of love.
Sometimes, Rose had discovered, love enters unawares, kindling a spark one did not even know existed until it is set aflame. One does not question it when it happens. As with her and Malcolm, love held all the exciting possibilities, the lovely surprises, the mystery one dreams about and hopes to find.
For all Kendall's arguments, even her father's suggestion that perhaps she and Malcolm should put off their marriage for another year to test their feelings for each other, Rose knew she did not want to wait a moment longer than necessary.
She held out her left hand and gazed at the third finger. The engagement ring Malcolm had placed there a few weeks ago glistened in the late afternoon sunlight.
The ring had been especially designed for her. It was crafted of mellow gold with a sculptured rose and cradled in its center like a dewdrop, one perfect diamond. Rose twisted the lovely jewel to allow the facets to glitter in the ray of sun streaming through the window.
Malcolm was a superior man, sensitive and romantic. How blessed she was to be loved by such a man. His thoughtfulness never failed to astonish her.
She picked up a blue leather book from her desk, its soft cover emblazoned with a tooled rose, delicately detailed even to tiny thorns on its graceful stem. She opened the volume and its empty pages fluttered. It was a journal, Malcolm had explained, for her to begin keeping when their new life together began. It would be a record of their lives, beginning with the European honeymoon they would take following their wedding. On the first page, in his handsome script, Malcolm had written: "To my darling Rose," then the quotation after:
Rose, thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower;
Rose, thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.
—Thomas Moore
She lifted her eyes from the writing on the page to the small, framed daguerreotype of Malcolm on her desk. She felt her heart contract with unconscious joy and wonder that this noble-looking young man was soon to be her husband. The high-cheekboned face with the large, serious eyes, the dark, wavy hair falling upon the broad forehead and curling around his ears, the winged collar and wide cravat, his chin resting on his hand gave him a scholarly appearance, yet the mouth, so sensitive and gentle, held just a hint of a smile that bespoke the subtle sense of humor that so delighted Rose.
She picked up the picture, kissed it, and held it for a long moment against her heart.
Almost at the same time she felt an odd chill, and she shuddered slightly as Kendall's words lingered like a troublesome specter clouding her happiness:
"If you marry Malcolm Montrose, you'll live to regret it!"
chapter
2
GARNET CAMERON, cantering happily home
on an April afternoon, had no idea that within the hour her safe world would be shattered, her life unalterably changed. She was aware only of the soft wind in her face, the warm Virginia sun on her back, the exhilaration of riding her favorite horse through the shadowy woods bordering Cameron Hall, the family plantation.
Jumping the fence at the edge of the pasture, she galloped under the leafy arch of elms lining the road that led to the stately white-columned mansion. The clatter of hooves on the brick drive startled three peacocks strutting on the lawn and sent them scattering, as a golden flash of flying mane streaked by them.
In front of the portico Garnet slid from her sidesaddle and tossed the reins to the stableboy who ran out from the shade of the giant lilac bushes where he had been waiting for her return. Giving the chestnut mare an affectionate pat on her arched neck, Garnet swept her long skirt over one arm, ran up the steps and into the house.
Just inside the cool vaulted hall Garnet paused, hearing the sound of voices coming from the parlor. Guiltily she recalled that her mother was having guests for dinner and had asked her to be home early to help receive them. If the guests had already arrived, she was certain to be in for a scolding.
Tiptoeing over to the gold-framed mirror, she made a quick appraisal of her appearance should she be caught before she could slip unseen upstairs to her room. The sun slanting in from the fanlight above the front door shone on her gold-bronze hair, sending shimmering lights through the cascade of curls that had escaped their confining snood. She tucked them back under, then tilted the jaunty brim of her brown velvet riding hat with its long, red-tipped feather.
She took a minute more to straighten the jacket of her biscuit-colored riding habit, smoothed its cinnamon velvet collar and cuffs and adjusted the creamy silk stock at her throat. Turning sideways, she admired her pleasing image.
At eighteen Garnet could not be considered beautiful. Her features were pert rather than classical, but her coloring was vivid and her enormous eyes, fringed with thick dark lashes, were unusual—like clear topaz. She was taller than average with a slim, rounded figure. If not the prettiest, Garnet was one of the most popular belles in Mayfield County, envied by other girls who gossiped that she was vain and an incorrigible flirt, none of which concerned her in the least.