by Jane Peart
“No, I’m really interested. It’s a part of my heritage, too, you know. A part that I haven’t really wanted to know about, but now I do.”
The early morning sunshine was fading when they reached Montclair, and accumulated clouds again threatened rain. They unloaded their things and unlocked the front door.
It creaked a little on its hinges as they walked into the wide center hall. Both stood still for a minute as if listening for something. The house had a waiting feel but not an unwelcome one.
They dumped their belongings on the floor and looked around in awe.
“Where do we begin?” Gayle asked.
“Why don’t we start by using the floor plan as a guide? Later we can decide where we’ll sleep.”
They took the groceries out to the kitchen, which they discovered had been added onto the house in the early 1880s, together with the pantry. Consulting the plan, they discovered that originally the kitchen and bakehouse had been in separate buildings and adjoined the house with a covered breezeway.
From there they went back through a huge dining room, pausing to look through French doors leading out onto the veranda which encircled the house. Sliding doors on either side of the entrance hall led to what were identified as twin parlors. There were only a few pieces of furniture, draped in dust cloths, but there were magnificent fireplaces with marble mantels, and over the fireplace in one of the parlors hung a huge, ornately framed mirror. The glass was discolored and showed a crack in the lower part. How many gala parties, wedding receptions, lavish soirees of all kinds had it once reflected, as the high ceilings and polished floors echoed with music and dancing? What other scenes had it imaged? Scenes of conflict, drama, sorrow, happiness—of life that had been lived by real people generation after generation.
“I know it’s a cliché, but just imagine if these walls could talk,” Gayle said in a voice close to a whisper.
There were two other rooms, mostly empty, which the floor plan indicated were the library and music room. Down the hallway was a room that was designated as the master bedroom. Its windows were shuttered, and when Joy opened one, she saw it looked out on the side lawn and the curve of the driveway. The only furniture was a large poster bed with pineapple finials. An open door near the bed revealed a narrow, winding staircase.
“I wonder where this leads?”
Gayle consulted the floor plan. “It says, ‘To Nursery.’ I believe in the olden days this stairway was provided so that the nurse could bring the baby down to the mother without going through the main part of the house.”
“Shall we go up?”
“Let’s use the big staircase. We can probably come back down this one.”
Upstairs the second floor was laid out much like the first floor. There was a long center hall with eight bedrooms, four on either side, with smaller rooms—probably dressing rooms or sitting rooms—adjoining each.
“I wonder where the nursery is,” Joy said.
“It should be at the end, I think, right over the master bedroom.”
Again it was like entering the past when they found the nursery and tiptoed in. For a room which once must have been filled with light and the sound of lullabies and children’s laughter, it seemed somehow gloomy. Generations of Joy’s ancestors had played in this room, been rocked to sleep here. So why this feeling of melancholy? Joy wondered. For someone who had never known roots or family connections, it should have made her feel warm and happy.
Then Gayle said softly, “There was a high mortality rate for babies in the old days. There were no vaccines or much preventive care.”
Joy knew it was the modern doctor in Gayle making the observation. Maybe Gayle might have somehow sensed the tears that might have been shed in this room over a hopelessly sick baby.
“Let’s go,” Joy said, moving to the door.
Gayle’s voice halted her. “You know, Joy, there is supposed to be a secret room in this house. It’s not in this”—she tapped the sheets of the floor plan she held—“but I once heard my grandmother telling my mother about it. I don’t know why, but I never paid too much attention to her stories about the old days. I was always somewhat impatient when hearing about the Montrose family. That connection was a symbol of all we’d come so far away from. I didn’t want to feel any identity, any nostalgia, about slavery. Of course, my Great-Great-Grandmother Tilda had different ties with the Montroses, and even affection for them. Especially, of course, for Miss Rose.”
“A secret room?”
“Yes, and I’m trying to remember where it was. If I’m not mistaken, it was off the nursery.”
“That’s exciting. Let’s try to find it,” Joy suggested.
The walls were half paneled, with wainscoting about four feet high, and the rest wallpapered. Even though the pattern was badly faded, Joy could still discern images of toys—jack-in-the-boxes, dolls, pyramids of blocks. She and Gayle began slowly circling the room, running their hands across and down where there seemed to be ridges.
Suddenly Gayle exclaimed, “Here, Joy—I think it’s here!” She moved both hands down and along the ridge of the paneling. With a creaking sound, the door slid back and opened.
“Ohmigosh, we’ve found it!” Joy breathed.
The smell of dampness, mold, old dirt prickled their nostrils, and both leaned into the dark space.
“Did you bring the flashlight?” Gayle asked in a hushed voice.
“I’ll go get it,” Joy answered and ran back downstairs to the front hall, where they had dumped their belongings. She was back in two minutes, bringing both flashlights. She handed one to Gayle and flicked on hers. The circle of light beamed into the dark room, revealing a small, narrow passageway, almost a crawl space. Gingerly Joy took a few steps inside, moving her flashlight around.
“There’s a door at the far end,” she said over her shoulder to Gayle, who remained in the nursery but also shone her flashlight into the darkness. “And there are things stored in here!” Joy sounded excited. “I believe they’re pictures. Wait, I’ll see.” There was a short silence, and then her voice rang out. “Gayle, they’re paintings! Maybe they’re the ones that were hung on the wall beside the staircase. They seem to be about the size of those faded outlines we saw in the wallpaper. I’ll bring one out.”
Breathing hard, Joy emerged backward, dragging a large square object wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied in several twists of twine. She propped it against the wall, then began working at the wrapping. There were several layers of paper, and the twine had been tied into several knots. “I wish I had a knife or some scissors,” Joy said impatiently. At last she managed to get a large enough rip in one side, then tore the paper away. The edge of an ornate but badly tarnished frame appeared. “It is!” she cried excitedly. “It’s a portrait.”
Gayle began to help her tear the rest of the paper away. Then they both stepped back to see what was revealed. The canvas was thick with accumulated dust. It needed a good, expert cleaning, Joy observed, but the radiant young beauty of the subject was still visible. Abundant auburn hair piled high on a gracefully held head. Patrician features in a classically oval face. A rosebud mouth, its corners lifted in a demure smile. And a mischievous sparkle in the eyes. Who was she?
It was Gayle who saw the small brass plaque at the bottom of the frame. She bent closer, beaming the flashlight onto the engraved name. “Avril Dumont Montrose,” she read out loud.
“One of the brides,” said Joy.
“There’s a date,” Gayle said. “1816.”
“Imagine!” Joy was awed. “She looks so young.”
“Do you think the other portraits are also stored in there?” asked Gayle.
“They seem to be. Let’s bring them out into the nursery. We can unwrap them and look at them tomorrow—after we get some scissors and some better lighting so we can examine them more closely.”
Joy was excited. This was becoming a treasure hunt. No telling what else they might find in this house that had belonged to her family for generati
ons.
After they had dragged all the portraits out and lined them along the nursery walls, Gayle and Joy went back into the room with their flashlights to check out the rest of the space. Two large cardboard boxes were pulled out. With a final sweep of their beams, they saw something shoved under the eaves.
It was a shoe box, much the worse for wear after years of storage in this unventilated place. Masking tape was wound all around the box to seal it. On top, in childish block letters, were the words “TO BE OPENED ON NEW YEAR’S DAY 1912.”
“1912!” both women gasped, looking at each other.
“What in the world could be in it?” Joy wondered.
“Only one way to find out,” Gayle said, smiling.
The masking tape was stiff with age, but gradually they got it off and opened the lid.
chapter
18
INSIDE THE BOX, on top of its contents, was an envelope with the words “To Whom It May Concern” written in a child’s printing and signed Nicki Montrose.
Joy looked at Gayle. “That was my grandmother. Molly told me about her. She was orphaned by World War I and adopted by the Montrose family. She must have put this here.”
“Well, go ahead, open it. You’re entitled,” Gayle said.
Breathlessly Joy picked up the envelope, slid her finger under the flap, took out a folded piece of lined notebook paper, and read it out loud.
October 1932
Scotty Cameron and I found this box that was to be opened in 1912, twenty years ago. Before we had a chance to go through all the stuff together, Scotty left for England with her mother, Jill, for a visit. We had to keep it a secret, like this room. Nobody seems to know about it but us. I haven’t even told Luc.
We plan to look for other things to put in this box. There must be more here about both the Montrose and Cameron families, going back a hundred years to when Montclair, this house, was built. Scotty is related to almost everyone mentioned. I’m not. I’m really French. Tante (Cara Cameron, now Cara Montrose) adopted me when I was four, from an orphanage in France. So I don’t know who I really am. That’s weird. Someday I intend to go to France and find out.
Anyway, I don’t know what we’ll do with all this. I’m putting this in the box along with the other stuff in case we don’t get back to it.
Joy peered into the box. “I guess they didn’t. It looks as if everything is still here, just as two kids would leave it.”
“Let’s see.”
One by one they brought out the items. The first was a small framed picture wrapped in tissue paper, a sepia photograph of a couple. The pretty young woman, hardly more than a girl, wore a ruffled dress and posed with one hand on the shoulder of the seated man, a handsome fellow with thick dark hair and a mustache and melancholy dark eyes. Turning it over, Joy saw the name of a photographer in Lucas Valley, California, and the date 1870.
“California!” they both exclaimed.
Joy picked up a rolled parchment tied with a faded ribbon, which when opened was a marriage certificate with the names Blythe Dorman and Malcolm Montrose. Attached to this was a note: “This is Kip’s grandfather and my mother.” It was signed Cara Cameron.
There were a few other things in the box that did not seem to be of much value or significance. There was a toy airplane, some stones and shells, some yellowed snapshots of twin girls and of another little girl, two blue award ribbons, perhaps won in horse shows.
Since both of them were starting to get hungry, they decided to take the two large cardboard boxes down to the kitchen and explore them there.
Joy lit a few of the candles they had purchased at the grocery store, and they opened the boxes. Inside were some beautiful pieces of china—odds and ends, not a full or matching set. There were also several fine examples of cut glass.
“These are worth a fortune, Joy,” Gayle told her as she held one graceful vase in both hands. Even in the flickering candlelight and dulled by years of being packed away unused, it still had a sparkle.
They were just setting out the makeshift meal of crackers, cheese, peanut butter, fruit, and cookies when they heard a car motor outside. It stopped, and a moment later the sound of the knocker on the front door echoed through the house.
“Who could that be?” Joy murmured as she went to answer it.
A well-dressed middle-aged gentleman stood at the door. He removed his hat, displaying a head of wavy gray hair, and gave a slight bow. “Miss Montrose? I’m Jason Lawrence, the attorney who contacted you about Montclair. Mr. Tedroe told me you had come by his office, and I just wanted to bring you this.” He pointed to a small, old-fashioned trunk he had set on the porch. “Miss Heather Montrose left this in my keeping. I believe she realized she was getting on in years and wanted it in a safe place. Over the years she had collected a great many family papers and other memorabilia that she felt would be of interest to the heir if we could locate him or her.
“She also left this.” He drew a long envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Joy. “She hoped so much that someone would be found. Sadly, she didn’t live to know about you.” He lifted the little trunk and set it inside. “I’m looking forward to discussing your plans with you when you have reached a decision about what to do with Montclair.” He glanced over her shoulder into the hall questioningly. “Are you here alone?”
“I have a friend with me. We’re quite all right, thank you. I haven’t come to any decision as yet, Mr. Lawrence, but I certainly will come by your office before I leave.”
He looked rather doubtful but politely took his leave. Joy watched him go down the drive, and then she put the envelope in her sweater pocket to read later. She called Gayle to help her lug the trunk into the kitchen. Although it was small, it was quite heavy.
“I wonder if you have another treasure trove in here,” Gayle said, rolling her eyes dramatically.
It was a treasure of a very different kind—the trunk was packed with scrapbooks and photograph albums.
It was an evening Joy would never forget as she turned page after page of yellowed newspaper clippings, reading of the events that had shaped the lives of her ancestors through the years. Names she had never heard now became familiar as she read of the births, engagements, weddings, deaths, and other important occasions.
Malcolm Montrose Takes Massachusetts Bride
1857
Milford, Massachusetts, was the scene today of the wedding of Miss Rose Meredith, of Milford, and Mr. Malcolm Montrose, eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Clayborn Montrose of Montclair. Malcolm Montrose was a Harvard classmate of Miss Meredith’s brother John.
1857
Two prominent Mayfield families are joined as Miss Garnet Cameron and Mr. Bryson Montrose make their vows at Montclair, the home of the groom’s parents. This is the second son in the Montrose family to take a bride this summer.
1858
A son, Jonathan Meredith, was born to Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm Montrose at the family estate, Montclair. Mrs. Montrose is the former Miss Rose Meredith of Milford, Massachusetts.
1920
Lynette Montrose became the bride of newly elected state senator Frank Maynard in a private ceremony in the family chapel on the Montclair estate.
1921
Scott Cameron, editor of the local newspaper, marries Jillian Marsh at the family estate, Cameron Hall. Miss Marsh is a native of England and a distant descendant of Noramary Marsh, the first bride of Montclair, which is the estate of the Camerons’ longtime friends and neighbors, the Montrose family.
1944
Mayfield mourns one of its native sons in the death of Kendall Montrose, affectionately known as Kip. An ace pilot and a member of the WWI volunteer corps the Lafayette Esquadrille, Colonel Montrose died in the crash of a B-52 bomber he was transporting from Kelly Field in Texas. He is survived by his wife, Cara (Cameron) Montrose, a son, Luc (at present a German POW), and an adopted daughter, Nicole.
A handwritten note followed, stating that the poem it quoted wa
s read at Kendall Montrose’s memorial service. The poem was attributed to John Magee, a British pilot who had been killed in action.
I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter’s silvered wings:
Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sunlit clouds, and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of, wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence, hovering there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
I’ve topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where neither lark or even eagle flew.
And while, with silent lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctuary of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Tears blurred Joy’s eyes as she read. Surely this poem could have been read also at her father’s military funeral. She had no idea what that ceremony had been like for her young mother, who, like Cara Montrose, had suddenly and tragically become a pilot’s widow.
Joy read on, thinking how many hours Heather Montrose must have spent putting all this together, not even sure anyone else would ever see these pages.
Senior Citizen Takes Unusual Step
1951
Sixty-year-old resident Cara Cameron Montrose has joined the Peace Corps. When interviewed, Mrs. Montrose, who served as a Red Cross ambulance driver in WWI and again as a counselor in army hospitals in WWII, told this reporter, “I feel my experience and training can make a contribution in a work I believe is worthwhile and rewarding.”
Local Author Opens Ancestral Home
May 1954
Nora Scott Cameron, who is known to family and friends as Scotty and is well known among regional southern writers, has opened her family home, Cameron Hall, for the Christmas season house tour. Miss Cameron divides her time between Virginia and rural England, where her mother, the former Jillian Marsh, widow of Scott Cameron, the late editor of the Mayfield Monitor, lives in a picturesque thatched-roof home called Larkspur Cottage. Miss Cameron is the author of a multivolume history of the Mayfield area.