Fortune's Bride

by Jane Peart

  Avril fought a rising flood of exasperation. “Oh, all right, Graham—you’re right. And what’s more, you probably always will be! I will agree to the wedding as long as it isn’t more than six weeks from now!” Then tilting her head back, she looked up at him with a hint of mischief in her smile. “You’re right, that is, except about one thing. I don’t need time to think about our marriage, Graham. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life. I love you and want to be your wife. Nothing—not time nor anything else—will ever change that!”

  To Avril’s dismay, even the very date of the wedding became the subject of great discussion and debate. Ample travel time must be allowed for those relatives and friends living a distance away. Graham was especially eager to invite his Uncle Rowan Cameron, his father’s youngest brother and Graham’s godfather, to stand up with him as best man. The travel time needed for the Rowan Camerons to come from Wilmington, North Carolina, must be calculated.

  As predicted, Auntie May appointed herself consultant in charge of the myriad details she assured Avril must be arranged. The list of “things to do” grew longer each time she rode over from Cameron Hall. Soon the private ceremony Avril had envisioned became an elaborate, colorful event requiring endless discussions, planning, and appointments. Though May expressed shock at the brevity of the time to accomplish it all, she reluctantly agreed to try.

  The day Avril was to leave for Aunt Laura’s home in Williamsburg, Graham called her into the library, a place with many rich memories for her. From the expression on his face, she guessed he was feeling as melancholy as she at the prospect of their parting. At her entrance he retreated behind the desk, as if for protection.

  His smile was as tender and loving as ever, but taking her cue from his formality, Avril seated herself and waited for him to tell her what he wanted to say.

  “As you know, I haven’t asked what kind of an engagement ring you want,” he began hesitantly. “We haven’t had much time to ourselves since May became involved, have we?” He gave her a wry grin. “Perhaps you have a preference. But, in any case, I want to show you something—”

  Graham then cupped his hands and extended them across the desk. In his palm was a ring of unusual beauty—gold, with a deep amethyst stone set in two tiny sculptured hands beneath a small gold crown.

  ‘This is the traditional Montrose family betrothal ring,” he explained, “fashioned from an ancient design dating from the fifteenth century in Scotland. My grandmother, Noramary, was the first to wear it as a bride, but since she was still living when my father and mother married, my mother did not wear it, nor did my first wife, Luella.” He ducked his head in an uncharacteristic gesture of embarrassment. “I just thought knowing that would make your decision easier.”

  “Of course I want to wear it. It’s lovely!” The ring symbolized so much—the past, the future—that it seemed to seal all their promises to each other. Furthermore, Avril was certain of one thing. She had no desire to leave Montclair that morning without some tangible reminder that all that had transpired between them was not just a beautiful dream.

  Graham brightened and, rising, came from behind the desk. Taking Avril’s hands, he drew her to her feet, took her left hand, and slipped the ring on her third finger.

  Something beautiful and meaningful trembled between them. Cradling her face between his hands, he leaned down and kissed her—a kiss so sweet and tender that she shivered.

  At last he reluctantly released her. “You must go now, darling,” he said. “The carriage has been brought around, and Josh is waiting to drive you into Williamsburg. I’ll come in later in the week and we’ll attend the Sunday service together. Then we can talk with Reverend Price and make arrangements to have the banns of our coming marriage announced.”

  Avril did not trust herself to speak. She merely put on her bonnet and allowed Graham to lead her out to the waiting carriage.

  He leaned inside and said, “Until Friday, darling!” then stepped back, closing the carriage door and signaling Josh to drive on.

  Avril waved at Graham from the rear window for as long as she could see him. When the carriage rounded the bend in the drive, she lost sight of his tall figure standing on the porch. The tears that had threatened all morning began to roll, unchecked, down her cheeks. How she hated leaving him.

  Then, as she glimpsed the ring on her finger, her sadness gave way to a deep sense of peace. This would be the last farewell. The next time she returned to Montclair, it would be as Graham’s bride.

  chapter

  29

  THE SIX WEEKS that had loomed tiresome and tedious before the wedding soon took on a feverish quality. Duties, errands, appointments, and pressing decisions filled virtually every waking hour so that Avril had little time to call her own.

  As she had learned during her summer visit with Great-Aunt Laura, the sprightly old lady was a delightful companion, and often seemed hardly more than a girl herself. She was merry and cheerful, without being intrusive as she helped Avril with her plans.

  Feeling younger and more inexperienced than ever in the face of her impending marriage to Graham, Avril welcomed Aunt Laura’s discreet suggestions and genuine friendship, in contrast with Auntie May, who was so overpowering at times, issuing orders like a commanding general before battle.

  On a rare day when there were no errands to run, no fittings for her trousseau, Avril and Aunt Laura sat in the small parlor, satin-stitching her future monogram, ADM, on some new linens.

  Avril’s thoughts wandered to the other Montrose brides who had probably been similarly employed at this prenuptial task. Looking up from her embroidery hoop, she asked, “Did you know Graham’s stepmother?”

  “Arden Sherwood? Oh yes, dear, quite well.”

  “Tell me what she was like.”

  “Very beautiful, elegant, intelligent.” Aunt Laura’s needle flashed in and out of the fine fabric, completing a French knot embellishing the final initial. She lay the piece down and rethreaded her needle with shell pink floss before continuing. “Arden was born and grew up in a house designed by Thomas Jefferson, but her ancestors were even earlier settlers to Virginia than the Montrose family. The couple who founded the family dynasty here were Colton Sherwood, who had been a palace guard, and Lady Rachel Perry, who had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England. Her father objected to the marriage, so they ran away to America.”

  “How romantic!” exclaimed Avril.

  “Ah, yes. Very romantic indeed.” Aunt Laura clucked her tongue as if to say that not all such escapades were so successful.

  ‘They lived happily ever after, didn’t they?” demanded Avril, unconsciously using the fairy-tale ending to childhood stories.

  “I suppose so,” Laura replied cautiously. “They had a splendid family, who prospered, and had fine families of their own. Arden was one of three daughters, all beauties. A year or so before she married Cameron Montrose, her fiance was killed. Perhaps it was the tragedy that brought the two of them together—” She lifted her head and peered at Avril over her spectacles—“for, as you know, Cameron’s first wife, Graham’s mother, also died unexpectedly at a very young age.”

  “Yes, I know. Lorabeth. Graham barely remembers her, he says. Please tell me more.” She set aside the pillowcase she had just completed and leaned forward, all attention.

  “Ah, Lorabeth—” Aunt Laura’s voice grew mellow. “Lorabeth was … special. Very sweet, very precious. A sad loss to us all. She was dearly beloved by everyone who knew her. Her death nearly broke my mother’s heart. Lorabeth was—although not in actual fact—a granddaughter, she was devoted to Mama, and Mama to her.”

  “What happened, Aunt Laura? I’m not sure I remember the details.”

  “Lorabeth went to England when her mother, my sister Winnie, was supposedly seriously ill and required nursing. Actually, Winnie was not Lorabeth’s real mother but … well, that’s another story best left untold.” Aunt Laura’s lips tightened. “At any rate, Winnie recove
red, but poor Lorabeth died!” The old lady sighed. “But what kind of conversation is this on the eve of a wedding? Let’s talk of happier things, shall we?”

  There were many such pleasant times together as the lazy September days passed, each one bringing Avril closer to her heart’s desire. But in this lovely interlude, she experienced a stormy encounter that left disaster in its wake.

  The incident took place at Chez Luise, the dressmaking establishment where her bridal gown was being made.

  Madame Luise had once been the chosen dressmaker for the socially elite of Williamsburg. A Frenchwoman of great style and skill, she was more than a mere seamstress, Avril had been told. Studying the latest French patterns from the Paris salons, Madame often recut them, giving them her own inimitable touch. She prided herself on her ability not only to adapt the styles, but by a change in material or design, to make them more suitable to the Virginia climate without losing the French flair.

  She was so adept in accentuating the individuality of her clientele so that no two ladies who patronized her boutique need ever fear the humiliation of arriving at a ball or fete to find another guest wearing an identical gown! In a short time Madame Luise became the undisputed arbiter of taste and fashion in the town. Though the lady was now quite elderly, she had had the foresight to train a member of her family, her niece Charmaine, who was now managing her business. And Auntie May had lost no time in enlisting her services to design the gown for Avril’s special day.

  In the salon, fitting rooms were strategically placed, with little parlors provided with private doors leading out to the street so clients could come and go with anonymity if they chose. Although ostensibly for the convenience of the customers, Avril had heard the rumor that these “petite salles” had also become the trysting place for faithless wives and lovers. She shook off such a shocking thought.

  Armed with some sketches of her own, Avril discussed the design of her wedding gown with Mademoiselle Charmaine. Now the gown had been cut, basted, and pinned, and was ready for the first fitting.

  On a glorious autumn afternoon, splashed with the first riotous colors of fall, Avril walked from the Barnwell house to Chez Luise for her fitting. On such a day as this, she would have much rather been cantering through the autumn woods near Montclair. She would be happy when all this fuss was over, and she and Graham were married to everyone’s satisfaction and living there, free to spend their time in the old happy ways.

  A maid in frilled cap and ruffled apron opened the door to Avril’s knock, and an attendant, attired in rustling black taffeta, showed her into one of the tiny parlors adjacent to a fitting room.

  “Mademoiselle Charmaine is with a client at the moment, but she will be with you presently, Miss Dumont. May I have tea brought in for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Seating herself on a velvet upholstered settee, Avril picked up one of the fashion books lying on the round, gilt inlaid table beside it. She leafed idly through the pages. The models pictured were wearing such exaggerated costumes, festooned with feathers, furbelows, and frills, that Avril almost giggled aloud. Her silent amusement was interrupted by the sound of a strident voice coming from behind the closed door of the fitting room.

  “No, no, this will not do! It won’t do at all!”

  This outburst was followed by a conciliatory murmur as the luckless fitter tried to pacify an obviously outraged client.

  “I want to see Mademoiselle Charmaine immediately, you stupid girl! I thought I had made my wishes clear about this gown at my last fitting! Now it is all wrong! I would never be seen in this—this monstrosity! Well, don’t just stand there staring! Go and get Charmaine! Now!”

  Avril glanced up from the book, cocking her head. There was something oddly familiar about that voice. Surely not. Surely that lady, with all her fine manners and silken tones would never stoop to shouting. Or would she? Could it possibly be? Clarice Fontayne screeching like the proverbial fishwife?

  Avril held very still, straining to hear what would happen next. The door opened and closed; then came the sound of scurrying feet down the hall, followed by a frantic consultation in French. Then all doubt as to who the irate customer was disappeared as, from the fitting room, Avril heard the clear, softly accented voice of Mademoiselle Charmaine inquire soothingly. “Now, Madame Fontayne, what seems to be the problem?”

  Avril let out her breath. So! She was right. It was Clarice. Wouldn’t Auntie May and Graham be surprised to have overheard such a tirade? Avril took a naughty satisfaction in having inadvertently discovered an unpleasant underside of the woman’s gracious façade, exposing a crack in her careful veneer.

  But within minutes the truth of the adage, “Eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves,” was brought painfully home to Avril.

  “Certainly, madame,” she heard Mademoiselle Charmaine say. “We will make all these adjustments immediately, and have the dress ready for another fitting as soon as possible. When must you have the finished garment?”

  “In three weeks! It is to be worn to the wedding of a friend … unless he comes to his senses before it takes place. I suppose you have heard that Graham Montrose is marrying his ward? I couldn’t believe it when I heard it myself! What fools men are! So easily taken in by flattery, adoration, appeals to their masculine vanity, their protective instinct—”

  Avril jumped up, her hands clenched in fury. How dared Clarice say such things? She felt her face flame, but there was more to come.

  “His bride? A silly chit of a child, and he a man of such intelligence, sophistication, and charm. I cannot see how he was tricked into it. Of course, some mean-spirited people are saying—not that I am one to listen to gossip, you understand—that it is for her fortune he is marrying her. But I really don’t see how that could be true,” the shrill voice continued, “since the Montrose family has been among the wealthiest in Virginia—” Her next words were muffled—probably under yards of fabric in the process of being removed or put on, Avril assumed—and she leaned nearer the wall to listen.

  “—needs an heir to carry on the family name.” Clarice’s voice rose again. “Whatever the case, I am absolutely sure he is not marrying the girl for love! Why, she’s hardly out of the schoolroom. Oh, he’ll soon tire of her silly prattle, her childish ways. It appears she’d be better suited to preside over the stables of Montclair than the grand ballroom!”

  Avril put shaky hands over her ears. She had already heard enough to bring angry tears to her eyes. How dreadful of the woman to repeat such lies, make such terrible accusations!

  Furious, Avril resisted the temptation to fling open the fitting room door and confront Clarice on the spot. But retreat seemed the wiser strategy. From past encounters, Avril knew she was no match for the worldly sophisticate.

  She stepped out into the hallway, bent on making it to the door leading to the street. But in her haste and confusion, Avril turned the wrong way and at that very moment the fitting room door flew opem, and there was Clarice, standing only a few feet away.

  For a heart-stopping instant, it seemed to Avril that the woman’s face blanched, the violet eyes widening in shock. Then almost immediately the smooth features rearranged themselves into a bland expression.

  “Why, Avril, what a charming surprise, my dear,” she purred. Not waiting for a reply or comment, she swept by in a swirl of mauve taffeta and lace and the musky scent of perfume.

  Avril did not remember the walk back to the Barnwell house. Still seething with indignation, the next thing she knew she was pushing through the front gate and running up the steps and into the hall.

  Inside, all was still. Aunt Laura was napping upstairs, and no one else was about. Avril stood for a moment, breathing hard, frustrated, and bewildered by her confrontation.

  Just then her eyes fell on a large envelope lying on the silver platter on the hall table. She recognized Graham’s fine penmanship immediately. There was no mistaking his flourishing script. The letter was addressed to her.
She picked it up, turned it over, and saw the red wax seal with the Montrose crest.

  All of Clarice Fontayne’s spiteful accusations echoed in Avril’s mind. What if Clarice were right? Would Graham grow bored with a younger wife? Regret his declaration of love? Their plans to marry? Not willing to face Avril in person, had he written to tell her what she feared most?

  She broke the seal and opened the envelope, withdrew the letter, and began to read.

  Beloved,

  Today this house resounds with emptiness, and I know once again in acute awareness how you have filled my home, my heart, my life with your sweetness and light. I miss everything about you—your voice, your smile, your step on the stair, the sound of your laughter.

  I’m counting the days, begging the hands of the clock to move more swiftly, each hour bringing the moment of fulfillment nearer.

  I am at a loss when I try to express my love. All I can say is that my life was without meaning before you came into it, nor can I imagine what it would be without you.

  I thank God for you, my darling.

  Ever, your devoted Graham

  Impulsively Avril pressed the letter to her lips, kissing it. If only Graham could know how much his words meant to her at this moment!

  Suddenly all the unnerving doubts, the feelings of uncertainty disappeared. There was no mistaking the passionate longing between the lines of this note. Graham loved her. Nothing anyone could say or do could change that. And nothing else mattered except what only they two knew in their hearts.