by Jane Peart
Why didn’t she feel happy about the announcement? Didn’t all the world love a lover? Wasn’t it a sign of hope that such a lovely thing could happen in a world now torn with hate and tragedy? What was wrong with her?
She had long ago given up on the preposterous idea that she could marry Luc. When she was a little girl, she had dreamed that when they grew up they would marry and live forever at Montclair, raising horses and riding through the autumn woods together. Certainly, now she had put that fantasy away with other childish dreams. Hadn’t she?
Niki was ashamed at her reaction. How stupid and immature to be jealous of something she had no right to anyway. Still, her heart ached, because she knew that Luc’s new love would supersede anything they had together. That’s the way it was. That’s what was written in the marriage ceremony: “Henceforth you shall leave father, mother, and cleave only unto the other….” In a way, she was losing Luc, and that’s what hurt. Of course, she was not losing him entirely but in the special way she had always had him.
Niki told herself she had to get over these troublesome feelings. Since the wedding was going to be a simple one, not the lavish social affair that Alair’s father—being a lord, a member of Parliament, and now a major in the military—might have demanded if not for the war, Niki was not included in the wedding party. Alair was only having her cousin Cilia as her single attendant. The fact that Luc was marrying someone from an aristocratic family removed him further from Niki. The Blanding family went back for centuries. They knew the names of all their ancestors, while Niki didn’t know who she was or where she came from. For the first time in a long while, the ache of not knowing surfaced. The old hurt, the loneliness of not really belonging, swept over Niki.
The fact that she couldn’t share these feelings with anyone made it even worse. Keeping it to herself haunted her troubled heart. She sincerely wished Luc happiness. Alair did not need her wishes, she thought with a twinge. She had Luc; what other happiness did she need?
Niki got a two-day pass and arrived in the village by an early train the morning of the wedding. There was no time to go up to Birchfields and change out of her WRENS uniform, so she walked through the morning mist to the small, stone church and slipped into one of the back pews. This church was hundreds of years old, and even the fragrance of the flowers now banking the altar steps could not completely shut out the odor of damp old stones, the ancient scent of the wax candles that had been burned here for centuries.
It was the first war wedding to be held here, perhaps because the small village was largely inhabited by older people living in the few large homes. Until the recent building of the airfield, there had been few young people to even attend Sunday services. Soon Niki became aware of a subdued ripple of voices reverberating through the cold church. She turned in time to see the arrival of a small contingent of young girls. They were in school uniforms, so she guessed they were from the nearby academy and had slipped into the chapel. Giggling a little, their eyes bright with excitement, their heads full of romantic fantasy, they settled like a flock of nervous starlings into another of the back pews, opposite the one Niki was occupying. She smiled, imagining they were all wishing they were a few years older so they could be part of all the excitement that the young men in uniform had brought to the streets of their usually quiet town. Had they skipped class to come, Niki wondered, or had some school holiday left them free to attend?
The stir of activity in the vestibule alerted Niki that the bridal party had probably arrived. The bride’s mother, Lady Blanding, dressed in royal blue, a silver fox fur draped across her slim shoulders, and accompanied by her sister, Mrs. Victor Ridgeway, arrived first. They were escorted down the aisle by two handsome young officers. New friends of Luc’s from his outfit, Niki assumed, again feeling the little prick of alienation. She used to know all of Luc’s friends. He brought them home in droves from Briarwood Prep and college. Except for the one leave they had spent together in London, they had not seen much of each other. Of course, it was wartime and they both had duties; it couldn’t be helped. But now Niki wished she’d made more of an effort to coordinate her time off with his. She was always welcome at Birchfields, she knew, but simply had not come as often as she could have.
A lady in a strange-looking hat took her place at the organ, and the first chords rumbled through the church. A waft of familiar perfume wrinkled Niki’s nose, and she turned her head slightly, just in time to see Aunt Garnet, handsome in russet velvet, wearing a mink stole and turbaned hat, enter on the arm of one of the uniformed ushers. She moved with great dignity, as if for the occasion she had willed away the halting walk her arthritis sometimes caused.
Soon Luc and his best man, a fellow officer, came from the side door and took their place. A few minutes later there was an anticipatory hush, and then the congregation stood as the first notes of “The Wedding March” sounded. Alair, in a mist of veiling and swirls of white silk, carrying a small nosegay of violets, escorted by Lord Blanding in dress uniform, came forward down the aisle. The beautiful ancient ceremony began.
As Niki listened to the couple repeat the age-old vows, looking at each other with such love, she experienced a mixture of envy and hopelessness. Tears she did not want to shed rushed into her eyes. Furiously she blinked them back. She wanted to be happy for Luc and Alair, she really did. But there was a void in her own life, a longing in her heart to know the kind of devotion they expressed.
Somehow she got through the ceremony and through the reception at Birchfields that followed, and with the rest of the family and friends sent Alair and Luc off on their honeymoon. She was grateful she had to report back to WRENS headquarters the next day. For the first time, the dull routine of duty seemed an escape.
Larkspur Cottage, with its thatched roof and diamond-paned windows, was picture perfect. A riot of orange, yellow, russet nasturtiums clambered over a stone wall. Closer to the blue door, a hydrangea bush heavy with blossoms nodded in a gentle breeze.
As he pulled the Austin-mini up front, Luc remarked to Alair, “It’s straight out of a storybook.”
“It looks like one of those nostalgic nineteenth-century paintings. The ones critics complained romanticized English country life.”
“It looks OK to me,” Luc laughed, and he jumped out of the car and got their luggage out of the boot. He held open the gate for Alair to go through ahead of him. “Want me to carry you over the threshold?”
“Of course.”
He set down their suitcases and lifted her up easily, and they went inside. Aunt Garnet had arranged to have the place aired, cleaned, and it smelled faintly of lemon wax polish. A fire was laid in the fireplace of the cozy sitting room. Luc put Alair down and she turned slowly, looking around. “How lucky we are!” she said, smiling at him.
To begin their married life together in such a place was ideal. Four days of peace, privacy, learning to love each other in an entirely new way. It was as though they were the only two people in the world.
They spent their days like misers, savoring each golden moment yet feeling as though they were grasping time, holding on to it as the days rushed past. They took long walks, talking about all sorts of things—their childhood, their growing-up years, the books they’d read, the music they liked, the people they admired, things they hadn’t had time to tell each other about themselves in their brief courtship. They made meals together with much laughter and teasing, finding out about each other’s tastes in food, and learning their differences as well as how much they had in common. In the evening, as outside the glen mist surrounded the woodland cottage, shutting them off from the world, they listened to records and danced to favorite tunes, sat in front of the fireplace. They went to sleep in each other’s arms and woke up each morning counting themselves blessed to have another day to spend together. They talked about many things, but they did not talk much about the future. The next weekend they could possibly have together was as far into the future as they wanted to discuss or, for that matter
, could plan.
On the last day before Luc had to report back to the airfield and Alair to Blanding Court to continue her work with the kindergarten children, they finally spoke of some of the things they had avoided. They spoke of the uncertainty they were facing. It was then that Alair wept, voicing her dread of their separation.
“But we’re no different from thousands of other couples,” Luc said.
She nodded. “Yes, I know you’re right.”
“I still feel we’re among the lucky ones who are going to get through all this and then have our whole life ahead of us,” Luc told her, even as he wiped the tears running down her cheeks.
Luc had already flown seventeen of the twenty-five requisite missions that American pilots had to fly before being sent back to the States for R and R. He hadn’t told Alair yet, but when he’d flown the twenty-fifth, he intended to ask that his time off be spent in England.
At last it was time to pack up and leave. On the doorstep Alair said softly, “Maybe we can come back someday—if we’re lucky.”
Luc smiled at her fondly, proud of her bravery even though he saw the uncertainty in her eyes. He reached out and touched her cool, rose-tinted cheek, aware of how the sun sent glints of gold through her hair. “I love you,” he said. Then he locked the door, pocketed the key, and they went out to the car and drove away. Neither had the courage to look back.
chapter
22
WRENS headquarters
TWO WEEKS AFTER Luc and Alair’s wedding, Niki received a note from Phoebe Montrose, Fraser’s mother. It was written on stationery from the McPherson Arms Hotel, and the handwriting was both strong and refined.
Eraser has written so glowingly of your meeting and the gracious hospitality shown him at Mrs. Devlin’s country home. I remember it so pleasantly from the time when, as a young woman, I met his father, Jonathan, there. We would be so happy if you were able to arrange to accompany Eraser home sometime soon.
Looking forward to that occasion,
I am yours most cordially,
Phoebe McPherson Montrose
Fraser called to see if Niki had received the invitation and if she had put in for a leave of absence.
“Mum is really looking forward to meeting you.” “I hope you haven’t built me up too much. I don’t want her to be disappointed,” Niki replied dubiously.
“Me? Exaggerate? No way,” Fraser said, laughing.
Despite his assurances, Niki felt somewhat apprehensive about meeting Phoebe. Niki had created a picture in her mind of a rather austere Scotswoman, proud, independent, and capable. Left a widow with two small children at an early age, Phoebe had taken over from her uncle the management of a busy resort hotel and by all accounts had run it efficiently and profitably.
Fortunately, both Niki and Fraser were able to obtain leave that coincided. Fraser came up to London, and together they took the train to the Scottish highlands. From the small station they walked up the hilly cobblestone street to the McPherson Arms Hotel.
Phoebe greeted Niki warmly. Standing beside her tall son, Niki saw that they were very alike, at least in coloring. Phoebe’s dark auburn hair was generously sprinkled with silver, but she had a smile that made her appear charmingly youthful. Simply dressed in a tweed skirt and cabled wool cardigan, she looked almost too young to be Fraser’s mother. Her welcome was matched by that of his younger sister, Fiona, who was a graceful, slender girl with a blaze of beautiful flame-colored hair.
That evening there was a supper and dance, a small clan gathering held at the hotel, at which Niki had a chance to meet what seemed to her like dozens of Fraser’s cousins. Every male had worn Highland dress, and Niki saw Fraser for the first time in kilt and tartan. He wore the vivid blue, green, and yellow Montrose-Graham plaid, while Phoebe’s long skirt, worn with a black velvet jacket, displayed the McPherson colors. Fiona was the belle of the ball, Niki observed, claimed for every dance. The music was loud, lively, and the skirl of bagpipes was often heard. Niki was encouraged to take part in some of the traditional dances and was surprised to see that Fraser could do all of them with ease.
On Sunday they all attended church at the tiny, gray stone kirk where, Phoebe confided, she had been married to Jonathan Montrose. When they came outside after the service, a light mist was falling. It gave everything a blurred, unreal look. While Phoebe lingered to talk to the pastor and other friends, Fiona was surrounded by a group of young men.
“Come, I want to show you something,” Fraser said, taking Niki’s arm. He led her over to the entrance to the graveyard that adjoined the church property. They walked among the granite tombstones, reading the spare yet somehow poignant epitaphs. Many of the markers bore the name McPherson.
“I always assumed I’d be buried here with all my ancestors,” Fraser remarked. “Now that’s probably not true.”
Niki glanced at him sharply. The remark was so unlike Fraser, it shocked her. He was normally so nonchalant, so carefree. She put a quick hand out, touched his arm. Immediately the serious look faded and a smile replaced it.
“Well, I didn’t bring you out here to be gloomy. I had a sneakier reason. I wanted to give you this.” He reached inside his tunic pocket, brought out a small box, and handed it to her.
Niki held the little box in both hands, looking up at Fraser.
“Go on, open it.”
She pressed the spring and the lid popped open. Lying against purple velvet was a silver brooch, heart-shaped under an arching crown, with a small amethyst stone glistening in the center.
“Oh, Fraser, it’s lovely.”
“It seemed appropriate to give it to you here in the churchyard, in the shadow of the kirk. It’s called a luckenbooth, and it’s a traditional Scottish betrothal symbol. In the olden days couples went to church and in a special ceremony exchanged promises of their intention to be married. ‘Plighting their troth,’ it was called….” He paused. “A betrothal was considered as binding as a marriage vow.” He took the brooch out of her hands, held it for a minute, then asked, “Do you want me to pin it on?”
Niki nodded, speechless. Her own hands were too shaky to do it. Fraser fastened it on the lapel of her raincoat.
“So then, are we betrothed?” he asked. Putting one hand under her chin, he lifted it so he could search her eyes for his answer.
“Yes,” she said in a very low voice. As Fraser took her into his arms, held her tightly against him, Niki closed her eyes, and. a tear ran down her cheek. For the first time in her life she felt truly loved, truly safe, that she truly belonged.
Phoebe saw them off on the London train, loaded down with goodies from the hotel kitchen—packages of Scotch shortbread, jars of marmalade, lemon curd, butterscotch toffee. There was another box wrapped as a gift for Niki. “To be opened on the train,” Phoebe told her as she said good-bye and kissed her on both cheeks. “God bless you both!”
As the train rolled across the bridge that led out of town, Niki unwrapped her gift. It was a tartan scarf in the Montrose plaid. Tears sprang into her eyes as she fingered the fine woolen cloth. She looked at Fraser.
“Does she know about me?” she asked. “I mean, that I’m not really a Montrose, that I’m an orphan?”
Fraser put his strong arm around her shoulders, pulled her close. “You’re no orphan, Niki. You’ve got a new family now. You belong to us, and I’ll never let you feel lost again. That I promise.”
Back at Blanding Court, Alair tried to pick up her life again as it had been before Luc. But it was impossible. Something profound and life changing had happened to her.
She could hardly remember what it had been like before Luc or imagine what it would be like without him. Gradually those four days at Larkspur Cottage began to seem like a dream.
Unknown to—or only suspected by—most people, the Allies were gearing up to attack the Germans at their weakest, most vulnerable point, the Italian peninsula, Sicily. Luc’s briefings changed drastically and his time off was shortened. For
a month Luc and Alair shared only brief, abbreviated times together.
She threw herself into her work with the evacuee children again, many of whom had become special to her. She also now felt she had something more in common with their mothers. In spite of their different backgrounds, she felt the strong connection that her husband was united with theirs in an effort to defeat the enemy To know they shared the constant anxiety that their men were in daily danger made Alair conscious of what the other women were feeling.
Soon Alair became aware of an even deeper bond. When she witnessed the brief, emotional reunions of these mothers with their children and then saw the wrenching good-byes, she could more easily imagine what it might be like to have to send your child away from you. Although she wasn’t yet quite certain, Alair had the hope that she would soon be able to tell Luc they were going to have a child. She wanted to be quite sure before she told him.
Blanding Court had been in her father’s family for generations, and like many of these ancient, sixteenth-century mansions, it contained a private chapel. Largely unused, it was pointed out to visitors as a relic of an earlier time. Alair now found it a refuge. Day after day she was drawn there. Kneeling on the ornately carved wooden kneeler with its tapestried pillow, she stared at the stained-glass windows over the small altar. Unlike the windows in great cathedrals, which depicted the saints, these portrayed illustrious Blanding ancestors attired in suits of armor or court robes. Alair prayed wordlessly, thinking that other women of this family before her might also have knelt here and prayed for husbands at war. How tragic that this had to be, that it was repeated generation after generation.