Courageous Bride

by Jane Peart

  Ten minutes later she laid the paper aside. For once Garnet had no criticism of the column. The last lines were particularly satisfactory. He had quoted the American president Abraham Lincoln, whom Garnet, as well as many other Southerners, had come belatedly to admire: “I am writing this in faith and with the strong hope that it will be true for us who have believed and fought so bravely for it. Peace will come soon and come to stay and so come as to be worth keeping in all future time.”

  Garnet was glad she had lived to see this day. Her heart echoed the expressed hope for a lasting peace so that Luc and Alair’s little son would never know the horrors of war. She had lived through four wars. What a lot of memories she had…. She had been blessed with an incredibly long life … had known grief, hardship, sorrow, joys … mostly blessings. Yes, it had been a long, rich life…. She had known so much love. She thought of her parents, of Bryce Montrose, who had loved her, of Malcolm, whom she had loved and lost. He had broken her heart twice, once when he married the beautiful Rose Meredith, a second time when he had brought Blythe home from California…. Maybe it was all for the best. Who knows? If that had not happened, she might never have met Jeremy or had Faith…. God had generously blessed her. She had no regrets. Well, perhaps a few. She wished she had been kinder, more understanding, less stubborn … but God knows and forgives….

  Garnet leaned her head back against the satin pillows, closed her eyes. Dusk was gathering in the garden, and in the pale early evening sky the shadow outline of the moon could be seen over the tops of the trees. No need to fear the moonlight tonight, thank God. As the room darkened, Garnet thought vaguely that she should get up, turn on some lamps, but this was so pleasant, so peaceful, she would just lie here a little while longer and rest …

  Garnet Cameron Devlin

  The simple headstone was placed next to Jeremy’s in the small cemetery of the village church where she had worshiped since coming to live in England.

  When the will was read, Birchfields had been left to Bryanne. Garnet had expressed the suggestion that Steven might want to use it as a convalescent home for veterans. She left them free to decide its best purpose; her only wish was that they rename it for her beloved daughter Faith Devlin Montrose.

  The name and the allocation seemed very appropriate to Bryanne and Steven, and they were happy to carry out her grandmother’s request.

  chapter

  28

  THE TRAIN PULLED TO A STOP with a hissing of brakes. Compartment doors banged open with a series of clatters, and uniformed men and women flowed off onto the platform. The station was thronged with people, all kinds, all shapes, all sizes. Old people, young, children wild with excitement, jumping up and down, women with eager faces, carrying bouquets of flowers, a sea of uniforms mingled with the mixture of civilians.

  Fraser, towering over most, stepped out into the crowd. Where was Niki? Had she got his telegram? Or had it possibly been routed wrong? His gaze swept over the milling people, searching for the face he wanted most in the world to see. His eyes rested momentarily on a small, slight girl in a flowered hat who was frantically waving, but then went right past her. He was looking for the trim figure in the familiar blue WRENS uniform. He was looking for the face in the small photo he’d carried in his wallet all these months. Its wide, expressive eyes, sparkling with mischief one moment, pensive or troubled the next, eyes that had been brilliant with tears when he and Niki had said goodbye a few months ago. He thought of her small, pretty nose, the generous mouth he loved to kiss. Where in blazes was she?

  He frowned fiercely. Was there some other reason she hadn’t come to meet him? Had she met someone else? Changed her mind? His heart gave a lurch.

  “Fraser! Fraser!” he heard his name called. “Over here!”

  He turned in the direction of the voice he recognized. Suddenly everything stopped; all the noise around him receded. It was Niki’s voice. He saw her then, through the mass of people pushing against him. He started toward her, feeling as if he were wading in quicksand. He kept her in focus. No wonder he hadn’t spotted her at first. She was wearing a ridiculous little hat, and a ruffled collar framed her face. But she looked great—beautiful, in fact.

  At last he reached her. She was standing absolutely still, but when he opened his arms, she flung herself into them. His arms went around her, lifting her off her feet. She was so light that he was almost afraid he might crush her.

  Tears were running down her cheeks. He’d have to do something with that silly veil in order to wipe them away and kiss her. He set her down and she looked up at him. With both gloved hands she folded back the veil. At last Fraser kissed her, knocking the foolish little hat sideways, a kiss that settled for both of them all doubts that their love was real, that it had endured the long separation, and that they belonged to each other “from this day forward.”

  Mayfield, Virginia September 1945

  The sound of church bells ringing broke through the somnolent quiet of the September day. Almost spontaneously people began arriving at the Mayfield church. Others drifted in until the small sanctuary was filled and people were standing along the sides from the back to the altar rail. Hearts were full and eyes glistened as friends greeted one another, exchanging smiles, murmurs, and hugs, expressing their deep gratitude that finally the war that had lasted nearly four years, hovering over their daily lives, was over.

  There was hardly a person or a family who had not been touched in some way by the war. As they gathered in thanksgiving for victory, they were not unmindful of those who were not here. The ones who would never come here again to worship, pray, and sing hymns, would never see their children grow up, marry, or bring a baby here to be christened.

  They knew nothing would ever be quite the same. Not for anyone, neither the ones who were here nor the ones whose return they awaited nor the ones lost to them forever. However, although the moment was not undimmed by tears, everyone was aware that it was a moment that would always stay in their memories. God had brought them through a time of testing, and they were humbly grateful.

  Reverend Morrison, whose two sons were still overseas, entered the church. The murmurs of the congregation faded away to a respectful hush as he proceeded up the middle aisle, went through the chancel gate, mounted the pulpit.

  “Dear friends,” he began, and his voice broke. Nearly overcome with emotion, he paused to compose himself before going on. “Rejoice, again I say, rejoice.” His voice trembled but gradually grew stronger. “This is the day we have longed for, prayed for. This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad. Glory be to God.” He bowed his head and brought out a large handkerchief from under his surplice and wiped his eyes, blew his nose. Then he signaled to Mrs. Creighton, who was already seated at the organ, and said, “Let us sing the hymn inspired from Isaiah 52:7.” Without a moment’s hesitation she played the opening chords to “Our God Reigns.”

  “How lovely on the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, good news …,” voices sang out. “Announcing peace, proclaiming news of happiness, our God reigns, our God reigns.”

  Never had the song been sung as loud or as enthusiastically as it was that afternoon. Never had it been sung with such fervor or meaning. Each person’s heart lifted as the triumphant words were repeated over and over.

  Usually the service in this church was dignified, the ancient rituals conducted in quiet order. Today, however, the people seemed to forget the decorum that since childhood they had been taught to observe within these sacred walls. Yet never had a service seemed as appropriate. No one who attended that day would ever forget it. They would remember it as a fitting tribute to the God they worshiped, who had brought them through a terrible time and once more blessed America with peace.

  At last the wonderful news came that the war was ended in the Pacific as well as in Europe. The Japanese had surrendered. Peace had come. Brooke would be freed, Gareth thought with a wary heart. Please, God, he prayed.

  Through Aunt
Cara at the Red Cross and the connection of Senator Frank Maynard, Gareth was able to get information about Japanese prisoners of war, the nonmilitary internees. He was at Avalon when the cable came and was rerouted to him.

  American national Brooke Leslie was alive, being repatriated to the United States aboard a ship leaving Japan, via Hawaii, and would dock in San Diego. Gareth rejoiced, gave thanks, and immediately made preparations to go to California to meet Brooke’s ship. They would be married and he would bring her home to Avalon.

  chapter

  29

  San Diego, California

  EVERY MUSCLE IN GARETH’S BODY TENSED, every nerve tingled, as he stood among the crowd waiting for the great ship to dock. All around him people looked up at the passengers leaning against the railing above, shouting and waving excitedly and receiving shouts and waves in return. The compressed excitement was tangible. As the gangplank was lowered, secured, the throng surged forward. Who knew how long everyone there had prayed, yearned, longed, for this moment when they would be reunited with loved ones, not even knowing if they were alive or dead?

  Gareth’s heart pounded heavily as the gate at the top of the gangplank was lifted back and passengers began to descend. He felt bodies pressing against him from behind. He moved involuntarily as people pushed forward. His eyes searched frantically the streams of passengers for the one face he had carried so long in his mind, in his heart’s memory. His pulse thrummed and his breath was coming in short gasps.

  Then he saw her. His stomach wrenched painfully. In shock, in relief. She was coming slowly down the ramp. There was another woman beside her. They were arm in arm. Who was supporting whom? Was Brooke holding on to the woman, or was it the other way around? They moved haltingly. Gareth’s throat was dry and tight from anxiety. Was she ill? The pressure of the crowd behind him inched him toward the bottom of the gangplank. Soon he would be able to reach out and touch her. Now he saw her more clearly. Dear God, she was thin. Thinner than he ever remembered. But then, how could she not be, with all those months of deprivation? And her hair was threaded with silvery streaks waving back from her high forehead. What she must have endured. Gareth felt the horrors he’d imagined confirmed. But her eyes, now sweeping the crowd for him, were still lovely and violet blue in the pale oval of her face.

  “Brooke!” he yelled. “Here I am!” He lifted one arm, waving wildly.

  In another few minutes they were in each other’s arms. He felt her fragility through the flimsy material of the dress she was wearing and loosened his hold. “Oh, dearest, dearest Gareth,” he heard her husky whisper. “I was so afraid you might not have got my cable. There were so many being sent. I was terrified you wouldn’t be here.”

  He could not answer for the enormous lump blocking all the words he wanted to say. Brooke was here, she was safe, the agony was over. That was enough for now.

  His arm around her securely, he maneuvered her through the dense crowd, where other equally emotional, dramatic reunions were taking place. “My grandmother lent me her car,” he told her. “Where are your things?”

  She held up the small valise she was carrying. “This is all. The few things the Red Cross supplied for us, hardly more than a toothbrush, some underclothes. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. What few supplies I nursed in the camps make this a luxury.” Brooke managed a laugh that sounded delightful to Gareth.

  “We’ll get you whatever you need or want,” he promised.

  They drove down the coast to the Riverside Inn. Gareth was never sure exactly how he managed the highway traffic to get there. He was so conscious of Brooke beside him, he might easily have been too distracted to drive safely. Somehow within hours they were there.

  Lunching on the patio, they could hardly eat for gazing into each other’s eyes, breaking off in the middle of a sentence about something else to say wonderingly, “I can’t believe you’re really here” and “I prayed for this moment and now that it’s here, it seems unreal.”

  They went to the little shopping center of Spanish-style architecture, its arched, vine-covered walkways between stores of every kind. There Brooke made a few purchases. Afterward they wandered hand in hand, stopping to browse and window-shop, still too aware of each other to be really present where they were.

  On the way back to the hotel, they passed the ancient mission, now a tourist attraction rather than a place of worship. It seemed natural to slow to a stop. Gareth pulled into a parking space in front of the building. He turned to Brooke questioningly. She said quietly, “We have so much to be thankful for.”

  Gareth nodded. “So many answered prayers.”

  It seemed entirely appropriate that they go inside, even though it was not the parish church it had been long ago. They entered the dim old chapel with its adobe walls, tiled floor, worn benches, and knelt down, lifting grateful hearts to the God who had been so faithful.

  “May the Lord watch between me and thee when we are absent from each other. Genesis 31:49,” whispered Brooke, slipping her hand into Gareth’s. “I said that over and over every day.” She remembered the small Bible she had carried into the Japanese internment camp with her, the one she still had.

  They remained for a few more minutes in the quiet, then left, still caught up in the solemnity of the moment.

  That evening they had dinner served on the balcony outside their room, which looked out onto the mountain, where a sunset began spreading its palette of glorious colors across the sky. They talked of many things, of that summer so long ago when they had fallen in love, of the things that had happened in the years since, and then of the future.

  “I can’t wait to take you home, Brooke, home to Avalon,” Gareth said, raising her thin hands to his lips and kissing her fingertips. “Ever since I got out of the service, I’ve worked at getting the gardens back in shape after all the months of neglect. It’s going to be beautiful by the time we get there. And the house … well, I want you to do whatever you wish inside…. It will be yours now…. You can bring your own things….”

  “Dear Gareth,” Brooke interrupted. “I have no things. Nothing is left of my beautiful screens or my porcelain or my Netsuke collection—all are gone, confiscated.” A smile touched her mouth briefly. “I’m afraid I’m coming as your bride empty-handed.”

  “But not empty-hearted, my darling,” Gareth replied, thinking how hard it must have been for Brooke to lose all her precious belongings.

  “It doesn’t matter. If there is one thing I’ve learned through all this, Gareth, it’s that our material possessions are of little worth in the overall scheme of things. Only one thing is important: our relationship with God.”

  They were both silent a moment, letting the truth of her words seep in to them just as the beauty of the sunset filled them with awe and the majesty of its source. After a while Brooke asked, “Tell me again how it was your parents called your house Avalon.”

  “Actually, it was my Grandmother Blythe who named it. She was totally enamored of the legend of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Avalon was part of that legend, the place to which Arthur returned and from which he would again rule. According to the Arthurian legends, it is a magical island hidden behind impenetrable mists. Unless you believe in its existence, the mists won’t part.” He paused. Brooke was listening attentively. “My father, Jeff Montrose, was named for the writer Geoffrey of Monmouth, who first chronicled the tales of Arthur.

  “My parents inherited the estate, which actually is a small island, and perpetuated the myths of it being a special, secret place. They were completely in love with each other and the island, and they made it a magical one for us as children. My father needed the solitude to concentrate on his work, and my mother ensured that he had it. Meanwhile for us it became a closed but wonderful place, a kind of enchanted world-with-in-a-world.” He smiled in tender remembrance. “Tennyson’s Idylls of the King was the inspiration for many of my father’s paintings, his style fashioned after the Pre-Raphaelite artists. My mo
ther, Faith, was often his model.” Gareth took Brooke’s hand in his, covered it with his other hand, gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “I remember the day you took me over there. I never dreamed then that one day I would live there.”

  “I knew,” Gareth said. “But it was hard holding on to that dream.”

  Brooke gazed at him lovingly. To return to a dream required hope, a sense of childlike belief that dreams can come true, that prayers are answered. She thanked God that he had allowed her that dream, had given her the faith, the innocent hope she now saw as a miracle. That’s what a miracle really is, after all: the parting of mists of doubt, unbelief, despair, to a fulfillment of love.

  chapter

  30

  England

  ALAIR HELD HER BREATH as she watched the men leave the train. So many things crowded into her mind as her eyes searched for him. She remembered the first time she had ever seen Luc Montrose, his confident walk, his cap at a jaunty angle, the ultimate cocky airman. And yet there had been a sensitive part of him, the sweet, poetic side of him that perhaps only she knew. The letters he had written from prison had revealed a man even deeper, more introspective, more spiritual, than she had glimpsed. The ordeal of being a prisoner of war would change anyone. He had written as if they might not ever see each other again, and yet in another few minutes Luc would step out of that train and—

  Her first thought was how pale and thin he was. His uniform hung on his tall frame, the tunic collar loose. She was shocked to see he was leaning heavily on a cane as he emerged from the passenger car. Luc’s leg had been broken in two places when he parachuted from his burning plane. She hadn’t realized that he might be crippled. But perhaps it had not been set properly or had not healed well due to the horrible conditions in camp.