Whether happiness may come or not, one should try to prepare one’s self to do without it—George Eliot
ROD TOOK THE TRAIN from London to Liverpool, then boarded the evening steamer for Dublin. As the ship eased into the Mersey for the crossing, he leaned on the deck’s railing, watching the lights of the port city recede. His mind juggled a dozen thoughts simultaneously, but returned again and again to the interview he’d conducted in London the afternoon before.
In retrospect, maybe he should have been alerted right away when the cabby brought him to the old brick building in a questionable part of the city. Entering a dark foyer, he had mounted a steep, narrow stairway, then made his way down a series of labyrinthine hallways to stand in front of a door. The sign, lettered in garish gold overleaf, read: “Bristow and Burnham, Private Investigators.”
His hand on the doorknob, Rod debated the wisdom of what he was about to do and hesitated. Then, deciding that having come this far he could not turn back now, he twisted the knob and went inside.
In the dingy office a man, seated behind a desk, looked up over small, square spectacles punctuating his sallow, moon-shaped face. Sparse strands of hair were combed precisely over his balding head.
He squinted curiously at Rod. “Yes, sir, may I help you?”
Rod felt an instinctive revulsion. As if his errand were not questionable enough, it seemed he must solicit the help of a man whose very appearance was reminiscent of a pulp novel.
“Mr. Burnham? Mr. Philip Burnham?”
“The same, sir.”
“I’m Rod Cameron. We’ve had some correspondence and—”
The man nodded and replied in an oily voice, “Quite so, quite so. I have your letter here someplace. Do have a seat, sir, until I locate it—” Burnham rummaged through a sheaf of papers cluttering his desk while Rod sat down stiffly in a chair opposite.
“Ah, yes, here it is.” Mr. Burnham retrieved a dog-eared folder from the pile that threatened at any moment to topple over. “I see you’re looking for someone you have reason to believe is in England. Am I right?”
Almost before Rod had finished giving a brief description of Blythe and his reasons for extending his search for her to England, the man was shaking his head.
“Mr. Cameron, the trail for this young lady is nearly five years old. You do understand that it has cooled off considerably by now. People trying to lose themselves usually move very fast, covering their tracks the first few months when it might be easiest to catch up with them.”
“I didn’t say she was trying to—” protested Rod, but the man ignored the interruption and resumed his lecture.
“Besides, you’ve given me very little to go on. A physical description is usually of little use, especially in finding a woman determined not to be found. Women can do all sorts of things to change their appearance—dye their hair, pad themselves to look heavier, wear a different style dress, affect an entirely new manner—It’s surprising what good actresses the ladies can become.”
Mr. Burnham’s eyes took on a gleam of admiration. “I recall a Miss Tillie Murgesson, a real ‘stunner,’ she was, too. A shopgirl who had cleverly absconded with the store’s entire monthly payroll and—”
Rod stirred impatiently, and Mr. Burnham adjusted his eyeglasses and returned to the papers in his folder. Drawing out a letter Rod recognized as the one he had written just a few weeks ago, the man cleared his throat. “Now was this … Mrs. Blythe Montrose … an employee? Someone you suspect of taking the family silver, or perhaps her mistress’s jewelry or—” Here Mr. Burnham looked up, eyeing Rod across the desk with a certain sly look. “Or does she have some letters in her possession, perhaps written in the indiscretion of infatuation, that you now wish returned?”
Rod felt a rising fury he could barely restrain. “I don’t think I’ve made myself clear, Mr. Burnham. I am not trying to trap anyone. I simply want to know if this … this young lady is well.” Rod’s voice took on a firm authority that Mr. Burnham was quick to acknowledge.
He hastily put down the letter he was reading and brought out a legal pad, making scribbled notes as Rod dictated.
“Let’s go over the description once more then, sir. Approximately five feet seven … hmm, tall for a lady, isn’t she? Red hair—oh yes, dark auburn, you say. Color of eyes?” He wrote rapidly, his pen noisily scratching across the sheet of paper. “What sort of occupation might this lady now be employed in, do you suppose? Domestic service, clerk, waitress?”
This question gave Rod pause. He could not think of a possible answer. What would Blythe do, alone, without money, friends or family, in a strange country? Maybe his mother was right. After all, why would Blythe have left America? Still, all the leads Rod had followed so far had led nowhere. The one most promising had suggested that Blythe took the train from Mayfield to Richmond and on to Washington. From there, the only reasonable direction would be to go north to a big city like New York or Boston. Why? But, then, that was still the most puzzling, unanswerable question of all. Why, indeed?
When the Camerons had found out about Montclair and learned that Blythe was gone, they had discussed every possibility. It seemed to Rod, after his fruitless efforts to locate her in California, that she must have stayed in the east. Left penniless by Malcolm’s profligate gambling, where would she go, what would she do with limited formal education and no work experience? Seek work as a housemaid or children’s nurse? Rod had never known a woman who had to support herself. His mind had drawn a blank then, nor had he been able to offer Mr. Burnham a satisfactory suggestion.
At length, he left the office feeling as frustrated as before. He also felt a little degraded for having discussed Blythe with that man who was probably more accustomed to dealing with the lowest types of criminals and evaders of the law. As distasteful as it had been, Rod’s determination to leave no stone unturned in his search for Blythe was stronger than ever. If this character could come up with any helpful information, it would have been worth it.
Rod now pounded his fist on the ship’s railing. Where was she? And if he couldn’t find her, why couldn’t he forget her?
He shivered in the swirl of mist and fog now encircling the open deck. Turning up his coat collar, he went below to the small, cramped cabin where he spent a restless night in a narrow berth too short for his long legs and awoke, sore and exhausted, to the sound of ship horns announcing their arrival in Dublin harbor. He was in Ireland at last.
Dan McShane was there on the dock to greet Rod with a wide smile and a hearty handshake. When he took Rod over to his fine polished carriage drawn by two prancing black horses, a freckle-faced, rosy-cheeked boy of about twelve was sitting in the driver’s seat, proudly holding the reins.
“This is Sean, my oldest,” Dan introduced him. “I let him take off the day from school to help me greet our American guest.”
The road from the docks wound through the city and out into the countryside. Rod was struck by the variegated shades of green so brilliant that the landscape seemed to shimmer in an iridescent mist. They passed through a village of thatch-roofed, white-washed cottages, scattering barefooted children and squawking chickens in their wake. Friendly villagers waved as the carriage rolled by, and Dan shouted his own lusty greeting.
Off the main road, a narrow lane threaded its way between undulating pastureland. Here Rod first glimpsed the herds of fine horses from Dan’s stables. Good horseflesh!
His excitement mounted as at last they drew up in front of a gray stone house, its entrance bright with flowers.
Dan tossed the reins to Sean. ‘Take the horses down to the stables for a good rubdown, there’s a good lad.” To Rod, he said, “Come along and meet my better half.” He grinned broadly.
As they got down from the carriage, the top half of a polished oak door swung open, and a handsome woman with dark wavy hair and blue, laughing eyes beckoned them inside.
“Welcome, Mr. Cameron! I’m Maura.” She unlatched the full door and held it open. “And would you be ready now for a good Irish breakfast? The girls and I are just getting it on the table.”
A few minutes later Rod was sitting at the broad table in the sunny dining room. There were slices of succulent pink ham, mounds of fluffy eggs, yellow butter, potatoes cut thick and browned lightly, fresh-baked oat bread, and steaming hot sweet tea. He ate with an appetite fueled not only by the abundant food, but by the warmth of the good people in the home.
That was the first day of his week-long visit to the McShane farm, each day thereafter a pure pleasure. Their hospitality rivaled the legendary Southern hospitality with which Rod had grown up.
The McShanes’ four children, three boys and a pretty little girl, were as friendly as their parents and rode their own ponies like veterans. Maura McShane, a real “stunner,” as Mr. Burnham might have described her, was obviously in love with her big, rugged husband, who adored her unashamedly.
It was an environment that both charmed and saddened Rod. He could not deny a twinge of envy as he observed their happiness, the contentment of their life together. It made his own solitary status, his unfulfilled dreams, his loneliness, even more acutely unbearable.
Rod spent the first part of his stay looking over Dan’s stock, selecting the brood mares he planned to buy to enhance his own stables at Cameron Hall. In frequent consultation with Dan about his distinctive techniques of horse-training, Rod took note of the subtle differences in training technique that Dan used for riding from those he used for raising hunters.
By the end of the week, Rod had acquired a tremendous respect for Dan—his knowledge, his way with the animals, his expertise—and accompanied him to the lawyer to sign the bill of sale for the horses Rod was arranging to ship back to Virginia.
Just before he was to leave for England and his visit with Garnet, Rod told the McShanes good -bye to do a little exploring on his own. Taking a room at an inn near Dublin, he set off one fine, misty morning for a long hike.
A few miles from the village, he had been told, was the site of an ancient abbey situated on the cliffs high above the ocean. It was here Rod sat on a flat, sun-warmed rock to eat the lunch the innkeeper had packed in his haversack.
While he munched on ham and cheese between thick slices of homemade bread, Rod contemplated the magnificent view—emerald green Irish hills against a cerulean sky, the golden sands below, the turquoise water dancing with white crests of foam.
So far from home and all that was familiar, Rod experienced a strange melancholy. His eyes roved the glorious landscape, its wild grandeur and haunting beauty. That there was no one to share this splendid moment, no human heart to understand his mood and echo his sentiments was overwhelmingly oppressive.
He finished his lunch, stood up and walked a few yards farther toward the abandoned abbey. He had been told it had been built in 1062, supposedly one of the finest examples of ecclesiastical architecture in which early Irish Christians worshiped. Later, it was destroyed by Cromwell’s men and finally gutted by fire, its treasures stolen. Now all that remained was a rubble of stone, part of a wall and arch.
Rod stepped among the ruins, wondering what this structure, built to the glory of God, must once have been like. Beyond the nave, now open to the sky, were the remnants of a graveyard with a few granite Celtic crosses and broken headstones. Rod strolled through the scattered stones of the church out onto the coarse tufted grass and wandered through the burial plots.
Most of the epitaphs were nearly undecipherable, probably carved in old Gaelic. But as he continued to wander among them, the inscription on one caught Rod’s attention, and he stopped to read it.
“Eileen of my heart, Eileen of my love, ere the world should end my love for you remains ever”—Aidian Wyre, 1640”
What stonecutter, having lost his beloved, had composed this heartrending promise? Whoever he was, Rod felt instant empathy with him.
From that ancient graveyard he walked slowly back over hillocks studded with wind-sculpted yew trees, then down along a sparkling clear stream. As he turned toward the village back to his room at the inn, Rod came to a decision.
He could not spend the rest of his life mourning something irretrievably lost, something that, for all his searching, he had not been able to find. Life was not meant to be empty and meaningless. Life was meant to be shared; love, to be given; the future, to be anticipated.
The words of a proverb came to mind: “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” Well he was heartsick, all right, tired of hoping for what appeared to be hopeless, tired of the emptiness of his life. He longed for fulfillment, for love, and the promise of happiness.
He would be leaving for England in the morning. There he planned to visit Garnet and Jeremy at their country house before sailing for America and back to Virginia.
But first, he decided, he would stop in London and call on Fenelle Maynard, who was staying at her Uncle Webb’s home.
This decision made, Rod began to pack. He knew he had reached an important crossroads, one that should make him feel more settled, less uncertain. Why, then, did he feel such doubt, the void in his heart still unsatisfied?