What’s gone and past help should be past grief—Shakespeare
BLYTHE HAD NEVER planned to return to Mayfield. In fact, until her long talk with Sara, Mayfield was the very last place she ever imagined going. But Sara’s argument had been convincing.
On the sunny days aboard the boat traveling up the coast from Savannah, Blythe thought often about that afternoon she and Sara had spent together and how Sara had confided in her so intimately, as if she felt compelled to share with Blythe all that she herself had learned so tragically.
“It’s the things I didn’t appreciate that I miss most,” Sara had said. “Now, I know that joy in most lives is as fleeting as a summer rainbow. And we must cherish those times. The day of my accident that changed my life forever was such a happy one. Clay had just given me a beautiful new Arabian as a gift after Lee’s birth. I recall mounting, then turning back to see Clay and Malcolm standing on the porch steps, and thinking how wonderful my life was!” A sad smile touched Sara’s lips. “So, you see, as it says on the sundial in Noramary’s garden at Montclair: COUNT ONLY THE SUNNY HOURS.”
Upon their arrival in Mayfield, the train’s conductor informed Blythe that the Mayfield Inn always sent a carriage to pick up prospective guests. An official of the inn would dien take care of the passengers’ luggage, and they would be driven to the front entrance. At his suggestion, Blythe signaled the driver, and soon she and Jeff were seated in the open carriage en route to the Inn.
On the way, Blythe was amazed to see how well Mayfield had recovered from the ravages of war. The first time she had seen the town, it had borne the scars of frequent skirmishes between Union and Confederate forces. As a county junction, Mayfield and its railroad were strategically located and had been fought over, won, and lost a half-dozen times by each side, and in the last year of the conflict, had been occupied by the Yankees. Now it had the look of a flourishing community.
When they drew up in front of the imposing new façade of the inn, Blythe would not have recognized it as the shabby, weathered building she had known. Everything about it had been refurbished, from the nattily uniformed porters and bellboys to the plush carpeting and baroque furnishings of its interior.
As she approached the desk, a smiling clerk greeted her.
“Welcome to Mayfield, ma’am.” To Jeff, he said, “Howdy, young fellow.” Then he dipped a pen into the inkwell and handed it to her as he pushed the registration book forward. “And how long will you be staying with us?”
“I’m … not sure. I have some business to attend to. Actually … I am looking for some property—”
“That’s mighty fine.” The clerk beamed. “I know of just the person for you to contact, ma’am—Richard Pembruck, as fine a gentleman as you will ever meet. Deals in properties of ail kinds. I know he’d be happy to show you around. Now, if I might have your name—”
Blythe hesitated. One of the risks of coming to Mayfield was the name “Montrose,” so readily associated with the prominent family. The hyphenated “Dorman-Montrose” she had used in England had gone unnoted, since that usage was fairly common. Here in Virginia, however, it might seem pretentious and draw unwanted attention, or worse still be immediately recognized and beg questions.
“Mrs. Blythe Dorman—” she said finally, rationalizing dropping the last name. It was protection, a precaution, not really a lie, she told herself.
“With your permission, ma’am, I’ll let Mr. Pembruck know of your interest in seeing some of the available places hereabouts, and then you may make an appointment at your convenience.”
Blythe signed her name with a flourish. “Perhaps in a day or so, but I think I’d like to look around on my own a bit first. Could you arrange for me to have a carriage and driver for a few hours tomorrow?”
“Anything you say, ma’am,” the clerk agreed heartily.
Their room was a spacious one, with a large canopy bed for Blythe, and a small trundle bed for Jeff. The windows overlooked Mayfield Square. Here, surrounded by flower beds, the statue of a confederate soldier at parade rest presided over an octagonal park. Placed at random intervals were benches where people sat chatting or simply meditating on all that the stone soldier represented.
Later, when Blythe and Jeff went down to the elegant dining room for the early dinner service, they were shown to a table by a dignified, white-coated black waiter, who introduced himself as Clarence.
Jeff, as friendly as a puppy, soon struck up a conversation with him as their glasses were filled with ice water. From Clarence, they learned that the inn maintained a large play yard with slides, swings, and a merry-go-round for the children of guests.
“Oh, could I go there, Mummy?” Jeff asked eagerly.
“Yes, dear, perhaps—” Blythe murmured as she studied the menu.
“Now?”
“Too late this evenin’, suh,” Clarence told him. “Play yard closes down at five. Mebbe tomorrow, if yo’mama says—”
“Tomorrow then, Mummy?”
Blythe glanced over the top of her menu at his excited little face.
“Well, not tomorrow, Jeff. I thought we’d take a carriage ride. There’s something I want to show you.”
His look of keen disappointment changed to curiosity.
“What is it, Mummy?”
“A house—”
Jeff’s face fell. “A house?” he repeated. “Why would I want to see a house?”
“It’s a very special house, Jeff. It’s where your father grew up, where he lived when he was a little boy. It’s called Montclair.”
Clarence, who was waiting to take their order, shook his head. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but it ain’t called Montclair no mo’. That place b’longs to Mr. Randall Bondurant who married Miss Alair Chance. So they call it ‘Bon Chance’ now.”
Silently Blythe repeated the new name. The words felt strange on her lips—Bon chance—with her limited knowledge of French, Blythe knew it meant “Good luck.” How ironic, for a house lost to a gambler in a card game. It might have been his good fortune, but not Malcolm’s, and certainly not Jeff’s.
The next afternoon Blythe and Jeff waited on the veranda of the inn for the hired carriage.
“Drive out along the river road,” she instructed the driver as she climbed in.
The tree-lined country road had not changed quite as much as the town, but Blythe noticed freshly painted white fences surrounding lush pastureland on which well-fed cows and sleek horses grazed. The passing panorama kept Jeff busy and interested. But the farther into the country they drove, the more Blythe felt a nervous anticipation—an indefinable mixture of longing and dread.
The closer they came to the familiar bend in the road where she knew the Cameron property began, the faster her heart beat. She leaned forward, her gloved hands twisting in her lap, as they passed the stone gates of Cameron Hall.
The old pain clutched her throat, old questions surfaced—the ones she usually did not allow herself to dwell upon. What had the Camerons thought when they learned that she had left without telling them why she was going? How ungrateful Mrs. Cameron must have thought her, after all her many kindnesses to Blythe. And Rod—what must he have been thinking all these years?
But what else could I have done? Blythe agonized.
Just then the driver’s voice broke into her anguished thoughts, as he called down to her. “We’re coming to ‘Bon-Chance’now, ma’am. Want me to ring the gatehouse bell?”
“No, we’re not going up to the house. Just stop outside the gate, please.”
“Why can’t we go in, Mummy?” Jeff asked.
“Because we don’t know the people who live there now.”
He looked puzzled but accepted her answer.
When the carriage came to a stop, she said, “Come along, Jeff.”
When Blythe got out, he scrambled out behind her, then ran ahead to the closed gates. Leaning over her son’s head, Blythe gripped the railings, squinting her eyes through the masses of blooming pink and white dogwood for a glimpse of the house she had last seen on that drizzling, long-ago December day.
All she could see was a long stretch of velvety manicured lawn and, in the distance, a section of the gleaming white columns on the deep porch, the slanted slate roof, the sparkle of sunlight on the windowpanes framed by dark blue shutters.
“I can’t see anything, Mummy!” complained Jeff “Can’t we go in?”
“No, Jeff.”
“But if it was my father’s house, won’t they know us?”
“It was a long time ago, Jeff. Your father’s dead. Someone else owns it now.” Her voice was unusually sharp as she struggled with her own reaction to seeing Montclair again after all these years.
The little boy was quiet for a moment as if pondering his mother’s meaning. Then he ran back and forth along the stone wall, stopping now and then to try to peer through the railings. Tiring of this activity, he ran back and tugged at Blythe’s skirt. “Let’s go now, Mummy. I’ve seen enough.”
I have, too, she thought, her throat swelling with sadness as she looked down into the upturned face of her small son. This should all have been his. There should be no locked gates keeping him out.
With one hand she touched his curly head, then his plump cheek. “Yes, darling, it’s time to go.”
She took his hand and together they walked back to the carriage and climbed inside. As the carriage started back toward Mayfield, Blythe was sorry she’d come. It had probably been a dreadful mistake!
On the way back to town, Blythe stared unseeingly out the carriage window. She had not been prepared for the storm of bittersweet memories that stirred within her—that early spring afternoon when Malcolm and she had traveled this same road as newlyweds, Malcolm’s old homeplace, the first sighting of the mansion, her heightened anticipation. The meadows bordering the grounds of the house had been golden with daffodils that day, and when they had gone inside, they had found Garnet arranging armfuls of them into vases. Garnet!
Blythe thought of the stricken look on Garnet’s face when Malcolm had introduced Blythe as his wife. Unbeknownst to Blythe, Garnet had been in love with Malcolm even before his marriage to Rose Meredith and had loved him with a desperate passion for years—
Love can be so cruel, as she knew—
“Mummy! Mummy, look! Here comes a man on a horse!” exclaimed Jeff, pressing his face against the carriage window.
Jolted back to the present, Blythe turned her head in the direction Jeff was looking and saw a horse and rider approaching on the other side of the road.
It was like a dream out of the past. His wind-tossed hair and the horse’s mane were nearly the same tawny color, and there was something heart-catchingly familiar about the way the man sat in the saddle. Suddenly Blythe knew it was no dream. Instinctively, she drew back, forcing herself against the leather seat, out of sight of the passing rider. Even before he cantered by the carriage, she recognized him. It was Rod Cameron!
Back in her room at the Mayfield Inn, Blythe battled her turbulent emotions. That passing glimpse of Rod had unnerved her. All the thoughts and feelings she had thought so safely locked away had sprung open—a Pandora’s box of memories.
Seeing him on horseback recalled their rides together through the lush woodland trails adjoining their two plantations. One unforgettable day demanded remembering. They had ridden deep into the woods, and had dismounted and sat in the grape arbor of Eden Cottage, the honeymoon house for Montrose brides and grooms. That day they had come close to declaring the truth in their hearts of a love forbidden to them by all they both held sacred.
Blythe knew Rod to be a man of honor, strong loyalties, and firm faith. He lived by a code he would never betray.
But what of now? What would happen if she suddenly reappeared in Rod’s life? Would he now declare that love? Or was it a hope she had preserved in her heart alone? The thought had a paralyzing effect.
Blythe knew it was dangerous to remain in Mayfield where, at some unplanned moment, they might encounter each other again. She wrung her hands, stifling the moan that sprang to her lips. There was so much guilt surrounding their relationship—guilt that she, a married woman, had been in love with her husband’s best friend, guilt for the shabby manner in which she had treated his family—
It had been particularly difficult for Rod’s mother, Kate Cameron, who was always the soul of grace and tact, even though Blythe’s coming had meant a second heartbreak for her daughter Garnet. And Rod’s cousin Dove had welcomed her as a sister-in-law. No, she must not take the chance of meeting Rod unexpectedly.
Blythe knew now that if she planned to stay in Virginia so Jeff could be educated in the land of his fathers, it could not be in Mayfield. It would have to be somewhere else.
She wished she had not made the appointment with the realtor for tomorrow. But the desk clerk had already made the arrangements, and Mr. Pembruck had followed up with a note, saying he was sure he had some properties in which she would be interested.
Yes, she would have to keep the appointment. But after that, she would take Jeff and leave.
Jeff, left in the care of a cheerful black maid named Mattie, was playing happily in the play yard of the inn when Blythe accompanied Mr. Pembruck the next day on a tour of houses and lots in the Mayfield vicinity.
She looked at all the property he had in mind for her and listened politely as he cataloged the selling points of each one, waiting until the appropriate time to tell him she would prefer something a great deal farther from the town.
“You see, I really don’t intend to stay much longer in Virginia on this trip, Mr. Pembruck. My son and I will be leaving soon for our home in England. But I would appreciate it if you would keep in touch with me and let me know if you should find something suitable,” Blythe told him when he escorted her back to the inn.
“Most assuredly, Mrs. Dorman. You have been explicit in outlining your needs—particularly proximity to a good school for your son. Be certain I will be in touch with you.” He tipped his hat and bowed as he left her at the front entrance. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, and I hope the two of you will soon be Virginia residents.”
Blythe thanked him, passed through the lobby of the hotel, and went up the stairs to her room. Doubts about the wisdom of planning to live again in Virginia troubled her. And yet it had seemed so right when she discussed the possibility with Sara. Maybe it was having seen Rod that had disturbed her so much.
Suddenly she felt an overwhelming urgency to pack and leave Mayfield as soon as possible. Even though she had booked passage on a ship sailing two weeks from today, she could take Jeff up to Richmond and Washington to see some of the historic sites there—Yes, she would notify the management that she would be leaving sooner than planned, ask them to prepare her bill and make train reservations at once.
Feeling weary after the long day of viewing property with Mr. Pembruck, Blythe decided to ring for room service and relax for a while before Jeff, with all his boundless energy, returned from the play yard.
When the maid appeared with tea and tiny sandwiches, Blythe noticed a folded newspaper on the tray beside the silver pot. It was the latest edition of the Mayfield Herald.
“I didn’t order a newspaper,” Blythe told the maid.
“It’s a courtesy of the Inn, ma’am,” she replied, bobbing a little curtsy as she left the room.
Blythe poured her tea, then unfolded the paper, thinking it might be interesting read the local news. Later, she was to think it strange that she had not the slightest premonition, not one, of what she would find when she turned to the society page. There, in bold black print, she read: TWO PROMINENT LOCAL FAMILIES TO BE UNITED.
“Mrs. Elyse Maynard announces the engagement of her daughter, Fenelle, to Mr. Roderick Cameron of Cameron Hall—”
The words blurred before Blythe’s eyes. She read the rest of the article rapidly, registering only phrases here and there—“wedding plans undetermined at this time. Miss Maynard … visiting relatives in England … where she will enjoy a London season this summer.”
Blythe’s hands were shaking when she put the paper down. She rose from the chair and went over to the window. It was open to admit the soft, spring breeze, but she shivered and pulled the window shut. She felt cold. Weak. Devastated.
But why? Had she really expected Rod to wait for her, without a word, without hope? How could she have been so foolish? Still, she knew that in her heart she had secretly harbored a dream that somehow she and Rod would—What? How?
You fool! she chastised herself. Why didn’t you contact Rod when Jeff was horny when you were both free? Blythe shuddered and turned away from the pale afternoon sunshine streaming through the window. Even the sun had grown cold.
How much later, she was never sure, she began to remove articles of clothing from armoire and bureau drawers. There was no question in her mind now what she should do.
“But why do we have to leave?” protested Jeff when she told him that evening. “I like it here!”
Blythe looked up from her packing. “It’s time we went back home, darling. Don’t you want to see Dotty? I’m sure she misses us. And Captain Prescott’s Labrador, Jet, must have had her puppies by now. He promised you one, remember?”
Seeing this seemed to satisfy Jeff temporarily, Blythe pressed her advantage. “You liked sailing on the ship, didn’t you, Jeff? Well, we’ll be going back on an even bigger one this time—” While her voice sounded cheerful enough as she embellished on the pleasures of their return ocean voyage, Blythe’s mind was far removed from what she was saying.
“I guess so—well, yes, I did like that!” Jeff agreed. Then he jumped down off the bed. “What shall I call my puppy, do you think, Mummy? I like the name Rex or Prince, don’t you?”
Thank goodness, Jeff was so amenable, so ready to accept whatever came along, Blythe thought with relief. This was such an easy age. If he had been older, it might not be so simple to explain her change of mind.
Two days later, all her arrangements were complete, and the morning they were to leave for Richmond, Jeff was so eager to be off, that, in desperation, Blythe sent him down to the lobby to wait for her there.
“Go tell Clarence good-bye, why don’t you, darling?” she suggested.
“Oh, that’s a good idea, Mummy, I’ll do that!” he said, and went skipping off down the stairs.
Blythe put on her bonnet and adjusted the veil. Her small chin was set determinedly, her mouth firm, but she felt the turmoil within her, the terrible churning, the heaviness in her breast that made it difficult to breathe.
Feeling faint, she sat down on the edge of the bed to regain her equilibrium. just a case of nerves, she thought. Good thing she was so very healthy, though she hadn’t quite been herself since seeing Rod on the road back from Montclair.
Would she ever get over Rod Cameron? The sad truth was that she had lost him twice. If she had acted sooner, written him, anything … maybe … Blythe shook her head at her reflection in the bureau mirror. Too late, too late—
Resolutely, she rose from the bed, picked up her handbag and gloves, and left the room. The carriage from the Inn would take them to the Mayfield station for the train to Richmond. But first, she had to settle her bill and check out at the desk.
Descending the stairs into the main lobby, Blythe heard Jeff’s voice. She halted, glanced around the lobby, and spotted him talking to two men. Their backs were to Blythe, but there was something familiar about the set of the taller man’s shoulders, and her hand tightened on the banister. Instantly aware of her thundering heart, she moved behind one of the columns, where she could see and hear but was herself hidden. Every nerve quivering, she heard that deep drawl she recognized immediately.
“So, young fellow, what’s your name?”
Blythe held her breath as the confident reply came, “Jeff!”
“Ah ha! Jeff, is it? Well that’s a fine name for a Virginia lad.”
“Were you named for our famous native son, Thomas Jefferson?” the other man teased. “Or, maybe, for our illustrious Confederate president, Jefferson Davis?”
Blythe bit her lower lip and made an unconscious gesture as if to stop him. What if Jeff had given his full name, Jeff Montrose! Then what would have happened?
From her vantage point, she saw Jeff tip his curly head to one side, evidently puzzled by the questions. Almost at the same time he caught sight of Blythe. ‘There’s my mother! I’ll ask her!”
To her dismay, the two men turned in the direction of Jeff’s pointed finger. There was nothing Blythe could do but continue down the steps with as much dignity as she could muster. Her heart throbbed in her throat; her breath was shallow; her hands under her gloves, clammy. But what else could she do?
Rod stood motionless, watching the tall, slender woman move toward him. It was the reality of a thousand dreams, yet vastly different from his fantasies.
She was still lovely, her features visible through the froth of blue veiling, her auburn hair swept up under the saucy flowered and beribboned bonnet. But this was no coltish girl recently come from a western ranch. This was a fashionably attired lady of elegance and style.
Rod stiffened. His bearing became almost militarily erect. As Blythe came closer, she could see character lines in his handsome face, and the sun-bronzed russet hair was threaded with silver.
Waves of emotion threatened to overwhelm her. Then something in his eyes halted her—something undisguised, transparent, full of remembering, and she caught her breath.
As they stood looking at each other, she saw her agony mirrored in his expression. To her horror, the blue eyes glazed over, hardening into steel. For the first time she knew how awful these years must have been for him. Somehow the silence between them was worse than any words they might have spoken.
“Mummy, Mummy, who am I named for?” Jeff’s high-pitched voice broke through her trance-like state. She felt his little hands grab hers, swinging slightly as he persisted. ‘Wasn’t it some knight from King Arthur’s court?”
Blythe felt her mouth tremble as she forced it into a smile.
“Rod,” she murmured.
“Blythe!” Her name on his lips sent a thrill coursing through her.
As if Rod suddenly became aware of his companion, who was looking with curiosity from one to the other, he introduced them.
“Blythe, may I present Francis Maynard?” Rod hesitated a fraction of a second. “Francis, Mrs…. Montrose.”
The other man acknowledged the introduction with a friendly smile.
“Delighted, ma’am. I presume you’re related to old friends of mine, the Montrose family?”
Blythe nodded, somehow able to utter the confirming words: “Malcolm Montrose’s widow.”
Evidently Francis Maynard was sensitive enough to perceive there was something unusual in this meeting. “If you will excuse me, ma’am, Rod, I’ll go on ahead and join our friends in the gentlemen’s lounge. You’ll join us later, Rod?” He bowed again, saying as he left, “You’ve a fine boy there, Mrs. Montrose.”
Finally Rod spoke, breaking the long awkwardness between them. “I’m truly at a loss … I can’t believe you’re really here … I don’t know what to say.”
“I know.” Blythe swallowed over the ache in her throat. “I never meant … this shouldn’t be the way—” She gave up. “Jeff and I have been here just a few days. We’ve been in Savannah, with Mr. and Mrs. Montrose. It was she who suggested—” Blythe drew Jeff closer to her—“that I bring my son here to see Montclair—”
“You must know it’s been taken over by Randall Bondurant—”
“Oh, yes, of course. I knew that … that’s why I left—” she broke off helplessly. Again, the enormity of what she had to explain threatened to dissolve her. Rod’s eyes were impenetrable, searching her face, seeking answers to the many questions that must be crowding his mind.
Rod saw the trembling mouth he had so often longed to kiss. She looked so vulnerable that Rod’s heart felt sore, then it hardened. How dare she come back here now! Of all times! Hadn’t she left without a word? Hadn’t she proven her lack of trust in him by keeping her plans to herself? Hadn’t she betrayed their love by all these years of silence? Now—when it was too late—here she was!
He found his voice at last and was surprised at its harshness. “And this is Malcolm’s son?”
“Yes, this is Jeff. Jeff, short for Geoffrey. It was a name Malcolm liked very much,” Blythe replied, thinking how stiff and formal she sounded. How odd to be speaking with the man she had loved all these years as though to a stranger.
Panic spread through her, and she groped for something more normal to say. “How is your mother, Rod? I thought of sending a note asking to call, but then … it didn’t seem the right thing … especially now that I—” she stopped abruptly, feeling her cheeks burn. “I mean, we are here for such a short time…. Well, we must go now, we have a train to catch and—”
Here Jeff supplied the rest of the information. “Then we’re taking a big ship, going back to England! And I am to have a puppy as soon as we get home!”
Rod smiled down at him. ‘That’s fine, Jeff, every boy should have a dog.” His eyes rested on the handsome little boy with interest and liking, all the while thinking, This could have been my son. Mine and Blythe’s. He turned to Blythe. “What time does your train leave?”
“In an hour,” she replied. “I have to settle my bill—”
“There’s another train to Richmond later today. Take that one, instead.” Rod’s tone was authoritative. “We must talk, Blythe. We can go into one of the private parlors here. Don’t you think you owe me that much?”
Blythe hesitated. What use was there in talking now? It would only make things worse. Her anguish was already unbearable. But how could she refuse?
Leaning down, she cupped Jeff’s cheek. “Darling, how would you like to run out to the play yard, find your friends Tom and Jimmy, and play for a while so Mummy can have a visit with her old friend, Mr. Cameron?”
“Oh, yippee, yes!” Jeff said excitedly. “I didn’t get a chance to tell them about the big ship we’re going on!”
He was already heading for the side door as she called after him, ‘Try not to get too dirty!”
Rod smiled knowingly. “Aren’t you asking the impossible of a small boy, Blythe?”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed ruefully.
“Now, shall we go?” he asked, gesturing toward one of the alcoved parlors, curtained with looped velvet draperies, that circled the lobby. He motioned her forward and there was nothing to do but follow his suggestion. As she did so, Blythe now dreaded the very encounter she had dreamed of. What could possibly come of any discussion between them now?
The little room, heavily decorated in the ornate style set by England’s Queen Victoria, was almost smothering to Blythe. She seated herself on one of the carved armchairs. A pink marble-topped table separated her from Rod, who lowered his long frame into the opposite chair.
Glancing over at him, Blythe could read the hopelessness in his eyes, the same despair she felt. They were as trapped now by their feelings for each other as they had ever been before. But she knew he was expecting an explanation of her actions six years ago. He deserved that much. In a breathless rush, she began to tell him how frightened she had been, how lost after Malcolm’s death when she had been ordered out of Montclair, but Rod held up his hand and stopped her midway.
“Didn’t it even occur to you that we … all my family … that I, in particular, wanted to help you in any way possible way, Blythe? Didn’t you know I loved you?”
Tears stung her eyes and she nodded wordlessly.
“But I was carrying Malcolm’s child, Rod. I thought it would be wrong to accept your help when I could promise you nothing in return—”
Rod shook his head as if he still did not comprehend.
Once the dam was broken, Blythe’s words tumbled one over the other, pouring like flood waters as she told him about what she had discovered about her father’s legacy, how she had acted on impulse, first going to Bermuda and meeting the Ainsleys who had taken her under their wing, and how she had ended up in England.
“I tried to find you,” Rod said at last.
“I didn’t know. I thought … I wanted you to forget me.”
“Forget you? Did you really think I could do that?”
Her lips were stiff as she said, “Rod … I know you are engaged, that … you are getting married.”
At her remark the pupils of his eyes widened slightly, and slow color rose into his cheeks. But he did not look away as he answered her. “Yes, quite recently to Fenelle Maynard, the daughter of old family friends.”
“From Mayfield, then?”
“Yes.”
“Are you to be married soon?”
“A date has not yet been set. Fenelle is abroad, visiting relatives in England. She won’t be returning to Virginia until the fall. Her cousin has arranged a London season for her—” His words drifted off, spoken almost impatiently as though what he was saying was of little importance.
Blythe tried desperately to think of something appropriate to say, something, anything, but her mind drew a blank. She felt the rush of adrenaline that made her pulses throb. Rod’s eyes held her prisoner, and she could neither move nor turn her head away.
His next words were so low she unconsciously leaned forward to catch them. “Why? Why, Blythe?”
She knew what he meant. Why had she left without telling him? Why had she not sent for him in her distress? Why had she disappeared from his life, leaving no clue as to where she was going or where he might find her?
She shook her head dumbly, looking down at her gloved hands pressed tightly together in her lap.
“I don’t know, Rod. It was such a long time ago. I was a different person then … I can’t remember what I must have been thinking—”
“Didn’t you know I would have done anything, gone anywhere … if I had known?”
Without lifting her head or looking at him, she nodded miserably.
“If I had only known … maybe I should have guessed. But I tried … thought I should respect your … grief,” Rod said. “I thought you knew… given time, I would have … we could have … Blythe, don’t you understand? Didn’t you know how much I loved you?”
“Don’t!” she gasped. “Don’t say it!”
“I have to say it!” Rod retorted almost harshly. “I’ve waited nearly six years to say it. How much can a man bear? Can you imagine the agony I’ve been through not knowing where you were, if you were all right, if you might be in want? Blythe, I never imagined you to be so cruel.”
Blythe felt a quiver all through her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry?” he echoed, a tinge of irony in his voice.
She felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes, and she blinked them away before Rod could see them.
Just then Jeff came running in from the lobby.
“Mummy, our carriage is here. The doorman says it’s time to leave for the train station!”
Startled, Blythe jumped, then spoke hastily. “Yes, darling. Go along. I’ll be right there.” Jeff lingered a moment, studying his mother with a quizzical expression, then he turned and ran off in the direction of the front entrance.
“Blythe, don’t go yet—” Rod pleaded. “There’s so much more to say—”
“No.”
“There must be some way—”
She shook her head. “But there isn’t. This is for the best—” Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of her handbag. “I must go,” she said, but she did not move.
“I can’t let you go like this … not again!” he declared. “I won’t—” He put out his hand as if to restrain her physically.
Instinctively she drew back. “Don’t! Please!” she cried in alarm, knowing that if he touched her she would weaken.
With all the force of her will, she got to her feet, avoiding his outstretched hand, and moved quickly across the room. At the archway, she paused briefly, then, afraid to look back, she walked through the door.
In the lobby she went over to the desk. She stood there, her slim figure rigid, while her bill was figured and presented.
“I hope you enjoyed your stay with us, Mrs. Dorman, and that you will come back soon.” The desk clerk smiled.
Steadying her voice, Blythe murmured what she hoped was a suitable response. When the clerk signaled to the bellhop waiting with her luggage, she thanked him. Then, head held high, she swept through the entrance, down the steps, and into the carriage where Jeff was waiting.
As soon as the carriage door closed behind her and she felt it move forward, Blythe drew a long painful breath. She smoothed each finger of her kid-gloved hands, responding to Jeff’s childish chatter distractedly. Her mind seethed with all the unsaid things her heart had longed to say. She wished she could weep. She wished for any other emotion than what she was feeling.
Determinedly she lifted her chin. She could not, would not think of the past, only the future … a future forever without the man she loved so dearly.
In the small parlor off the lobby, Rod slumped back into the chair, put his head in his hands, and kept it there as he heard the sound of the carriage wheels rattling down the driveway.