Farewell, God knows when we shall meet again—Shakespeare
UPON HER RETURN from Switzerland, Blythe found a letter from Richard Pembruck, the realtor in Mayfield. It began:
My dear Mrs. Dorman,
I believe I have found the ideal property to fulfill the requirements and aesthetic desires you expressed for a domicile for you and your young son. Located about thirty miles from Mayfield on approximately twelve acres of woodland, it abounds in gentle wildlife and boasts a clear stream running through it. There are also many old bridle paths which, although now overgrown with brush, could be quickly and easily cleared.
The building on the property, once a hunting lodge owned by members of a private club for gentlemen and their guests, is, I am afraid, in a state of deterioration after years of vacancy and neglect. The roof has fallen through in places; the clapboard siding has rotted and warped; windows are broken; doors unhinged or missing. Major repairs would be necessary to make it again habitable. However, the native stone foundation is sound; the basement with its stone and granite walls has withstood the years well and is dry, the underflooring solid, and the native heart-of-pine floors could easily be sanded and refinished.
The property itself is the prize. Nowhere could you find such self-contained privacy in such a beautiful setting. But to be honest, I would have to say that a new house could be constructed upon the foundation much more easily, faster and less expensively than restoration of the ruins of the present building.
If you want to acquire this property, I could arrange an architect to send you a design and working drawings to consider. I believe this could be done well within the cost we discussed when you were in Virginia.
Since you said you were interested in Virginia’s early history, I am sure you’d be intrigued by this building’s strange and fascinating history. It is rumored to have been used as a ‘safe house’ for the Underground Railroad in transporting runaway slaves to the North, chosen because of its isolation and proximity to the river.
The isolation I refer to would not, I hope, deter you from seriously considering acquisition of this property because, although it offers all the privacy you prefer, it is easily accessible from the town of Arbordale by bridge or by ferry. Lest you imagine from this description that this property is situated on a remote island, I hasten to correct that impression by comparing the house to a medieval lord’s manor surrounded by a moat.
I also want to assure you that I can see to all the arrangements of the construction, hiring and oversight of the building crew without your having to travel to Virginia. With good luck and good weather, it could be ready for occupancy by next fall when, you stated, your son would be entering school.
This leads me to the next advantage—easy traveling distance of an excellent Christian school for boys that your son could attend either as a day pupil or boarding student.
In addition to all of the aforementioned points in favor of this property, I have made a thorough title search and have found this property to be free of liens of any kind. It was held corporally in the name of the Hunt Club, then, due to lack of payment of taxes, was forfeited to the county.
These back taxes will be waived if the property is purchased immediately. Thus I urge you to come to a decision as quickly as possible. A desirable property such as this, at the price for which it can be obtained at this particular time, will not remain on the market long. I have taken the liberty to place a HOLD payment on it to give my letter time to reach you in England and also time for your consideration of the matter.
I hope to receive an affirmative answer from you soon. I remind you once more that I am anxious to be of service to you in any way. With best personal regards, I am,
Sincerely yours,
Richard Pembruck
Blythe reread the letter twice before folding it and replacing it in the envelope. Mr. Pembruck had mentioned the urgency of prompt action. She remembered his telling her when they were together, that wealthy Northerners were still buying up Virginia property at the depressed prices brought about by the fact that most of the original owners had been bankrupted by the war and needed ready cash.
The strange history of this house intrigued Blythe. The fact that it had been a “safe house” on the Underground Railroad gave her pause—it seemed a singular link to Rose Meredith Montrose, Malcolm’s Yankee bride, who was strongly suspected of working with those who, at great personal danger to themselves, had helped slaves to freedom.
Mr. Pembruck’s reference to a “medieval manor surrounded by a moat” also appealed to her, bringing to mind the Arthurian fantasy that the King, thought to have been fatally injured in the last battle with Modred and the rebel knights, had been taken to a distant island where he miraculously recovered. From this had sprung the legend of “the once and future King” who had declared that he would return to rule England again in all the glory of the ideal Round Table.
What had they called the island? “Avalon”? Yes, Avalon would be the ideal name for a home for herself and Jeff.
Blythe was strongly tempted to sit down at once and write to Mr. Pembruck, instructing him to buy the property in her name immediately. Only one concern remained. What would Corin say to her plan to leave England and return with Jeff to Virginia? Would he feel doubly betrayed when he learned of her decision not to marry him?
Perhaps she should wait for his return from Switzerland. After all, he was her good friend and deserved more than a hasty note. On the other hand, if she waited, perhaps the property would be gone, snapped up by some avaricious Northerner. Everything about the place sounded ideal—a good school for Jeff, the privacy and beauty of a woodland estate, a place to keep horses, room for friends Jeff might want to invite home from school—
What should she do? Perhaps she should consult Edward and Lydia? This seemed the logical next step, since they were so close and adored Jeff. She knew Edward thought it was all settled, that the boy would be attending his old school. They would, no doubt, be heartbroken at the thought of her leaving England with Jeff.
But, no, before she consulted anyone, she would pray. As had become her custom, she got out her Bible and thumbed through it, stopping here and there to read a passage or verse, searching for God’s Word to use in her prayer for guidance.
She turned first to the Psalms because she loved them and read them often just to delight in their beauty. In the twenty-fifth, she found words of great relevance for her dilemma: “Show me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths. Lead me in Your truth and teach me. For thou art the God of my salvation: on thee do I wait all the day.”
But it was in the thirty-third chapter of Exodus that Blythe discovered the prayer that most nearly met her need: “Lord, show me Thy way, that I might find favor with Thee. If Thy Presence does not go with me, do not lead me from here.”
In the combination of both Blythe found her direction. She repeated the passage from Exodus over the next few days as she “waited” on Him.
Within a week she was at peace about the course she should take. She sat down at her desk to write to Mr. Pembruck in Virginia, authorizing him to act in her behalf, to acquire the property, and to contact an architect for preliminary designs for a house.
When she had posted the letter to America, she had to write a second letter. This one, to Corin in Switzerland, telling him of her decision and plan, took much more prayer and thought. She wanted to prepare him before his return, feeling it extremely unfair to delay any longer.
Difficult as it was to write this letter, Blythe knew it was the only honest, honorable thing to do. She loved Corin, but only as a friend, not as a potential husband. Under these circumstances it would be kinder in the long run to make the break cleanly and swiftly and not further prolong the uncertainty for him and for herself.
As she addressed the envelope, Blythe prayed her decision would not prove too painful for this kind and gentle man.
The early October morning sun slanting into the garden touched everything with a lovely golden light. The flowers—blue delphiniums, purple gentians, pink phlox—mingled in vivid colors against the rock wall. It was as if nature had conspired to arrest the certain onset of the cold, dreary English winter with a burst of glorious beauty these last weeks of fall.
Blythe took her coffee from the cottage kitchen to sit on the circular wooden bench around the gnarled apple tree in the middle of the yard. Breathing in the mingled fragrance of the dewy-petaled flowers, Blythe closed her eyes and rested her head against the bark, thinking how lovely and peaceful the morning was and wondering idly what she should do with the rest of the day.
Should she dig up some bulbs, store them for spring planting? Or maybe prune back the rambling rose bushes that clambered in disorderly but beautiful profusion over the stone wall? Surely these lovely days would not last, and she did not want to be taken by surprise by the first frost.
Her mental meandering was interrupted by the sight of Mr. Bryley, the village postman, pedaling down the winding lane on his high bicycle. She waved absently, thinking he would go right past. Blythe did not receive much mail. But today he stopped at the gate and drew an envelope out of the leather satchel slung over one shoulder.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Montrose. Have a letter here for you,” he announced, leaning his bicycle against the stone wall. “Got a foreign stamp on it, it has. Switzerland, from the postmark,” he added, examining the envelope a moment before handing it over to her.
She smiled politely, but Mr. Bryley seemed inclined to visit.
“Nice day, isn’t it, now?” he said, tipping his beaked hat to her. “But there was a nip in the air for sure earlier when I started on my rounds. Won’t be long ‘till fall, I ‘spose. Well, I’ll be on my way then. Enjoy your letter.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bryley,” said Blythe, her amusement about to get the best of her. The postman had clearly recognized Corin’s bold handwriting and was waiting around in the hope of hearing firsthand that he was right.
No doubt the old fellow would have enjoyed a tidbit to pass along at the next stop: ‘The master of Dower House is corresponding with the American widow at Larkspur Cottage.” Well, she hated to disappoint him, but this was one “secret” that she would not confirm to be bandied about the village.
Blythe took the letter back to the bench and opened it. As she did so, a spray of dried flowers fell into her lap. She picked it up and studied it. It looked something like the tiny star-shaped blossoms of the familiar forget-me-not. She began to read:
My dear Blythe,
You and Jeff have only just left, and yet it seems a very long time since you were here. Everywhere I look reminds me of the happy times we spent together here. Jeff is growing up so fast it is almost alarming, for it confirms the feeling I have more and more of time’s rapid passing. It seems just yesterday I first met the young fellow when he was an apple-cheeked infant in a pram! Now, I feel he is much a part of my life, at least, of the past five years.
Needless to say, I feel the same about his mother. It is my deepest desire to make you both a part of my life forever. I know we didn’t speak of it while you were here, as I felt a reluctance on your part to bring up the subject, and in deference to that, hesitated to say anything myself. But it was never far from my mind.
I want you to know I love you with all my heart, Blythe. Nothing would make me happier than to spend the rest of my life taking care of you and being the best possible father to Jeff. I believe I could. I think Jeff already considers me a friend and would accept such a change in our relationship if you would do me the great honor of marrying me.
I trust, since I first spoke of this months ago, that you have been considering my proposal and that when I return to England, you will make me the happiest man in all of Britain by agreeing to become my wife.
Perhaps this letter will seem out of character. You’ve teased me about being a reserved, rather staid Englishman. I suppose you are justified in that observation, but you have never seen me as I am now—a man very much in love, persistently hopeful. I enclose a spray of edelweiss, the Alpine flower known for that same quality of stubborn optimism, growing and flourishing in the starkest of circumstances, appearing to surprise and delight where no other flower dares. I found it surging up between two barren rocks on a steep hillside on the climb I made yesterday.
Tomorrow two other gentlemen, our guide, and I will tackle the most ambitious and difficult ascent I have yet attempted. I face it with anticipation, yet some trepidation. As I confront this challenge, I will remember the valiant edelweiss, overcoming the most obstinate conditions to triumph! It will take us nearly three days, with an overnight in a small hostel midway up the mountain.
You are in my thoughts and prayers, dear Blythe. I look forward soon to saying in person much of what is now in my heart.
Yours affectionately always,
Corin Prescott
Blythe refolded the letter and slipped it into the envelope, sitting there to consider Corin’s words. The issue she thought closed, settled, had opened once more, newly intensified with this written declaration.
What a dear person he was, and how grateful she should be that a man of Corin’s character and quality loved her, wanted her to be his wife.
She reviewed all the advantages such a marriage would bring her, and especially, Jeff. Jeff needed a father, and he admired and liked Corin tremendously. Their relationship had grown even closer and warmer during the days in Switzerland.
Then why did she hesitate giving Corin the answer he wanted so much to hear?
She had heard it said that some people love once and only once in a lifetime. That there are those few who can never love again with the same passion, the same self-surrendering commitment. Was she one of these? Was her whole life ahead to hold only one love, a love that was unfulfilled, yet filled her so completely there was no room for any other?
Was she being unfair to Jeff by refusing Corin? But wouldn’t she be cruel to Corin if she said yes, knowing she would only withhold from him the love he deserved from a wife?
And what about herself? If she agreed to marry Corin, wouldn’t that be a sort of sacrilege, in view of her feelings for Rod?
Blythe sighed heavily. Why couldn’t things have remained the same, with Corin as their friend—a reliable, dependable companion? Would her refusal end their friendship?
The sound of Dotty’s voice floating out from the open kitchen window brought Blythe’s thoughts back to the present. A moment later Jeff came running out into the garden, a piece of bread and jam in one hand, followed by his puppy, which was jumping and barking at his heels.
Laughing at the two, Blythe was reminded of the day after they had returned from Virginia—
Corin had invited them to Dower House so Jeff could pick out the puppy he wanted from Jet’s litter. He had led them out to the kennel where Jet was watching over her rambunctious brood. When Jeff squatted down beside them, all five puppies tumbled over each other, making funny little squeaking noises as they scrambled to reach Jeff’s chubby hands reaching out eagerly to pet them.
One by one in turn, he picked up each of the squirming little bodies, laughing as small pink tongues licked his cheeks. Over Jeff’s head, Blythe and Corin’s eyes met in amusement. Finally, after much deliberation, Jeff made his choice of the only golden one. Picking it up, he cuddled it to his chest, nuzzling the furry head with his chin.
Grinning at the two adults looking on, Jeff’s eyes had twinkled mischievously. “I want them all! But I’ll take this one, please, sir.”
“Good boy,” Corin replied approvingly. ‘That’s the pick of the litter. You’ve a good eye for quality, Jeff.” To Blythe he said, “The dog will make a fine companion for him.”
Blythe remembered how they had stood there smiling together as the boy and dog rolled over and over on the grass, Jeff laughing hilariously, the puppy trying out his tiny, tentative bark.
And MacDuff had become a splendid companion for Jeff, following him everywhere, lying slavishly at his feet under the table at mealtimes, tripping upstairs with him in the evenings, waiting outside the bathroom door while Jeff bathed, sleeping in a basket at the foot of his bed at night. Blythe sometimes found the little animal curled up on the end of the bed when she went in later to check on her son. Then she had to order MacDuff back to his basket, though she suspected that once she was out of the room he probably crept back to this forbidden place. She would never know, she sighed. Neither boy nor dog betrayed the rule-breaking by confirming her suspicion.
MacDuff, wagging his tail, was right behind Jeff as he came up to her now. “Dotty and I saw the postman stop. Did you get a letter, Mummy?”
“Yes, darling, from Corin.”
“Is he coming home soon? I hope so. I want to show him some of the tricks I’ve taught MacDuff and show him how good he minds!”
“Well, I’m not sure how soon, but soon, I think. He says in his letter that he was going on a three-day mountain climb, so he’ll have lots to tell you when he does come.”
“Oh, good! I do like Corin, Mummy. I liked going climbing with him in Switzerland. Can we go back someday? I’d like to go with him when he climbs one of those really high mountains.”
Blythe ruffled his curls. “I’m sure he’d like to take you again, Jeff. He thought you were a very good sport.”
After that exchange, Jeff mentioned that Dotty wanted to know if he could go to the village on an errand for her. While baking rock cakes, she had run short of raisins and needed some fetched from the grocery store.
“Yes, darling, run along.”
“Come on, MacDuff,” Jeff called to his dog, and, with the growing puppy at his side, he went out the gate and started down the lane toward the village.
Blythe watched him go. There was such a manly set to the little shoulders, she thought fondly. As she watched him walking with his hands in his pockets, he was practicing the whistle he had not quite mastered, and the dog trotted alongside. Corin was right. Jeff was growing up fast. Too fast!
Her decision about his future must be made without delay. To stay in England and marry Corin meant canceling her deal with Mr. Pembruck on the property in Virginia, giving up the idea of taking Jeff there to be reared as an American. It was one or the other.
Clasping her hands together, Blythe prayed an urgent prayer for guidance.
“Dear Father God, I need Tour help to know the path You would have me take. I have no earthly father to guide me, direct me, advise me. Phase heavenly Father, show me what I should do and please make it plain”
For the rest of the morning she worked vigorously in her garden, the energy required leaving none for disquieting thoughts. At noon she went inside, bathed, and ate a light lunch with Jeff and Dotty, then took some flowers over to the church to arrange for altar decorations for the next Sunday’s service.
That evening, after Jeff had trundled sleepily upstairs to bed and Dotty had retired, pleading weariness from her day’s baking, Blythe settled in an easy chair in the parlor for a quiet evening of reading. She had decided to read all of Dickens’s novels, remembering how her father had enjoyed them. Having already completed David Copperfield she was now launching into The Tale of Two Cities.
With anticipation of enjoyment, she opened the book to the first page, and began reading:
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”
Suddenly the sound of the brass knocker on the front door echoed down the hall, startling Blythe so she dropped the book. Who could that be? Puzzled, she took up her lamp and hurried to open it. The knocking came again, this time sounding somehow ominous. Holding the lamp high, Blythe unlatched the door and opened it to find Matthew, Corin’s buder-valet, standing on the doorstep.
Something must be very wrong! Matthew’s appearance, usually that of an impeccable “gentleman’s gentleman,” was tonight in complete disarray. His hair was disheveled, his eyes, wild and glazed.
In the wavering light cast by the lamp Blythe saw that his face resembled a plaster cast, gray and stricken. Her heart turned cold.
“Matthew, what is it?” she asked hoarsely. ‘What’s happened?”
Knowing intuitively it must be something terrible as Matthew struggled to speak, Blythe saw the stoic veneer of the well-trained British servant visibly cracking.
“Oh, madam, the most dreadful news—” his voice broke. Matthew fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of yellow paper. “A telegram came not more than an hour ago. The master, Captain Prescott … madam, an accident while climbing … he was … they say, trying to help rescue a fellow climber who had fallen to a ledge below… Oh, madam, he died in the attempt—”
Blythe felt as though someone had struck her full force in the chest. The pain was blunt and heavy. It took a full minute for the dread news to register. Then she heard herself cry out, “Oh, no! No!”
“Yes, madam, it is true. I went to the telegraph station myself and checked then waited to receive confirmation. The hotel sent word after they brought the bodies back—” Matthew’s voice faltered again, and he sagged against the door frame. “I came straight here from the telegraph station, madam. There’s no mistake, madam. It is true.” The man’s voice became a half-sob. “Captain Prescott is dead.”
Seeing Corin’s faithful servant so undone somehow strengthened Blythe. She reached out and took him by the arm and drew him inside.
“Come, Matthew, come in,” she urged. “ I’ll get you something to bring the strength back. It has been an awful shock, I know.”
Even as she functioned, her mind was in denial. Corin dead. It couldn’t be true!
She led Matthew into the parlor, seated him there, then, moving as in a trance of denial herself, she went into the kitchen. There she stood irresolutely for a moment, then opened a cabinet where Cook kept the cooking sherry and poured some into a tumbler and took it back to Matthew.
Corin’s valet was sitting uneasily on the edge of the chair. Years of the discipline of being “in service” made him uncomfortable in this reversal of his usual position, but his legs felt wobbly indeed, and he realized he would never make it back to Dower House in this condition. Holding the glass with both shaky hands, Matthew drank the liquid slowly.
Blythe reread the telegram that Matthew had turned over to her. The reality of it was all coming together for her now as she read the printed words. How like Corin to risk his own life trying to save someone else, she thought.
Even as the truth ground deeply into her heart, no tears came. Probably later, when some of the shock had worn off. Now her job was to try to steady poor Matthew, whose entire life had revolved around Corin. He had served in India with him, had come home to England and nursed him through several bouts of malaria his employer had contracted in the treacherous climate. For more than twenty years Matthew had faithfully cared for Corin and his household. The loss for him must be devastating.
For the next half-hour Blythe tried to comfort him by getting him to talk out some of the raw emotion. Finally, Matthew got to his feet, thanked her solemnly, and walked unsteadily to the door.
“You’ll be all right, now, won’t you, Matthew?” Blythe asked anxiously.
“Yes, madam, thank you. There’s much for me to do. I must get on with it. People to notify, notes to be written, Captain Prescott’s solicitor to be contacted—”
“Is there no family, then, Matthew?”
“No, madam, none. Captain Prescott was the last. Both his brothers died earlier.” Matthew paused at the door. “If I may say so, madam, you and little Master Jeff was as close to family as the Captain ever had.”
Blythe’s heart wrenched, her eyes stung with sudden tears.
“Good night, madam,” Matthew said, bowing. “And thank you.”
“Please … if there is anything further I can do—” she hesitated, then added, “and Matthew, I’m sorry … so dreadfully sorry.”
Her words seemed so inadequate. But Matthew only studied her for a long moment, then bowed again. “I know, madam.” Then he turned and walked back down the path, melting into the darkness.
Blythe stood at the open door for a long time, as if she could follow the solitary figure trudging up the road to Dower House. At last, she turned and stepped back into the hall, closing the door.
“Mummy! Mummy!” she heard Jeff’s voice calling out.
What had awakened him? She picked up her skirts and ran up the stairway to his bedroom. He was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes.
“What is it, darling? Did you have a bad dream?” she asked, leaning over the rail at the end of the bed.
“No, Mummy, I woke up and thought I heard voices. A man’s voice. Is Corin here? Did he come back?” he asked sleepily.
A hard lump nearly closed Blythe’s throat, but she managed to say, “No, darling, not Corin.”
“Oh, I hoped it was. I miss him. I want to hear about his climb.” With that Jeff burrowed back into his covers.
Blythe wiped away the tears that rolled down her cheek. There would be time enough in the morning to tell Jeff what had happened. She moved to the side of the bed and stroked the silky curls nestled into the pillow.
Slowly Blythe retraced her steps back down to the parlor. Only an hour ago everything had seemed so cozy and serene—the lamplight, the delicious sensation of beginning a new book she had looked forward to reading. Now everything was changed.
She picked up the volume she had dropped to the floor in her haste to answer the knock at the door. Then, as she held it, the dam of her emotions broke, and she fell to her knees beside the chair and burst into tears. Tears for Corin, who had loved her, and whom she had loved in a special kind of way. Tears for Jeff, who had lost someone important to him. And tears for the faithful Matthew, as well.
It was only much later that Blythe realized gratefully that Corin had never received her letter and had died hoping she would be his wife. Now, she knew that her decision about the future had been made for her.
Blythe stared in disbelief at the impassive face of Corin’s solicitor.
“But that’s not possible!” she protested.
Returning Blythe’s incredulous stare, Horace Brimley replied, “Indeed, it is not only possible, madam, it is completely true and legal. Captain Prescott has left Dower House and its contents to you, and the contents of his library to your son, Geoffrey Montrose. I drew up his will myself—and he approved and signed it-—only a few weeks before his untimely death.” Mr. Brimley removed his nose glasses, fingering the cord with which they were attached to his waistcoat.
“But were there no close relatives? Some family member to whom Captain Prescott could have left his property?”
Sighing heavily, Mr. Brimley shook his head,
“I’m afraid not, madam, none that we could locate. When Captain Prescott first came to us over a year ago, he mentioned that he believed one branch of the Marsh family to whom he was distantly related had emigrated either to the Bermudas or to America. But after we conducted an extensive investigation in order to clear the title to his property, we concluded Captain Prescott was within his rights to dispose of it as he wished.” Mr. Brimley cleared his throat and looked somewhat embarrassed.
“If I may be quite personal, Mrs. Montrose, without violating any lawyer-client confidentiality now that Captain Prescott is … deceased … I believe it was his hope, his fond wish, as it were, that you would become—” Mr. Brimley halted tactfully, then as if rephrasing his thoughts, said, “I believe Captain Prescott was making his will as if you were … in the future, to become his spouse.”
Blythe felt a jab of painful regret at the lawyer’s words, knowing he was truly echoing Corin’s hope, but also knowing that it would never have come to that if Corin had lived.
“There was no such promise … no engagement,” she murmured, feeling her face grow uncomfortably warm under the lawyer’s steady gaze.
“Oh, I am aware of that, madam. I meant merely to convey my late client’s wishes, the impression I had that, nonetheless, Captain Prescott wanted you and your son to be his beneficiaries. He only indicated that, perhaps, upon his return from Switzerland, he might want to redefine the relationship, not redesignate nor change the will.” Mr. Brimley replaced his glasses in the pocket of his waistcoat, and stood.
“Since the land, other than the six acres directly surrounding Dower House, will be sold along with the mansion itself, Monksmoor Priory, I would suggest that you consider the disposition or sale, whichever you decide, as quickly as possible. The big house is being purchased for a boarding school, and the new owners have some remodeling plans they will be starting very soon. They would be interested in buying Dower House for the headmaster’s home, if you were inclined to sell.”
After Mr. Brimley’s departure, Blythe felt dazed and a little depressed. The news that Corin had bequeathed all his earthly goods to her and Jeff seemed almost a reproach. What he would like to have given her in life, he had bestowed on her in death, and that seemed to her a symbolic kind of bond that she had never sought nor now knew how to handle.
Donning her hooded cape of soft Scottish mohair, Blythe called to Dotty that she was going out for a walk and left the cottage. The air was moist and smelled of autumn. She pushed through her gate and automatically turned in the direction of Dower House.
How often she had walked along this winding lane with Corin, she remembered, feeling anew the loss of this dear friend. His quiet spirit and steady support had always been there, available to her, and now she realized there would always be a vacancy in her heart.
Through the mist she saw the outline of the timbered and stucco structure of Dower House. It had a lost look now, with no smoke pluming from its chimneys, no lights to chase away the early darkness of the fall afternoon. If she knocked on the paneled door, there would be no happy welcome for her as she was led into the cheerful library where a fire would be glowing, warming away the chill, shining on the brass and irons, no one to offer tea and conversation. Corin was gone.
But the house still stood, as it had stood for generations. Marts passage through life is swift and all too brief, she mused sadly, but the things he builds last and linger as memorials of stone and wood to the past, each one’s legacy to the next occupants,
Blythe looked long at the familiar building. Corin’s touch was there and before his, Blythe’s own ancestor, Jedediah Dorman, the pargeter, had left his own destinctive mark.
She was never sure when the idea struck her. Probably that day or soon after. But once it formed in her mind, no matter how she tried to argue herself out of it, it returned with insistence. Finally, she made an appointment with an architect and a building contractor.
Yes. Yes, it was possible, though it would be costly, to dismantle the structure of Dower House and transport it to America to be rebuilt on Virginia land. She had already received the estimate from Mr. Pembruck for building a house there. The expense of moving Dower House did not exceed that figure by much.
Blythe had lived very simply at Larkspur Cottage for the last six years. The principle of her inheritance from her father had been barely touched, and his many investments yielded yearly dividends that more than covered her living expenses. It seemed right to go ahead with her inspired idea to transplant this ancient house.
With all its treasured memories, as well as its visible link to her own family’s heritage, rebuilding the house in Virginia as a home for herself and Jeff seemed a reasonable and inherently valuable thing to do. Blythe hesitated only a few minutes. Then, drawing a long breath, she made her decision, and the unusual project proceeded.