ROD LEANED on the ship’s rail and stared moodily out at the restless motion of the slate-gray sea.
It had been a wretched trip. Not that Rod could blame anyone for that. Against all warnings, even his own good judgment, he had chosen to make this mid-winter Atlantic crossing.
Most of his fellow passengers had spent the ten days cabin-bound in utter misery. Only a handful of hardy sailors like himself had ventured out on deck. From experience, Rod knew the best way to prevent seasickness was to get plenty of fresh air, and if one felt the least bit queasy, to walk briskly and breathe deeply.
There was not much conviviality among those few passengers who managed to get themselves to the dining room. Many of the tables remained empty, and the staff stood around without much to do while the diners made quick work of meals. Then they hurried back to bundle themselves in deck chairs and avoid looking at the ocean, which on this passage, had rolled and dipped like some gray, heaving sea monster.
Rod, usually the most congenial of men, had on this occasion welcomed the prevailing lack of company and conversation. The solitude of this strange crossing gave him plenty of time alone to think.
He took out the letter he had received a few months ago, worn from frequent rereadings, and perused it again. The same conflicting reaction assailed him, as it had each time he read it.
Had he debated too long to respond, or was he just off on another “wild goose chase”? Could he, as his mother asked, trust the information this man Burnham had sent? Was it reliable, or was the man some kind of charlatan, taking Rod’s money and dangling tantalizing prospects before him with no real proof that he could substantiate them?
“Montrose,” as his mother had pointed out, was quite a common name in Scotland and England. How could Rod be sure the “Mrs. Montrose” that the private detective thought he had located was Blythe? What if, when she left Virginia, Blythe had used another name? Perhaps even taken back her maiden name, “Dorman”?
Rod knew it was a risk, knew he was taking a chance, but he could not help himself. If there was the slightest possibility that the man he had hired to find Blythe was on the right track, he had to see for himself.
As the ship neared the English coast, Rod’s uncertainty increased. He railed against himself. Why had he waited so long to come? He felt strangely pessimistic, possibly the result of the slow, depressing crossing, he tried to tell himself.
Well, action was the best antidote for this kind of malaise. They would soon dock, and tomorrow he would take the earliest train out of London, bound for a small village a few hours away. Here he would settle, once and for all, if his journey was a ‘fool’s errand’.
As the train rattled through the countryside the next day, wheels clattering on the track seemed to be repeating the old saying: “Journeys end in lovers’ meeting.” Where had that come from? And what did it mean? Never superstitious in the slightest degree, Rod tried to shake his gloomy forebodings.
By the time the train pulled into the small Kentburne station, Rod’s heartbeat was accelerating. Was this the same little train station with its neat flower beds and gravel paths from which Blythe came and went? Did she stand on this very platform, walk toward the line of passenger wagons hitched to the rail fronting the road?
Rod stopped at the ticket window, then hesitated, not knowing exactly what to ask. He did not want to create a stir by asking for Blythe by name. In such a small village she was sure to be known, and it might be embarrassing to her to have a stranger inquiring about her. Aware of how fast gossip travels, he decided instead to look on his own for the address Burnham had given him—a house called “Larkspur Cottage.”
A light mist was falling, and Rod automatically turned up the collar of his coat before taking a deep breath and setting out. Don’t get too excited, he warned himself sternly. This Mrs. Montrose could be a gray-haired old Scotswoman, not Blythe at all. And if it were she? Then, what would he say, what would he do? He swallowed hard noticing how shallow his breathing had become. The constriction in his chest tightened as he turned down the crooked little lane located down a lane just off the main road leading from the town square, marked with a wooden post sign, MARSH ROAD.
His steps slowed, and he moved as if through deep water, hope pumping the adrenalin though his veins, the possibility of disappointment dragging his feet. Then he saw it, the small stone house behind a low rock fence, a picket gate set in the center, a sign on the post: LARKSPUR COTTAGE.
It has a waiting look, he thought, or was it a deserted one?
He came closer, leaned over the wall, his gaze focused on the painted door, willing it to open in welcome. His eyes moved to the diamond-paned windows, and he noticed that the curtains were drawn inside. It was then he noticed the sign, COTTAGE TO LET, and his heart turned cold.
The house was empty. There was no one about. If Blythe had ever lived here, she was gone now.
Rod never knew how long he stood there, staring at the cottage. When at last he turned away, the mist had turned into a drizzle. As he began walking back to the village, it became a steady rain.
The village center was forsaken. All sensible people had apparently sought the cozy comfort of their own home and hearth fire. At the train station only the ticket clerk was tucked into his cubbyhole. Silently he issued Rod his return ticket to London, mumbled its departure time, then returned to the newspaper he was reading.
Two-and-a-half hours before I can leave! Rod thought miserably. How to bridge this time here, where he had come to the end of his long hope? He stood on the station platform looking out across the sodden village green. Rain was now coming down in sheets.
Across the green he saw the lights of a tearoom, its wooden sign swinging wildly in the wind. Some warmth and something hot to drink could be found there, he knew. Bending his head, he plunged through the downpour and pushed through the door of the tearoom to find himself its only customer.
After ordering tea and scones, he seated himself by the window, staring out through the rain-blurred window at a distorted view of the street. The very street, perhaps, that Blythe had walked down dozens of times.
Suddenly life seemed as bleak and gray as the scene outside. Loss of hope was almost as devastating as loss of faith, he mused. Without Blythe, Rod’s world was bereft of joy, but he had lived in the possibility that someday he would find her, would convince her of his love, and spend the rest of his life with her.
Today all that had come to an end. The question now was how to reconcile himself to the rest of his life without even that hope?