EVEN IF Garnet had not been expecting her, the slam of the front door, the clatter of sturdy boots on the stairs, then the rush of running feet along the hall outside her bedroom, would have signaled that Faith was home for the holidays.
In the very next moment the door burst open and her rosy-cheeked thirteen-year-old daughter exploded into the room. “Mummy! I’m home!” Then she plunked herself down on the nearest chair and thrust her black-stockinged legs in front of her, sighing, “Oh, heavenly! It’s so good to be out of that prison! I can’t wait to get out of this wretched uniform!”
She yanked impatiently at the thick tie with her school emblem on the front, then tugged at the wide, square collar under the serge pinafore. “When are we going down to the country? I’m absolutely dying to get on Fazia and ride forever and ever!”
Garnet smiled indulgently at Faith’s outburst, while wondering why she and Jeremy were paying such outrageously enormous fees to the boarding school that was supposedly turning this hoyden into a lady! She repressed the urge to lean forward and tuck back the tumbling hair that was falling forward into the wide, dark-lashed eyes. Even at this age, Garnet mused, her daughter gave promise of being incredibly beautiful someday.
Suddenly Faith jerked herself upright, knocking the wide-brimmed blue felt hat askew, and gave her mother a sweeping glance.
“Oh, bother! You’re going out, aren’t you?” she accused. “My first night home, and you and Papa have a social engagement!” she wailed. “I haven’t seen you in nearly three months!”
“I know, darling, and I’m sorry. It couldn’t be helped. It is a business event we must attend.”
As if taking the explanation as a cue, Garnet got up from where she had been sitting in front of her dressing table and revolved slowly in front of her daughter. Her gown was of the finest royal blue velvet, cut with a portrait neckline that showed to advantage the lovely line of her shoulders. Stylish puffed sleeves narrowed to elbow length, and from a long fitted waistline, the skirt was gathered into a modified bustle and draped into a small train. “How do I look?” she asked.
“You look gorgeous—naturally,” Faith admitted reluctantly.
“I suppose I should accept that as a compliment,” commented Garnet, lifting her eyebrows.
“Of course, but then you always do!” Faith pretended a scowl. “I shall never be anywhere near as striking looking as you. So, where are you and Papa off to tonight? To a ball?”
“Oh, no, not a ball. To a dinner party at the home of your father’s publisher. One of the company’s American executives is here in London, and Mr. Sewell is entertaining for him.”
“Will there be dancing?” Faith’s foot tapped unconsciously.
“No dancing, I’m afraid.” Garnet shook her head regretfully. “Nothing but a long, eight-course dinner and dainty conversation among the ladies while the gentlemen linger over brandy and cigars discussing the publishing business for an hour afterwards. It will probably be a deadly dull evening with no sparkle, no surprises!”
But as it happened, and not for the first time in her life, Garnet would be proven wrong. Although the first part of the evening proceeded pretty much according to Garnet’s predictions, once the ladies excused themselves from the dining room and gathered in one of the twin parlors of the Sewell’s’ London town house, the evening became much more interesting.
Expecting the usual exchange of trivia—gossip, comments on the current theater offerings, the doings of the Royals and members of the Court—Garnet settled on one of the sofas, distracting herself by looking around the over-decorated room with her characteristically critical eye.
The interior followed the fashion of all upper-class homes of the time. The furniture, carved and curlicued, was richly upholstered in dark plush fabric and accented with small petit point pillows. Gilt-framed paintings of gloomy landscapes hung about the room, and marble-topped tables held glass domes encasing arrangements of artificial flowers.
As the other ladies took seats, Garnet found herself studying each one, wondering which, if any, would be an amusing conversationalist. Anyone at all would be welcome to ease the tedium of waiting for the gentlemen to join them and to enliven the conversation with more pertinent topics and a little harmless flirtation.
All of the women were exquisitely dressed. There must be a small fortune in dressmaker fees represented among the less than dozen women gathered in this one room, Garnet surmised. She had often heard it said among American socialites that a wife was a living advertisement for her husband’s wealth. From the look of this assemblage of English wives, the British had drawn the same conclusion.
As the beruffled maid brought around the tray of demitasse and mints, murmurs of individual conversations drifted around the room. As Garnet lifted a tiny cup of after dinner coffee and helped herself to a chocolate wafer, Lucille Edgerton spoke.
“Garnet, my dear, I sat next to your handsome husband at dinner tonight, and he informed me that you are departing soon for America.”
“Yes, to visit my mother. We plan to travel with her and my brother to our nephew’s wedding in Massachusetts.”
“How nice for you. And how long do you expect to be away?”
“Oh, several months, I expect,” Garnet replied.
“I suppose when traveling such a great distance, it behooves one to make a real visit of it,” Mrs. Edgerton mused. “However, I fear Jeremy will be devastated during your absence.”
“Not at all. Jeremy has business to attend to in his New York office, and I will join him after the wedding to sail back … to England.” Garnet gave a little shrug. “I almost said sail home. After all these years, I suppose I am beginning to think of England as home.”
“And where did you used to call ‘home,’ if I may ask?” interjected a pretty woman with a gentle voice and warm smile, whose name had slipped Garnet’s memory.
“Virginia.”
“Virginia?” the other lady exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. “One of my dearest friends moved to Virginia a few years ago. I do miss her terribly. We were very close. As a matter of fact, my husband and I were godparents to her little boy. We plan to visit her there someday. Where in Virginia are you from, Mrs. Devlin?”
“Oh, a place you’ve probably never heard of!” Garnet laughed. “Mayfield is very small. The nearest large town is Williamsburg, once the capital of the colonies.”
“But that must be very near where my friend moved!” declared the woman, and she got up from where she was sitting to join Garnet on the sofa. “Have you heard of a place called Arbordale … or of a school for boys called Brookside?”
“Why, yes … I think if s about forty miles from Mayfield,” Garnet replied, interested now.
“Wouldn’t it be a wonderful coincidence if you knew my friend, then? Her name is Blythe … Blythe Montrose.”
A queer little prickle tingled along Garnet’s scalp, and her stomach gave a small lurch. Her fingers tightened on the handle of the delicate cup she was holding.
“Her son, Jeff, attends Brookside,” the lady continued, not noticing Garnet’s startled reaction. “She sends us pictures, of course, but I long to see him myself. He is getting to be such a big fellow that I’m afraid he will forget all about us.” She paused. “If it would not be too much of an imposition, perhaps if I gave you her address, you might send her a note when you’re in Virginia … mention that we met? Oh, how rude of me, I don’t think I ever introduced myself properly. I’m Lydia Ainsley.”