WHEN JEFF returned to Brookside after their California trip, Blythe was once again thrown back on her own resources without the companionship of her son. One favorite pastime was a shopping expedition. Having long ago lost her fear of being recognized, Blythe often shopped in Mayfield.
Not only had she changed, but Mayfield itself had changed. No longer the sleepy little town it had been, Mayfield’s mild climate and leisurely lifestyle had drawn visitors from the North until it had become a lively metropolis with many new restaurants and stores, guest houses, and other special attractions designed to lure the tourist.
It never crossed her mind, however, that there would be anything unusual about this particular afternoon, nor that on this excursion she would have an unexpected encounter.
Within an hour she had crossed off almost every item on her list as accomplished. As she started back to the spot where she had directed her driver to wait with her barouche, near the town square, she noticed a sign reading ANTIQUES hanging over a little shop she had never seen before.
Corin, who had first given Blythe an appreciation of the value of antiques, had occasionally taken her with him on periodic scavenger hunts for pieces to add to his collection of Jacobean furnishings for Dower House. Since it was still early, she decided it might be fun to go inside and browse around.
She paused in front of the shop, astonished to see something familiar in the window. It was Sara’s little desk! She recognized it at once, the lovely inlaid wood, the graceful shape, the turned legs—exactly as it had always stood between the windows in Sara’s sitting room at Montclair. How in the world had it turned up here?
The winter Sara had left Montclair to go to Savannah, Blythe knew that Sara had thought it would be only a temporary arrangement until the next spring. None of them guessed that by December of that year, Montclair would have passed out of the hands of the Montrose family and into those of Randall Bondurant, who had won it from Malcolm in the ill-fated card game.
The house with all its furnishings, artifacts, and paintings, as well as Mr. Montrose’s extensive library, had been included in the wholesale transfer of the property. With only three days to comply with the eviction notice, Blythe remembered the heartsick haste with which she had packed into a single trunk a few precious things, things of Malcolm’s mostly, things that might one day be important to the child she was then carrying.
Probably when the new owner took possession of Montclair, completely restoring and enhancing it, only furnishings assessed as being of great value were kept. Probably the little desk was not one of those. Sara had once told Blythe that this little desk was the only thing she had brought from her girlhood home in Savannah, so its value was sentimental to Sara alone, Blythe judged.
Blythe pressed her face against the glass, shielding her eyes with both gloved hands in order to see better, wanting to assure herself that it really was Sara’s desk. Satisfied, she pushed open the shop door and walked into the dim, musty-smelling interior. A bell over the door jingled, announcing her entrance to the woman sitting behind the counter in the back. At Blythe’s approach the woman lifted her head and peered over oval-shaped wire spectacles.
“Looking for anything in particular?” she called. “Or do you just want to browse?”
“Oh, I’ll just browse for a bit, thank you,” replied Blythe, who wanted to examine the desk and also check to see if anything else from Montclair had been placed here for sale.
The woman went back to the newspaper she was reading, and Blythe wandered among the cluttered contents of the small shop, making her way slowly over to the desk.
Apparently she was the only customer. Perhaps this store was seldom frequented due to its out-of-the-way location, for the only other living being was a fluffy yellow-and-black striped cat that uncurled itself from the front display window where it had been sleeping in a square of sunlight. As Blythe drew near, the cat arched its back, stretched thoroughly, then hopped down lightly to search for a new napping place, where it would be undisturbed.
Blythe examined the desk, running her hand over the wood, gritty with dust. The slanted lid was shut, and although there was a tiny keyhole, it was unlocked. The lid pulled down to form a writing surface, she remembered, and behind it was a panel of small pigeonholes. In the center was a small door with a carved fanlight, tiny knob, and miniature keyhole, but again no key. When Blythe tried to open it, it held fast. What secrets had Sara possibly locked behind that small stronghold? she wondered fleetingly, before dismissing the idea. Of course Sara would have taken any important papers with her when she went to Savannah.
Sliding open the two shallow drawers under the lid, Blythe noticed an inkpad and stamp. She picked it up, turned it over and saw a trio of scrolled initials, SLM. “Sara Leighton Montrose,” Blythe whispered. ‘This is Sara’s desk!”
Blythe was not aware that the shop proprietor had come up behind her until she spoke. “Are you interested in this little desk?”
“Yes … I am,” Blythe replied, attempting to control the excitement of her discovery.
“It’s quite old, but a fine piece,” the woman told her. “Probably made by a plantation craftsman. Many of the slaves in the old days were artisans who made most of their owners’ furniture. Unpaid laborers could copy the originals of famous English and French designers for much less money than the owners might spend on a purchase from European markets.”
“How much is it?”
Immediately the woman was all business. She named a price. “Actually,” she began, and Blythe was afraid she might be reconsidering her offer. ‘This desk came from Montclair, one of the finest of the James River plantation houses. Used to belong to one of the oldest families around here, the Montrose family. When Mr. Bondurant took over and began redecorating, many of the furnishings were bought by a dealer when they went up for auction. I’m not quite sure how this came to be in here, but I do know this is a good example of the kind of plantation workmanship I was telling you about. Quite rare, nowadays. Nobody seems to know what happened to the slaves who used to do this quality work. All gone up north, most likely.”
Blythe followed the woman over to the counter where she wrote up the sale. Opening her purse, Blythe counted out some bills and told her she would send someone to pick it up.
As the shopkeeper went over to the desk to mark it “Sold,” Blythe could see through the window a woman standing outside, looking into the shop. She caught her breath. Even though it had been years, Blythe recognized her at once. It was Garnet, Rod’s sister!
Blythe’s mouth went dry. But there was no way to avoid an encounter, no way of escaping the woman who had always considered her an interloper, who blamed her for stealing the man she loved. Unconsciously Blythe lifted her chin, opened the door of the shop, and walked out to the street.
“Hello, Blythe.” Garnet’s voice was even, emotionless. “I saw you in town. Actually I followed you. We need to talk.”
At her words, Blythe recalled that Garnet’s way had always been direct, matter-of-fact. The day after Blythe’s arrival at Montclair as Malcolm’s new bride, Garnet had abruptly announced that she was leaving and that Blythe would be in charge of caring for the invalid Sara, the house, all the responsibilities she had shouldered during the the years of the war and immediately afterward.
What a shock that had been to the inexperienced sixteen-year-old girl Blythe had been then. From that day Blythe had rarely seen Garnet, for soon after leaving Montclair, Garnet had remarried. This would be the first face-to-face meeting in all these years.
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” Blythe agreed. “Where shall we go?”
“There’s a tearoom nearby. It’s out of the way. We’ll not see anyone we know there, as we might at the Mayfield Inn. This way.” Garnet led the way. Silently they walked down one block and crossed to another.
Sitting across the small, linen-covered table from Garnet, Blythe studied her curiously. Garnet had never been considered a great beauty, but she had a look that Blythe had always secretly envied in other women. Not arrogance exactly, but a sort of assurance possessed only by those of certain breeding and background—an inborn air, a natural elegance.
It had nothing to do with fashionable clothes, although Garnet’s were unmistakably that. Her stylish suit was surely from Worth’s, Blythe surmised, her furs undoubtedly sable. And her hat, ornamented with velvet leaves in which a small feathered bird nestled, had most probably come from the Rue de la Paix in Paris.
“Tea and blueberry muffins?” Garnet asked Blythe while a crisply uniformed waitress stood, pad and pencil in hand, waiting to take their order.
“Fine. Yes,” murmured Blythe, aware of the startling coincidence in running into Garnet and the challenge it presented.
The waitress left, and Garnet proceeded to take off her beige kid gloves, one finger at a time, staring at Blythe. How maddeningly youthful and beautiful she still is, Garnet thought. Not a single line to mar that creamy complexion, nor a gray hair in those glorious copper waves glimpsed under the simple felt bonnet.
Beneath her confident surface, Garnet had always been intimidated by beauty. In a quick flash of memory, she remembered how stunned she had been by Rose Meredith’s appearance when she had first seen her the day Malcolm brought her to Montclair. Strangely enough, Malcolm’s second bride had affected her in the same way.
The silence stretched between the two women, accentuating all the uninfished business between them, all the hidden rivalry, the old hurts inflicted by the mere existence of the other.
It was Garnet who broke the tension at last. “I know about Avalon and about your son.” At Blythe’s startled look, she went on, “I met Lydia Ainsley in London through mutual friends, and when she heard I was coming to America for my nephew’s wedding—well, it’s no use going into all the details. She told me where you are living.”
The waitress was back, setting the teapot on a trivet and placing the muffin basket in the center of the table before placing cups before each of them.
When she had gone again, Garnet continued, “Anyway, I did go over to Arbordale before we left for Massachusetts to call on you, but I was told you’d gone away.”
“Yes, Jeff and I went to California—”
“California?” Garnet’s eyes widened.
“I was born there,” Blythe explained, “and lived there until—” She halted, leaving the rest of the sentence to Garnet’s completion. After hesitating a second, she finished, “I wanted Jeff to see the place where I grew up.”
“Jeff?”
“My son’s name is Geoffrey. He’s called Jeff.”
“Malcolm’s son.” Garnet’s tone indicated a fact rather than a question.
“Yes.”
“Is that why you ran away?” Garnet asked bluntly.
“Yes. I didn’t know what else to do … after Montclair—”
“You know you hurt my brother cruelly, don’t you?” Garnet interrupted.
Her teacup half-raised to her lips, Blythe felt her throat constrict. “I’m sorry, I—”
“He loved you, he wanted to help you. Didn’t that matter, didn’t it mean anything to you?”
“I didn’t think I had the right—”
“Love gave you the right.” Garnet said coldly. “Why didn’t you at least contact him after you were settled, let him know where you were, that you had a child? Have you any idea what he’s been through all these years?”
It was Garnet’s turn to be surprised. “I saw him once, you know, when I came to Mayfield. Mrs. Montrose thought I should bring Jeff. Quite by accident, Rod and I ran into each other at the inn.” Blythe’s voice trembled as she recalled that wrenching encounter. “I thought the best thing to do was vanish from his life forever—” She paused. “I thought by this time … Isn’t he married?”
“No, he never married. And it’s probably a good thing. He’s never gotten over you”
Blythe’s hand shook as she placed her cup on the saucer. “I’m sorry,” she said again, knowing she was repeating herself, unable to react to this latest news about Rod.
“I haven’t told Rod about you,” Garnet said finally. She leaned forward, looking unflinchingly into Blythe’s eyes, and demanded, “Do you love my brother? I have to be sure of that before I tell him where you are. I don’t want him to be hurt any more than he already has been.”
Blythe felt heat rush into her face, then the blood drained away from her head, leaving her breathless and dizzy.
Should she tell Garnet the truth? That she had never stopped loving Rod? Or was that really the truth? Was the memory of love more powerful than the reality? Had time and distance and loss embellished her feelings for him, given them a romantic glaze that made their love seem more ideal, more perfect that if they had been able to fulfill its promise?
As Garnet’s gaze held her ruthlessly, Blythe quickly weighed her love for Rod, realizing it had remained unchanged since she had first acknowledged it. While Malcolm was alive, guilt had shadowed and subdued it, but in spite of all that had happened, she knew her love for Rod was untouched by all the time that had passed.
Still, Rod’s feelings for her were a mystery. While they had both grown older, become wiser or sadder with experience, the love she had known was still youthful and unsullied. That’s what made it so dangerous, what made a second heartbreak more possible. Rod would surely have changed.
Acutely conscious that Garnet was still waiting for an answer, Blythe put her napkin down beside her plate and pushed back her chair.
“That is something only one person should ask. If Rod wants to know or wants to see me again, that is for him to decide, isn’t it, Garnet?” Blythe stood up.
“Then shall I tell him where you are?”
“That’s up to you, Garnet. Do whatever you think is best.”
With that, Blythe turned and walked out of the tearoom. It was not until she was in her own carriage and on her way back to Arbordale, that the full impact of the experience hit her.
All the old emotions out of the past swept over her. Rod, free? Still in love with her? Was it true, or merely Garnet’s imagination, or was it a weapon employed to make her suffer for her youthful mistakes, the wounds she had unintentionally caused?
Whatever had been Garnet’s motives, the fact remained that she knew Blythe’s long-kept secrets. Whether she would pass them on to her brother, Blythe did not know nor dare guess.