Nothing comes to pass but what God appoints. Our fate is decreed and things do not happen by chance; everyone’s portion of joy or sorrow is predetermined—Seneca
GARNET DEVLIN entered her first-class compartment, accompanied by her maid, Myrna, carrying her mistress’s valise and jewel case, followed by a porter with the rest of the baggage. While Myrna directed the stowing of the suitcases, Garnet seated herself for the two-hour train ride to her country home.
As the porter departed with a mumbled “Thankee mum” for the tip, Garnet realized that in her last-minute rush to the station, she had forgotten the new novel she had intended to bring along.
Annoyed at her own absentmindedness, she said fretfully, “Oh, Myrna, do run back into the station and buy me the latest edition of Queen. I forgot my book, and I need something to read on the way.”
“Yes, madam.”
Myrna opened the compartment door, ready to step out, when Garnet added, “Oh, and a box of caramel toffee, too, please. Do hurry, though. For once, the train might leave on time!”
The maid hurried off about her errand, and Garnet settled in, loosening her sable scarf and removing the hatpins from her velvet toque.
She wasn’t particularly looking forward to this weekend. They would be entertaining some of Jeremy’s business acquaintances, one of whom was an author newly acquired by the publishing firm. Garnet sighed. Writers were always so tedious—either completely self-absorbed or else tiresomely inarticulate. One had to make such an effort to draw them out on any subject other than their own writing project! To make matters worse, this one had a French wife, which meant she would be bringing her French maid and that would certainly upset the Devlins’ household servants.
Garnet would have much preferred to entertain some of their own friends, or better still, to spend a weekend alone with her husband. Even after nearly six years of marriage, they still enjoyed each other’s company more than any other.
Smiling, she preened a little. Jeremy was a devoted husband, making her feel as cherished and desirable as when he had first fallen in love with her. Now they had their precious little daughter, Faith, who was literally the “apple of his eye.” Yes, it would have been nice if this could have been a family weekend.
The train whistle shrilled, and Garnet checked her diamond lapel watch, frowning. Where was Myrna? It shouldn’t have taken this long to fetch the fashion magazine and a box of candy. Leaning forward, Garnet peered anxiously out the compartment window to see if her maid was coming.
Just at that moment, across the platform another train pulled in on the track parallel to hers. As compartment doors opened and passengers began to emerge, Garnet suddenly drew in her breath, her eyes widened in shock.
In disbelief, she watched as a young woman stepped out onto the platform, pausing there as if expecting to be met. She was stylishly dressed in a dove-gray suit trimmed with black Russian braid and wore a small black hat tilted forward with a sheer black veil drawn across her face and tied in back with a bow. This did not, however, hide her flame colored hair. A name formed soundlessly on Garnet’s lips as the young woman began walking toward the station gates. Even so, she had stood there long enough for Garnet to get a good look.
Shaking, she sank back against the plush seat, her heart pounding. She couldn’t be mistaken. Though she had changed, everyone changes in six years, she would have recognized Blythe anywhere!
Blythe! It was Blythe! Malcolm Montrose’s widow, Rod’s long-lost love!
Blythe, in England! This was the last place on earth Garnet would ever have expected to see Blythe Montrose. What was she doing here? Did she live in the city? Or had she, like Garnet, come on a shopping expedition, or perhaps to visit friends? And had she been here all this time since leaving Montclair under such mysterious circumstances? No one had ever known what had become of her.
Rod! Suddenly Garnet thought of her brother who had loved Blythe so hopelessly, even while she was married to Malcolm. Just this very week Garnet had received a letter from her mother saying Rod was coming to England. Garnet still had the letter. Now she drew it out of her purse and reread it.
Kate had written that Rod was sailing on the same ship as their old family friends, Mrs. Maynard and her daughter, Fenelle—the mother and sister of an old beau of Garnet’s, Francis Maynard. According to Kate: “Fenelle has grown up to be a very attractive young woman, and Rod seems quite taken with her. How I wish something would develop between them. I long for him to find happiness again and yearn for Cameron grandchildren to make this house ring with the merry sound of children once more. And, of course, to carry on this proud name.”
Just then Myrna, breathless from hurrying, entered the compartment. “Sorry, madam, but they didn’t have a new Queen, so I brought Ladies’ Day instead. I hope that is suitable? And they only had chocolate buds—no caramels.”
Ordinarily, Garnet might have been cross at the substitutions, but today she was too preoccupied with her thoughts. She took the magazine and box of sweets her maid handed her, hardly aware that the engine whistle was shrieking again, and the train began to move slowly forward.
As the train gathered speed, Garnet wrestled with her dilemma. When Rod came, should she tell him she had seen Blythe? She had no idea on which train Blythe had arrived or where she was going or at which station along the route she may have boarded. She may have been visiting someone in the country or—oh, the possibilities were endless! It was enough of a mystery how she had come to be in England at all. And what a bizarre coincidence for Garnet to have seen her!
Garnet thought of her last trip home to Virginia and the haunted look in her brother’s eyes. If anyone could recognize and understand unrequited love, it was she. Hadn’t she loved Malcolm Montrose in vain for years? It was only after he brought Blythe from California and after Jeremy had come into her life that Garnet had finally been able to come to terms with her hopeless fantasy.
She remembered Rod’s torment when Blythe still lived at Montclair in those last months with Malcolm, who had gone off on a binge, drinking and gambling, until at last, the ultimate tragedy—he lost his ancestral home in a card game. Within weeks, he was dead. A horseback accident. And Blythe? She had simply disappeared. The letter she had left explained the situation but gave no hint of where she was going or what she planned to do.
It had been a terrible time, and Rod was still suffering. Involuntarily, Garnet shuddered.
“Are you chilled, madam?” Myrna asked solicitously. “Here, let me put this lap robe over your knees. Should I order tea?”
Distracted, Garnet merely nodded, her thoughts spinning as fast as the train wheels, the question in her mind echoing with every revolution: What shall I do? What shall I do?
As the train wound its way through the city railyards and then picked up speed, rattling forward, Garnet leaned back against the cushioned seat.
Blythe! Here in England or perhaps in London! It seemed impossible, but Garnet felt sure she had not been mistaken. She had had a good look. That face with its small high-bridged nose, the proud set of her head, her graceful carriage—all were stamped indelibly on Garnet’s mind from the first day she had seen her nearly eight years ago.
“Madam, your tea. Shall I pour for you?” Myrna spoke. Garnet looked up into her maid’s concerned eyes as she offered her the small tray with a squat brown pottery teapot and a thick white cup and saucer she had obtained from the porter.
“Yes, thank you.” Sipping the hot liquid, she stared out the window at the changing landscape. Grimy warehouses and rows of soot-blackened buildings gradually gave way to lush, rolling countryside. The train clattered over arched stone bridges, thundered through villages, stopped at flower-bordered stations, then started up again, passing through long stretches of meadow where sheep grazed and cottages nestled against the green hillsides.
Blythe … Blythe … Over and over the train wheels seemed to repeat the name.
Then, as it had long ago, Malcolm’s voice intruded into Garnet’s thoughts, “Garnet, may I present my wife—Blythe Dorman Montrose.”
Stunned at the word wife, Garnet had stared at the girl framed in the doorway of the pantry at Montclair. Even now she could feel the numbing shock. She had felt exactly as when she had fallen out of a tree as a little girl, landing flat on the ground. Although she had not been able to breathe or speak, Garnet saw that she was young and very beautiful. It was her eyes Garnet noticed first—large, dark, frightened as those of a startled doe, then the glorious auburn hair curling around her heart-shaped face from under the edge of an atrocious purple bonnet that looked very much the worse for wear. But even her peculiar outfit could not disguise a lovely figure.
Bewildered, Garnet had turned to Malcolm for some kind of explanation. But Malcolm had stepped away from her, distancing himself physically as well as emotionally, and she had looked into the eyes of a stranger.
Where was the Malcolm of old, the one she had loved so desperately all her life, the one who had broken her heart by marrying Rose Meredith, his Yankee bride? Would he now break it a second time?
Somehow she had managed to mumble that Sara, an invalid, must be prepared for her son’s unexpected return, and for the surprising news that he had brought back a bride from California. Even now, so many years later, Garnet could still remember the blinding tears that crowded into her eyes as she had stumbled up the stairway toward Sara’s room.
Betrayed! Every other thought was suppressed by this one fact. Betrayed by her own heart as well as by Malcolm—Malcolm whom she had worshiped as a child, longed for as a young girl, coveted as a woman. Malcolm, for whom she had hopefully waited during the years of her own widowhood, keeping his home, caring for his invalid mother and his little son, Jonathan, expecting that at long last all her yearning, dreaming, waiting would be rewarded. Then he had returned, and with him, Blythe.
“We’re coming into the station now, ma’am,” Myrna said as the train pulled to a stop. Garnet snapped back to the present and stepped out of the compartment onto the platform.
The Devlin coachman was waiting for them. He saw to the luggage and assisted Garnet into the small carriage. Springing to his perch in front, he lifted the reins, gave the two bays a flick of his buggy whip, and set off at a brisk trot down the road to “Birchfields.”
The house Jeremy had bought for them in the country had a long and interesting history, dating back further than Garnet cared to hear. In the 1840s it had passed out of the hands of the original owners, been purchased by one of the newly wealthy industrialists, and refurbished and modernized. The place—surrounded by storied English gardens—provided a haven of peace after the busy social life Jeremy’s work demanded of them in London.
Jogging along the winding country road, Garnet was still preoccupied. She was almost glad now that Jeremy wouldn’t be down until tomorrow when he would arrive with their guests—the writer, his wife, and their entourage. Having this evening alone would give her time to think things through, to decide whether to write her mother about her strange sighting of Blythe at Victoria Station, to prepare Rod for the possibility that she was now living in England. Or would that be too cruel? Besides, what did she really have to tell them? Finding Blythe in London or wherever she was would still be like searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Perhaps it would be best not to mention it at all.
By the time they drove up the curved driveway and halted at the front entrance of the timbered and stone Tudor mansion, Garnet was still undecided. Hadley, the butler, came down the steps to see to the luggage. Lined up in the front hall to greet her were Mrs. Cavanaugh, the housekeeper, and the three maids.
Even after years in England, Garnet still found it strange having white servants. She had learned one did not treat English staff with the same careless informality with which she had always interacted with her own family’s black servants back home in Virginia; and certainly not with the intimacy she had enjoyed with Tilda, Carrie, and Bessie during the war years at Montclair.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Devlin. I hope you had a pleasant trip down,” Mrs. Cavanaugh greeted her.
“It was … all right,” Garnet said evasively, then admitted, “Actually, I’m exhausted, Mrs. Cavanaugh. And with company coming tomorrow, I think I’ll just have something light for dinner in my suite and get to bed early.”
“As you wish, madam,” the housekeeper replied. Then as Garnet started toward the stairway, Mrs. Cavanaugh asked, “Will Miss Faith be coming down this weekend as well?”
Garnet paused. “Yes, Nanny will be bringing her with her father on the morning train.”
Continuing up the steps, Garnet thought fondly of how Jeremy adored their little daughter. Even when he was entertaining, he liked having Faith around, unlike most English fathers, who did well to give their children a pat on the head when they were brought down by their nurses before bedtime. She had yet to see an English gentleman lavish much love or attention on a child. She was blessed indeed, Garnet thought as she entered the master suite on the second floor.
Myrna, who had followed Garnet upstairs, helped her off with her coat and into a velvet-and-lace dressing gown, saying quietly, “I’ll get you some hot tea, madam. That should relax you and help you rest.”
“Thank you, Myrna,” Garnet replied absently and went to look out the window overlooking the formal garden with its maze of boxwood hedges. “It will be a busy weekend—”
Her mind still on Jeremy, Garnet took out her hairpins, thinking of the unexpected way her husband had come into her life. Considering the circumstances, surely their meeting had been providential—
Toward the end of the war Garnet had been living at Montclair, her husband’s home, while Bryce rode with Mosby’s raiders. She, her widowed sister-in-law Dove, their cousin Harmony Chance, their children, her father-in-law, Clayton Montrose, and Sara, Garnet’s invalid mother-in-law were alone there while the men fought for the Confederacy. After the death of Rose, Malcolm’s first wife, Garnet assumed the care of their son while Malcolm served with Lee’s army.
The four women had just been terrorized by a raid made by a small band of undisciplined Union soldiers who had threatened to return when Jeremy, then a major in the Union army, had offered them his protection.
Thereafter, though officially their enemy, he had come each night to guard the house against any unordered attack by renegade soldiers. Later, he had also returned Jonathan’s little pony, Bugle Boy, confiscated by the troopers along with the rest of the livestock.
After the war, Jeremy had returned to Virginia and surprised Garnet one day by calling on her. Now a widow, she was overwhelmed by the darkness of her life, and she was touchingly grateful for the attention of this handsome and sophisticated man, now an executive with a prestigious New York publishing firm. To her further surprise, he had declared his love for her and his desire to marry her.
Jeremy finally convinced Garnet, who had never expected to know love again, that they could find happiness together. With the respect and admiration he had earned from her during the war came a dawning realization of love, and they were married at Cameron Hall.
After all the years of deprivation, Jeremy had given her a life she could never have imagined. With publishing offices both in New York and London, they divided their time between the two cities, combining Jeremy’s business trips with interludes of pleasure. They stayed in some of Europe’s grandest hotels, visited Austria and Switzerland, where Garnet was stunned by the sight of the spectacular Alps. They toured capital cities, saw the great works of art in museums, heard music played by some of the finest orchestras conducted by the most famous maestros of the concert world, took boat trips down the Rhine, viewing the fairy-tale castles from the decks of luxury yachts.
Life had opened into astonishing vistas for Garnet since her marriage. Still, although she appreciated and enjoyed her exciting new life, she was often homesick for Virginia, and it was a special joy for her to be able to travel often to visit her mother in Mayfield and to see her brother, Rod.
Her thoughts turned to Rod. It just wasn’t fair! He had cared for Malcolm Montrose’s neglected second wife with a devoted passion, and she had apparently abandoned him after losing Malcolm and Montclair. Now Garnet had seen her—Blythe, the object of his long search, the source of so much of Garnet’s past pain and envy.
Garnet reached for the double silver frame on her dressing table and studied the photographs. On one side was a picture of her two brothers, Rod and Stewart, looking so handsome in their brand-new Confederate uniforms. The other picture was of Rod alone, ten years later.
He was still quite handsome. But there was something about his expression that had not been present in the first picture, she thought as she compared them—the indefinable look of someone who has been touched by tragedy. The eyes held a secret sorrow, a secret not hidden from his sister.
Again Garnet fretted. Would it diminish his heartache to know she thought she had seen the woman he had loved and lost? The one great love of his life? Or would it only prolong his pain?