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  Why must I? Fenelle asked herself rebelliously.

  Of course, she knew why her mother was so insistent that she put her ill-fated love aside. Since Fenelle’s papa, Everett Maynard, had died, the two women were practically penniless. Having given generously to the Confederate cause, he had been left with nothing but stacks of worthless paper money. While walking home from his law office one summer afternoon in 1872—an office that had seen no paying clients in years—he had suffered a fatal heart attack. Fenelle, who had loved him deeply, was convinced that her father’s heart had simply broken.

  To keep a roof over their heads and food on their table, she and her mother had been forced to sell off valuable family treasures, piece by piece. Then, too, Fenelle’s brother, Francis, who had been an undercover agent for the Confederacy, worked as a law clerk in a big firm in Richmond and sent home as much money as he could spare from his small salary.

  But what Mrs. Maynard said they needed and was determined to arrange was a wealthy husband for Fenelle, one who could support all of them in fine style.

  There were very few men left in the south who could fill her requirements—men of good breeding, excellent character, and unlimited resources. Rod Cameron was one of these.

  “And don’t talk about books!” was Mrs. Maynard’s final directive as she firmly reined in in front of the curved welcoming arm steps of Cameron Hall. “I don’t imagine Rod has the inclination or time to read nor is much interested in people who do! I wish you’d study up on horses,” she added as an afterthought, again glancing critically at her daughter. “Now, straighten your bonnet and smile!” She gathered her skirts and placed a determined smile on her own face just as Kate Cameron walked out on the veranda to greet them.

  chapter

  2

  Cameron Hall

  Mayfield, Virginia

  ROD LOOKED across the room at Mrs. Maynard, perched on the edge of one of the wing chairs like an uneasy bird, balancing her teacup with one plump hand while propelling a dainty cucumber sandwich to her mouth with the other. A mouth that Rod noted with some annoyance, had not stopped moving since the Maynards’ arrival.

  “I do declare, Kate, I never cease to be amazed at the ways some of our dearest friends have managed to survive since the war. Why, just the other day when Fenelle and I were making calls, whom do you suppose we ran into just as we were getting out of our landau in front of Mamie Dunaway’s?” She paused breathlessly to let Mrs. Cameron guess, taking advantage of the moment to pop another tiny triangle of bread into her mouth. Before Kate could answer, Mrs. Maynard had chewed, taken a swallow of tea, and was ready to continue.

  “None other than Harmony Chance, who was, you remember, a cousin of the Montrose family … on the Barnwell side, I believe. Well, she was with her daughter, Alair … such a beautiful girl! … and so vivacious—” Here she cast a significant glance at her own daughter, who was demurely sipping her tea. “Of course, I was surprised to see them over here, all the way from Winchester, and when I asked what in the world they were doing so far from home, you will never imagine what we were told!”

  Mrs. Maynard surveyed her audience, her eyes moving from one to the other with the look of a secretive tabby cat just waiting to pounce.

  Rod stirred restlessly in his chair. Mrs. Maynard was everything he disliked in a woman—a gossip, a whiner, a pessimist. Only his innate good manners kept him from displaying his utter boredom and distaste for the half-hour’s monologue to which he’d been subjected. He had no interest in conversation that dwelt on the flaws and foibles of every person whose name had been mentioned during the afternoon. But nothing seemed to check Elyse Maynard’s deluge of words as long as she possessed privileged information.

  Satisfied that no one knew why the Chances happened to be in Mayfield, she resumed. “They were shopping for fabrics for Alair’s trousseau!” announced Mrs. Maynard with a smug look, then folded her hands in her lap, looking around to gauge the impact of this piece of news.

  “Alair? Getting married? But she’s hardly more than a child!” exclaimed Kate.

  “Eighteen her next birthday!” declared Mrs. Maynard. “But, my dear, you will never in all your born days imagine to whom she’s engaged!” Another round of glances, then triumphantly, “Randall Bondurant! The blackguard who stole Montclair from Malcolm Montrose!”

  In spite of herself, Kate Cameron drew in her breath in an audible gasp and set down her teacup. “You don’t mean it!”

  Mrs. Maynard nodded her head emphatically.

  “I do indeed. I was every bit as shocked as you, my dear Kate. I tried not to reveal it, but I felt quite faint, didn’t I, Fen?” She turned to her daughter for confirmation. “Harmony was so obviously pleased with the match that I wouldn’t have spoiled it. But of course, she never did have a grain of sense, even as a girl, and I’ve known her all my life. And then Alair was so thrilled, showing off her ring—which is the biggest, most vulgar diamond I’ve ever seen! I mean, my dear, what could I have said or done but admire it and wish the girl happiness?” She threw out both fat little hands.

  During this recital Rod regarded Fenelle through narrowed eyes. Color had risen into her pale cheeks, and long lashes fluttered over downcast eyes. Why, the poor girl is as embarrassed as can be over her mother, he thought with sudden sympathy as Elyse Maynard rattled on.

  “Well, I tried to be as polite as possible, but it was all I could do not to give Harmony a good piece of my mind right then and there. Remind her how Montclair came to belong to Bondurant, and how no one, absolutely no one in Mayfield has received him since he came here to live! Well, at least, none of the old families. I understand he is received in some homes and particularly in the homes of some of the Yankee newcomers, the ‘nouveau riche’ who came here after the war—but really! ” she huffed in exasperation. “What can Harmony and Clint be thinking of to let their only daughter marry such a—such—” Her words spun out like a spool empty of thread at last.

  Even Kate, always the diplomat, seemed at a loss for an explanation.

  “Of course, Harmony and Clint have had a very hard time,” she suggested. “You know their home was occupied and left in shambles by the Yankees, and Clint was so badly wounded he has never been well since he came back from the war—I know Harmony grieved that they were not able to do for Alair what they would have if they had not lost everything. Perhaps, marrying someone like Bondurant, being mistress of a beautiful home like Montclair seems a good future for their daughter.”

  Elyse drew herself up indignantly. “Well, I’m not saying it’s all their fault, Kate. Surely some of the blame has to be laid at the feet of Malcolm Montrose. It was he who squandered what was left of the Montrose estate—lost it in the end—”

  Immediately Rod sprang to his old friend’s defense.

  “Malcolm was a casualty of the war as much as any soldier who died on the battlefield, Mrs. Maynard. He suffered irrevocable loss, may I remind you, in the tragic death of his wife, Rose—”

  Mrs. Maynard seemed miffed at the implied reprimand and dismissed Rod’s reminder with a wave of one hand.

  “Of course, I know all that, dear boy. But there were others who suffered every bit as much—” The deep sigh and pursed lips made plain that the Maynards had had their own severe losses from the war, although she was too much a lady to bring it up!

  Kate, hoping to avoid a verbal conflict between her guest and her outspoken son, hurriedly changed the subject.

  “Has a date for the wedding been set?”

  Mollified at the chance to relay more information on the startling piece of news she had furnished, Elyse chattered on.

  “Oh, it is to be quite a lavish affair, Harmony says. The wedding will take place in the gardens at Montclair, which she told me have been fully restored and will be in glorious bloom in early spring. Alair says there will be at least a dozen bridesmaids and a European honeymoon to follow! Why, Montclair hasn’t seen such an event in many a year. Malcolm was married up n
orth, and then I suppose his second marriage took place in California—” Mrs. Maynard pronounced the name with distaste, as if it were as strange a place to be married as Tibet! She paused then and interjected, “Whatever became of that girl Malcolm brought home? The one from the West … what was her name?”

  Kate, casting a quick, anxious look at Rod, replied for him. “Blythe. And she left after the house and property were taken. No one has ever heard where she went.” She rushed on to fill the awkward silence. “So, tell us about your trip, Elyse. When do you and Fenelle leave for England?”

  At the mention of Blythe’s name, Rod felt the familiar pang, that wrenching blend of anger and frustration. Again her image flashed before him—those haunting eyes, sometimes alight with laughter, other times like dark woodland pools, unfathomable and mysterious; the sweet curve of her mouth, the apricot flush of her cheeks—

  “More tea, darling?” His mother’s voice reclaimed him, sparing him further painful memories.

  Rod held out his cup and, as he did so, he caught Fenelle’s gaze upon him and met it with a smile. He watched as she colored, and an answering smile played at the corners of her lips. How shy she is, he thought, how completely different from her mother.

  “My brother-in-law, Webb, has booked us on one of the finest, newest British passenger ships.” Mrs. Maynard beamed. “We sail on the tenth of April.” Then leaning forward confidentially, she said, “You know, Everett’s brother was smart enough to see the storm coming, and long before any of the rest of us recognized that war with the North was inevitable, he took his family—and, I might add, his fortune—and went to England, a country that was, as you know, most sympathetic to our cause.”

  Her loud sigh attested to her regret that her own husband had not followed his brother’s wise counsel in the matter of business.

  “How lovely for both of you. And such an educational opportunity for you, Fenelle,” Kate murmured, including the young woman in the conversation which, up to this point, had been monopolized by her mother.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. Webb has wanted us to come ever since the war ended, but dear Everett, as you know, was unwell and we did not feel he could withstand the journey. Since his passing—” Here Elyse reached into her small handbag and drew out a lace-edged handkerchief with which she dabbed briefly at dry eyes. “Webb has been urging us to come for some time. At length, he made all the arrangements for our passage himself. And Deidra, his wife, has all sorts of plans for Fenelle. A London season!” Mrs. Maynard simpered, adding significantly, with a sidelong glance at Rod, “It seems American girls are much admired and sought after in society over there. She has even suggested Fenelle may be presented at Court!”

  “How exciting!” Kate smiled at Fenelle whose face was now quite rosy, reflecting the unwelcome attention focused upon her.

  “Oh my, yes! We may even come home with a title, who knows?” Mrs. Maynard giggled girlishly and wagged a playful finger at Rod, “I must say American men may have to look to their laurels with such competition from English gentlemen. Our young ladies may become our most important export!”

  Sensing Fenelle’s embarrassment, Rod’s compassion was aroused. “You ride, don’t you, Miss Fenelle?”

  She perked up visibly. “Oh, yes.”

  “Perhaps you would like to see my new hunter before you leave.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she said, relief evident in her voice.

  Rod got to his feet. “He’s pastured in the near meadow. We could walk down and see him, if you like.”

  Fenelle turned to her mother questioningly. “Mama?”

  “Yes, yes. You two young people run along.” Mrs. Maynard looked pleased. “But don’t be long, dear. We have other calls to make, you know.”

  As they strolled out onto the porch and down the steps to the terrace, then over the lawn toward the pasture, Rod gave the young woman beside him a measured look.

  Fenelle Maynard was tall, slender as a wand, with the fine, delicate features of an aristocrat. Her blue eyes, when she turned to look at him, were almost at a level with his. Under his steady gaze she nervously raised a hand to tuck a straying strand of pale, blond hair under her bonnet.

  At once, Rod felt a protective affection for her. Putting up with that dreadful mother of hers must be an ordeal. He had known and admired her brother, Francis, who had risked his life for the Confederacy during the war, and Rod considered that Francis’s sister possibly possessed the same qualities of quiet bravery and endurance.

  When they reached the fence, they leaned against the top rail and watched with silent pleasure as the chestnut gelding, golden mane flying, galloped in splendid freedom.

  After a while Fenelle said softly, “He’s very beautiful.”

  Rod followed the graceful movement of his horse with pride.

  “Yes,” he agreed. Presently he said, “I’m going to Ireland in a few months to visit a horse farm owned by a friend and purchase some horses for my stable.” Eyeing Fenelle curiously, he continued, “You know my sister Garnet lives in England. When I finish my business in Ireland, I plan to visit her there. Since you’ll be in London at the same time, perhaps I could call on you at your uncle’s home.”

  He watched as a slow blush suffused Fenelle’s translucent skin. She turned serious eyes upon him in which he saw, for the first time, a flicker of life and interest.

  “I would like that very much, Rod.”

  The birth of her smile was a beautiful thing to behold.

  “I’ll give you Uncle Webb’s London address, and I shall look forward to seeing you—”

  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

  chapter

  3

  Victoria Station

  London, England

  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 chec
ked 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.”