Yankee Bride / Rebel Bride Page 3

  He recalled clearly, with every detail distinct, the first day he had set eyes on John Meredith's sister. It was their first year at Harvard and John had invited him home for the Thanksgiving weekend. He remembered his thoughts when John had introduced him, saying, "This is my sister, Rose." Of course, what other name could this delightful creature be called? The slender figure, the graceful bearing, the petal-soft mouth, the delicate rosy coloring . . . what, but Rose?

  He had fallen in love with her at once and had loved her every day since . . . and today he was losing her forever.

  "Do you then, Malcolm, take Rose—to love, honor, and cherish in sickness and in health, for better or for worse?"

  Malcolm had experienced a feeling of unreality ever since he had awakened that morning and realized with his first moment of awareness that this was the day Rose would become his bride.

  Every miserable moment of his years at Harvard faded away after he met her. Now, as he looked down into her upturned face, her eyes radiating such warmth that his heart pounded, roaring in his ears, he thought of his happiness the day he had asked her to marry him and how she answered almost before he had gotten the words out of his mouth.

  "Oh, my dearest, yes!" she had whispered and her voice was husky and tremulous with emotion. She went into his arms then as trustfully as a child, and he was overwhelmed with the sweetness and ardor of her surrender.

  As Malcolm repeated the vows the minister was reciting, he prayed that God would help him to keep them, that he would never fail Rose nor do anything to take away the happy bright shining in those love-filled eyes.

  "Do you, Rose Ellen, take Malcolm for your lawful husband, to live together in God's ordinance as his wife, to love, honor and obey him—"

  "I do," Rose replied in a tone so light, so soft it had an almost childlike breathlessness.

  At last it was here. . . . She was standing "in the presence of God and this company," as Pastor Brandon had said, taking the most solemn vow of her life, making the most binding promises, blending her life—past, present, and future—with this man whom she loved with a blinding, blazing emotion beyond anything she could ever imagine or had ever known. . . ."From this day forward" . . . for all her life on down all the years to come, into eternity, she and Malcolm would be one soul, one spirit, one body. . . before the Creator—one—enduring, exclusive, encompassing all they had been, were, or would become. It was happening! Now! I love you, Malcolm! her heart sang as his voice quietly spoke the words of the traditional service.

  "And with the giving and receiving of this ring, pledging your troth one to the other, I now pronounce you husband and wife—"

  Malcolm took Rose's hand and she felt a quicksilver tingle as he slipped the wide gold band on her finger.

  Reverend Brandon took their clasped hands and, placing his own upon their joined ones, said, "Henceforth you will belong entirely to each other. You will be one in mind, one in heart, one in affections."

  As if from a long distance, Rose heard the deep tones of the organ begin to play the familiar recessional hymn. Malcolm was smiling, offering her his arm as they turned to face the congregation. She slipped her hand through it, and with his other hand he pressed hers and said in a low voice intended only for her ears, "My darling wife . . . Mrs. Montrose!"

  The radiance in Rose's face brought tears to the eyes of the observers as the couple started down the aisle. If wishes and prayers could ensure their future happiness, it is a certain thing, Vanessa thought, turning to watch their departure for the reception area and the European honeymoon to follow. Unfortunately, that was sometimes not enough. Life, after all, was as the minister had said, "a vale of tears." She only hoped that this day would always remain in their hearts and minds as completely and blissfully happy, no matter what came afterward.

  Part II

  Rebel Bride

  Mayfield, Virginia

  Summer 1857

  chapter

  4

  GARNET AWOKE the next morning to a roomful of spring sunshine. At first she did not remember the terrible shock she had suffered the night before. Then as she awakened fully, remembrance came, and she felt the bewildering despair assail her once more.

  Not daring to be around the house under the watchful eye of her mother or the suspicious Mawdee who was expert at ferreting out Garnet's best-kept secrets, she decided to go riding. On horseback she was always happiest, clearest-headed, at her best. There she could think, plan, decide what she should do.

  In the golden light of the morning some of the tension, confusion, and pent-up emotion began to ebb in the exhilaration she always felt seated on Trojan Lady, a sixteenth-birthday present from her father. The fine horse beneath her responded to her slightest touch on the reins and moved forward with a buoyant step. Through the sun-dappled woods they went, horse and rider finding release in an easy trot along familiar bridle paths.

  Slowly Garnet grew calmer, the woods seeming to enfold her in its peace; the only sounds, those of hoofbeats on a carpet of pine needles. When she stopped to let Lady drink from the rushing stream midway through the woods, Garnet lifted her head and looked about. Through a curtain of lacy white dogwood she could see the outline of the little house called Eden Cottage, and she knew she had reached the dividing line between Cameron and Montrose land.

  Eden Cottage! Garnet caught her breath. Traditionally, the "honeymoon house" to which Montrose men brought their brides for the first year of marriage was the architect's model for the big house, a miniature Montclair, built on the site of the original log cabin occupied by the first settlers on their land. As she looked, Garnet was filled with renewed distress.

  How often she had ridden by this very place and thought in passing that one day she would spend her honeymoon year inside that charming little house—with Malcolm. Was it really possible to have dreamed such a dream? A dream with no foundation?

  Again she felt that wild rush of defiance rising within her, the irrational hatred for the clever Yankee girl who had somehow "tricked" Malcolm into marriage.

  Garnet's hands on the reins tightened convulsively and the startled mare jerked her head upward, shaking it and whinnying in protest at the sudden pull on her tender mouth. Garnet leaned forward to pat the horse's neck soothingly. Her anger was for Malcolm, and the fiery energy of it coursed through her. She gave Lady a gentle kick with her heels, urging her forward. They splashed through the creek beside the rustic bridge and clambered up the other side and onward to the ridge of the hill. Here she had an almost unobstructed view of Montclair gleaming in the April sunshine.

  Garnet dismounted and loosely tied the mare's reins to a nearby tree. Then, walking over to the edge of the little rise, she gazed down on the house, the source of all her plans and dreams.

  What was it about Montclair that gave it such a magical quality? she wondered. It was not as magnificent as her own home, which had been designed by a famous English architect and embellished with elaborate formal gardens and Italian statuary. There were terraced lawns and rooms filled with fine French furniture. In contrast, Montclair, built with white oak felled and milled right on the plantation, and bricks made by their own people, had a simple dignity that was at once austere and appealing. Garnet could not explain why she had always been drawn to it. Maybe it was because Montclair was so like Malcolm himself, who was sometimes thoughtful and serene and at other times, lighthearted and laughing.

  Everything about these surroundings reminded Garnet poignantly of Malcolm. She had often met him on this very same bridle path when he, too, was riding. She remembered particularly the day before he was to leave for Harvard for his first year. She had been a skinny twelve-year-old; Malcolm was already a young man of eighteen. They had both dismounted and walked along the creek. Garnet remembered every word of that conversation—

  "I wish you weren't going, Malcolm. Papa says it's nonsense to send Virginia boys up north to school."

  "Well, my father feels differently. He thinks it's important
for Southerners to learn how people in other parts of this country think, feel and live. Maybe it will be good for me to get out of my own little world for a time. Anyway, I'm curious."

  Garnet had tossed her long tangled mane impatiently and had pushed her rosy underlip into a pout. "But I don't see why you have to go so far away. Papa says Virginians should know their own state, their own people. Our ways are good enough—better, Papa says. After all, you're going to live the rest of your life in Virginia anyway."

  Malcolm laughed. "Well, I'll be home for Christmas and all during the summers. Besides, you'll be going away to school yourself before long, little one."

  "No, I won't. Mama wanted me to go to the Academy where she and your mother went, where my cousin Dove Arundell is going, but Papa put his foot down. He doesn't want me to be away from home. So, I'm to have a tutor instead." Here Garnet had made a face. "But she's a Yankee from Philadelphia!"

  "And that's a problem, is it?" Malcolm had teased. "I'll wager you'll lead her a merry chase."

  And she had, Garnet recalled wryly. She could easily reduce the hapless Miss Simmons to tears, then run out of the house, get on her horse, and ride off for the afternoon. She had managed to get away with it, too. Over her mother's protestations, her father had just called her "a little dickens" and pacified the governess with a new shawl. Garnet was his darling and he could never punish her nor deprive her of anything. He would have moved heaven and earth to make her happy, Garnet knew.

  With aching heart she remembered another conversation with Malcolm that had taken place when she was about fifteen, not yet "come out." On the evening of the Bachelors Ball, which she was considered too young to attend, Malcolm had come by Cameron Hall to ride over with Rod and Stewart. Garnet had poured out her pique about it to him while he was waiting for her brothers.

  "It's always when I'm older," she complained. "I'm tired of hearing it! Everything nice is going to happen when I'm older! Nothing now!"

  "Garnet, that's not true. Lots of nice things happen now. Like your birthday. That's going to happen very soon—with presents, a party, all sorts of nice surprises."

  "But it's my sixteenth birthday that counts!" she insisted. "People are still telling me 'wait until you're older.' I don't want to wait! I want what I want now!"

  Malcolm had studied the young girl who no doubt would grow up to be quite irresistible.

  "Listen, Garnet, the best is yet to come, believe me," he had told her very seriously. "You'll see. In another year or two you'll have so many beaux you'll be like a princess with knights riding up to your doorstep, begging your papa for your hand in marriage."

  "I already know whom I want to marry," she told him tardy, looking up at him from beneath long lashes.

  "If you were six years older, I'd marry you myself," Malcolm had said laughingly.

  "Then I wish I were six years older," she had declared. But at that moment her older brothers had come clattering down the steps, drowning out her reply.

  All at once the impact of his engagement, the crushing end to her long-held dream, struck her full force. She began to sob. With all the violence of a thwarted child, Garnet cried wildly, bitterly.

  Finally with a last shuddering sob, she dug her fists into her eyes, swallowed hard, and flung back her head.

  A lifetime of having every wish fulfilled had given Garnet an unrealistic expectation, had instilled in her false confidence that such an existence would continue unabated.

  Before her lay the serenely beautiful house where she had expected to live as Malcolm's bride. Now the man who could have made that possible was marrying someone else.

  From somewhere deep within Garnet came a taunting suggestion: You may not marry Malcolm. . . but you could still be Mistress of Montclair.

  The desire for revenge activated in Garnet a dark, devious part of her, heretofore undetected—unplumbed because there had never yet been anything she truly wanted that she had been unable to attain. Now, an insidious plan, seemingly simple, hovered tantalizingly before her. If she could not have the man she loved, Malcolm, she could have his brother—Bryson Montrose! What delicious irony to be already ensconced at Montclair as its potential mistress when Malcolm brought home his Yankee bride.

  Suddenly what had appeared hopeless seemed within easy reach, and the seductive sweetness of revenge filled Garnet's heart. She did not know that once the impossible seems attainable, all obstacles of honesty and decency are sometimes swept away in the lust to grasp the dream. So she fixed her sights on Bryson Montrose.

  Bryce was a direct contrast to Malcolm in both appearance and character. Ruggedly handsome, with an air of nonchalance, Bryce cared little for the knowledge gained from books. He was content to spend his days astride the horses he rode like an Arabian prince. Bryce possessed all the careless charm, the good-natured personality, the well-bred manners expected of a Southern gentleman. He was, however, the dismay of every hopeful mother of marriageable daughters in Mayfield County, for although any of the three Montrose sons would have been considered more than eligible, this one seemed most unattainable. It was said he cared more for horses, dogs, and hunting than for the company of young ladies. This fact had discouraged most of the matchmaking mamas.

  But thus far in her short life as a belle, Garnet Cameron had never failed to snare any beau she pleased in her butterfly net of coquettish smiles, flattery, and winsomeness. Bryce might present more than the unusual challenge, but Garnet had every confidence she could claim her prize in due time. With bitter relish she imagined the satisfaction she would feel at greeting Malcolm and his Yankee bride from the steps of Montclair.

  Her frenzied thoughts were interrupted by the sound of rain pelting the leaves of the overarching trees. Feeling them on her face, Garnet realized that the sky had darkened and become heavy with clouds scudding across at an angry pace. A loud clap of thunder startled Lady, and Garnet had to speak soothingly before the mare allowed her to mount and start back down the path heading homeward.

  By now the rain was falling steadily. It wasn't the first time she had been caught in one of the April showers prevalent in this part of Virginia. They came almost without warning and, although of short duration, they were drenching.

  By the time Garnet emerged from the woods, galloped along the meadow, and cleared two fences taking a shortcut back to the stable, she was wet clear through. As she cantered into the slick cobblestone stable yard, she saw Tully, one of the grooms, saddled up and starting out, confirming her suspicion she had already been missed. Obviously he was being sent out in search of her.

  Garnet frowned. Sometimes it was a real nuisance to be the object of so much affectionate care. She had hoped to avoid her mother's reproach, then she saw Mawdee, arms folded over her ample bosom, standing at the top of the stairs, and she knew she was in for her sharp upbraiding.

  As Mawdee helped her out of her sodden riding habit, Garnet sneezed twice .

  "See there, missy, what yo' foolishness done got yo'?" she glared at Garnet, her face fierce with indignation. "Yo' done ketched yo' death of cold, iffen I ain't mistook!" She then turned to the little maid, Bessie, and ordered, "You, gal, fetch some hot water up to Miss Garnet's room direckly. Doan' jes' stand there gawkin'! Git movin'!"

  Within minutes Garnet's rain-soaked clothing was removed and she was wrapped in a blanket until the younger maid could pour pails of boiling water into the iron tub Mawdee had placed before the bedroom fireplace. In a way, Mawdee's grumbling ministrations were soothing to Garnet's bruised emotions. After a brisk rub-down at the black woman's none-too-gentle hands, Garnet was tucked into her high poster bed, in a nightgown that had been warmed, and with a heated brick folded in flannel at her feet. Later, a hot lemon and honey drink was brought in for her to sip in the soft luxury of her fluffy pillows.

  "Now, missy, yo' hab yo'sef a good res' and doan' think 'bout doin' no sech foolishness agin. I'll tell Miss Kate yo'll be havin' supper on a tray 'stead of comin' to de table dis ebenin'," Mawdee ann
ounced before waddling out of the room and leaving Garnet to the dubious comfort of her newly hatched scheme.

  Garnet was relieved to be left alone, dismissed from dinner with her family and the ever-present guests. Usually she enjoyed the sociability of her home, its constant flow of company, but tonight she had so much to think about she needed uninterrupted time to herself.

  Since Bryson Montrose had never shown the slightest romantic interest in Garnet, she knew this would have to be a carefully orchestrated campaign, executed with great finesse. Bryce was known to have resisted the charms of the prettiest girls in Mayfield. So, as the unsuspecting pawn in the game Garnet was preparing to play, his reluctance must be overcome.

  Garnet heard the whisper of rustling taffeta on the polished floor outside her bedroom door, scooted further down into her quilt, and closed her eyes. She knew by the subtle wafting scent of lilac that her mother had quietly opened the door to look in on her. Thinking Garnet was asleep, she closed the door softly.

  With a belated prick of a dormant conscience, Garnet realized that her mother, whom she loved dearly, must never suspect the motives behind her daughter's sudden interest in Bryson Montrose.

  chapter

  5

  "Two SONS married within weeks of each other!" Mr. Montrose declared when he dropped in at Cameron Hall to exchange congratulations with his neighbors.

  "I was barely back from Massachusetts, seeing Malcolm and his bride off to Europe, when Bryson announced that he, too, will be a bridegroom. Well, Sara and I could not be more pleased that Bryce, at least, is choosing a Southern girl for his wife—and the daughter of our dearest friends as well!" He beamed. "Sara is especially touched that Garnet wants to be married at Montclair. Very considerate of her, knowing how grieved Sara was not to be able to attend Malcolm's wedding. Now she will be able to see one of her sons married properly."