Gallant Bride by Jane Peart

Author:Jane Peart
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Zondervan

chapter

16

STEPPING OUT onto the side porch one morning, Blythe felt a slight nip in the air that signaled the approach of faü, although it was only the first week in September.

Malcolm had been away for nearly a month. No one knew when he would be back. Not even his father had heard from him. Of course, Massachusetts was a long way, Blythe comforted herself, and travel difficult.

Suppressing a longing to escape the house and the overflowing basket of clothes waiting to be ironed, Blythe went back inside. There was no use waiting for Suzie to come or Cora, for that matter. They came whenever it suited them. Not that Blythe blamed them. They were paid very little, and they had their own families to care for, besides working alongside their husbands in the small plots of land former Montrose slaves had been given for their own use.

Lonnie was different. She came as regularly as clockwork to tend to Sara’s rooms. She had been trained under the “late-lamented” Lizzie, she told Blythe, and her loyalty to the “Missus” ran deep.

Anyway, Blythe did not really mind the ironing. In fact, she rather enjoyed it when the weather wasn’t too hot. She had always done up her Pa’s shirts.

She set the flat irons on the small stove in the kitchen annex to heat. One thing about ironing, she thought, it left her mind free to wander at will. And, lately, there had been a great deal to think about—mostly about Malcolm and how things would be when he returned. If he brought lonathan with him—and she sincerely hoped he would—she felt that the whole atmosphere of the house would take on a new vibrance and joy. Yes, Jonathan might be the answer. His coming would bring life and laughter to a house that had long been waiting for something … someone.

She picked up one of the irons, pressing the heel across the dampened, starched shirt, seeing the wrinkles vanish. If only life’s wrinkles could be smoothed out half so easily', she mused. She turned the garment, again lifting the flatiron from the stove and banging it, hissing, against the collar of the shirt. As she worked, her constant question repeated itself. How could she become a woman Malcolm could respect, admire and, perhaps someday, even love?

Achingly anxious to please him, Blythe had observed Kate Cameron and Dove, tried to practice—when she was alone—how they moved, carried themselves, sat, lifted a teacup.

She had found a book on the shelves in the library, The Lexicon of Correct English Usage, had borrowed it and studied it when she was alone in her bedroom. She loved the library, not only because of the books, but because there was a portrait of Malcolm, standing proudly, handsome in his Confederate uniform, the gold epaulets and braid, the saber at his side.

It was a Malcolm Blythe had never known—young, vibrant, eyes full of hope, dark wavy hair untouched by silver. This was the Malcolm both Garnet and Rose had known and loved, she thought wistfully.

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