A New Dawn Over Devon (6 page)

 2 
The London Rutherfords

In the London home of Gifford and Martha Rutherford, the mood at the breakfast table was quiet, formal, and somewhat strained, almost as if the three family members quietly partaking of their eggs, bacon, toast, and tea were strangers. Here too, as well as at the estate of their cousins in Devonshire, something was dramatically altered since the sudden death of Gifford's first cousin Charles and his son George in the war. This change was most noticeable in Martha's sad countenance, and to a lesser degree in her grown son Geoffrey, who resided at home and worked with his father in the Bank of London.

“I have an appointment out in Devon tomorrow,” commented Gifford, hardly glancing up. “Care to accompany me?” It was obvious he was addressing his son. He would never have invited his wife along on anything of a business nature.

“I don't think so,” replied Geoffrey. “I have things to do here.” From his tone, however, he was clearly making an excuse.

Gifford opened his mouth and was about to ask, “What's wrong with you lately?” but thought better of it. On reflection, he concluded that he had best carry out his business alone. His son had grown curiously softhearted of late toward their cousins, hardly what he would have expected after having his proposal of marriage so rudely rebuffed by Amanda last year. To be truthful, Gifford was a little concerned about the boy. He was given to disturbing fits of quiet these days, even melancholy. It wasn't like him. Gifford had thought
of consulting his physician again to see if something might
really
be wrong with Geoffrey, even though to all appearances he seemed perfectly healthy.

He would come around again, thought Gifford, glancing over the top of the financial section of the
Times
and across the table. He would make sure of it. He would leave nothing to chance. If the boy didn't have the necessary fight to reach the top of the business world on his own, Gifford himself would insure his son's future.

A few minutes later Geoffrey excused himself from the table and went to his room to be alone. Thoughts of Devon, and business of his father, which he could only assume had to do with Heathersleigh, had put him in an irritable mood. In truth the sudden death of Charles and George had shaken him. It was not just that they were dead; he could not escape a nagging sense of guilt that his father's influence had kept
him
out of the war, and that the dubious physical report from his father's doctor had been faked for exactly that purpose. Even after four months he could not get the tragedy out of his mind. He couldn't focus on his work. He couldn't seem to focus on anything. Other things had been playing on his mind as well.

Downstairs husband and wife concluded their strained morning repast without a word passing between them. Gifford rose and left the breakfast room. Martha poured herself another cup of tea and silently sighed.

Forty minutes later Martha Rutherford watched her husband leave the expensively appointed residence on Curzon Street, then turned back from the window into the empty house. Her thoughts, like her son's, had gathered this morning about their Rutherford cousins of Devon.

She missed Amanda. She had so enjoyed their time together, the dresses they had made, all the places they had gone, the parties, the balls. What light and joy and laughter she had brought to the house. It had not been the same since.

Martha's thoughts turned to Amanda's mother. She would like to go visit Jocelyn and the girls. They had always been nice to her. What they must be going through with poor Charles and George gone. But she knew Gifford would never hear of such a visit.

A lonely tear rose in her eye. She knew it was impossible to make the slightest move toward friendship in that direction without her
husband's permission, and that was something he was not likely to give.

She was not exactly afraid of him. Gifford would never hurt her, except by his silence, by his rude aloofness, by his cold indifference. As badly as she wanted a life outside the lonely walls of this palatial house, she was too unsure of herself to try to find it. It had been so long since she had had any real friends, she could hardly remember what it felt like. She would try to stay active with her few activities and helping with the war effort. But none of that could take away the terrible aloneness.

Gifford gave her nothing. But he was all she had. And Martha Rutherford feared being left alone more than anything.

 3 
Heathersleigh Cottage

Twenty minutes after setting out, the two Rutherford sisters rode into the sunny clearing of Heathersleigh Cottage, where, as did not surprise them, they found their friend and adoptive grandmother Margaret McFee, widowed now just less than a year, on hands and knees in her luxuriant flower garden. Despite Maggie's years now stretching into the late seventies, evidenced by a head of unruly but pure white hair, her garden continued to grow, as inch by inch she tamed more of the surrounding clearing in the middle of the Devon woodland.

Behind her rose the white-thatched home, large to go by the name cottage as it still did, built originally as a gamekeeper's residence, whose mysterious history and curious changes of ownership had aroused such speculation throughout the community these past sixty years.

During the final years of his life, as the callings of eternity had penetrated closer to his heart, the brief occupant, Bishop Arthur Crompton, had first flowered a sunny patch of earth along the cottage's south wall. Neglect had come to it, however, for a short time after his death. But a fondness for flowers had early in her life become one of Maggie's passions, and even while her mother still lived, Maggie began to reclaim some of the original garden. By the time it came into her own hands, the cottage was already surrounded with flower beds of various kinds, extending north, south, east, and
west from its four walls through the clearing, toward her Bobby's barn—a smaller replica of the house in design and appearance—and in places encroaching on the forest itself. In midspring, when in full bloom, the only approach to the cottage lay on two narrow, winding, hard-packed dirt paths through the maze of color.

An altogether homier and cheerier setting it would be difficult to imagine, though now the ten-room cottage and sizeable barn seemed vacant and lonely to Maggie without her Bobby's wit and laughter to fill them.

Maggie's faithful cow Flora was also gone. But she was too old to think of trying to care for another. The life-giving cottage in the woods was now home only to Maggie, her flowers, and a few ducks and geese that fended for themselves and made more racket and offered less friendship than either Flora or the flowers. Jocelyn provided all Maggie's earthly needs in abundance, as a true daughter to a spiritual mother, and had done her best to encourage the dear lady to come live at the Hall with them. But Maggie said it was her heart's wish to remain at the cottage until she was unable to take care of herself. If a time came when she could not, then she would consider the kind offer.

Maggie glanced up from her work and smiled broadly as she saw her visitors. With a creak or two, she rose and ambled toward them while Catharine and Amanda dismounted and tethered their horses.

“Hello, Grandma Maggie!” said Catharine, bounding forward and embracing her warmly.

“Catharine . . . Amanda—how good of you to come.”

“Good morning, Grandma Maggie,” said Amanda. “Whenever I see you, you are in your garden.”

“It's summer, my dear—time when growing things are at their best. And what would I do without dirt to put my hands in to see what I might make grow from it? I was about to have my morning tea—I'll go inside and put the water on.”

As Maggie turned, Amanda began to walk pensively about, recalling many past visits to this place when her eyes were unable to perceive what life dwelt here. Unconsciously she meandered toward the barn.

Catharine and Maggie glanced silently at one another as they watched her go, more than half suspecting what was on her mind. Though both had prayed for this day, their hearts were sore for the
one they loved. They would spare her the inner anguish of this long-delayed homecoming if they could, but knew they could not, and knew also that Amanda's full healing required a measure of pain.

Amanda wandered into the barn, now cool, dark, and silent. No snort or stamp of cow's hoof, no
swoosh
from Bobby's plane could now be heard except in the memories that gradually came alive in her brain. It all
looked
the same, yet
felt
so very different to the eyes of her adulthood, colored with the sadness of nostalgia and tinged in Amanda's case with the bitterness of regret. Everywhere she walked, everything upon which her eyes fell, from the tower back at the Hall to the empty stalls and rusty tools and cracking leather harnesses of dear old Bobby's barn, brought painful realizations of what she had been, and of those who were now gone whose forgiveness it was too late to seek. With her thoughts of Bobby came again the reminder—so common these days—that she could not go back and recapture a past she had let slip away without knowing how precious it would one day be to her.

A tear came to her eye as she heard Bobby's voice speaking to a nine-year-old girl.
“
What are you going to think,” he said, “when you'
re older and God tries to tell you what to do?”

Now she was older, Amanda thought, and the lessons from God's voice had become painful necessities because she had waited so long to listen.

Amanda walked out of the barn back into the sunlight and slowly made her way toward the cottage. She found the others busy over a bit of lace Catharine had brought to ask Maggie about.

Amanda smiled wistfully to herself. She wondered if it was too late for her to learn such things. Hearing her footsteps coming through the open door, they glanced up and Amanda turned what remained of her smile toward their faces.

“I am so sorry about Bobby, Grandma Maggie,” she said. “It is one of my deepest regrets that I was away and out of the country when—” Again the tears began to flow. “I am . . . sorry about so many things.”

Maggie walked forward and took her in her arms. They stood a moment or two until Amanda had regained her composure.

“Regrets are part of life, dear,” said Maggie, stepping back. “We all must live with difficult memories because no one lives a perfect life. The pain helps us grow.”

“Sometimes it is almost more than I can bear.”

“I know, dear. But it will lessen, and you will be stronger for it. We all must also learn to go forward with thankfulness in our hearts.”

“I cannot imagine ever being thankful for what I have done,” said Amanda.

“Perhaps not for that,” rejoined Maggie, “but you
can
be thankful for how God will use it, and bring good out of it in the end.—But come, the tea is ready. Let us go to the sitting room.”

As they walked out of the kitchen and into the largest room of the house, Amanda noticed again the oak secretary built by Maggie's great-grandfather, where, as Maggie had shown them a few months earlier, she had discovered the deed to Heathersleigh Cottage.

“Grandma Maggie,” said Amanda as she sat down, “do you remember the day when I came for a visit, and you told me about your grandmother's favorite Bible verse?”

“Indeed I do,” replied Maggie, handing each of the girls a cup of tea.

“I had a pretty sour disposition, as I remember,” said Amanda. “Of course back then I think I always did—”

“Not always,” interjected Catharine. “We had a lot of fun together. I have very happy memories of playing together.”

“That is kind of you to say, Catharine,” said Amanda, turning a smile toward her sister. “But I often was grumpy, and I'm sure Grandma Maggie remembers even if you do not. But what I was saying is that your speaking of the mystery of the kingdom that day, and the passage from Mark 4, had a double meaning, didn't it? You were trying to help me see the mystery of the kingdom of God. Yet there was also the mystery of your bureau and what was hidden inside it.”

“Which even I hadn't an idea about at the time,” said Maggie.

“And how this cottage passed out of the family and to the bishop,” Catharine added.

“Which I have put right in my will,” concluded Maggie. “Do not forget, girls, that when I die, this cottage will again belong to you and your mother.”

“Please, Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine, “don't you talk of dying. You are as healthy as ever and will be with us at least another thirty years.”

“Ah, Catharine, my dear,” Maggie chuckled, “when a body gets to my age, one begins to feel that moving on to the next life isn't such a worrisome thing. Speaking for myself, I do not want to live another thirty years! In any event, all I ask is that once in a while the two of you enjoy a cup of tea together here and remember your grandma Maggie and grandpa Bobby, and that they loved you and your brother and your dear father and mother as if you were all our own.”

“Oh, Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine, “that is so sweet. Of course we will always remember you. We could never think of Heathersleigh Cottage and its beautiful growing things everywhere without thinking of you along with it.”

As the girls rode away from the cottage an hour later, Amanda remained quiet. After some time Catharine glanced toward her and saw that her older sister was crying.

“Amanda dear,” she said, “what is it?”

“You can't know the grief I feel, Catharine,” replied Amanda, “what it is like to realize I have spent a lifetime seeing only through the eyes of self, and how much hurt I have caused. It's so hard, like nothing I have ever known. Even such a simple thing as watching how close you and Grandma Maggie are—I am not envious, I think it's wonderful . . . but it brings a stab to my heart to realize all I threw away. And I feel such guilt that I will never see Grandpa Bobby again. The rest of you were all here when he died, to spend his last days with him. But I was on another continent, not even knowing. What grief it must have caused him to die never seeing me again. Now it's too late. It is something I can never undo.”

Catharine remained silent. There was much she wanted to say. Yet she knew that Amanda was right. She herself
couldn't
fully understand. She had never faced what Amanda was feeling. Therefore, she would give her no advice without considering her words carefully.

“I'm so sorry, Amanda,” she said, reaching across a tender hand.

“I know, Catharine,” replied Amanda, forcing a teary smile. “Thank you. But sometimes I don't know how I will ever be able to forgive myself.”

“I'm certain the Lord will show you when the time comes.”

Amanda nodded. “You know,” she said, drawing in a deep breath, “I think I need to be alone for a while. Maybe I'll just . . . I don't know, ride into the village or out into the country. I need some time to think.—Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” replied Catharine. “I'll see you back at the Hall.”

————

Elsbet heard footsteps approaching at the end of the street outside. She set down the cooking fork in her hand and hurried from the stove. She opened the door with an eager smile to greet her father.

The sight that met her eyes was not what she expected. He was running along the street faster than she had ever seen him move, with a frantic look on his face, an expression one did not see on a strong man who knew how to take care of himself.

He called out the instant she appeared, “Get away, run Elsbet—run from the house!”

She stood in the doorway confused.

“Get away . . . run,” he panted as he lumbered toward her.

In fearful uncertainty she backed inside and stood waiting.

Seconds later he bounded up the three steps and yanked the door closed behind him in exhaustion.

He stumbled into the room, glancing about desperately. All the while the bewildered girl stared up at him silently.

“It's too late to get away now,” he gasped. “They will see you—into the garret with you.”

He now turned toward her, trying to calm himself. He stooped and gazed earnestly into his daughter's face. His eyes flashed with unmistakable terror.

“Elsbet,” he said, still breathing heavily and looking into her face seriously, “I want you to get into the garret . . . quickly!”