Wayward Winds (10 page)

 16 
Garden of God's Blossoms

A warm sun beat down upon the luxuriant flower garden which surrounded and spread out in every direction from Margaret McFee's cottage.

Maggie was perspiring freely. From her lips could faintly be heard the hum of various hymns spilling one into the other. Rarely did she enjoy herself so much as when on her knees amongst her children, God's blossoms, as the sun lured from them multitude fragrances to perfume the air, her hands black with the Creator's rich earth, the food for all growing things.

As was often the case when she worked here, Maggie's thoughts were on the Lord's words from Matthew:
“The kingdom of heaven
is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which
when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.”
She could not dig or cultivate the ground without being reminded of the mystery of growth which God had implanted into the very earth itself. The parable spoken by the Lord indeed pointed to the greatest treasure of all—the power of life itself—which lay buried invisibly in the soil and, in combination with the sun and rain, could perform such wonders as were displayed in her garden.

What were her flowers but that same treasure of the heart hidden in
this
field? And God had given it to her! To Margaret McFee, growing these radiant treasures was more priceless than had her digging uncovered a stash of gold.

She heard her husband approach behind her. She turned and greeted him with a smile.

“On such days as this, Bobby,” she said, “I'm so thankful for the cottage. I know we don't deserve it, but I can't be any less glad that it's ours.”

“'Tis nothing wrong with the ownership of a fine thing,” rejoined Bobby. “God gives us material possessions to enjoy. 'Tis meant to make us happy, so long as we ne'er worship the possession rather than the Creator who gives it.”

“Well, this garden does make me happy,” said Maggie. “I feel closer to him when I'm here.”

“'Tis no doubt one o' the reasons he's given it to ye.”

“It's the Lord's provision, but it came from the old bishop.”

“Ay—to yer grandmother through the church. So in a manner o' speaking, 'tis kind o' like from the hand o' the Lord himself.”

“It was God's provision,” repeated Maggie, “of that I am certain, whoever's hand delivered it. But my mother said that her mother would never talk about it when she asked her about the affair. She only said, ‘It's in the Book. The mystery's in the Book.'”

“What did she mean?”

“The mystery of the kingdom, the mystery of godliness, is all I could ever think. Once or twice my mother said she thought it had something to do with the Hall.”

“'Course it had to do with the Hall. This grand cottage that's now ours used t' belong t' the Hall.”

“True enough, Bobby. But it's more than that she was meaning, I'm sure of it, though it's puzzled me all my life long. ‘Everything's not as it should be at the Hall,' she said.”

“And ye have no idea what she was meanin'?”

“None. I don't think my mother knew herself. She was just repeating what my grandmother said to her.”

“Then we best not only be prayin' for Master Charles and Lady Jocelyn and young Amanda and the others, like we have been,” said Bobby, “but for the Hall itself.”

Maggie raised herself from her knees, moved to a clear spot between planted beds, then sat down on the warm earth and folded her hands and closed her eyes.

“Lord,”
she said aloud,
“we pray for
this whole Heathersleigh estate, the parts that are in it now and that once were in times past.
Whatever's
not right, whether it's known or unknown, work your healing and whole-making purpose.”

“We ask ye, Lord,”
now prayed Bobby,
“that ye'll make all come right
in the end, with the Hall and this cottage, and the whole estate and all the people connected with it. Do yer will in yer time.”

“We ask you again
to take care of the dear child Amanda,”
prayed Maggie.
“Her heart's not right with her mother and
father, Lord. How can she ever be happy with such
wrongness sitting like a lump of blackness inside her?”

“Give
Master Charles and dear Lady Jocelyn yer grace to bear this burden without lettin' their trust wither. Give them courage
to stand and be strong in the midst o' their pain.”

“Amen,”
added Maggie.

 17 
An Offer

Why Amanda accepted the invitation of the wife of her father's cousin, she wasn't exactly certain.

Yet on the Wednesday following the Derby she found herself approaching the forbidding stone house on Curzon Street from the cab which had just left her in front of the gate. She hoped Geoffrey wasn't home. She found it difficult to breathe in his presence.

A servant showed her into an old-looking drawing room. It seemed to billow like her aunt's clothing. The drapes covering the front windows were entirely too full and let in none of the outside light. The room was so dim that Amanda's eyes found it difficult to adjust. Cushions and lap blankets and antimacassars lay over all the couches. Her aunt was seated, engaged at something or other at a table with mounds of fabric spread over it.

“Hello, Amanda dear,” she said. “Come in.”

Amanda approached tentatively.

“I am so glad to have you here,” said Martha. “I have looked forward to your coming. I never have much to do for myself, you know. So occasionally I busy myself with making bandages for the hospital—that's one of my little causes.”

The words fell strangely on Amanda's ears. Cousin Gifford's wife involved in a humanitarian cause—she would never have dreamed it. The image of hospital bandages was altogether inconsistent with the
picture of Martha Rutherford as a plump and intellectually vacant socialite.

“I go every week and take flowers and visit those less fortunate. We must all do something for others, you know.”

In spite of herself, a smile of genuine goodwill escaped Amanda's lips. “Thank you for inviting me to tea, Cousin Martha,” she said.

Amanda found herself for the first time drawn in a strange way to the flustery lady. If anything, she deserved pity for having to live with Gifford and Cousin Geoffrey!

“Oh yes, the tea,” said Martha. “Pull that cord over there to let Louisa know we are ready.”

Amanda did so while Mrs. Rutherford rose from the table and walked to one of the couches in the center of the room.

“Come over here, dear,” she said. “You can sit across from me and we will have a little talk. I do like to see people when I speak to them. It saves so much trouble if you can see their faces.” As she spoke, she motioned Amanda to one of the chairs across the small tea table from her. “People often speak in riddles,” she went on, “and I'm not keen on riddles. But I am keen on faces.”

Amanda sat down, removed her hat, and set it down beside her. The brocade chairs appeared ancient but were well taken care of. Her cousin seemed to read her mind.

“Yes, things in here are indeed quite old,” said Martha. “But I don't let the sun in and that keeps them from deteriorating. It's the sun, you know, that makes things old before their time. As true with the complexion as with the furnishings.”

A minute or two later the door opened. The woman named Louisa entered carrying a tray of tea things. A young servant girl followed with another tray of breads and cakes and various spreads. They set both trays down on the table between them. Steam rose from the teapot, and the aroma of fresh tea gradually filled the room.

“When I saw you at the Derby last week,” Martha began as they waited for the tea to complete its brewing, “I must admit to some surprise.”

Amanda cocked her head quizzically but said nothing.

Martha continued. “I do keep track of such things, you see,” she said. “I had seen your name on none of the lists, and of course you are a little older than most young women . . . but I assumed you planned to continue waiting, perhaps until next year. But then
suddenly . . . there you were, and as I say, I was quite surprised. Not shocked, I would not say
that
, but certainly surprised.—I think the tea is ready. Would you like to pour?”

Amanda took the pot and poured the contents into the two cups which stood waiting with milk in them.

“Cousin Martha,” she said as she did, “whatever are you talking about?”

“Why, about being presented, of course. You have not been properly introduced to society, my dear.”

Now Amanda understood clearly enough. She knew the fact to which Martha referred only too well. It was one of her chief ongoing grievances against her parents—their refusal, as she saw it, to let her grow up and enter society like other young women her age. They had wanted to control her life all the way into adulthood! If she'd have let them, they would have kept her an old maid living at Heathersleigh until she was forty!

“I must admit I have been curious why your parents have done nothing to bring you out. I know Devon is some distance from the city,” Martha went on. “But then for a family of our standing—well, it would just seem that . . . and with a young woman of breeding and noble name as attractive as you, my dear—well, it all should have been undertaken when you were seventeen or eighteen. Your presentation to English society—had you been
my
daughter—would have occurred the first season after your seventeenth birthday. I know some would say it doesn't matter so much these days. But it
is
very proper.”

Amanda stared down into her cup of tea. Martha's words pricked at wounds she would rather not talk about.

“And then when I realized you were actually living in town—Gifford told me he had seen you one day when I was out. Well . . . imagine. I did not think about it again until I saw you on Saturday.”

“I appreciate your concern, Martha,” said Amanda, the reminder of her own irritation making her unusually sympathetic to what appeared a genuine feeling of compassion on her cousin's part. “You need not worry about me.”

“But perhaps it is not too late. Tell me, my dear—do your parents have plans to bring you out?”

“I strongly doubt it,” replied Amanda stiffly. “Even if they did,
their
plans could hardly interest me now.”

“It is unfortunate. But your father and mother
have
behaved oddly these last few years. They do not seem to care for society at all.”

Amanda nodded but said nothing.

“I'm certain if I had title and property as your father does, I would make the very best use of it,” Mrs. Rutherford went on. “But the social season has only just begun, dear. The Lawn Tea and the Derby are behind us, but most of the spring's events are yet to come. And you
were
seen with my Geoffrey at Kensington Gardens, which is a good beginning.”

“The beginning of what?” asked Amanda cautiously. She wasn't sure she liked the idea hinted at—future appearances with Martha Rutherford's son!

“You are a lovely young lady,” replied Martha. “I would love so much to see you make a showing. Perhaps I might help.”

“Help . . . in what way?”

“I could arrange—I have no doubt my Gifford would use his influence to secure the invitations we would need, and Geoffrey would no doubt be willing, occasionally perhaps, to accompany you . . . as I was saying, I am certain we could arrange for you to be presented at the court.”

Suddenly Amanda's attention was arrested. “The
court
?” she repeated.

“I can see you now,” said Martha exuberantly, “at all the parties and balls in London. I felt so sorry for you when I saw you at the Derby with a young man without yet having been presented. Your parents have apparently overlooked this necessity. But that is no reason why we of your family, who are more familiar with the etiquette of London, should not help you now. What do you think, my dear?”

“Cousin Martha,” smiled Amanda, “are you concerned for my reputation?”

“Of course, dear.”

Part of Amanda was already tingling with the very thought of Cousin Martha's suggestion. Had she not dreamed of such since before she could remember? Yet another part of her attempted to remain sophisticated and aloof, pretending she didn't care. She had spent the last three years accepting the fact that such opportunities were never going to come to her. This was so sudden, so unexpected.

“This
is
1911,” she said, as two sides battled for supremacy within her. “Things are different now, Cousin Martha. At Mrs. Pankhurst's
house we do not worry about what society may think. Many former traditions must be cast aside for women to be looked upon and treated as equals.”

“Oh, but . . . the Pankhursts! Surely, dear, you must see—they are a different breed. They are not like us. Of course
they
wouldn't care for such things. Their heads are too full of politics and social change to know how to be women. Don't you care what men think? Don't you want to be attractive and to be invited to balls? Don't you want to be married one day? No man will want to marry a militant, Amanda. Not all traditions are so bad.”

The words pricked deep. Of course she cared. Those were the very things she had so yearned for as a girl. Though trying to convince herself she didn't care, Amanda silently felt the pain every year when the season began. She saw young gentlemen and ladies going to the theaters and great houses, while she stood on the street with placards in her hands.

And yet just when she had all but given up on such a thing for herself, suddenly here was an opportunity to enter into the very society whose customs and behavior her parents and even Emmeline Pankhurst disdained.

“There are other ways for women to exert a force in the world,” Martha was saying. “Some of the greatest influences come in quiet ways that are more pleasing and make women appear so much nicer than those pictures in the newspapers of women shouting with their hair all undone, and being handled by policemen. We are all women together, Amanda. We may not be able to vote, but we have influence in other ways. The Pankhursts will not further you in society, my dear.”

Amanda slowly nodded, though her gaze remained in her lap.

“There is so much for you to learn, and I would like to teach you,” said Martha. “This year's season is well on its way, but I can arrange to have you presented soon, and in the right way. You can accompany me to the theater and to receptions. At the end of it, you could attend the coronation in June. By then everyone who is anyone in London will know the name
Amanda Rutherford
.”

Amanda now sat up a little straighter in her chair. Her cousin was offering her a chance for everything she had always dreamed of. Even to see the new king and queen, and this time not as a small
child as she had been when her father was knighted, but as a woman in her own right!

What would the Pankhursts say? she thought to herself. If
they
got within blocks of the coronation it would not be to enjoy the pomp and ceremony, but to disrupt it.

A brief silence followed.

“Yes, Martha,” said Amanda slowly at length. “It is very kind of you to offer to help, and to do this for me. I . . . I think I would like that very much.”

“There will be, of course,” said her cousin, “expenses involved. You have a nice shape and an eye for fashion—that was a lovely blue suit you had on at the Derby.
Do
you have money, my dear?”

“I, uh . . . yes—yes, of course,” replied Amanda.

Martha Rutherford, however, was skilled enough at reading faces, as she said, to see Amanda's eyes dart away uncomfortably as she replied.

“Never mind, dear,” she said with a motherly smile. “I will speak with Gifford about the matter. I assure you there will be no difficulty.”

When Martha Rutherford later reported on the conversation to her husband, it was with some difficulty that the banker hid his delight. Whether or not he possessed a legitimate
legal
claim to Heathersleigh—and who could tell whether he would
ever
be able to get to the bottom of it—the pathway leading through his simpleminded cousin's daughter was clearly the most direct means to attain his objective.

Yes, he thought, his wife had done well. Better than she would ever know!