Wayward Winds (27 page)

 51 
Romantic Weekend

Amanda spent the entire afternoon getting ready!

She had been to many places with Ramsay Halifax—to lectures and plays, to horse races and on drives.

But
never
to a formal ball!

She had been to plenty of dances and balls, of course. But always with Geoffrey and Cousin Martha. This would be a weekend to remember—she just knew it.

Ramsay's words had been in her mind for two weeks:

————

Amanda, I would like you to go with me for the weekend to a country estate up in Cambridgeshire.”

“The weekend!” she had exclaimed.

“Relax,” Ramsay laughed. “It is all very proper. My mother and some of her friends will be there. Your reputation will be perfectly secure. We will be guests of a diplomatic associate of Mum's. He is throwing a lavish ball on Saturday night at his country estate east of Cambridge. It is an enormous place, from what I understand—guest rooms by the score. Most will be staying over.”

“What kind of ball?”

“I don't know. Lots of dignitaries and foreign types will be there, according to Mum.”

Whatever discomfort Amanda had felt from the evening at the
theater was quickly vanishing. If she had been so naïve as to be shocked by what she saw, then she was glad for the experience. Perhaps at last she was ready to be a woman of the world, and put all those silly inhibitions from childhood behind her for good. A weekend in the country with Ramsay Halifax should succeed in accomplishing just that.

“You're sure you're not working on some secret spy story you're not telling me about?” she said jokingly.

Ramsay laughed. “Purely social, I promise. Whatever the others may have in mind with their discussions and closed-door meetings with cigars and brandy, I assure you I will have eyes only for you.”

“Then . . . I accept!”

————

Amanda had made the mistake of blurting out news of Ramsay's invitation at the very next meal. Sylvia had been noticeably cool ever since. It wasn't the nature of the proposal itself. Sylvia didn't like men at all. Her view was that no young woman in her right mind should have anything to do with
any
man.

The awaited weekend finally came.

Mrs. Halifax immediately put all Amanda's anxieties to rest. Quickly she took her under her wing during the train ride north. When they arrived at the estate called Heathwood Green, Amanda shared a room with dear old Mrs. Thorndike, who fussed over her as if she were her own daughter.

They arrived just before tea on Friday evening. Neither Ramsay nor his mother attended. Amanda and Mrs. Thorndike went downstairs to the dining room alone, and afterward retired to their room for the night.

Amanda did not see Ramsay all day Saturday, though his mother was present most of the time. The two older women fussed with her hair and dress and shoes and jewelry for half the afternoon, until every hair was perfectly in place.

At last Ramsay called for her at half past seven. He wore formal black trousers, black jacket, and black waistcoat with white tie and shirt. He bowed slightly, allowing the faintest hint of a smile to come to his lips as their eyes met. Amanda curtseyed, then walked out into the corridor in her floor-length white gown, took his arm, and together they descended to the ballroom. Around her neck hung a
stunning string of pearls belonging to Mrs. Thorndike, which the lady had insisted she wear.

“You look absolutely lovely, Amanda,” Ramsay said as they went. “I don't think I've ever seen you so dazzling.”

Amanda felt the redness rising in her neck and cheeks. She only hoped he wouldn't notice!

They entered the ballroom, and the sight took Amanda's breath away. Why did this occasion seem so much more glamorous than any before? Was it Ramsay himself? Was it the international flavor, the mix of many tongues all around her, the sense almost of danger and intrigue?

Music was already playing. Without a word, Ramsay took her in his arms and they glided off across the dance floor. It was a dream . . . a fairy tale!

She and Ramsay danced and danced. By ten o'clock it was already a night Amanda would never forget. And the hour was still young!

The orchestra took a break from the music to relax and refresh themselves. Ramsay led Amanda outside to the veranda. They walked to the railing of a balcony overlooking the expansive gardens and stood for a few moments, gazing in silence out into the peaceful moonlit evening. The loveliest hint of a gentle breeze lifted fragrances of autumn grasses toward them. The setting could not have been more romantic.

“The moon is almost full,” said Ramsay softly.

Amanda remained silent. With all her senses, she breathed deeply of the magical moment. Ramsay gently placed his hand on top of hers where it rested on the edge of the railing. At the touch, a momentary tingle went through her frame.

Was this really happening! Was she falling in love?

“Oh, Ramsay, sometimes I get so afraid,” she all at once blurted out.

Where had the words come from? Even Amanda herself could not have said. For at this moment she could not have felt more dreamy and content.

“Afraid of what?” he asked.

“I don't know—what is to become of me, I suppose. Doesn't the future frighten you?”

“Never!” exclaimed Ramsay with easygoing laughter.

Amanda glanced toward him. His face wore the irrepressible smile she had grown so fond of. Was it Ramsay's confidence and buoyant optimism that made her like him? Or was there . . .
more
? As she looked, his eyes and teeth seemed to gleam in the glow of the moon.

“I wish I could be so confident,” said Amanda. “You seem to have everything so—”

Amanda stopped. She didn't even know what she was trying to say.

“So
what?
” Ramsay said, smiling down at her.

“I don't know—so . . . figured out, I suppose.”

Ramsay laughed good-naturedly. “Well, don't you worry, Amanda Rutherford, I'll figure things out for you too. I'll take care of you. I'll always be here for you. Whenever you get afraid, all you have to do is come to me.”

He grasped her hand, lifted it from the railing, and turned her toward him. Amanda gazed up into Ramsay's moonlit face as he bent down and gently kissed her on the lips.

How long the moment lasted, she could not know . . . a second, five seconds.

It was an instant. It was an eternity.

Ramsay lifted his head, then took her in his arms and pulled her close. Amanda relaxed as never before in his embrace. She leaned her head against his great strong chest and sighed. If only she could feel this safe, this secure, every moment.

Yet the future was still out there, and still uncertain, and one wonderful evening like this couldn't change it.

Or could it?

 52 
Melancholy Memories

Charles Rutherford set the letter he had just read down on his desk and glanced about his office. So much of his life, his past, his family heritage, was here.

There had been another day when both past and future had been on his mind. With reminiscent fondness he recalled that time, when a very different sort of communication lay on his desk. The future he was now contemplating was now so very altered from what he thought it would look like back then.

That was fourteen years ago. It hardly seemed possible.

How much had happened since . . . yet how quickly the years had flown by.

Then he had all his life before him, or so he thought. He had been a mere thirty-eight, dubbed by the London
Times
one of England's top ten politicians to watch, a rising Liberal star in Parliament with a better-than-likely opportunity to become prime minister someday. Everything he had ever wanted had seemingly been laid before him on that day when the invitation with the royal seal lay on his desk from Queen Victoria's office, signifying the ceremony in London which would confirm his knighthood.

How far away that day seemed at this moment.

Now he was fifty-two. His hair contained more grey than brown. Though deep contentment resided in his heart, his eyes did not burn with the same fire of vision they once had. Though he still
felt
young
and vigorous inside, he could sense age imperceptibly laying claim to his earthly vessel. He couldn't keep up with George now, either on the back of a horse or when wrestling on the lawn. He found he had to be more attentive to back and knees. Bobby McFee was now so stooped over he walked like a wizened little old gnome out of a fairy tale. Charles smiled at the thought. He wondered if the same fate awaited him thirty years from now.

The smile turned gradually melancholy, then disappeared. Why on some days did all thoughts return eventually to sad reminders of his middle daughter?

He had been made a Knight Grand Commander. But what did the
Sir
in front of his name really mean now? He would trade it all in an instant for . . .

Charles glanced away and drew in a deep breath. He had shed enough tears over her during the last three years. He didn't feel like crying again just now. The mood had to be right to allow tears to come, and he did not feel like enduring their pain on this day.

He turned and began pacing about his office, gazing absently at the da Vinci drawing, then the paintings of his father and grandfather, at the faded but still colorful Persian rugs on the floor, at two or three of his own small inventions. His little motor, for which he held the patent, had been overtaken by the rush of electrical technology such that it was outdated almost before he could begin putting it to use.

Everything changed so fast these days. It was hard to keep up with all the developments. The thought caused him to glance upward where light from Edison's invention illuminated the room.

Now his gaze fell to a quick scan of his bookshelves. Their contents had changed markedly in the last fourteen years. In place of Darwin, Wells, Shaw, and Huxley, now the spines of Henry, Schaff, Moody, Strong, Spurgeon, Jukes, and Symonds gazed back at him, along with more than two dozen of the Scotsman's novels. His tastes had changed. His whole outlook had changed. The autographed first edition of Darwin's
Origin
still sat on his desk between the ivory bookends, as a reminder of his past. But it had been joined by three well-worn Bibles—a copy of the Authorized Version, a Revised Version, and a copy of Dr. Weymouth's New Testament, published in 1903. Beside them on the desk sat a copy of the newly published
Tercentenary Commemoration Bible
, which he had not had a chance to investigate yet in any depth. He was more interested in the brown
packet next to it, which contained proofs for the Gospel of Mark sent him for review and comment by Professor Moffatt from Oxford in preparation for the publication of his modern language New Testament. It was scheduled to be completed a year or two from now. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to actually participate in some small way in the production of a new edition of the Scriptures.

Slowly Charles walked to the window and let his gaze drift about the Devonshire countryside he loved. Autumn was well advanced. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, except for the numerous beech scattered about the hillsides. A chill in the air signaled the approach of winter. Rain and storms would be upon them soon.

And Christmas. But the thought brought no surge of childlike anticipation. The holiday would forever after be incomplete until their family was whole again.

Today's paper carried news that Germany had finally backed down in Morocco in exchange for a relatively worthless portion of the French Congo. War had again been forestalled. He should be happy. Why was his heart so heavy?

Charles knew well enough.

Whatever surface smiles he wore, whatever laughter came from his lips, however much he and Jocelyn and Catharine and George enjoyed life with one another these days, in the midst of whatever business he was about, even in the midst of exciting opportunities that came his way like the Moffatt project, there remained a portion of his soul that was
always
heavy.

His heart could not but be sorely burdened for Amanda. How could he cease to care that one he loved so dearly was estranged from them?

Again Charles sought the window. Staring out upon the now solitary landscape where once had rung the happy laughter of three little children, somehow helped to keep the tears at bay. Gradually thoughts of electricity and knighthood, Leonardo and books and Bible translations faded. The father's mind filled with memories of those precious years that slip by so quickly, and whose promises and hopes and dreams so often seem to go unfulfilled.

He had tried to pour himself into all three of his children equally, though obviously in different ways. Each was uniquely special to his heart.

Yet Amanda's rejection of the training he had tried to give stung with particular pain. She it was who somehow had more deeply inherited his own outlook and way of looking at things. He had always considered that she and he were bonded together as father and daughter in an unusual and wonderfully special way. George and Catharine had grown into more blended expressions of both himself and Jocelyn. But Amanda had always been so much like him, her intellect and vision so like his.

Amanda was a questioner. He had helped fashion her so, and had so relished that aspect of her nature. And now that mental vigor and feisty spirit had actually been turned against him. Even after three years, Charles still could hardly believe it.

The grief over the loss of his daughter—whether temporary or permanent, how could he possibly know?—had by now gone down into the deep quiet places of his being, there to be cherished in his quiet inner sanctuary of painful worship with his Father.

Life went on. He could laugh and converse and work and function in all ways necessary, keeping the inner anguish from view. He knew Jocelyn did the same. Who but the two of them, or another parent who had suffered the same tearing between himself and son or daughter, could understand what they felt? He had accustomed himself to the pain. But that made reminders of it no less keen.

He knew there were those who would say he should not dwell on what was past, that he should look ahead, and let Amanda live her life as she chose.

But would he ever stop caring . . .
could
he ever stop? She was his daughter and he loved her. It
hurt
that she despised him. It would always hurt. It was not something he could pretend wasn't there. It wasn't something time alone would heal. Time made him able to endure it. But time couldn't heal the parental wound.

He missed Amanda. He missed her vibrant personality and their vigorous exchanges. And no matter what wonderful times he still enjoyed with George and Catharine, nothing could altogether assuage the ache of knowing a piece of his own flesh, his very nature, had been severed from him. It was sometimes a grief he thought too painful to bear.

Yes, thought Charles, he would trade all he had ever done and been, he would even give up Heathersleigh itself, to be reunited with his
daughter, to feel her arms of trust around him, to see her embrace Jocelyn, content again to be their daughter.