Cottage by the Sea (62 page)

   Garrett, she'd learned, had finally married a village lass named Joan Vyvyan and had produced an "heir and a spare," as the former fisherman had put it. Blythe knew then that she would never reclaim her home. Fortunately she had already invented the mythical William Barton, Senior, to retain some semblance of respectability.

   "Why are you telling me this now?" William asked tensely, interrupting her reverie.

   "Because I think enough of you to tell you the truth," she sighed, "and because I feel certain you and Max must seize the opportunity to follow fortune and head west." With great effort she lifted the candlestick and placed it on her abdomen. "Do you see the Barton crest?"

   "Many a time, Mother," William replied testily.

   "It has an escutcheon engraved with two sheaves of wheat, signifying the fertility of the earth." She gazed at her son with burning intensity. "Find land! Take possession of as many acres as you can that will be fruitful enough to sustain the family you establish in the West. Raise cattle and sheep… and a few flowers, as well," she added with a weak smile. "Barton Hall had lovely gardens, with rhododendrons tall as trees. Plant flowers in my memory, William, dear."

   A peculiar sinking sensation had begun to take possession of her. She struggled to raise herself upon her elbows.

   "Mama, please, lie back," urged her son, but Blythe shook her head.

   "Land is always the source of wealth," she exhorted William. "Trapping and selling can bring you short-term riches, but use what you earn to purchase property!" She closed her eyes for a moment to gather her strength and then opened them, declaring in a hoarse whisper, "You are descended from English landed gentry. Don't ever forget that!"

   This time there was blood when her coughing fit had subsided. William eased her back against her pillows and placed the heavy candlesticks on the table beside the bed.

   "Mama… stop talking, will you?" he begged, his innately affectionate disposition reasserting itself.

   "One more thing," she whispered. "You are a fine Cornish lad. Remember that, always! Be proud of it."

   "I will, Mama," William replied softly.

   "And remember, too, my darling… you were the only child of my heart."

   "I will," he repeated, and Blythe could see that moisture rimmed his eyes.

   "I've so often told you about the soft, sweet air along Hall Walk, and your homeland's thousand shades of green," she said urgently. "Promise me, William, that you will tell your children of it… and your children's children," she pleaded. "The candlesticks tell the story. Pass them on to the eldest child… boy or girl…"

   "I'll remember all the stories, Mama," William said in a choked voice.

   "Tell your children!" she repeated urgently.

   "I promise."

   "Perhaps one day you—or those who follow you—will return home… and be proud that their ancestors came from Barton Hall."

   Her breathing became shallower, and she began to envision the lovely green willow that her boys had scaled near the plantation's private graveyard. That tree was such an exquisite shade, she thought dreamily. Its leaves were like lace… emerald lace… and the shafts of light that filtered through its branches were sage-colored, like the golden-green light she had so loved when she had taken Hall Walk to the sea.

   "Remember… a thousand shades of green," she murmured.

   And then in her mind's eye she saw a dark forest loom up before her eyes. Its glossy leaves were the color of winter waves breaking along the Cornish coast. She saw towering pines, much larger than anything she had ever surveyed in the woodlands at home or along the sweeping drive to the entrance of the turreted Barton Hall. And she saw wide, lush valleys and mountains thrusting their white-covered peaks like a woman's milk-filled breasts into a crystalline blue sky.

   And then within her vision appeared a bubbling fountain spewing forth a gush of misty water that was taller even than the majestic pine trees cloaking the mountains that surrounded it. The geyser shot its torrent into the air like a fountain of the gods, steaming and hissing and throwing its scalding droplets exuberantly to the heavens.

   And suddenly she felt at home. She was calmed by the certainty that this wondrous, magical place somewhere out west would be Max and William's home, just as surely as enchanted Cornwall had always been hers.

And now she knew she could sleep.

The labored sound of the Land Rover shifting into low gear outside the library window slowly penetrated Blythe's consciousness. Next came the hum of Mrs. Quiller's Ford Fiesta following along behind. But Blythe hardly heard either of them.

   "I remembered…" she whispered as tears streamed down her face.

   
A thousand shades of green.

   She stared at the enormous genealogy chart hanging on the wall before her. She was part of Barton Hall, as her baby would be. She was a descendant of her tribe. Cornwall was in her bones and memory. She belonged here as surely as any of them. In her and Luke and Richard and the child she carried were the sum total of their ancestors' joys and sorrows that had burrowed into the antediluvian soil and clung, like lichen, to the ancient stone walls.

   In the growing dusk the Land Rover continued past the kitchen and paused near the stable yard out back with its motor still running. She heard Richard's high voice shouting something and the sound of the dogs barking excitedly. Then the car revved its engine and headed toward the dirt track that skirted Hall Walk toward the sea, leaving Blythe to surmise that its driver was taking the back road to Painter's Cottage.

   She wiped the moisture off her cheeks with the back of her hand and slipped into the wood-paneled powder room to splash cold water on her face. She flipped on the hall light as she walked past the portraits of Kit and the first Blythe Barton. Pausing a moment, she searched their frozen faces for the animating spark she knew once existed. However, they merely looked out across the entrance hall with unseeing eyes.

   Suddenly she remembered her grandmother pointing to the base of the family's candlesticks. Their engravings were blurred beyond recognition by generations of hands that had polished their silver surfaces to a high gloss before replacing the pair in their customary position of honor above the fireplace at the Double Bar B.

   "Your great-great-who-knows-how-many-greats-granddad was one of the first mountain men," Lucinda had been fond of declaring. "He came to these territories as a fur trapper and brought these beauties all the way with him," the old lady had said, pointing to the base of the candlesticks. "I think this, here, is the family crest! You can't make it out too well anymore, but your grandpa Barton told me his ancestors were landed folks… maybe dukes or earls or somethin'. The Double Bar B brand was based on it. See these two little ol' funny-lookin' things? They're supposed to be haystacks. They became the double bars, and the
B
was for Barton, of course," she chuckled. "Lucky for us, those ol' fur trappers had enough horse sense to stop chasin' furry animals and homestead this beautiful land and raise cattle."

   Grandma Barton had gestured toward the window in the log living room that faced northwest, continuing, "They took one look at those mountains and that powerful big geyser up in Yellowstone, all misty with rainbows sproutin' everywhere, and they plunked down their bedrolls downvalley here, pitched their tents, and never took 'em down." Lucinda Barton had thrown back her shoulders and declared, "Y'come from hardy Cornish stock, m'girl, and don't you forget it!"

   The door at the end of the hall leading from the castle's kitchen slammed open, and Richard was running toward Blythe, full tilt, with Derek and Beryl scampering at his heels.

   "You're here!" he whooped with an amazed, joyful expression spreading across his face. Then he shouted over his shoulder, "She's here, Mrs. Q!" He laughed and added, "Poor Dad's gone to look for you at Painter's Cottage."

   "I came here looking for
you,'" she laughed back. She hugge
d him tightly, reveling in the sensation of his short arms around her waist. "I thought you'd already left for Shelby Hall."

   Richard pulled away and danced a little jig while the two Labs barked an excited accompaniment.

   "I'm not going!" he said triumphantly. "We've just come from Mevagissey Day School. Daddy and I met the headmaster this afternoon. We were so lucky, Blythe," he confided in an awestruck tone. "One of the families with a boy in my form was moving up to London. They're allowing me to start there as a student
this
term. Isn't that super?"

   "Super? That's
wonderful!
" Blythe cried, and crushed him in a second embrace.

   Mrs. Q suddenly appeared in the doorway with a bag full of groceries in her arms. She firmly ordered the dogs back into the kitchen.

   "Mr. Teague's gone down to the cottage to see how you be this afternoon," she explained, shutting the door to the hallway. "I saw him in the food shops in Mevagissey, and we followed each other to home. Feelin' better, are you?" the housekeeper said worriedly.

   "I'm fine," Blythe attempted to reassure her, as the significance of Luke's decision not to send his son away to boarding school began to sink in. "I feel absolutely super, to quote Dicken here!"

"Let's go find Daddy," Richard suggested.

   Mrs. Q cast an odd look in the direction of her young charge and intervened quickly. "Ah… but, my fine lad. I'll need your help unloadin' the car and then it'll be time for your supper. Your father says you'd be wise to spend tonight havin' a look at the textbooks you'll be usin' at your new school."

   "All right," Richard said resignedly. Then his face brightened and he turned to look at Blythe. "Now that I won't be away at school, I'll be able to help you dry the herbs this spring."

   "Oh… absolutely!" Blythe nodded eagerly. "You'll be a help to me in ways you can't even imagine."

Blythe entered Hall Walk's verdant tunnel shaded by the murky shadows of dusk that dappled its mossy borders and wove through the thick canopy of branches arching overhead. As she headed toward the sound of the sea, she found herself groping for precise descriptions of the abundance of plants that lined her path. The colors of their leaves blended from sage to olive, from apple green to deep emerald. There were splashes of jade and fern, teal and willow, and grasses tinted a rainbow of ivy tones, like the palette of a brilliant painter whose eye discerns an infinite variety of light and dark hues within a single pigment. For certain, a thousand subtle shades of green sheltered her passageway through the dark wood.

   There were many ways to classify this vibrant color, a part of the natural world that signified life, growth, and renewal. Perhaps it was rather like the act of forgiveness, Blythe thought as a buoyant sense of joy invaded her chest. There were many ways to find the strength to pardon those who had done injury to their fellow humans.

   In her own case, her means of forgiving Chris for his betrayal with Ellie had finally come when she had recovered her own sense of gratitude for the good parts of her life—her Wyoming childhood, her grandmother's love, her passion for flowers and plants, the Cornish legacy of pride and determination that had been handed down to her through the generations. All these things had ultimately provided her with the strength to release Christopher and Ellie with a kind of dispassionate love. Yes, love—and also allowing them to follow their own path while keeping a safe distance from them both. And through that process had come true forgiveness.

   Every lamp in Painter's Cottage was alight, bathing its granite walls in a warm, golden glow. Blythe closed the gate and paused to drink in the loden field dotted with the estate's ubiquitous sheep. The last rays of the autumnal sun glinted off the English Channel like a shimmering length of china silk. A pungent tang of seaweed tickling her nostrils signaled that the tide was out, as did the shrill, plaintive cries of the herring gulls searching for their supper among the glistening rocks exposed on the beach below.

   The air was light and the dewy grass sweet with the smells of approaching evening. Her Wellington boots were cushioned by the moist, plump mounds of turf that sank beneath her feet as if she were treading on tufts of cotton.

   Luke's battered moss-green Land Rover appeared to be part of the landscape, parked, as it was, a few yards from her front door. As she approached, she could hear the sounds of a deep bass voice singing with gusto. Blythe gave a chuckle as she recognized the tune from Gilbert and Sullivan's
Pirates
of Penzance.

   The town of Penzance, some fifty miles farther west of Gorran Haven, had, indeed, been a pirate's lair. Luke had told her the story of how in 1772—the year of the first Blythe Barton's birth—a customs boat had been plundered and sunk by smugglers. Later the same year, the cutter
Brilliant had been seized, in full view of the custom
s authorities, by buccaneers with nefarious designs on the goods she carried.

   Stealthily Blythe approached the large artist's window on the side of the house and peered inside. She stared, slackjawed, at the sight that met her eyes.

   A well-built fire burned cheerfully on the hearth. Near it, the tapestry screen had been folded into a single, narrow panel and was leaning against the wall. In her ball-andclaw bathtub sat Lucas Garrett Barton Trevelyan Teague, up to his armpits in bubbles. He was bellowing at the top of his lungs.