Wayward Winds (44 page)

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As the carriage wheels crunched along the gravel approach to Heathersleigh Hall, the sound seemed too loud, as if it were disturbing a peculiar sense of quiet that had descended over the whole region. No words were passed between Amanda and the coachman she had hired from the village, a man relatively new to Milverscombe who knew nothing of who she was.

In another minute or two they drew up in front of the stately stone mansion.

Only a moment Amanda waited, glancing back and forth with the strangely altered vision that adulthood brings. She did not want to be pensive just now. She took the man's hand, stepped down, paid, thanked, and dismissed him, then walked toward the front of the house.

She could not help but be nervous. She had struggled the entire train ride with many conflicting emotions, having no idea what most of them even meant. But she had determined not to let them show.

She was certainly not so nervous as she would have been had she been thinking any moment to encounter her father. She probably wouldn't have come at all had he been here. But she had Cousin Gifford to thank for the tidbit of information that he would be in London all week. By the time he returned, she would be gone. That fact could not eliminate the nervousness, but at least she could relax in knowing she didn't have to face him.

No sign of life was apparent. Where was everyone? she wondered.

The inner hush deepened as she approached the front door. She felt that she was reliving some dream from far away, in a scene hazily familiar yet unreal. Mingled memories of childhood rushed in upon her, along with the peculiar sensation that she had never been here before, but that the girl in her mind's eye had actually been someone else.

Amanda reached the front door, paused only briefly wondering if she should knock, then set her hand to the latch. It opened to her touch, swinging silently back on well-oiled hinges.

The simple motion of the door brought an involuntary smile to her lips. She had never thought consciously of it in her life, but suddenly she was reminded of her father's penchant for keeping things operating efficiently.

The entry into Heathersleigh Hall was not the only door that opened in that moment. An invisible but momentous change began to grind into motion, though Amanda did not perceive its import. It was the first infinitesimal movement
toward
rather than
away
from the one whose being was the most important doorway through which she herself would have to walk in order to discover the Fatherhood of God.

He was always trying to make things the best he could
, she thought to herself.

The realization followed that such had also been the case with people. Whatever might be done to make someone's life more pleasant, even in some trivial way, that would her father do.

Though not for her. She shook her head to dispel the warm thoughts of her father that were trying to intrude. But she could not prevent them, and subtly smiled again.

She had never noticed the fact before now. As she grew she had become preoccupied with, as she thought, his inattention to her needs and those of his fellow man in the community and the world. But now dozens of incidents involuntarily sprang up in her memory, including one time many, many years before when she had seen him, oil can in hand, lubricating these very hinges.

With such insights about her father came a few drops to loosen the rust from the doors of Amanda's own heart. Years of character direction had silently, invisibly begun to reverse, though Amanda scarcely knew it. Nor did it dawn on her that it was the first memory
in years of the man she had called father not accompanied by a rousing of angry emotions.

Her own inner door would not swing back and forth quite so freely as this at which she stood for some time yet. But a good beginning is the most important step toward all eternal objectives, and that beginning had just been made.

Still smiling, and unaware of the deeper implications of the memory, Amanda walked inside.

The sound of her footstep on the tile floor of the entryway brought a figure to the landing above.

The eyes of mother and daughter met. A moment—a second, an eternity—followed. What words could convey the tidal wave of emotions which struggled to gush forth in each, yet which were kept back behind gigantic dikes of uncertain reticence.

“Amanda!” said Jocelyn at length, in questioning, fearful, joyous disbelief.

“Hello, Mother,” said Amanda.

Jocelyn was already on the stairs, not exactly running but hurrying briskly down them. Her pounding mother's heart twisted in a hundred directions before she reached the bottom. Her eyes were already filled with tears and the tidal wave was about to burst forth.

But at the last instant, lingering uncertainty prevented it.

She could not quite overcome the strain of previous encounters, nor forget Amanda's harsh words. Her arms ached to throw themselves around her daughter in that most natural of all human impulses—the urge toward
oneness
with our fellows. Yet she was not able to risk the fear of being rebuffed yet again. She slowed her step, then approached indecisively, arms clinging unwillingly to her side.

Amanda saw the hesitation. She was no more prepared than Jocelyn for intimacy right yet, and tried to ease the awkwardness with a light comment.

“I'm sorry I didn't write ahead,” she said.

The words finally unlocked the mother's heart, even if the tidal wave was still kept at bay, and she gave Amanda as much a hug as she dared. Amanda returned the embrace somewhat stiffly, but with genuine affection.

“Oh, Amanda,” said Jocelyn stepping back, “you are welcome
any
time. I'm just sorry George and your father aren't here. They would love to see you!”

“Where is George?” asked Amanda.

“In Exeter, and your father is in London. How long will you be here? He is due back on Friday.”

“Only for a day or two—”

Jocelyn winced but did her best not to show it. The hope had already burst to life within her that possibly Amanda's appearance signified something more than a mere visit.

“—I have to get back.”

“I am glad you came, Amanda. It is so good to see you!”

Just then another form appeared on the stairway. Amanda glanced up.

“Hello, Catharine!” said Amanda, smiling and taking a few steps toward her. “Goodness, you have changed since I saw you last—you're beautiful!”

Her twenty-year-old sister, rarely at a loss for words, did not reply immediately.

Catharine stood, hand on the balustrade, displaying the same awkward indecisiveness as had her mother. She made an attempt at a smile at this unexpected guest whom she remembered so well, yet hardly knew. The big sister of her memory was confused with images of her own childhood. Now before her stood a young lady appearing so much older and refined. Catharine's
eyes
told her it was Amanda, and the
voice
was the same. But her feet, brain, and voice all balked together.

Amanda observed the look on her sister's face and it puzzled her. The confusion lasted only an instant. For the first time in all her twenty-four years, Amanda Rutherford suddenly realized they were
afraid
of her. Her own mother and sister!

The stunning revelation stung her to the quick. The power it might have caused her to feel at another time in her life now felt positively dreadful. She didn't want to be fearsome . . . she only wanted to be herself.

Within seconds Catharine recovered her shock, confusion, and reticence all at once and bounded down the stairs. She did not hesitate a moment, but immediately confronted Amanda with her outstretched arms and embraced her as if they were children. From the momentary observation of fear on her face, Amanda now found herself smothered in loving sisterly delight, swallowed up in the
presence of one whom she had always considered, and whom she had continued to remember, as such a little girl.

Lo and behold, her younger sister was now at least four inches taller and twenty pounds heavier than she! She herself had become the smallest member of the family. Catharine's physical appearance reminded her of how long she had been away.

“Amanda! I can't believe it!” exclaimed Catharine in girlish laughter. “You look so nice! And you're here—I didn't know if I'd ever see you again.”

“What about you?” rejoined Amanda, caught up in Catharine's good spirits and laughing with her. “You're so—”

“Big?” said Catharine.

“That's not what I was going to say—but . . . grown up.”

“It's all right if you say big—I don't mind.”

“We were just about to have lunch,” said Jocelyn, feeling great relief at how easily Catharine had broken the ice. “Won't you—that is . . . you can stay long enough to join us?”

“Yes . . . yes, of course, Mother. If it is all right, as I said, I would like to stay for a day or two.”

“Oh, Amanda,” said her mother, some of her pent-up emotion now escaping, “of course.” Her eyes flooded as she spoke. “That would be wonderful! This will always be your home.”

Amanda did not reply. The word sounded strange in her ears.

Home
.

This hadn't been her home for years. But neither was there anyplace else she would call by that name.

Then the question struck her: Did she even have a home at all?

“I'll ring Hector to take your bag up to your room,” Jocelyn was saying as Amanda tried to shake off the momentary reflection. They began making their way toward the kitchen.

“Why can't you stay longer?” asked Catharine. “Why can't you just . . .
stay
?”

“I'm leaving for the Continent next week,” replied Amanda.

“The Continent!” exclaimed Jocelyn.

Amanda explained the offer. “I am no longer involved with the Pankhursts, you see, and it is the opportunity of a lifetime.” As she spoke the words, Amanda did not divulge her own ambivalence.

Jocelyn's heart sank. She had hoped perhaps Amanda's coming signaled something else.

“Yes . . . yes, I see,” she replied, doing her best to sound positive. “That does sound like a wonderful opportunity.”

They entered the kitchen. Sarah Minsterly, who had heard the voices but hadn't imagined who might be their guest, nearly dropped the tray of biscuits in her hand onto the floor.

“Miss Amanda!” she said.

“Yes, Sarah, it is me,” replied Amanda. “How are you?”

“Very well, miss—thank you.”

She turned, set down the tray, and began flustering about nervously to set another place on the table.

 86 
Strange Sensations

Once initial pleasantries, greetings, and exclamations were past, the conversation languished. It was not for lack of trying, but were it not for Catharine, it would have proved awkward indeed. There were just at present too few connecting points in all their lives.

The two sisters and mother did their best to keep up the conversation, but had succeeded mostly in exchanging a series of superficial questions and answers. None of the three knew how to find a place to link with the deepest parts of the others they had never known. They had all grown in six years. Catharine and Jocelyn had become best friends, and sad to say, Amanda was no longer part of their lives.

Catharine and Jocelyn were full of questions. But many of them involved subjects and individuals Amanda knew they would be uncomfortable hearing about. She did speak freely about Cousin Gifford's family—omitting mention of the most recent exchange with Geoffrey. And she and Catharine enjoyed a laugh about Hubert Powell's casanovian attempts to woo both their affections. But mention of his name brought to the minds of both Amanda and her mother the argument which came on the heels of Amanda's seventeenth birthday and her leaving Heathersleigh for London. A period of strained silence followed.

Jocelyn's and Catharine's hearts both ached as they all sat in the kitchen together an hour after Amanda's arrival, prolonging the
meal with an extra cup or two of tea, yet it was obvious to both that in many ways Amanda was now a stranger. That Amanda was herself aware of the awkwardness made the timid exchanges all the more clumsy.

When lunch was over, after an unsettling attempt by mother and sister to make Amanda comfortable in her former room—which was exactly as she remembered it, and yet so changed to the eyes of her adulthood—Amanda wandered outside.

The emotional homecoming followed by an admittedly awkward meal had put her in a thoughtfully receptive mood.

A peacefulness hung in the air. Devon was certainly different from London—much different. She used to hate it so. But she had to admit . . . it was nice here.

But quiet.

So
quiet. . . . She heard birds chirping somewhere off in the trees.

As Amanda strolled about the lawn near the house, she realized that the stillness was not just because she was in the country. There was something missing, an energy, a vitality—voices, laughter, things going on, projects and discussions, questions and banter. And she knew what it was that was absent.

Or rather . . .
who
it was.

She had always resented her father's overpowering influence. And yet she realized as she walked that his absence was responsible for the giant hush that seemed to have descended over everything. She had always considered him drab and lifeless.

Had he in fact been the spirit and soul of Heathersleigh all along?

But she was glad he wasn't here just now. She couldn't bear to see him.

Amanda hardly knew what to make of the questions that rose and fell within her consciousness like a quietly bubbling sea of inner reflection. She could
feel
that there was a difference about the place with her father gone. Everything
looked
the same, but nothing
was
the same.

Had it all been worth it, she wondered, doing the things she thought she'd wanted to do when she left here? What had her efforts accomplished in the end? Had she really made any difference about anything? Now she was back at Heathersleigh, and, except for the remarkable change in Catharine, everything was the same. What had it all been for?

She came upon what had once been but a small plot of heather between the east wing of the house and the wood at the edge of the lawn. She paused to gaze out over what had now become an expansively cultivated garden area. She remembered her father and mother working here, but had had no idea into what a magnificent little world they had transformed it.

More thoughts of her father slowly infiltrated her memory. She recalled hearing him talk about wanting some particular species of heather in bloom year round. It was all nicely trimmed too. She had despised any memory of him until this day. But as she thought about him, and imagined what it would be like if he chanced to walk up right now, she realized he would have a great smile of love on his face, and would speak kindly and warmly to her.

The thought stung. He
did
love her. Was that really such a terrible thing for a man to feel about his daughter?

Why had she resented so deeply just the fact that he
loved
her and wanted the
best
for her, just like he wanted the best for everything and everyone? Was that really such a terrible thing for a man to want? But, she argued with herself, he had such a way of controlling everything, always trying to make everybody be like him.

Amanda turned away and began walking again. These were unwelcome questions. Her thoughts had become suddenly far more personal and uncomfortable than she had bargained for. She was not ready for them. Yet she could do nothing to prevent them.

She continued walking, more hurriedly now, as if the mere movement of her legs and arms would rescue her from the unsought introspection. Leaving the trimmed lawn north of the Hall, she found herself walking across the open fields with no particular destination in mind. Activity was what she needed right now, anything to keep her mind from dwelling on unpleasant thoughts and melancholy memories.

Behind her, in a second-floor window, the silent silhouette of her mother watched Amanda recede toward the rolling hills in the distance.

Moisture again slowly filled Jocelyn's eyes, and she blinked it back, watching now through blurred vision the back of the girl who had made herself a stranger to her heart. How she longed to hold the daughter who had always resisted her embrace. How could the
precious child she had carried in her womb . . . how could those happy times and optimistic hopes have . . .

She could not complete the thought. Her eyes flooded with tears and she turned away from the window. Thoughts like these were not what she had anticipated on that joyful day of Amanda's birth when first she held the tiny, wonderful, helpless form in her arms.

Jocelyn sought her bed, lay down upon it, and wept.

There were no answers to such questions. At least tears would temporarily wash away their sting, and soothe the ache of her heart with their sad balm.

In her own room, Catharine too had been observing Amanda. She was not quite yet ready to cry for her—a sister's ache could not extend so deep as a mother's. But her thoughts were quiet and her heart sad. She too eventually lay upon her bed, and likewise tried to pray for Amanda, though she hardly knew how.

Meanwhile, as her mother grieved and her sister prayed, Amanda found herself standing quietly in the middle of her father's prayer wood. She had not even realized this to be her destination until she was here. She remembered the day she secretly followed him here. She had not even thought of the place since.

But she could not remain more than a few seconds. A strong sense of Presence filled the silence, and she was not prepared to encounter it.

Amanda turned and left the private sanctuary.

Maggie and Bobby McFee came to her mind. She would go visit them. They would take her mind off her father. . . .

————

Two days later, after a generally hospitable yet nonetheless awkwardly formal visit, Amanda Rutherford returned to London.