Heathersleigh Homecoming (54 page)

 112 
Mother and Daughter

That evening, spirits at the Hall were subdued.

It had been a long day. Even the ride out to the cottage, in its own way, had wearied their hearts. Amanda especially had a myriad of new emotions to face. The realization that Bobby McFee was gone, and that she had not known it, added an extra weight to the burden she bore concerning father and brother. As the evening progressed, she grew especially quiet.

“How are you, my dear,” said Jocelyn, “—tired?”

“I am, Mother. And very drained,” replied Amanda with a thin smile. “This was a very hard day for me.”

“I know,” nodded Jocelyn. “I am tired too. We have all been through a great deal.”

A peculiar look came over Amanda's face. She seemed to be trying to say something.

“I was . . . I'm sorry . . .” she faltered.

“What is it?” said Jocelyn.

“I'm so sorry—but I was afraid to come home. I . . . didn't know if you would—”

She began to cry.

Jocelyn was on her feet, sat down next to Amanda on the couch, and had her in her arms in seconds.

“I know it must have been one of the most difficult things you have ever done,” whispered her mother softly. “But I am so glad you did . . . if ever we need to be together, it is now.”

“And with Daddy—I feel so awful . . . so guilty . . . I don't know if I will ever be able—”

Amanda's voice broke.

Jocelyn held her, gently stroking her hair and patting her softly on back and shoulders. On the other side of the room, Catharine
quietly rose and glided out, sensing again the need for the two of them to be alone.

It was for Jocelyn a moment of healing almost greater than anything the day had already contained. To hold her daughter again, and to have her at peace, able to receive her comforting embrace without twisting and squirming away, was a privilege she had not allowed herself to imagine she would ever experience. It lasted but a few seconds, but Jocelyn thought she had never felt such inner contentment as in those precious moments, such that she almost briefly forgot that Charles and George were gone.

For several long, precious moments Amanda allowed herself to weep in her mother's arms, more relaxed and at peace than she had ever been in Jocelyn's embrace. It felt so good to let her mother hold her.

Slowly Amanda sat back away, wiped her eyes, and smiled.

“Thank you, Mother. I am just very, very tired,” she said. “I think maybe I need some time alone . . . and then a good long sound night's sleep.”

“You are home, Amanda dear. Your room is still as you left it. However you can be comfortable, whatever you want to do . . . I want you to feel that . . . I think you know what I am trying to say—this is your home too.”

“I know, Mother—I realize it now . . . thank you.”

“Good night, my dear. We'll have a good big breakfast together in the morning.”

Amanda stood but hesitated a moment as she gazed into her mother's eyes.

“I love you, Mother.”

Jocelyn's eyes filled.

“Thank you so much,” Amanda went on, “for being the mother you have been to me . . . thank you for everything. I am so sorry I didn't see all you did for me, and all you have been for me sooner.”

“We all have to grow, Amanda,” replied Jocelyn tenderly. “I have had to grow myself. Perhaps now we can begin growing together. I love you, my dear.”

Amanda smiled again, then turned and walked toward the stairs. Jocelyn watched her go, then turned back into the sitting room, found her chair again, sat down, and wept freely.

 113 
Going Home to the Father

Amanda climbed the stairs to her former room.

How much the same it looked . . . yet how very different. How transformed did the eyes of adulthood make all the familiar sights of her childhood, at once smaller yet somehow larger, so poignantly and nostalgically imbued with new meaning.

As she went Amanda remembered her talk with Timothy about going home to her fathers. She had arisen and gone to one father's house, though as Timothy had said, it was her mother's arms that had received her. Going to her other Father would be equally difficult.

Amanda sat down on her bed. A telegram had come earlier in the day, informing them that the memorial for the men of the
Dauntless
had been scheduled for Thursday. The weight of what had happened suddenly came back upon her with renewed force. Tears again filled her eyes, and she wondered how there could be any left. It seemed by now the well would have run dry.

How long she sat motionless, numb, stricken with sorrowful contrition, Amanda didn't know. Gradually words from yesterday's sermon crept into her consciousness.

The crying need of our time . . . is intimacy with God, our Father . . .

All her life she had kept God at arm's length. If intimacy was the highest goal, thought Amanda, she had certainly failed to reach it. She had not let him get close, or anyone else for that matter. She had had a few friends, but none of particular significance or permanency. Where were they now? And in those most important relationships of all—with her father and mother and with God himself—she had done all she could to build up walls to
prevent
intimacy.

The great invisible enemy of God's highest purposes . . . prideful independence of heart . . . I am my
own
.

He might as well have been talking straight to her, thought Amanda. Being her own, being answerable to no one—all her life that very drive had been her sole creed. Now Sister Hope's words mingled with those she had heard from Timothy's mouth, which she now knew were her own father's.

Laying down the right of self-rule is the business of life—the only
business of life. To learn this one lesson is what
we are here for
.

Had she ever even
thought
of such a thing—placing into
another's
hands the right to make a decision on her behalf? She knew the answer well enough. She had never consulted or considered anyone but herself, neither her father nor mother nor God. She had endured parental oversight as a teenager only so long as she absolutely had to. The moment an opportunity had presented itself to escape from it . . . she had turned her back on Heathersleigh.

Until today. Now here she was back home, in the room of her childhood. And what had all those years accomplished? They had robbed her of some of the most precious years she might have enjoyed with these people she loved.

Did she want to continue being her
own
? Could she look deeply into her heart? Did she finally have courage now to do what she could not do at the chalet?

Yes
, Amanda said to herself.

She
would
probe, whatever she found, however it may hurt to be honest with herself. She was at last ready to admit what she had been.

Slowly Amanda got down on her knees. Beside her bed, on the very floor where she had once ranted and fussed with how she thought she hated life at Heathersleigh, she began to pray.

“Oh, God,”
she said softly,
“I am so sorry
for seeking only my own will. I am sorry for
not learning what my mother and father tried to teach me. All my life I did nothing but put myself
first.

“I am so sorry,”
Amanda repeated, weeping freely.

“I don't want to live that way any longer
, Lord,”
she went on, praying softly through her repentant and healing tears.
“I want the intimacy Daddy spoke of
in that sermon. I am sorry for thinking I could
rule my own life. Forgive me. Show me how to
be close to you. Help me . . . I want to call
you my Father.”

At the word, Amanda broke down and sobbed. It was some time before she could continue.

“Oh, God!”
she struggled at length,
“forgive my blindness
toward my father. Teach me to know both you as
my heavenly Father and him as a father whom I now love. Please don't let it be too late
in some way for me to be a good daughter.

“At last I truly want a Father,”
Amanda continued.
“I am ready to become a child, the right kind
now, if you will help me, if you will show me how. Teach me to become my daddy's little
girl, and yours too. I think I am finally ready
to be the person you want me to be.”

Amanda's prayers fell silent. Slowly she began to breathe more easily. When she continued, her voice was calm and deliberate.

“Take me, Lord,”
she said,
“—take me as
I am. I want to give myself to you completely
. Take away my independent spirit. If there is any good
thing in me, anything you can make use of, please do so . . . and make me your daughter.”

 114 
Plymouth Memorial

Timothy arrived by train at Milverscombe on Tuesday morning. He had arranged for a supply minister, a student at Highbury Theological College, for the following Sunday. He was therefore able to remain with them through the weekend.

Early Thursday morning, he accompanied mother and daughters into Plymouth by train for the memorial for the men lost on the
Dauntless
.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am to have you along, Timothy,” said Jocelyn as they rode south through the Devon countryside to the coast. “I am not sure I could do this alone. I always depended on Charles, perhaps more than I realized, to protect me from the pressures and stresses of the outside world. With him gone, it is so good to have a dear brother with us.”

“You will learn to be strong in your own right, Jocelyn,” Timothy replied. “You are a strong woman. You have not perhaps till now had to rely on that strength. But believe me, speaking as one who has watched you through the years, you will rise to the task. You are much stronger than I think you have any idea. Charles contributed to that, no doubt. But I have the feeling you have gained more spiritual muscle through the years than you know.”

“Timothy is right, Mother,” said Catharine, “isn't he, Amanda? We can all see your strength. Daddy saw it too.”

Jocelyn smiled. “You are both dears,” she said. “But I cannot help being afraid, Timothy,” she added, turning toward him again.

“Of what?” he asked.

“Of the future without Charles.”

“You will be strong, Jocelyn. You have two fine daughters to help you. And you may call on me whenever you need me.”

“As much as I cannot imagine the future without Charles, it would be incomprehensibly worse without you. You have been a good friend to our family.”

“As your family has been to me,” replied Timothy. “You
are
my family . . . I think you know that.”

Jocelyn smiled and nodded.

They arrived in Plymouth, were met at the station by an escort from the Royal Navy, and were taken by automobile to the naval parade grounds. There they went through the ceremony stoically, all dressed in black, the London minister now taking the place of an elder brother to the small clan of Rutherford women. Jocelyn stood somber and silent on Timothy's right and Amanda next to her, with Catharine on Timothy's left. Jocelyn's face was veiled. The two girls wore hats.

First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill rose to speak. Partway through his remarks, he singled out Commander Charles Rutherford for special commendation. Though they remained steady, none of the three could prevent a flow of tears at hearing their husband and father honored in front of so many.

Immediately when the ceremony was concluded, many well-wishers made their way forward to shake hands and quietly express their sympathies. Jocelyn pulled back her veil, wiped her eyes, and did her best to make herself presentable to the public. With Charles gone, she knew duty required her to stand tall and proud in his place. She was far less conscious of her birthmark than she had probably ever been at a public gathering in her life.

Lieutenant Langham greeted Amanda and shook hands with Timothy.

“Lieutenant Langham,” said Amanda, “I would like you to meet my mother, Lady Jocelyn Rutherford—”

“Lady Jocelyn,” nodded Langham, holding his naval hat in his left hand and shaking hers with his right, “I am extremely sorry.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“—and my sister Catharine,” Amanda went on, moving to Catharine.

“My pleasure, Miss Rutherford,” he said, now shaking her hand.

“Thank you,” replied Catharine. “I am happy to meet you, Lieutenant.”

As the two spoke together briefly, Jocelyn noticed a man standing a few paces behind Lieutenant Langham in the background. He also wore the dress uniform of a naval officer, though with what appeared a large head bandage partially protruding beneath his hat. He appeared waiting for an opportunity to come forward and pay his respects. When Lieutenant Langham finally moved away, he came forward. Face and eyes were both red.

“Mrs. Rutherford,” he said, clearly struggling to speak, “you do not know me, but I was acquainted with both your husband and your son. My name is Richard Forbes. Lieutenant Forbes to your son—I was his squadron leader.”

He paused to take a deep breath, still not finding it easy to continue.

“Your son,” he went on, “was the ablest and most dependable cadet in all my unit.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” smiled Jocelyn. “That is very kind of you.”

“I am afraid I was occasionally a little hard on him at first. But he showed himself a man through it.”

Again Forbes paused, this time more lengthily.

“I only know what I have to tell you now,” he went on, “from others who saw it, because I was unconscious. I would have gone down with the ship . . . actually, I
should
have gone down. I was as good as dead. But apparently your son carried me from the torpedo room where I had fallen and injured my head—”

He gestured briefly toward the bandage.

“—he carried me on his shoulders up onto the deck and dumped me in one of the lifeboats. Your son saved my life, Mrs. Rutherford. I am sorrier than I can tell you for what happened. Both George and your husband were among the finest men I have ever known.”

Amanda had been listening intently to the conversation. “Why didn't George get in the lifeboat too?” she asked.

“He turned and ran back to the middle of the ship,” replied Forbes. “Even though it was obvious we were sinking, and every other man was running frantically
up
the stairs for the deck, George ran toward the stairs and flew straight
down
. One of the men told me he heard him call out as he disappeared, ‘I'm going back for my father!'”

At the words, Jocelyn burst into a sob. But almost as quickly she recovered herself.

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant Forbes,” she said, trying to smile. “For a moment . . . it was like hearing George himself again. That is exactly what he would have done. Thank you so much for telling us.”

Lieutenant Forbes nodded to each of the three, then turned and left them.

By now Churchill himself had managed to work his way toward them from the front, where he and a few other dignitaries had been sitting.

“Lady Jocelyn,” he intoned somberly, “let me again express my own deep personal condolences.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Churchill.”

“Has your daughter told you that it is likely she will receive a commendation from the prime minister?” he asked, glancing toward Amanda.

“No, actually,” replied Jocelyn, turning toward Amanda with surprise. “She hasn't said a word of it.”

“Well then, I shall let her tell you about it.”

The First Lord of the Admiralty then greeted both Timothy and Amanda with handshakes and a few words. Amanda introduced him to Catharine.

“I am afraid I have some unfortunate news for you,” said Churchill, turning and speaking once again to Amanda. “We sent a Coast Guard ship down from Whitby to Hawsker. But by the time they arrived it seems our friends had disappeared without a trace. All that was left was the dinghy and an old Irishman making back for the lighthouse. But they could get nothing out of him. We're still trying to decide what to do with him. We don't know whether he was part of it all or not. We've shut down the operation at the lighthouse, of course. But I'm afraid the fellow Halifax as well as Barclay and the others are still at large.”

Amanda shuddered at the thought.

“I wouldn't worry if I were you. I'm sure they made no landfall in England. There must have been a U-boat out there waiting for them. But under the circumstances, if you know what I mean, I felt you needed to be informed.”

“Yes . . . yes, thank you for telling me.”

As Churchill paid his final respects to Jocelyn and then ambled away to speak to some of the other bereaved families, Catharine
whispered to her mother and sister, “Uh-oh, don't look now . . . brace yourselves!”

Shuffling toward them, somewhat nervously it seemed, were three figures attired in black from head to toe, a plump teary-eyed woman in billowy dress of ambiguous cut, flanked by two three-piece-suited businessmen of somber countenance. Seeing that they had been noticed, Martha Rutherford now flowed toward them in a gush of tears and chiffon and the smell of lilac and outstretched fleshy arms. She went straight to Jocelyn and surrounded her in an undulating embrace, while the two men of her entourage approached more stiffly behind her, then took up stoic positions at attention.

“Jocelyn . . . Jocelyn, my dear,” said Martha in something like a tearful wail, “I am so sorry! You poor dear—what you must have been through. Oh, and Catharine . . . Amanda,” she added, hugging each of them in turn. She gave Amanda an extra squeeze, then stepped back with a sad, and, Amanda thought, lonely smile. “It is so good to see you again, Amanda.”

“And you, Cousin Martha,” Amanda replied.

“I've missed you, dear.”

“I know . . . I am sorry,” began Amanda. “I left the country, as you know, with Mrs. Thorndike, and then—”

“No need to explain, my dear,” said Martha kindly. “I understand that things have been difficult for you. We shall catch up together again one day.”

“Yes . . . yes, I would like that, Cousin Martha.”

“You shall all come into London and be my guests . . . when you're ready, of course,” she added, glancing a bit nervously toward Jocelyn and Catharine, with whom she did not feel quite so intimate yet. Suddenly it dawned on her that perhaps she had overstepped propriety and been too forward with Jocelyn.

“Thank you, Martha,” smiled Jocelyn. “That is most gracious of you. We shall, I promise.”

At first opportunity, Gifford oiled forward and proceeded to greet the members of his late first cousin's family, cordially but with formality, mumbling a few somber condolences but obviously feeling awkward under the circumstances of the setting.

Geoffrey, meanwhile, had been standing expressionless behind his parents. At first sight of him, Amanda thought she detected a strange light in his face, as if he was trying to catch her eyes. Her
first impulse was to look away, thinking he must still be harboring the kind of affections for her that had so repulsed her before. As she observed him, however, the more she realized the odd expression signified something else. She could not put her finger on what exactly. But there could be no doubt that his demeanor was much improved.

He now shuffled toward them as his father stepped back.

“Cousin Jocelyn,” he said, “I really am sorry. I don't know what else to say.”

“Thank you, Geoffrey. You are very kind.”

He nodded with a nervous smile toward both Catharine and Amanda.

“Hello, Amanda . . . Catharine.”

“Hello, Geoffrey,” returned Amanda. Without further comment, he now slipped in close beside her, saying nothing but apparently listening with interest to the continuing conversation between their two mothers.

“I appreciate all you did for Amanda when she was in the city . . .” Amanda heard her mother say. She was too distracted, however, by Geoffrey's proximity to pay much attention.

Suddenly close at her side almost in the folds of her dress itself, she felt her cousin take her hand. Blood rushed to her head and for a moment, Amanda's old anger flared to the surface. She turned her face quickly toward him, though remained conscious of not making a scene.

“Geoffrey, what are you—” she exclaimed in a loud whisper.

His grip clamped tightly around her hand, almost crushing it into silence. Still he stared straight ahead, purposefully refusing to look in her direction. Amanda's eyes continued to stare at him in outrage.

The next instant Geoffrey's fingers began fidgeting oddly. Then she felt something else against the skin of her palm, something hard and metallic. Still Geoffrey made no sound, nor so much as hinted by his expression that he was aware of anything out of the ordinary.