Sweet Briar Rose

by Lena Goldfinch

  At the sight of it, Rose’s eyes lit with recognition, but then her expression wavered and her lips compressed. To his mind, she seemed disconcerted by the fact that he carried her portrait over his heart. Did she not carry his photograph with her at all times? Perhaps she didn’t. Another disappointment. It seemed he had indeed given his heart too much, too soon.

  A bitter taste coated his mouth.

  “I don’t mean to complain. Truly. It’s just...I’ve been traveling for so long, I suppose. That’s all.”

  “Forgive me,” Emmett said. He should have realized she was exhausted. Her features were drawn, her skin pale. When she tugged at her ribbons and removed her bonnet, he could finally see her hair. It was nearly black. Pinned up and arranged in a loose collection of curls at her nape. Her eyes were blue. Not the sea green he’d imagined, but blue with a hint of gray. Like the sky on an overcast day.

  There was something about her eyes that made him think she carried the world on her shoulders. But then he knew from her letters she’d lost her father. She was still in mourning. Her clothes were black, her boots and bonnet too. Even her ribbons were black. It wasn’t an unusual color for women to travel in, but in Rose’s case it meant something more.

  She was grieving.

  And he was an insensitive oaf. He hefted her carpetbag, frowning. He should have shown her up the stairs as soon as he brought her in, but it had been snowing so hard, and he’d hated for her luggage to get buried. He’d also needed to put the sled away, or it would have been buried as well.

  She’d waited here without complaint. Alone. Standing, because he hadn’t even offered her his work stool to sit on. Just moments ago, he’d made her cross the road to get here through snow that came up to his own knees. Of course, the road hadn’t been nearly so bad earlier when he’d made the decision to bring the sled instead of going to the livery and hitching his horses to the sleigh. That mattered little now. She’d trudged through a sea of snow and was likely chilled to the bone. In fact, it was obvious she was making a brave attempt to hide the fact that her teeth were chattering.

  “I’ll show you to your room,” he said quickly. “If you’ll follow me?”

  “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Her expression revealed genuine relief and appreciation.

  Emmett could have kicked himself for making her wait so long. He hadn’t even offered her something to drink. He would put a kettle on for tea. Or coffee if she wanted it. And he’d bring up the rest of her trunks. Getting the larger ones up the narrow steps would likely prove to be a challenge.

  As he led the way upstairs, he heard Rose’s softer footfalls behind him, then the more familiar scrambling noises of Boston’s nails, scratching up the wood. The door at the top of the stairs stood ajar, proof that old Boston had bumped it open with his head. Again.

  “This way.” Emmet led Rose to her room and placed her carpetbag on the wooden spindle-back chair that sat beside the door.

  Boston followed them inside and flopped down in his usual spot on the braided rug that Emmett’s four-post bed frame was perched on.

  Earlier, Emmett had made the bed with a quilt his mother had sent to him not long after she’d heard his good news. It had a pattern of rings—bright cornflower blue and gold against stark white. She’d called it a wedding quilt, which seemed appropriate. But it made his room seem almost foreign. Like it wasn’t his room at all, which was just as well. For now, it wasn’t. It would be Rose’s room until Pastor Stone and his wife returned.

  “What a lovely quilt.” Rose placed her bonnet on top of her carpetbag and immediately crossed to the bed. She tugged off her gloves and traced her fingers over one of the sets of gold rings. “The stitching is so intricate.”

  Emmett heard a hint of question in her voice.

  “My mother made it,” he said, “as a wedding gift.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She paused, tracing the rings again. “Your mother is quite talented.”

  Her words were more than just politeness, but he could see her shoulders sagging with weariness. The hem of her skirt was soaked and likely heavy with melted snow. He imagined her boots were also wet and uncomfortable.

  “I’ll leave the room to you. Mine is the one above.” Although, in truth, this was actually his room—hastily prepared for her—but he didn’t think he should mention that just yet. “You’ll find the kitchen at the back of the house. And the bathroom’s beside it.” He waved in the right direction. “For now I can bring you a pitcher of warm water to wash up, if you like.” He nodded to the washstand in the far corner. “And I’ll put on some water for tea, unless you prefer coffee?”

  “I’d love tea, thank you. And a pitcher would be lovely.” She stood in the same spot at the foot of the bed, twisting her gloves in her slim hands. It might have been his imagination, but she appeared to be avoiding looking at the bed now, and the wedding quilt his mother had made as a gift for them.

  His presence was making her nervous. Which filled him with a vague uneasiness.

  Was she having second thoughts about the marriage?

  Then what would he do?

  He’d already given his heart.

  Stupidly.

  What if she changed her mind?

  Emmett simply nodded at her blindly and backed toward the door.

  Chapter 5

  After Emmett left, Rose placed her hand against the closed door. It was unpainted, barely finished at all. Just solid pine boards with a bumpy, rough grain. Simple.

  Nothing like home. All their doors had been painted, with two panels up, two down. Not fancy, but finished.

  Nothing here felt like home. Not the homespun braided rug, the dark paneled walls. Even the faint scent of smoke from the wood stove smelled different. Nothing was familiar.

  A little shudder went through her. She squeezed her eyes shut and folded down onto her heels, her arm bent awkwardly, like a bird’s wing, against the door, her palm still flat against the wood grain. As if curling up into a ball might hold her panic at bay.

  She was alone.

  No friends, no family. Just a stranger in the other room. A man she barely knew through the exchange of a few letters. She could hear his beast of a dog sniffing curiously at the hem of her skirts again.

  She didn’t even know what the rest of the house looked like. Was there a parlor? Or a place where she could carve her sculptures...someday?

  She didn’t know a single soul in this town.

  Would she meet anyone here she could call friend?

  Would she ever see her brother again? Or her mother? Rose had visited them in New York before traveling west. Mother and Frank had congratulated her on her upcoming wedding, but their manner had been awkward. Neither of them approved of her answering a stranger’s ad in the newspaper. Several times her mother had urged Rose to stay and attend her friends’ social events to meet “a more suitable young man.”

  After, of course, Mother’s own seamstress designed an entirely new wardrobe for Rose.

  And after she found someone to tame Rose’s unruly hair.

  For Rose, the thought of transforming herself into her mother’s ideal held little appeal.

  But it had been good to see them both. They’d shared remembrances of Papa. Funny things he used to say. His odd habits. Memories of times they’d all shared together—in the days before Mother left.

  I might not ever see either of them again.

  Rose leaned her temple against the door, breathing shallowly. She might not. Mother would certainly never come—she hadn’t even liked to travel to Maine. They were practically a world apart now, weren’t they? To never see them again. Her family.

  What have I done?

  Rose’s mind raced in a million directions. The sudden reality of her situation loomed before her. She’d come here to marry a stranger. She would share intimacies with him, a man she barely knew. For that’s what married people did. They shared a bed. They touched each other.

  She’d never even kissed a man. Let
alone a stranger.

  At the sound of a rap on the door, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

  Boston lay on the floor at her feet, his snout resting on his front paws. He lifted his eyes to hers without moving his head. There was something humorous about his shaggy brows. She smiled at him, recognizing her own foolishness.

  “Rose?” Emmett’s voice came to her through the door. “I have a pitcher of hot water for you.”

  He waited.

  She could almost picture him on the other side of the door. If such a thing were possible. Standing there, with a pitcher handle—white porcelain perhaps—grasped in his large hand, his head bent forward to listen for her response. Not too close though, for he’d be expecting her to open the door at any moment.

  Rose stood and smoothed down her dress. For now, she’d simply do what she had to do. Change into dry clothes. No need to leap ahead. Emmett had shown himself to be a gentleman multiple times since he’d met her at the train station. She knew him, somewhat, from his letters and from the other letters he’d forwarded to her, written by the reverend and other townspeople. Why, just moments ago she’d thought his manner courtly. She had nothing to fear. These were simply nerves, which were natural enough. She was tired. That was all.

  Where was all her determination to be practical and business minded?

  Open the door, Rose. You’re being silly.

  She waited one more long second, then turned the knob. A steaming pitcher of water came into view. Rose took it, then shut the door just as quickly as she’d opened it. She barely caught a glimpse of the man standing there, her vision so unfocused, her actions so quick. He was no more than a hulking shadow. He could have been any man. And yet, that wasn’t quite true.

  She leaned back against the door and held the pitcher to her chest, felt its warmth penetrating to her skin. It was blue, not white. Glazed earthenware with a raised pattern of leaves. Practical but pretty.

  And it had been Emmett, of course. She’d known him even in that unfocused moment. Already knew the breadth of his shoulders, his towering height, and the pleasant shade of his hair. Even that awful beard of his and how it covered his face. The way he held himself, not unlike her own father standing on deck. Sure and capable.

  But threatening? No.

  She forced herself to breathe evenly, then belatedly called through the door, “Thank you!”

  Only then did she hear him walk away, his quiet tread creaking across the floor, making her realize he’d removed his boots, probably while he was waiting for the water to boil. And here she was, still dripping melted snow on his rug.

  Boston stared up at her quizzically.

  Rose turned the key in the door to lock it, for her own peace of mind, then washed and changed as quickly as she could.

  All she wanted to do was eat something warm and hearty—as quickly as she could get it down her throat—and fall into a deep and restful sleep on that comfortable-looking bed. It was wide and deep, with a large wood frame. Nothing in the room looked to be of low quality. Nothing seemed dirty, which was a relief. Coming into the home of a bachelor, she could have faced any sort of mess. Her brother never would’ve kept a house so neat, not by himself. Not like this.

  Comfortable and clean, if a bit Spartan as far as decorations went.

  She could almost see herself curled up under that pretty quilt, with it pulled up tightly to her chin.

  She wanted to sleep.

  How on earth was she going to find the strength to face Emmett in the kitchen? Exchanging meaningless pleasantries about her trip, or whatever they would find to talk about. She certainly didn’t want to discuss their future. Not right now. Please, not right now.

  Emmett stood at the kitchen sink, gazing out the back window, transfixed by the darkness of the sky. It couldn’t have been much past three o’clock, but looked dark as night. The storm continued to rage, the snow blowing nearly sideways now. The wind howled and ripped at the wood siding. It stripped limbs off trees laden with snow.

  He’d set a couple of plates to keep warm on the back of the stove, each heaped with chunks of salted beef brisket, potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. The hearty aroma mingled with the more delicate scent of freshly steeped black tea.

  He heard a sound behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Rose stood in the entrance to the kitchen, looking around her. Her gaze was thoughtful, assessing. Did she find the room lacking? He tried to see his home through her eyes.

  There was one window above the large porcelain apron sink, overlooking the back. She’d hopefully appreciate having a good working hand pump for water. In the corner was a farmhouse cookstove, with four burner plates and space in the oven for a whole twenty-five-pound turkey. Large enough to heat the whole house. Open shelves lined the walls, each filled with plates, cups, and canned goods. One freestanding kitchen cabinet, with a tin spout for flour. A serviceable table in the center of the room, with two equally serviceable wooden chairs. None of which he’d selected himself. Everything had come with the house.

  He’d never given the furnishings much thought, until now. Now he worried it might look a little plain and small to a woman. His own mother might think so. It was nothing like their grand old farmhouse back in Virginia. Probably not nearly as grand as Rose’s home in Maine either. He didn’t even have a parlor to offer her. She was probably used to one.

  He caught himself rubbing the back of his neck and dropped his hand to his side. There was nothing he could do about the house right now.

  “It smells delicious,” Rose said, giving him what appeared to be a self-conscious smile. Probably because he hadn’t yet said a word.

  “Have a seat.” Emmett pulled out a chair for her. He watched as she took her place. She moved with such grace.

  She was here.

  His Rose. Seated at his table.

  Finally.

  And she was more beautiful in person than he’d imagined. If that were possible. He had the photograph of her that he carried constantly over his heart—and an active imagination. And he’d imagined a lot.

  But he still hadn’t imagined her looking like this. The delicate curve of her cheek. The way her hair curled around her face. Her soft feminine form. Living and breathing. She’d changed into a navy-blue wool dress, buttoned up the front. The kind women wore at home on a winter’s evening. Simple and warm. But on her, it was lovely. Fitted to her petite frame. The color bringing out a greater depth of blue in her eyes.

  He couldn’t get enough of looking at her. Besotted, that’s what he was.

  With a start, he realized she was staring back at him, catching him at it.

  “It’s just beef and vegetables,” he said apologetically.

  “Well, it smells delicious,” she repeated. “Is that tea?”

  “It is.” Emmett quickly set out the plates and two mugs of tea. She looked down into her mug, but didn’t lift it to her lips.

  “Sugar or milk?” he asked.

  “Both?” she asked hopefully.

  He got them for her, pleased to be able to meet her request.

  She eyed her plate with interest and placed the folded cloth napkin—another gift from his mother—across her lap. Then glanced up at him.

  “Aren’t you going to join me?” she asked, a frown appearing between her brows.

  It was then he realized he was still standing at her side, unmoving.

  He took his seat and held out his hand, palm up. “I’ll say grace.”

  She took his hand, hesitating an instant. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, likely, but Emmett did. It was clear she wasn’t nearly comfortable with him.

  He bowed his head and offered grace, thanking God for Rose’s safe arrival, for the bounty of his provision and shelter from the storm.

  “Amen.” Emmett released Rose’s slim fingers and watched as she lifted her cup of tea to her lips to take a sip. He continued to watch as she sampled the beef and vegetables, her eyes closing appreciatively as she swallowed.

  She
looked over to find him watching her. Again.

  “What is it?” she asked, setting her fork aside. She lifted the cloth napkin from her lap and dabbed at the corner of her mouth, likely thinking she had a spot of gravy there.

  “Nothing.” He immediately shifted his attention to his meal, slicing a hunk of meat with the edge of his fork.

  She slowly retrieved her fork, took another dainty bite, and chewed with an air of thoughtfulness.

  “There was a moment there, waiting on the platform, when I…feared you might not make it,” he admitted, sensing she wasn’t satisfied with his answer. “That the train might’ve gone off the tracks into a ravine.”

  Emmett tried to make light of it, now that the danger was past, but his sense of concern lingered, especially with the wind howling outside.

  “There were times when I thought the train might do just that,” Rose said. When she took another sip of her tea, he noticed her hand trembled slightly.

  He hadn’t set her at ease with him. If anything, he’d unsettled her even further by bringing up unpleasant memories. He wished he could draw his words back.

  “I’ll bring up the rest of your trunks after we eat,” he said, thinking she might be worried about her things.

  “I have all I need for this evening in my carpetbag,” she assured him.

  He nodded. “I don’t mind. For now, they’ll have to line the hall outside your room, until you fully unpack. Then we can figure out where everything belongs.”

  She quickly set her mug down. She must have misjudged, for she struck the edge of her plate, and tea sloshed onto the table.

  “I’m so sorry!” She grabbed her napkin and began to mop up the mess. In the process, the mug tipped over completely. All the tea flooded out.

  Something in what he’d said had discombobulated her. Perhaps the idea of unpacking and living here. With him. Most likely.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated.

  “Nothing to worry about.” He took up his napkin to help her. Their hands brushed, and she jerked back, blushing furiously.