by Ruth Trippy
“Mine, too.”
Mrs. Divers harrumphed. “I wouldn’t have thought a beauty like Hester would marry an old wizened man like him.”
“At least he realized the mismatch, if too late. Remember what he said? ‘Mine was the first wrong, when I betrayed thy budding youth into a false and unnatural relation with my decay.’ But then to compound the misfortune, after their marriage he spent most of his time in his study, not doing his duty as a husband.”
“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Mrs. Divers said.
Miss Waul’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh! I hadn’t thought of that.”
Mrs. Divers nodded triumphantly to her companion before turning to Celia. “Forgive us, my dear, just a little private observation. So we’re all in agreement about Chillingworth. Now, what did you think about—”
For the next quarter hour, they discussed the book and its characters. Celia looked from one woman to the other. These two seemed to love literature as she did. Could they be soul mates?
“The child Pearl was my favorite. Puts me in mind of my own daughter,” Mrs. Divers said.
“I don’t know about your daughter,” Celia said, “but while the child Pearl was a fair sprite and her mother loved her, the little girl was still an anguish to her.”
“As mine was to me, Miss Thatcher, as mine was to me—” Mrs. Divers stopped, seeming to lapse into reverie. Celia hesitated and looked to Miss Waul for help.
Miss Waul caught the look. “Yes, Miss. Marguerite was the apple of her mother’s eye, that she was. And beautiful, too. So beautiful she caught many a man’s eye. But it was our neighbor, Mr.—” she dropped her voice—“Mr. Lyons, who finally got her.”
At the mention of the name, Mrs. Divers bestirred herself and blurted out, “My Marguerite suited him just fine before they were married. But after the knot was tied, it was a different story. And he let her know it. Oh, it was a sad affair, Miss Thatcher, a sad affair.”
Celia wondered if she should try to redirect the conversation into other avenues.
“Marguerite was bright, sensitive—but delicate of health—that’s why I encouraged the marriage. I could see Mr. Lyons was big and strong. And rich. He would take care of her. But she was bright only those early months, then her brightness began to fade, especially after that first year. I didn’t see her much after that. Why he’d hardly let her out of the house. He was severe, Miss Thatcher. He was that severe!”
Celia looked to Miss Waul for confirmation or help, she didn’t know which—but had she had it all wrong? Apparently, Mr. Lyons wasn’t grieving for his wife after all. He was—how had she so misunderstood the situation?
Miss Waul rose and smoothed Mrs. Divers’s hand. “Now, we’re getting ourselves all worked up. And here we invite Miss Thatcher in and don’t even offer her some refreshment.”
Mrs. Divers roused herself. “You must forgive me, my dear, going off on a tangent like that. I missed the discussion at the bookstore, and you being so kind to bring it right here into my parlor, yes, most kind. And tea, yes, let’s have some tea. That would be the very thing.”
Miss Waul saw Celia to the front hall. “I’m sorry we got into all that, Miss Thatcher. But you see how this family has suffered.” She handed Celia her coat. “I’ll accompany you to the road. I’d like to stretch my legs a bit.”
As they stepped out on the porch, Celia looked off to the left. She’d noticed a large house showing through the trees on her arrival.
Miss Waul took hold of the hand railing and carefully let herself down each step. “That’s Edward Lyons’s house. You see how near he is. When my mistress leaves the house she shields her face with her hand, doesn’t even like to glimpse it. Now with the leaves falling, a body can see it quite well. Otherwise, during the summer, the trees hide it.”
Celia tried to say something noncommittal. “It must be a cool, shady place during hot days.”
“Yes, except there’s a large spot in the back cleared of trees. Sunny for a garden. I hear he grows flowers. Our little Loydie says he’s never seen so much color. Doesn’t seem like a man that somber would have a garden.” She stopped at the road. “I haven’t been in the back, just up to the front door, like most people. Well now, you be careful on your way home.” Miss Waul waved her off and turned back to the house.
Celia couldn’t help be curious about Mr. Lyons’s house, but took care not to seem to do so, allowing herself only a few glances. The dark-red brick structure had steep roofs and gables with trim and window casements of forest green. Evergreen shrubs and landscaping were tastefully laid out—what one could see of them. The whole front had a rather dark aspect, however. Like its owner?
But he had a flower garden. That was a surprise. She loved flowers, her one passion besides books and reading. What kind of blooms would he favor? If he was as interested in flowers as in books, he might have interesting varieties. Maybe some that were rare.
She quickened her pace to the bookstore. But how had he treated his wife? What Mrs. Divers said sounded threatening. Yet, he had been kind to her regarding the Tennyson.
What should she think? The man was a living oxymoron. A person with such a severe streak who loves flowers? And when she thought of that hulk of a man tending delicate blooms, what an unlikely picture that presented.
6
Celia lifted the linen cover. “These rolls smell heavenly.” The warm yeasty aroma reminded her of home.
“My cook is a master baker,” Mrs. Harrod said. “Take more than one. Your figure can well afford it. And remind me to send some to the Chestleys.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing your cook.” Celia laughed.
“You are a woman after my own heart.”
Mrs. Harrod’s sunny expression lifted Celia’s expectations for the luncheon. They were already high from the moment she entered the large, graciously furnished Tudor house. When ushered into the conservatory with its multitude of yellow and burnt orange mums amid the lush green plants, she felt positively sunny as Mrs. Harrod introduced her to members of the Floral Society. Each lady wore a hat with a flower pinned to its brim. Mrs. Harrod had set a table for eight in her spacious conservatory.
Mrs. Adams leaned over to Celia. “Your book discussion came off famously.”
“You are very kind.” Celia’s heart warmed at the thought of that enjoyable evening.
Mrs. Adams took a bite of salad before continuing. “I was so glad my friend Mrs. Harrod attended. And I suspect she invited you today because you, too, have a particular interest in flowers—”
“Of course,” Mrs. Harrod interrupted, “I suspected Miss Thatcher cherished a strong attachment the way she brought up the rose in the book discussion. I just knew we wanted to know her better.” Mrs. Harrod’s eyes twinkled at Celia. “When I informed my husband I was having the society for lunch, I told him I was willing to bet on you.” She laughed. “Not that I’m a betting woman. But Miss Thatcher, you looked such a flower at the discussion with your creamy bowed blouse and your hair tied up in curls. You reminded me of a peony, my dear. You had that same classic beauty with a flowery little fluff.”
“Mrs. Harrod, your descriptions!” Mrs. Adams laughed, then looked at Celia. “Don’t let her extravagant talk embarrass you, Miss Thatcher. Amongst us women, she can be quite the flibbertigibbet. In mixed society, she is more circumspect. But never dull, I warrant you.”
“No, indeed,” said a small lady with a huge yellow mum overloading her straw hat. “In fact, you must take what she says as a compliment. It means you’ve all but been accepted into the inner circle. And, my gracious, in the space of just a few minutes!”
“But only if you do love flowers.” Mrs. Harrod adopted a severe air. “Do you?”
“Yes! Would you like to know my favorite?”
Mrs. Adams held her fork in midair. “That’s what we’re waiting to hear, my dear.”
“I’m afraid such aficionados as yourselves will find me rather unimaginative, for it�
�s the well-loved rose. But I have a passion for roses in all their forms, from the simple five-petal variety to the huge, multi-petaled blowsy ones.”
“I knew it,” Mrs. Harrod said. “A classic, that’s what you are.”
“How appropriate.” Mrs. Adams put down her cup. “And now you must hear our favorites.”
The ladies readily chimed in with a lively recital of flowers, from the wild blue bachelor buttons to fragrant lilac shrubs.
Finally, Mrs. Adams lifted her teacup to Mrs. Harrod. “Now our hostess will tell you hers.”
“Miss Thatcher might have already guessed.” Mrs. Harrod’s eyebrow lifted archly as she paused dramatically. “The peony, of course! In all its fulsome, many-petaled splendor. And now you know the compliment I paid by comparing you to my luscious flower.”
“You can readily see,” Mrs. Adams said, “with our specialized interests, we don’t cross pollinate or step on each other’s toes.” She chuckled at her pun.
“Especially during the flower show,” the lady in the straw hat added.
“Oh, yes, we wouldn’t want to run off with each other’s prizes.” Mrs. Harrod laughed. “We are a smart set of little ladies.”
Celia giggled demurely. How delightful to be accepted into such a lively group.
The ladies went on to talk about the flower show. When Celia asked when it was held, Mrs. Harrod said mid-June, then asked her what she might contribute. Celia said that Mrs. Chestley had climbers that had done poorly the last few years. Maybe she could coax them into a prize.
Mrs. Adams then asked about Mr. Lyons, for she had heard he had a garden bar none. She leaned over to address Mrs. Harrod. “He and I had a nice little talk after the book discussion. Don’t you think we could prevail on him to enter this year?”
“Well, we’ll have to see what can be done about that,” Mrs. Harrod said gaily. “He did come out of his shell to attend the discussion. Yes, Mrs. Adams, you and I together, we just might be able to manage it.”
Celia turned from Mrs. Harrod’s drive into the “Avenue,” the street with the town’s grandest homes. The early afternoon sun warmed the air. Its brightness pierced intermittently through the golden leaves of the overarching elms, hitting Celia’s face in staccatos, adding verve to her walk. The sparkling conversation of the ladies at the luncheon had energized her, too, their liveliness contagious. Most of the time she involved herself in serious pursuits, so her time with the Floral Society had been a pleasant surprise. What an absolutely congenial luncheon. She felt on top of the top.
At the end of the avenue, she turned left to the town’s small business district with its cozy assortment of shops and houses. She had just reached the general store when out the door bolted a boy of about ten. Looking back over his shoulder, he plowed right into her.
Celia grabbed the boy to keep from toppling over. “Whoa, there!” She regained her balance just in time.
“Sorry Miss, but I gotta go, I’m late!” He grabbed at her to steady her, then pulled away and raced down the street. Celia slowly straightened herself, her hand instinctively clutching her leg.
The door opened a second time. A bushy-haired gentleman exited.
“Blasted boy!” Mr. Lyons reached out to her tentatively, then dropped his hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m a little shaken, that’s all.”
He looked hard at the running lad. “Did he apologize?”
“Well—in a manner of speaking.”
“That boy’s like a wild animal, he needs disciplining.”
“Yes, but I have a brother who runs perpetually late, getting into all kinds of scrapes. So I’m rather inured to it, I guess.” She laughed, wanting to smooth over the incident, then looked at him quizzically. “Mr. Lyons! Here it is daytime and you are out and about. I thought you kept to the night shades.”
He looked at her sharply. “Business. Well, if you’re all right then—” At her affirmative nod, he tipped his hat and started off before she could say more.
She looked at his huge retreating figure in surprise. Such a sudden departure. Had she said something ill-advised? Now that she thought of it, she probably sounded impertinent with her last remark. What had come over her? Fallen in with the Floral Society’s spirited ways, that’s what—and not appreciated by the likes of Mr. Lyons.
Yes, he was Tennyson to the life. She’d finally told Mr. Chestley how Mr. Lyons resembled the picture of Lord Alfred she’d seen in the volume of Tennyson poems. Mr. Chestley laughed and said, “The resemblance doesn’t end there.” He had bent over confidentially. “Mr. Lyons is known to be about as dour, brooding, and unapproachable as Tennyson was reported to be for much of his life.”
At the moment, Celia couldn’t agree more. She gazed after the disappearing figure, letting some distance grow between them before she started in the same direction. After all she’d learned about him, that was surely best.
Edward Lyons took to his woods. Tramping into the forest, he put distance between himself and civilization. The only movement he wanted to see was a leaf falling, the only sound, a squirrel cavorting through the forest, rustling fallen leaves. He wanted to be quiet and alone. Alone!
Hard to believe one of the few times he ventured out in daytime he had to meet that young woman. Looking as fresh and lovely as a—rose. But that was hackneyed. She deserved better than that.
Glancing out the store window, he’d seen her walking up the sidewalk. He’d been putting on his gloves when that boy sped past him out the door and all but knocked her over. He’d jerked on the rest of the glove and rushed out.
Had the boy no manners? To top it all, he was sure the boy dropped a piece of candy when he knocked against her. Probably filched from the penny candy.
His eyes narrowed. Hadn’t he seen that boy somewhere before? He tried to remember back to any recent—the horse! And the firecrackers. That boy was one of the two that set off those firecrackers. The rascal.
He tramped a good ten minutes through the forest before he felt himself calm down. His fighting energy dissipated, he hunted down a recently fallen tree he’d discovered last week. The trunk was huge. He wondered why it had fallen until he examined its base and saw the rotten inner core. Farther up the trunk where he chose to sit was solid enough.
How he loved these woods. Precious little else he loved these days. But he’d come to accept that, tamping down each day’s circumstances to the back of his mind like a pipe smoker presses down tobacco in his pipe. Besides, as soon as he began to read he lived in another world. Was that how he could remain in this town after Marguerite’s death? Surely any other man would have left. But he was just stubborn enough to stay. His mother had suggested he return to Boston, to the ancestral domicile. But no, he’d never live in close quarters like that again, even though eminently historical and elegant. Once he’d tasted the outdoors as a boy at his grandparents’ summer place, the open air had to be part of his life. And here, except for his neighbor and their past, he had the best of both worlds—a refined, comfortable home with a library to stimulate his soul and a forest with enough acreage to provide an outlet for physical exertion and mental contemplation. Without these woods, even stubbornness wouldn’t have tempted him to stay.
He gazed around him. This autumn the woods blazed with enough color for any man’s hungry soul. Burnt oranges, sunny yellows, and his favorite, bright scarlet. An evocative word, that last. Was it another reason the book discussion had drawn him?
For some minutes, he sat in silence. Here in the woods, things would get unstirred. Wordsworth said it well, no matter that he talked of spring instead of fall:
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thought to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
So much beauty in nature. Such harmony. He felt a solid connection to Wor
dsworth; the man, like himself, had experienced disillusionment, but had found sustenance, spiritual comfort in nature.
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man . . .
The beauty in the poem underscored the sad thought of man’s unfair treatment to his fellow man. The figure of Mrs. Divers thrust up suddenly. And her treatment of him.
Was the woman his Chillingworth?
Suddenly he rose. He wouldn’t think of her. Instead, he would focus on the beauty of the nearby trees, one to his right particularly, its wonderful golden leaves scintillating in the bright sunlight.
A stream rippled nearby. A splash of water on his face would refresh him. He was feeling uncommonly warm.
With an easy pace, he covered the last hundred yards, over the rise of forest floor before it gentled down to the water.
But what was that by his stream? Two boys with fishing poles.
He barged down the embankment, stirring up dried leaves, not disguising his advance. Both youths glanced over their shoulders, then hastily rose. He recognized one of them. The firecracker boy who had run into Miss Thatcher. He quickened his pace. Up ahead he spied a spot cleared of underbrush, laid out for a fire. Fire! Anger licked through him.
Only a few moments the boys stood frozen. “Loydie!” One of them grabbed their basket. “Let’s get out of here!” Without looking back, both fled along the stream, then scrambled up the embankment.
He almost pursued them, but they had too good a start. Instead, he stopped at the unlit fire ring. Kicked it. Kicked it thoroughly, scattering the wood. Then kicked leaves, twigs, and moss over the dread spot. Kicked until there was no trace of the intended fire.
A fire on his property? A thousand times no!
Smoke! Edward coughed and coughed. Heat scorched his face. He buried his face in his pillow to escape the heat and suffocating fumes. When he raised up, he saw orange and white flames licking round his bedroom door.
Shouts. Screams. Where were they coming from? Below his window? Voices yelled at him to wake up, to get out of the house.
