The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  He struggled with the bed covers, flung them off.

  Cold air hit him.

  He opened bleary eyes to a dark bedroom. What?

  Fire. Where was it? The smoke? He rose from his bed, groping his way to the washstand and doused his face with cold water. Doused it again and again.

  After drying his face, he walked to the window. Darkness and utter quiet met him. He crossed the room and opened his bedroom door. Shadowy silence reigned in the hall. He stood still for some moments, then shuddered in the cold gloom.

  Gradually the brightness, the noise, the fire of the dream subsided. He heaved a great sigh.

  The sense of being trapped, that night long ago—had returned with a vengeance. Would he never forget what happened to him as a boy in his grandparents’ home, his cherished boyhood summer home—going up in smoke?

  Another shiver shook him.

  7

  Celia watched Mr. Chestley open the big black portfolio.

  “I sent for these art prints from Boston. You know how I like adding to the store’s Old World ambiance. I think something should be framed for that wall near the book discussions. Would you give them a once-over, Celia?”

  Celia felt a surge of interest. “How many are there?”

  “A dozen or so. I asked for a selection of country scenes from different seasons. Take your time.”

  Celia bent over the large folio. The top print was a large pasture of grazing sheep with rolling hills in the distance. Charming. She turned over one after another, each reminiscent of earlier centuries in England or Europe. The last three showed winter scenes, the first with figures skating down a frozen river with little cottages near the water’s edge.

  But this last—how different. Radically pruned trees lined a country lane, their knobby ends sprouted straight slender branches—black and brown strokes against a gray-white wash.

  Just then the door opened, the little bell jangling. Celia looked up to see Mrs. Smith enter. “Can I help you?”

  The old woman’s face brightened on spotting her. “No, I just dropped by to say hello.” Approaching the counter, she craned her neck. “What are you looking at?”

  “Art prints. We’re going to choose one to be framed for the store.”

  “May I see?”

  “Of course. Look at this one, a country lane with the pruned trees. It’s most unusual.”

  Mrs. Smith gazed at the picture. “Oh my, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, the subject is very different.” Celia looked up to see Mr. Chestley rounding the bookcase.

  He stopped by her side. “Celia, I was waiting to hear your reaction on that one. The French countryside in winter. We don’t prune our trees in that drastic fashion, do we, Mrs. Smith?”

  “I should say not. The picture looks sad. I can’t abide anything sad since I lost my husband.”

  Mr. Chestley glanced at Celia. “What do you think of it?”

  “It is stark, yet there’s beauty in the starkness. But a bit of hominess, too. The little cottage at the end of the lane with its lone cow conjures up a picture of a family living a simple life, maybe eking out a living. The colors and subject of the piece do complement each other.”

  “So you like it?

  “I find it intriguing. Something about it stirs me.”

  Mr. Chestley smiled his approval. The bell jangled again. “Ah, Mrs. Adams. Welcome this fine day. Would you come here and give your opinion of this most unusual print?”

  “Of course.” She walked over to the group and looked at the picture. “My! What are you going to do with it?”

  “Well, nothing right now. I’m just getting various people’s opinions.”

  “If you must know, I think it’s most strange. Not at all beautiful. I don’t see how anyone would want to purchase that.”

  Celia looked at her. She was rather surprised a woman who loved flowers, didn’t see some redeeming quality in the picture.

  “You and Mrs. Smith agree on that,” said Mr. Chestley. “We have other prints here. I’m going to choose one to frame for our bookstore.” He turned to Celia. “Before I send them back to Boston, why don’t we show them at our next book discussion, and see if anyone else wants to purchase one for framing. I’m thinking particularly of Mr. Ellis at the jewelry shop.”

  “The viewing might draw in a few more people to the discussions. Shall I work up notices to post around town?”

  “An excellent idea.”

  “I doubt if many will find this French winter scene appealing.” Celia held the print up again. “Yet, I’m glad I can look at it before it’s returned.”

  “Now you see the advantages of being my assistant? You never know what might come your way.” Mr. Chestley nodded to the other ladies. “Would you like to see the rest of them? If so, when you’re finished, tell me which one you’d like for our bookstore.”

  Mrs. Adams declined, saying she wanted to find a certain book.

  A few minutes later, Celia saw Mrs. Smith walk to Mr. Chestley’s office while she was helping Mrs. Adams with the purchase of her book. “You said you wanted to start reading this today?”

  “Yes! For once, I have almost nothing to do. I’m especially interested in it as Mrs. Harrod said it was one Mr. Lyons particularly favored.”

  Just then, Mrs. Smith approached the counter. “Well, I made my choice, so I believe I’m about ready to go. You leaving, Mrs. Adams? If you’re going my way, we can walk together.” She looked at the woman expectantly.

  Mrs. Adams stared at Mrs. Smith. “Oh . . . but I just thought of something I need to do. Thank you, Miss Thatcher,” and she hurried out the door.

  My, that was sudden, Celia thought, and not even said kindly. It was almost as if she didn’t want to associate with— She felt a flicker of anger against the woman, and then looked at Mrs. Smith to see how she took the snub.

  Mr. Chestley approached the counter. “Celia, I just remembered, Mr. Ellis particularly wanted to know when these prints arrived. Would you mind running over to tell him?”

  Celia placed the change box under the counter. “I can leave right now. And, Mrs. Smith, would you like to walk with me?”

  “I’d appreciate the company. Thank you.”

  “Well, of course!” Celia walked over to the coat rack and after buttoning her coat, pulled a cherry red hat over her head and wrapped her neck with a matching scarf.

  Celia held the door. As Mrs. Smith walked through, she looked up at Celia. “That strange print made me think of my husband. Have I ever told you about him?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Celia could see the woman was in need of a good hen talk. She reminded Celia of her grandmother, although Grandmother had a much livelier view of life. What Mrs. Smith needed was some old-fashioned kindness.

  Celia took hold of Mrs. Smith’s arm as they walked. The air was fresh and brisk. When they reached the jewelry store, the old woman had begun telling about her courtship. “You know,” she said, “my husband would stop here before we were engaged and point out my ring. Can we look in the window before you go inside?” Mrs. Smith grasped Celia’s arm. “See, there’s a ring similar to mine. That one on the top row, three from the right.”

  “I see it.”

  “Isn’t it romantic looking at jewelry, Miss Thatcher? Do you ever daydream—about a young man?” Mrs. Smith had an interested gleam in her eye. “You do have a young man, don’t you?”

  “Well, I don’t know. There’s Jack back home.”

  “Jack? Why haven’t we seen him yet? You’re such a pretty thing.”

  “Jack wasn’t in favor of my coming here. He wanted me to stay home with my parents, said we should go on like usual. But he has sent a couple of letters.”

  “Is that all? And you’ve been here almost three months? He isn’t angry with you, is he?”

  “I don’t know; I never considered . . . I just thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought, to tell the truth.”

>   “Going home any time soon?” Mrs. Smith peered up at her. “There’s nothing like talking things out, face to face.”

  “I’m going home for Christmas, and that’s only a month away.”

  “Don’t press him, of course. But let him know.”

  Celia smiled.

  “So, how long will you be gone?”

  “Mr. Chestley is letting me stay a week.”

  “That’ll be nice. But we’ll miss you.”

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Smith.” Celia lips widened into a grin as she looked down at the old lady. Mrs. Smith was rather a sweetheart after all. Who would have guessed such a romantic hid behind a wrinkled old face and frizzy gray hair.

  “Ah, Miss Thatcher!”

  Celia turned to see Mrs. Harrod hailing her. A tall, young man walked with her.

  “Excuse me for shouting.” Mrs. Harrod approached with alacrity. “But you’re just the person I want to see.”

  Celia looked first at Mrs. Harrod, then at the man at her side. “Mrs. Smith and I were doing a bit of daydreaming in front of this window. She found a ring similar to the one her husband gave her. The jewels are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  “Yes! This is one of my favorite shops. Early in our marriage, Mr. Harrod and I lived on practically nothing. Jewelry, such as this, came later. And the time will come, I predict, when they will grace your person as well.” The vivacious woman laughed. “But say, I want you to meet someone.” She looked up at the slim, fair-haired man, fondness in her eyes. “Miss Thatcher, let me introduce my son, Charles Harrod. Charles, this is Miss Celia Thatcher, the new assistant at the bookstore. And you remember Mrs. Smith.”

  Celia smiled. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard quite a bit about a certain prospective star of the legal profession.”

  Charles tipped his hat to both ladies. “Miss Thatcher, I can hear you’ve been listening to some of Mother’s stories. She spins them off with aplomb—as of yet, I’m afraid I have yet to prove myself in the legal world.”

  “Son, your professors seem to think otherwise, at least that’s what they’ve told your father and me. And what’s a mother for, if not to build up the reputation of her son.”

  “Mother!” Charles’s cheeks flushed.

  Mrs. Harrod laughed. “Celia knows I like to spark off occasionally. And make the grand gesture. We’ve become good friends since that first book discussion.” She turned to Celia. “Isn’t it wonderful Charles came home early for Christmas? Now he’ll be able to attend one of your discussions.”

  “I hear you’re discussing Dickens’s Christmas Carol,” Charles said.

  “I thought it would be just the thing to inject a little holiday spirit.” Celia turned to Mrs. Smith. “Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yes, my dear.” Mrs. Smith shivered. “But now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting a mite cold.”

  “Of course. It was nice to see you again,” Celia said.

  As Mrs. Smith walked away, Mrs. Harrod startled. “Now, look!” She waved to a large man walking up the street in their direction. “Mr. Lyons!” she hallowed. “Join us, please.” As he neared them, “You remember my son, Charles?”

  Mr. Lyons touched his hat to the two ladies. “Yes, I well remember Charles.” He held out his hand. “I heard you’re attending Harvard Law School. You always were a bright young man, taking after your grandfather and, of course, your father.”

  “That is a compliment I don’t take lightly, Mr. Lyons. I remember how well Grandfather spoke of you, how complimented he felt on being invited to view your library.”

  “He had a rare mind.”

  “How nice of you to say so,” Mrs. Harrod said. “I always thought my father an exceptional person.” She cocked her head appealingly. “By the way, I’m giving a little holiday dinner on the twentieth, in honor of my son’s visit. Mr. Lyons, would you honor us by attending? And, Celia, you will come, of course.” Mrs. Harrod placed her hand on Celia’s arm. “I can already see acceptance in your eyes, my dear. Now, Mr. Lyons . . .” She looked up expectantly at the gentleman.

  “I don’t know what to say, Madam.”

  “Why, you’ll say ‘Yes,’ of course. It’s time you showed yourself in society again. Remember you were every hostess’s favorite bachelor? Now, you will be everyone’s favorite widower.”

  “I’m afraid you are sanguine in your appraisal of my present stance in society, Mrs. Harrod.”

  “Nonsense! Besides, there’s no time like Christmas to break the ice. Everyone is in such a holiday—welcoming mood. Furthermore, our gathering will be little more than a family party with a few friends. My other son, George and his wife and children, will be there. Do say you’ll come.”

  Celia saw such misgiving in his eyes and Mrs. Harrod must have seen the same for she laughed. “Mr. Lyons, you do very little credit to your name. The lion is the most feared animal in the wild, the king of beasts. You must step forward for the occasion and help me out. Now that I’ve invited Celia, I’ll have an uneven number at table and that will never do. You must be the chivalrous, lion-hearted Richard of old, and help a damsel in distress.”

  The beginnings of a smile played over Mr. Lyons’s lips. “You are a hard woman to say no to, Mrs. Harrod. The men in your family aren’t the only lawyers.” He cleared his throat. “For you, then, Madam, I will come.”

  Mrs. Harrod impulsively laid her hand on his arm. “I’m delighted. And I know my husband will be, too. We dine at seven. Do come early.”

  8

  Edward Lyons reached for the knocker. What had he let himself in for? It had been so long since he’d attended a dinner. Remembering Mrs. Harrod would have everything up to snuff for the holiday season, he had donned his best suit. Not formal wear, because his hostess had said no to that, but he’d opted for the best he had without resorting to evening dress. And he’d had his hair and beard trimmed. The barber said he looked more civilized.

  When he passed the bookstore and the Chestley home, he wondered about Miss Thatcher. Maybe he should have offered his escort. The evening was pleasant enough for walking, but somehow he hadn’t felt free to make the proposal. At the book discussion, when describing Scrooge she had glanced at him. Quite directly so. What did she think of him? If Mr. Chestley had walked her down tonight, maybe he would offer to accompany her back.

  A servant opened the door. Ah, Hatfield.

  “Good evening, Mr. Lyons. Please come in.”

  The vestibule smelled pungently of evergreen. Garlands festooned the staircase railing and doorway entries. Mrs. Harrod could be depended upon to fill her home with the holiday spirit. He remembered she was a great champion of plants and flowers of all varieties.

  “May I take your coat, sir?” And then, “Would you follow me?” Hatfield led the way to the first doorway on the left. Voices raised in appreciative laughter. Edward stopped on the threshold. “Thank you, Hatfield.”

  Edward surveyed the assembled party searching for his hostess. Mrs. Harrod came forward immediately. “Mr. Lyons . . . Edward. So good of you to come. How distinguished you look. You bring credit to my drawing room.” She took his arm. “This is like old times, isn’t it? Let me introduce you.” She gently guided him to the edge of the gathering and called for everyone’s attention. “It’s been so long since we’ve had the honor of Edward Lyons’s presence, I want to make certain everyone knows him and that he feels a warm welcome.”

  Edward nodded at each introduction. Mrs. Harrod had been true to her word. The gathering consisted mainly of family with three or four others in attendance. “Edward, you know Mrs. Adams, of course. We’ve enjoyed the book discussions together.” Next to Charles sat Miss Thatcher, his head bent attentively to hers. Now he rose, and Miss Thatcher looked up. She was dressed in a simple dark dress that hung gracefully about her person. Pearls encircled her neck and her hair coiffed into an elegant chignon. When Mrs. Harrod made the introduction to Miss Thatcher, her eyes looked up into his.

  Mr. Harrod ap
proached and held out his hand. “Lyons, glad you could come. Want you to have an opportunity to talk with our new neighbor, Judson Darrow. He and his wife are newly arrived from Boston.” Mr. Harrod drew him off to the side where an elderly gentleman sat. “Darrow, I’d like you to meet a Boston Brahmin who has decided to grace our fair town, Mr. Lyons.” With that, the three of them talked agreeably about the old days in Boston where Mr. Harrod had taken his law training.

  “Dinner is served,” Hatfield announced.

  Mr. Harrod approached his new neighbor’s wife, offering her his arm. Mrs. Harrod motioned for Mr. Darrow to escort Mrs. Adams, and then approached Edward. “Would you escort me in, please?” They led the way, the others pairing off, following suit. Leading his hostess to her chair at the foot of the gala table, Edward noted his name card placed to her right. His confidence rose. Mr. Darrow was seated on her other side. Charles escorted Miss Thatcher to the seat next to the new neighbor and then sat by her. Mrs. Adams was seated on Edward’s right.

  “Your table is beautiful, Mrs. Harrod,” Celia said. A pair of porcelain angels stood either side of the scarlet poinsettias in the table’s center. All else was white napery, crystal, and silver.

  “Thank you. The poinsettias were an offering from Mr. Lyons. He sent them on ahead—from his wonderful greenhouse.” Edward looked at his hostess and smiled, then glanced across the table at Miss Thatcher. Her eyes had an appreciative glow.

  After everyone quieted, Mr. Harrod gave a hearty welcome and offered grace. Two servants carried in the first course, a delectable terrapin soup.

  Mrs. Harrod turned to Mr. Lyons. “Are you remaining here for the holidays? Or will you visit your mother?”

  “She’s invited me to see the new church in town, hoping my interest in architecture will lure me to Boston.”

  “Are you referring to Trinity Church?” his hostess asked. On Mr. Lyons’s nod, she continued, “Charles said it’s been completed, but won’t be consecrated until next February. He said it’s quite the marvel.” She looked over at her son. “Didn’t you say no pillars obstruct the congregation’s view of the preacher?”