The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  Yet, there was something with Mr. Lyons she didn’t have with her father. Her memory relived the scene in the library when they gazed at the French picture. She and her father had looked at art once in a gallery. But that had all been rather intellectual and impersonal compared to this instance. Mr. Lyons had bought the picture and had chosen the frame himself. He liked the picture, knew she liked it. Did that enter into his decision to purchase it, hang it in his treasured library and then make certain the Chestleys and she saw it? That she saw it? She remembered standing with him in front of the picture, standing close: pleasuring in the beauty, in the meaning of the loneliness and harshness of the scene. Sharing it . . . together.

  “Oh!” A quiet gasp burst out her parted lips. Her deep enjoyment reliving those moments shocked her. She stood quietly, hardly breathing. Yes, she saw the need for care with Mr. Lyons, the need to be circumspect. That she should be careful not to engage too much of his time or interest, or her own. The books lined up on the bookshelves suddenly came into focus. She was back in the bookstore. How had her mind wandered so?

  She must get busy. To that end, she took a turn around the store. When she reached Mr. Chestley’s office, she had a sudden idea. Knowing he would be gone for a couple more hours, she decided to tidy up his place. She wouldn’t disturb his papers, just give them a bit of straightening. Then dust the surfaces. Giving him the semblance of orderliness would brighten his day. She went in search of the feather duster.

  Opening the little cupboard for the duster, her mind flitted to Jane Eyre. How thoughtful of Charles to send it. When she’d mentioned on the carriage ride to the train she was in the mood for a good story, she never dreamed he’d do such a thing as buy her a novel. And, as his mother said, such a novel. But Mrs. Adams had said more than Celia thought appropriate or necessary. She was sure the woman was nice enough, but to have said what she did out loud—

  Then she remembered Mrs. Harrod’s reference to Mr. Lyons resembling Mr. Rochester. She wondered she hadn’t noticed before his resemblance to the fictional protagonist.

  As her hand found the feather duster, she forcibly stopped her woolgathering. She would start reading Charles’s gift tonight after work. Oh, and read his note. That would be something to look forward to. Then finish with a poem from Mr. Wordsworth. Both readings would enrich her life. And what about the men? Would they both enrich her life as well?

  Then, there was Jack.

  Oh dear. Life was getting complicated.

  Well, she loved to read, and one of its delights was to provide an escape from the real world—at this moment, her very real world.

  14

  Edward felt the snow scrunch under his feet as he walked a field edging his forest. He looked up at the somber, slate gray sky. An early morning hard frost had eased, so he had decided to go outdoors for a while. Bow in hand and a quiver of arrows strapped to his back, he stopped to pick his target. He spied a sapling at some distance, reached for an arrow and inserted it in the taut string. Left arm raised, he steeled it and pulled the arrow to his cheek. Aiming for a spot center and chest-high on the sapling, he let the arrow fly. In the quiet morning air, he heard the vibrating thwack as the steel tip struck the tree. It looked as if it hit dead center. A brief flicker of satisfaction warmed him. He inhaled the cold air before his eye narrowed on another target farther into the woods. He raised the bow once again, confident he would hit the mark.

  It felt good to be sure of something. His mind darted back to yesterday when he’d given Miss Thatcher the book of poems. He hoped the book had hit its mark as surely as that last arrow. He took a few steps, chose another tree, and let go another arrow, feeling a sudden rush of desire to hit the mark of her heart as surely as that arrow hit its target.

  He knew she realized the value of the little book. He chose it to pique her interest. If she loved the poetic strangeness of the French print—he remembered her gazing at the print in his library—surely, the poems would pierce her sensibilities.

  As of yet, though, he knew there was a part of him that was testing her. He needed to know the depth, the sensitivity of her mind. Did she have a true interest in what he valued? He felt she did, but had to know for certain. He couldn’t bear another Marguerite. Just thinking the name brought a dull pain. It had been well over two years since her death. How could her memory yet stir such darkness in him?

  He would dwell instead on yesterday’s pleasure. Celia’s eyebrow had a particular arch whenever she wondered about something—his heart quickened to remember it—he could see that delicate brow raised above that blue, blue eye. Charles had caught its perfect azure for the book cover. Confound the cub! Would that make any kind of lasting impression? He sincerely hoped not. Edward believed he was the only man to truly appreciate her, if all he surmised about her was true. Granted, she was a woman of set belief, of strong religious conviction, yet he also saw her mind wonder and leap at new thoughts and ideas.

  How he would like to travel with her, see the marvel and delight in her eyes. Surely, travel would suit her. She had ventured from her parents’ hearth and home to work in a town some distance from her own. A spirit of adventure must reside deep within her.

  He spied another good target, notched an arrow, and lifted the bow. For a few moments he arrested his motion, his mind contemplated his next move: the following arrow he would aim at Miss Thatcher—no, Celia’s—sensibilities. Of course, he had planned the dinner at his house for her, the introduction to his library, and most of all, the framed picture, all meant as arrows to her soul. He let the arrow fly. At the moment of its release, Charles came to mind again.

  The arrow hit slightly off its mark. Drat him! How had it happened they had both given her a book the same day, and Charles’s such an engaging story to boot? A bright boy, that lawyer in training. And young. Nearer her own age.

  Yet surely, not so much younger than himself. He stretched his arms wide, felt the power and prowess of his own physique. Ah, he could sweep her off her feet and hold her close if he wanted. The suddenness of the thought, the desire, startled him. Surely, he was running ahead of himself.

  Yet, if she was as he thought, as he envisioned her to be—the thoughts came thick and fast. He began walking quickly to keep pace with them.

  In his heart, he craved a companion who shared his deepest longings, who understood him. With Marguerite, he had a mate for—what? She had been beautiful, engaging—at first. Had he married her only to satisfy fleshly desire?

  How foolish he’d been. What he really desired was a mate for his soul. The sharpness of the realized hunger startled him. He stopped suddenly atop a mound of frozen soil. Had this need been lying dormant all this time?

  Looking at the scene before him—the bare trees, the brown earth peeking through the clumps of snow, the sparsity of color—he thought suddenly of the French print. The browns, blacks, and gray-whites. It could be termed a lonely scene and the colors only emphasized it, intensified it. Yet there was that little house in the distance, a wisp of smoke coming from its chimney. Life was inside. He liked to think the life of a man with his wife. And child . . .

  But he must be careful. His heart could not afford to make another mistake.

  He strode across the ground separating him from that last arrow. He’d gather his arrows, pull them from the trees. The exertion would do him good. He felt the need to make an effort, to expend this sudden burst of energy.

  His thoughts drifted back again to the library. He’d felt himself drawn to Celia as a moth to a flame. But he had to make sure he wouldn’t get burned. Once before he’d been burned—and badly. It was imperative he keep his senses about him, see what she was made of, for his own sake. And hers. For he would not hurt her for the world. The thought struck him as rather novel. He hadn’t cared if he hurt Marguerite, at least at the end.

  Edward yanked the last arrow from a trunk; it proved the dickens to extract.

  Thinking of Celia had sparked off this restless energy; he decided
to venture farther into the forest. He would walk a while, hard, then make for the spot where he had hung a target. By then he’d be ready to shoot again. Hiking through this part of the forest was harder, but that was all to the good. He crashed ahead, soon feeling the sweat break out underneath his garments. After a half-hour of good hard striding, he slowed his pace. Calm returned. His lips pulled into a grin. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been so boisterous. Yet the results of the walk were worth it; he felt more in control, more his old self.

  The limb from which he’d hung the target was in a clearing another couple hundred feet ahead. He’d sit with that tree at his back. A good-sized depression near the base of the tree was filled with water. It made a natural clearing in the forest across which to shoot his arrows. The open area also attracted the slightest of breezes. That was good, making the target like an animal, which invariably moved—though now he didn’t go after animals much, unless he had a taste for game.

  He approached the glade quietly. The natives had surely settled around this water. For some reason he adopted their ways when he entered these grounds. Once he’d found several arrowheads. Rather a thrill. If he’d been a boy, he could imagine how ecstatic he’d have been. As he came in view of the tree, he heard voices—boys’ voices.

  “Old hermit” caught his ear. Involuntarily, he smiled. Were they talking about him? He looked around. They must be sitting on the other side of the tree. He sneaked closer, curious to hear what they’d say.

  “Yeah. I saw him walking to the bookstore yesterday.”

  “He’s awful big.”

  “But I’m not scared of him.”

  “Says you!”

  “Shucks. I even snuck into his house once.”

  “You did not!”

  “I did so!”

  “When was that?”

  “Aw . . . a couple years ago, I guess.”

  “What for?”

  “Wanted to see his old lady.”

  “That old housekeeper?”

  “No! His wife.”

  “But she’s dead.”

  “I know that! It was before she died.”

  “I don’t get it. Where did you see her?”

  “In her bedroom.”

  “Cripes!”

  “Yeah, I snuck up the stairs ’n’ everything.”

  “You didn’t! What’d you do that for?”

  “Had to see how she looked. And she looked real sick. Mrs. Divers put me up to it.”

  “And you never got caught? How’d you know where to go—in the house?”

  “Had a map in my head. After I got by the old housekeeper, it was easy. Yeah, that lady was sick, real sick. No wonder she died.”

  “My mom said it was that devil who killed her.”

  “The devil?”

  “The hermit! The fellow who owns this property! Suppose he catches us here?”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  Edward didn’t know whether to rush the boys and scare them off his property or just leave. The thought of Celia stopped him, he didn’t want anything coming to her ears.

  So after a moment, he turned and quietly retraced his steps, picking up the pace when he got out of earshot. When he reached the edge of the woods, he stopped to gaze over the open field. But he felt like a hornet’s nest had stirred up inside him. That boy sneaking into his house? And Mrs. Divers? What had she been up to? He thought the whole affair between Marguerite and himself had pretty much blown over. He’d been getting out into society, attending the book discussions. But apparently, parents were still telling children tales.

  And what about Celia? If the townspeople, many of them, still regarded him with suspicion, how would this affect her opinion of him? What would the townspeople think of her if she associated with him too closely? He gripped the bow. Scowling, caught up in dark thoughts, he marched home.

  Several days later, life had calmed down enough for Edward to appreciate the felicity of Mrs. Harrod’s invitation. He stopped in front of her door and rapped briskly. She had let him know Miss Thatcher—Celia—would already be present. He had hoped to drop by the bookstore and escort her. Now he would have to content himself with Mrs. Harrod’s arrangements. Yet, he had looked forward to this; he must not forget that. He determined to walk Celia home. Would that cause too much of a stir?

  “Good to see you, sir,” Hatfield said upon opening the door. “Come right this way. The ladies are expecting you. May I take your coat?”

  The butler led the way to the rear of the house. It had been some time since Edward had entered here. It looked much different without the holiday greenery to enliven it, but the immaculate appearance of the home gave its own welcome. A subtle smell of lemon and beeswax pervaded the air. A large container of flowers sitting on a lace runner graced the hall table. The womanly touch. His housekeeper was an excellent cook, but lacked that trait. Maybe he had been too strict in the appointments of his house, too ready to remove everything after— He heard women’s laughter. Lighthearted, ebullient. Life was here, feminine life. He felt himself brighten.

  As Hatfield ushered him into the conservatory, he took in everything at a glance. Here all was green and airy, a contrast to the browns, whites and blacks of winter outside. Pots of flowers tucked between the surrounding plants brought splashes of color. The glass panes overhead let in plenty of light, yet shades unfurled here and there protected delicate plants from the sun. He smelled the spicy fragrance of verdant greenery and blooming flowers. Summer in winter.

  The ladies sat in wicker chairs surrounded by ferns. Their apparel made splashes of color against the green foliage, Celia’s dress a dusky red, Mrs. Harrod’s golden yellow.

  “Mr. Lyons,” Hatfield announced.

  Edward smoothed his hands over the front of his tweed jacket and walked forward with anticipation. Mrs. Harrod stood at once, holding out her hands in welcome. “My dear Edward, how good of you to come. You must forgive my tardy invitation—of course, I knew you would enjoy seeing the new addition to our conservatory. I’m indebted to Celia for bringing it to my attention. Will you forgive me?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive, nothing at all.” He took both her hands and bowed over them briefly. “I am just happy to be here.” He smiled on straightening, looking at Miss Thatcher. He involuntarily glanced at the hand at her side. She did not offer it.

  He looked up again, caught her smiling eye. “I must thank you for your suggestion. Mrs. Harrod is known for being the queen of hostesses, but this time I am indebted to you for suggesting the idea.”

  “You are most welcome, kind sir.” Celia curtsied playfully. “Actually, I haven’t been here recently, so am delighted to come as well.”

  “Then we’re all in one accord, which suits me exactly,” Mrs. Harrod said. “I was never one to like discord. My husband calls me the peacemaker. I leave all the arguing to him and my son—I wouldn’t have the least inclination to be a lawyer.”

  “But that’s what makes you such a refreshment to come home to, I’m sure,” Edward said. “Just now when I entered your house, I could sense the feminine good cheer. The light, the airiness, the welcome in the air. It was enough to make me desirous for the same in my home.”

  “Well, being by yourself in that big house, I don’t wonder. But I’m glad you felt the welcome, and you are welcome, most assuredly.” Warmth suffused Mrs. Harrod’s face.

  “I am sorry about one thing,” she continued, “Mrs. Adams was also to have joined us, but she is under the weather today. I know you became friends after my Christmas party, and she’s a fellow plant enthusiast. I hope Miss Thatcher and I can contrive to keep you entertained.”

  “I can’t think of anything more delightful than the two of you.”

  “Good! Well, then, follow me, and I’ll show you the latest addition to my conservatory. Of course, you remember this room we’re in.”

  “Yes, but not this seating area or that table and chairs over there.”

  “No? Then you
haven’t been here for some time. I added the furniture a couple of years ago. Just about the time of—well, no matter.” Her hand dismissed the subject with a little flutter. “We shall have tea here later. But now, let me show you my exotics. The room is kept extra warm and moist, imitating the tropics. I am most fortunate; when I want something showy for the house when we have guests, Hatfield takes them out of their hothouse, returning the little Cinderellas at the stroke of midnight.”

  Edward opened the door for the ladies and followed them into a room filled with ferns, broad-leafed potted plants, and a rubber tree.

  “My husband was most generous on my last birthday,” Mrs. Harrod said. “Otherwise, this room would be quite empty.”

  Edward examined several orchids peeking from the greenery. “You have some noble specimens. I’ve never tried raising them. They have a reputation for being difficult.”

  “Not if you choose the right varieties. I started with cattleyas and phalaenopsis. Most orchids love humidity and good air circulation. But I believe these varieties could be grown at normal room temperatures with moderate humidity. This is to say, you wouldn’t necessarily have to have a special room for them like I do.”

  “I still think it’ll be some time before I grow orchids. When I do, I’ll come to you for advice.”

  “And I’ll be glad to give it,” Mrs. Harrod said laughing. “Look here, I have a fan back wicker chair off to the side, behind this fern. Anyone can sit here and pretend they’re in the tropics.”

  “Move from summer to the tropics, all within the space of two rooms. And in a New England winter to boot. Quite an accomplishment.”

  “Thank you. Now, take your time looking at the various specimens. When you’re ready we’ll return to the main part of the conservatory for refreshments.”

  Later, partaking of tea and cakes, Edward felt himself swelling with congeniality. He wasn’t often in the company of ladies, especially two such charming ones.

  After tea, the three of them walked around the main room of the conservatory, Mrs. Harrod proudly showing off a rose she had trained into a climber. “Céline Forestier. It’s usually a large, loose shrub. An excellent repeater, otherwise, I doubt if it would bloom this time of year. Smell its fragrance.”