by Ruth Trippy
“I don’t know if personal fits into their idea of God. They think more in terms of a relationship with the universe.”
“Ah!” Her eyebrows lifted. “Seeking after the universe when they could know the God who made the universe.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
“Huh-hum,” he cleared his throat. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Miss Thatcher; you think. But I hope we may agree to disagree. Here, take my arm. I want to show you something.”
There seemed nothing to do but follow his lead. He led her to the place in the store where they had the book discussions.
“Now,” he said. “Look at the print Mr. Chestley recently hung with all the surrounding books. Of what does it remind you?”
“Oh! The Athenaeum. In a small way, of course.”
“I’m glad you see it, Miss Thatcher. I think that’s one reason I like this bookstore. It reminds me of where I spent so many happy hours during student days.”
“Thank you for the recommendation to see that place. Mrs. Harrod was most impressed with your connections there. Between that and your home, her already high estimation of you climbed even higher.” She gave him an arch look. “Considering Mrs. Harrod is the social hub of our small town, I would call that a master stroke of yours. Win the queen, and the subjects will follow.”
“That may be true, but I am particularly interested in one of her subjects.” His eye effectively nailed her as his object. He bent his head down to hers. “May I call you Celia? Miss Thatcher seems too formal somehow for such friends as we’ve become.”
Celia hesitated. “I suppose that would be proper enough.”
He smiled. “And you must call me Edward.”
She took her hand from his arm. “That would seem too familiar for me, I’m afraid, especially in front of others.”
“Well then,” he paused, “maybe only when we talk by ourselves, or with close friends.” He looked at her searchingly. “You will, won’t you?”
She didn’t know how to deny him. “If you wish.”
“I do.”
Celia felt warmth rise to her cheeks. She sought a subject less personal. “Did I mention I had news from home?” Her lips couldn’t help curve in a smile.
“No, but you are obviously bursting at the seams.”
“I had a letter waiting me when I returned. From an old friend who’s coming to visit.”
Edward walked down his drive and turned onto the road. He decided to proceed past Mrs. Divers’s house then onto Main Street. He felt restless. Ordinarily, he would walk in the fields or the woods in back of his house. But today he wanted to be around people. He wanted to talk with someone. The discussion he’d had with Celia about Transcendentalism a couple weeks ago had started him thinking along those lines again. She had been very quiet as he defined the movement and its thinking. Under his breath, he quoted Emerson’s Nature: “The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face. . . . Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?”
Yes, he thought, an original relation to the universe. Why adhere to the rigid orthodoxy of the Puritans, the Calvinists? Most of his contemporaries derided Puritan belief that saw man as weak and a sinner. They thought these old belief systems encouraged flawed societal strictures. He thought of the Salem witch trials to the north of Boston nearly two centuries before. And the persecution of the Quakers.
Yet, he had to be just and try to understand the opposing viewpoint, how there must be some merit in these systems of belief. He thought back to the Puritans who first landed at Plymouth, just south of his home in Boston, who taught a person must not only understand his religion, but feel it as well.
He found the intellectual and emotional sides of Puritanism confusing. How did the two fit together to make a coherent faith? Couldn’t men walk down different paths to find the truth? Some, like his grandfather, embraced Unitarianism—which some said was so highly intellectual as to not seem a religion at all. But it suited him better than the emotionalism of the more evangelical faiths. Maybe that was why Transcendentalism appealed to him. He could rely on himself to find his own relation to the universe. And thereby, he hoped, to God.
He was approaching the bookstore. Without consciously admitting it, this was where he was heading.
But what was this? Beyond, at the jewelry store he saw Celia looking in its window with a young man. His step slowed.
At first, he didn’t recognize the young man, but as he drew nearer, the man at Celia’s side heard his footsteps and turned so that Edward could see his face. Jack! Celia’s old friend from home.
Edward didn’t know what to do, but felt an overwhelming impulse to impose his will on the situation and on Jack: This far, and no farther.
He came upon them rather abruptly. Celia turned and her countenance brightened on seeing him. The iciness that had taken hold of his heart melted somewhat.
“Hello,” he said. “I was just out walking.”
“I am so glad you happened by.” Celia gestured to the man at her side. “You remember my introducing you to Jack? He was the one who escorted me onto the train at my hometown.”
Jack smiled, hesitated, then held out his hand. Edward shook it belatedly. For the life of him, he couldn’t initiate the handshake, give the welcome as was expected. “So are you here for long?” he blurted out.
“As long as Celia will allow that I’m not in the way.”
“Where are you staying?” Tact had deserted him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Chestley have made room for me in their sitting room. I have a pallet. It’ll be comfortable enough.”
If Edward remembered rightly, the two bedrooms opened directly off the sitting room. Just a door separating this young man from Celia, from where she slept. He might even hear her moving about. It was not proper, Edward’s mother would say.
On the spur of the moment, he said, “That’s all very well and good, but you need better accommodations. I have a large home with several bedrooms that are unused. I insist you use one of them.”
Celia looked at him, surprise written across her face. “That’s too kind of you. I would never have thought to ask such a favor.”
“I know it’s not my usual manner, but I insist.” He directed his look at Jack.
“Well,” Celia turned to Jack, “it will be much more comfortable than your present accommodation, I can assure you. And his house is down the road a ways, around that corner.”
“First-class accommodations,” Mr. Lyons said with forced heartiness. “I have a housekeeper who cooks for me. She can give you breakfast or whatever other meals you need. Believe me, she is itching to get her hands on another person to feed. Living by myself, I am woefully inadequate for her ideas of cooking and hospitality. And I’ve been thinking of having the Chestleys and Miss Thatcher over for a meal. That would help everyone all around, wouldn’t it?”
As he walked away he wondered at what he’d said, where it had all come from. He certainly was going against the Boston Brahmin grain to invite a stranger into his home. His mother always said, “We never know anyone unless we’ve ‘always’ known them.” However, he was personally beginning to feel better, setting some parameters on this Jack person.
Turning the corner into his own street, he thought, I’ll take the young man hunting, sound out his mind. He remembered reading Clemens’s article, “Old Times on the Mississippi,” where mark twain sounded the depth in which to safely navigate a steamboat. He doubted Jack’s mind would sound a mark twain and prove a safe or desirable depth for Celia.
He felt like a bear about to protect its cub.
17
In the coming days having Jack as a guest gave Edward ample opportunity to be both subtle and direct. Never had he felt his powers to persuade and cajole more in evidence. If his father, the lawyer, could have seen the way he cross-examined this young man, being both conniving and open, he would have been well pleased.
Jack and he sat over coffee one morning. E
dward asked him, what had he read recently? What did he think of this particular scientist? Did he have any intellectual interests outside his religion? But on this last Edward hit a rock he hoped wouldn’t prove to be his stumbling stone—for he saw that Jack and Celia shared the same beliefs.
Other than that, Jack showed himself to be an ordinary American, the kind who was not a scientist, a philosopher, or even much of a reader. He was familiar with only a few books beyond the Bible. Edward could see he was practical rather than speculative. In fact, Jack was little concerned with intellectual questions of any kind.
Could Celia be trusted to see this?
A week later when Jack was to leave for home, Edward offered his carriage for the ride to the train station but decided not to accompany him. He must leave Celia to say goodbye in private. Then, after she saw Jack off at the train station, Edward had arranged for her to come to his home. He wanted her to preview what he hoped to enter in the flower show. Already blooms were showing themselves in the conservatory.
When the carriage finally arrived, he did not wait for it to stop before he was out the door to assist her down. She was looking uncommonly well, in a dusty blue full-skirted frock with matching wrap. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. She had taken special care in her dress and appearance to see Jack off. Descending the carriage her eyes were friendly as they looked up into his, but was there a trace of sadness, of melancholy perhaps?
“Thank you for inviting me to a preview of your roses,” she said. “In your conservatory?”
He thought her quite businesslike in her address. This did not bode well for finding out what was really in her heart. He offered his arm. “Before we go into the greenhouse, I’d like to show you the roses at the back of the house.”
“You have roses in both places?”
“The flowers for the show will probably come from the garden. But to cover my bets, I grew some in the conservatory.”
“Ah!” She laughed. “You will be a hard man to beat.”
“Competition raises my blood. You are entering, of course.”
“Mrs. Chestley has a climber that’s done middling in past years. She said I was welcome to it if I could make it flower better. I think one of her problems is that she seldom fertilizes. Too busy. I asked one of the farmers at church to bring me some manure; in addition, every once in awhile I throw dishwater over the plant. Now the climber is doing so well, I’m hoping for some satisfactory blooms.”
“Good for you. I’m not entering a climber, so we’ll not be competing against each other.”
Walking around the back of the house, Celia stopped at roses growing up a couple of pillars.
“You have climbers?”
“No, Stanwell Perpetual, a scraggly bush which can be useful as a pillar rose.”
She leaned toward the flowers. “Pink, like a shell. With a strong, sweet fragrance.”
“Be careful. They have thorns.”
“Oh, I see!”
“The advantage to this flower is its early blooming and then continuously flowering until early winter.”
“I like its fragrance.”
“I’ll cut a few for you to take home, though I warn you, the flowers won’t last.”
“But the fragrance will last in my memory.”
They stepped into the conservatory, and because she no longer needed assistance, he reluctantly released her hand from his arm. However, they remained close, seeing the constraints of the path size. Each time her skirt brushed his leg, he felt the contact.
“Here is a famous rose, a soft flesh pink. If I told you it was named after the country house of Napoleon’s Josephine, could you guess its name?”
“Malmaison?”
“Yes. Souvenir de là Malmaison. This rose fares better in hot, dry climates, but I like a challenge. Besides, its beauty and name appeals to me.”
She looked around, pleasure on her expressive face. “And these other roses, you have so many colors. How delightful.”
“I like diversity. I’ll cut several varieties for you to take home.”
“Mrs. Chestley would love that.”
“I hope you will, too.”
“Oh yes!” Her smile was pure sunshine.
After a tour of the conservatory, he asked, “Won’t you come to the house for tea? We can put the flowers in water temporarily, then wrap them in damp cloths for you to take home.”
“I don’t know. Mr. Chestley is expecting me.”
“We’ll do the abbreviated version of tea.” He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He reached for shears and cut several blooms. With a decisive move, he opened the door of the conservatory, then walked to the back of the house and cut a few blooms of Stanwell Perpetual. Then he led her around the front of the house and into the foyer and placed the flowers on the hall table.
“Here, let me assist you with your wrap.” She turned to let him lift it from her, and his fingertips touched her shoulders. He was sorely tempted to wrap his arms around her, but that would surprise, shock her. He must be circumspect. Besides, he still didn’t know where her affections stood regarding Jack.
Last night Edward had seen them laughing together in his drawing room. Celia hadn’t meant for what they shared to be a private joke, but Jack did. As they walked into the dining room, Jack placed her hand on his arm and then put his hand possessively over hers. Later in the foyer, Edward had seen him stand closer to her than was necessary.
Just now, she turned around, her eyes thanking him for taking her wrap, then took off her gloves and handed them to him.
He draped the lot on the hall chair, then reached for the flowers.
“Before you remove them, let me smell the Stanwell again,” she said. “I love its sweet fragrance.”
He loosened it from the other roses, but the pink cluster accidentally fell to the floor. She quickly knelt to pick it up.
“Oh!” A large bead of blood formed on her finger. “How clumsy of me.”
Edward immediately put down the other roses and took a cambric handkerchief from his pocket. “Here,” he held it out to her, “press this against the puncture.” When she hesitated, he took her hand in his and pressed the cloth against the finger.
“I didn’t want to soil your handkerchief.”
“My housekeeper is adept at such types of cleaning. When I come in from hunting, I occasionally give her opportunity to show her skill. This is nothing.” He continued to press her finger to the cloth. Her delicate hand in his emboldened him. “I hadn’t asked about Jack’s departure. Did he get off without incident?”
“The train was on time and everything went well.”
He hesitated only a moment. “I imagine you will miss him.”
“Yes. People from home are special.”
That sounded quite matter-of-fact. He felt hope expand within him. “What I meant was—has he wanted to become more than a friend?”
She blushed. “Well, he did ask to come again. I said I would welcome him as a friend. But nothing more.”
His hand involuntarily closed on hers. He couldn’t help asking, “Was he disappointed?”
Her gaze shifted away a moment. “Yes,” she said softly.
“As should be expected.” He smiled. “With such a prize to be gained.”
She glanced up, her eyes widened. “Maybe I’d best go after all.”
“I shouldn’t have—pried,” he said quickly. “I’ll have Mrs. Macon put these flowers in water and make tea for us. It’ll only take a few minutes. Besides, I have something in the library I want to show you. Two or three books came to my attention I think you’ll be interested in.”
He should have realized that in dismissing one suitor so soon she would not be ready to entertain another. For now, to be with her would have to be enough.
When he escorted her into the library and they began talking about books, he could see her begin to relax. Then when Mrs. Macon brought tea into the drawing room, he made a point of including the housekeeper in the con
versation. A third party made things more comfortable—and proper, as his mother would say. When Mrs. Macon left, he shared a funny story, asked Celia what she remembered being humorous about her childhood, was careful to keep the conversation on a friendly, impersonal level. But he didn’t know when he’d enjoyed a tea more. He was loath to see her leave, but he had promised an abbreviated teatime.
“Would you like the carriage, with all these roses to carry?”
“Oh no. It’s such a short distance, I’d rather walk. If the flowers are adequately wrapped, I should have no trouble with them.” She laughed, glancing at her finger.
Minutes later, he watched her walk down his drive, and waved when she turned onto the road. He resisted the urge to keep watching her. He must not seem to hover.
But wait until the flower show, my dear Miss Thatcher, and the archery contest. I have a little surprise in store for you. Something, I hope—
The flower show was just a few weeks away. He could wait that long.
Celia hadn’t progressed more than a short ways down the road when a carriage drove up from behind. She had been so occupied with thought, she hadn’t noticed its approach. Had the occupant seen her exit from Mr. Lyons’s drive? Celia felt the slightest tinge of apprehension.
“Miss Thatcher. What a surprise.” The familiar voice of Mrs. Adams spoke from the depths of her conveyance.
Celia turned and put a pleased smile on her face. If there was one person she didn’t want to see at this particular juncture, it was this woman. “Hello, Mrs. Adams. A pleasant day to be out, isn’t it?”
“Oh my, what roses! And what a lot to carry. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine. The flowers are wrapped up well for carrying.”
“But I insist. Here, give them to me and James can assist you up.” As Celia started to shake her head, Mrs. Adams held out her hands for the flowers and James had already jumped from his perch.
Celia felt the ungraciousness of a further refusal so gave Mrs. Adams the roses. When she settled herself on the seat, the woman buried her face in the blooms.
