The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  “What heavenly fragrance! All these intermingling scents. You won’t mind if I hold them a little longer, will you?”

  The buggy started with just the slightest of jerks before Mrs. Adams continued, “What a fashionable outfit you are wearing, my dear. And so feminine.”

  “Thank you. Mrs. Harrod graciously had one of hers made over for me.”

  “Oh, yes, she told me—Charles—” Mrs. Adams broke off smiling. “I know Mrs. Harrod hopes—well that’s none of my business.” She turned just slightly—Celia felt her full attention. “But didn’t I just see you coming out of Mr. Lyons’s drive? Are these his roses?”

  “Yes, he was kind enough to cut them for me.”

  “How generous. I can’t believe he already has so many flowers in bloom. Did he do the same for everyone else?”

  Celia felt sudden heat rise to her cheeks, “I was the only one.”

  “How unusual for him to single someone out.” At Celia’s silence, Mrs. Adams’s mouth opened, but then closed it again. A pregnant pause followed. “But you don’t mean . . . you weren’t there by yourself?”

  Celia tried to formulate words that would mitigate the situation. “I had just seen Jack, my friend from home, to the train station, and Mr. Lyons invited me to see his possible entries for the flower show.” Celia tried to make it seem as casual as it had first appeared.

  “Still,” Mrs. Adams continued, “you know how these things can look. I wouldn’t want any gossip—Mr. Lyons being a particular friend of mine who’s had such a time of it since his wife’s death, and for your sake, too, my dear. Well, I guess, especially for you.” Mrs. Adams released one hand from the roses to place sympathetically over Celia’s. “Don’t worry. If anyone should say anything, I’ll be sure to tell them how innocent it all was.”

  She took her hand away and once again grasped the flowers. “You’re so young, you might not realize what you’ve done.” Then she looked at Celia more closely. “But it was innocent, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course! Mr. Lyons and I are just friends. And being that we both have an interest in flowers . . .”

  “I’m sure. But I being older, and more knowing in the ways of the world, I want to warn you. Please, my dear, don’t let it happen again. Always have someone accompany you, like Mr. or Mrs. Chestley.” She paused. “Now that I think more on it, going over there for any reason might give the poor man ideas. I’m sure he was hurt by his wife, contrary to rumors, and a man alone like that—after he’s been married—will get lonely, hungry even, for female companionship. You might give him ideas, ones which we wouldn’t want him to have. It would be most unkind to him. You understand, my dear?”

  Celia felt a sickening shame settle on her. Saw how it might appear to anyone seeing her come from Mr. Lyons’s house alone. She hastened to say, “Thank you for your warning. But let me assure you again, we are just friends.”

  The carriage had come to a stop. Mrs. Adams glanced out her side of the carriage. “Ah, the bookstore.”

  Celia looked over at her flowers. Mrs. Adams seemed loath to hand them back. The woman held them off to better view them. “What a beautiful profusion of color. Of course, I’m sure Mr. Lyons would have given his blooms to anyone present. Why don’t you first step down from the carriage, my dear? Then I’ll hand them to you.” She smelled their fragrance again.

  Celia stepped down before James could assist her, and held out her hands for the roses. If Mrs. Adams called her “my dear” one more time, she would—well, she didn’t know what she’d do.

  Celia picked up an entry form from the counter. Mrs. Divers said she wanted one, but neither she nor Miss Waul had been by to pick it up. And today was the final day to enter the contest. Well, she would deliver it herself. Mr. Chestley had told her to get some fresh air.

  As she turned into the road fronting Mrs. Divers’s house, she couldn’t help remembering the afternoon a couple weeks earlier when she’d started down this same road with the roses Mr. Lyons had given her. When Mrs. Adams stopped her. And once she climbed into her carriage, how the woman had warned her, even chided her.

  She had put the flowers in a vase and placed it in the Chestley’s sitting room for everyone to enjoy. That underlined the—what was the word Mrs. Adams used—innocence of her visit. When she passed the bouquet, she would stop and smell the different fragrances mingling together. How redolent they’d been of her time with Edward.

  He’d been very concerned about her relationship with Jack. Just the night before, in fact, Jack had all but offered marriage. But she hadn’t let him say the words. It would have spoiled their beautiful, lighthearted friendship. During Jack’s visit, when she had tried to talk about serious subjects, books for instance,he seemed only mildly interested. Did he ever think deeply? She knew she would tire of the same round of small talk. Talk that centered largely on himself. As entertaining as that could be, it would take a woman in love to enjoy hearing about him on such a continual basis.

  She wasn’t in love with him. How could she be, when she had so eagerly accepted the invitation to take the carriage to Edward’s home? She’d so wanted to see his roses. And he was so generous in giving her his best blooms from the conservatory and that cluster off the pillars at the back of his house.

  But thinking back on her time in his foyer, she had felt herself walking on eggs. When he helped her with her wrap and his fingers touched her shoulders, she felt a tingle go through her. And then her foolish carelessness in pricking her finger. How could she know he’d hold her hand, and she wanting him to. She could have pressed the handkerchief to her own finger, but she’d let him do it. She was rather shocked at herself, to give in to temptation when she knew there could be nothing further between them.

  Finally, when he said something about her being a prize to be gained, she came to her senses and righted things. He took the hint and acted the perfect gentleman, in the library and afterward at tea. Like two old friends. Thank goodness. These last two weeks she’d disciplined her mind to hardly think of him. Or rather, dwell on him.

  She lifted her skirt as her foot found the first step up to Mrs. Divers’s front door. During this visit, she was certain if the subject of Mr. Lyons was introduced, Mrs. Divers would cure her of any ills along that line, knowing her antipathy toward the man.

  She knocked on the door, and Miss Waul answered.

  “Miss Thatcher, how good of you to come. I’ve been under the weather and have just started feeling myself again. Mrs. Divers is out back inspecting her flowers. I know she’ll want to see you.”

  Miss Waul led the way around the house. “Mrs. Divers! Look who’s here.”

  Mrs. Divers stood with one hand on her hip, her face scrunched up, examining her flowers. “Oh, Miss Thatcher, it’s you.” She glanced at the application Celia held, but didn’t reach for it. “Well, if that isn’t neighborly of you. My hands are a bit soiled. Miss Waul, will you take that please? You can bring it into the house. I’d like a few minutes with Miss Thatcher.”

  While Miss Waul walked away, Mrs. Divers said in a low voice, “I’ll give you a preview of what I hope to enter. Today there’s just a hint of pink. I hope these buds are out in full bloom next week.” She looked affectionately at the bush. “If not, the prize will go to someone else. If I just had better health, I’d spend more time out here. As it is. . . .”

  She ambled over to another rosebush. “You see this one? I wish it did better. It belonged to my daughter. With its striped pink and white petals, it’s a real looker. But there’s not a chance of my entering that this year. I’d lose for sure. Only one other person in town has it to my knowledge—” She pursed her lips. “You must know I’m talking about my neighbor; I will not speak his name.” She looked at Celia closely. “But I’ve been hearing things, my dear, that he’s been paying you attention. That you were in his house. Alone.”

  In the next lightning moment, Celia’s mind whirled. From whom did Mrs. Divers hear that Mrs. Adams?

  “I’m
surprised, Miss Thatcher. And disappointed. Take it from me, don’t take anything he says or does seriously. He’s all out for himself.” Mrs. Divers stepped near another bush, her gnarled fingers cupping a budding flower. “His constancy is like one of these. Ephemeral. Why, he couldn’t be faithful for any length of time to any woman. He doesn’t have it in him. He’s an intelligent man—I’ll give him that. But as soon as he tires of something, he turns his back on it—or her as the case may be. The way he treated my Marguerite.”

  With one part of her Celia listened to Mrs. Divers’s bitter words about Mr. Lyons, the other aghast at the gossip about herself.

  They turned from the bush and started for the house. As they approached the steps to the front door, Celia found herself questioning, arguing the two concerns. Mrs. Adams had said she wouldn’t say anything, hadn’t she? But the woman had made her extremely uncomfortable during that ride in her carriage. Uncomfortable was hardly the word.

  And what did Mrs. Divers mean, Edward couldn’t be faithful or self-sacrificing? Celia thought again of how he had humbled himself to ride in coach on the train after Christmas.

  Celia helped Mrs. Divers up the steps. As she did so, she was at a complete loss what to say about being in Edward’s house alone. If Mrs. Divers didn’t say anything more, maybe the best thing would be not to say anything. Let it drop. As to her relationship with Edward, because of their disagreement over the spiritual—which she considered most important in life—she knew he could not be considered anything more than a friend.

  Even this she was beginning to find dangerous. Could they remain friends with the way she caught herself thinking about him? The way she was starting to react whenever she was with him?

  “Now, dearie,” Mrs. Divers said, as they stopped in front of the door, “mind what I say. I only brought up the man for your own good. Believe me, I was his mother-in-law. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Celia grasped Mrs. Divers’s arm. “Thank you. I know you have my best interests at heart. Let me assure you, Mr. Lyons and I are only friends. And that’s the way I believe it should stay.”

  “That’s a relief to me. And don’t you be alone with him again. I trust you, but I certainly don’t trust him.” Mrs. Divers reached up to squeeze Celia’s hand before she turned in at her door.

  18

  Mrs. Divers looked out her bedroom window. Blue sky had begun to appear. That heartened her. She’d attend the flower show despite her arthritis. It was no fun getting old, that was for certain, but Miss Waul would help carry her contribution to the contest. Judging would be at ten o’clock with lunch on the grounds. Last year they had ribbons and streamers marking off the area for the town-wide affair, even invited the brass band from the next town to play a concert. That added so much to the festivities she hadn’t a doubt they’d be here again this year. It would make for a full day. She might need to come home in between activities to rest. But then maybe Miss Waul could find them a place in the shade to sip a lemonade, rest their limbs, and she could stay the whole time.

  By the time she creaked down the stairs, her knees and the steps doing a duet, she was good and hungry for the bacon she smelled drifting from the kitchen. Honestly, she didn’t know what she’d do without Miss Waul. Rising to fix her own breakfast, especially early like this, was a thing of the past. Of course, she used to do it for her husband and Marguerite, but that seemed a long, long time ago. Somewhere in there, Miss Waul had come into their lives, about the time her husband took sick. He had insisted she help out twice a week, but when he died Miss Waul came to stay. She had been a loyal friend to lean on.

  By the time Mrs. Divers entered the kitchen, it had begun to smell smoky. She expected to see Miss Waul bending over the stove, but no one was in the room. She hobbled as fast as she could across the kitchen to examine affairs on the stove.

  “My gracious, this bacon’s a-hoppin’ and a-poppin’.” Mrs. Divers grabbed a dishtowel, folded it over for a pot holder and slid the pan off the burner, grabbing a cover to stop the spattering fat. She had just saved the bacon and maybe the kitchen to boot. Her insides shook like jelly.

  She dropped with a thump onto one of the kitchen chairs, put her elbows on the table, hands covering her face. How well she remembered that fire when she was fourteen. It was one of the horrors of her young, protected life. One day the village where she grew up was all nice and serene, everybody going about his business, and the next day that terrible conflagration left a charred house right in the middle of town. A grease fire, they’d said. The scorched, smoky remains of that blaze stayed for a long time before the town carted all the burned stuff away. All because of a grease fire! If Miss Waul wasn’t careful, she would start one. Where was she?

  Mrs. Divers heard the kitchen door open. Turning, she saw her companion. “Now, where in the world have you been? I came down to find the bacon smoking away!”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Divers!” Miss Waul held out the roses. “Here. I went to cut your flowers for you. I guess I just forgot the time, even that I was cooking bacon.”

  “The flowers!” Mrs. Divers got up and hurried as best she could to the cupboard for a vase. “Don’t you know the first thing about roses? They must go in water immediately!” She reached for the vase she thought best for the length of stem she saw in Miss Waul’s hand, then rushed to a pitcher of water that had already been drawn from the well. “We must recut the stems and put them in water right away.” The next minute she worked feverishly. “Now we want to put in some apple cider vinegar and sugar. Mix them in some water over there, then add to the flowers. That’ll keep them fresh.”

  After Miss Waul poured the sugar mixture into the water, she walked over to the stove. “You did the right thing, Mrs. Divers, getting this pan off the burner and putting a lid on it.” She reached for a potholder and lifted the lid. “My gracious, this bacon was getting charred. And that fat! I ain’t seen so much fat come off bacon in ages. No wonder you was peeved. I’m sorry, truly I am.”

  “You remember this happened before, a couple months ago? You could burn down this house.”

  “I know, I know. It was careless of me. I’m so sorry.” Miss Waul reached for a fork and started lifting the bacon out of the pan. “But you should see it out there this morning. That orange-yellow sun shining, making everything golden. I haven’t been up and outside this early for so long, I just forgot myself, off in another world.”

  “You’ll be in another world all right, if you burn this house down with us in it. My gracious, all this before breakfast! I wouldn’t have thought it.”

  “Now calm yourself, Mrs. Divers. We have a lot to look forward to today. Besides the flower show, there’s the archery contest at two, don’t forget that.”

  “If that man shows up at the archery contest—”

  “Now, don’t think about that, it’ll ruin your day. You know he hasn’t come to the flower event since—don’t know why he’d start now. Let me get up some eggs with this bacon, then we’ll get dressed and get our roses to the show.”

  Celia walked up to the flower tables and greeted the Harrods.

  “Thank goodness you’re here, Celia.” Mrs. Harrod gave her a quick hug and turned to her husband. “Will you double-check all is ready for the archery contest? Celia will help me make sure the flower judging gets off to a smooth start.”

  Celia watched Mr. Harrod pinch his wife on the cheek. “Don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “Everything will go fine like always.” He turned, a spring in his step.

  “Just seeing him walk so confidently gives me assurance,” Mrs. Harrod said. “How nice to have a husband who can take charge and make sure something’s done right. Such a dear.” She turned to the flower tables. “Celia, look at these blooms, will you? All the colors of the rainbow. I wish I were an artist. This is one of my favorite parts of the day, seeing these beautiful flowers lined up like this.” Mrs. Harrod adjusted one of the numbers in front of a bouquet. “We have the different categories nicely separat
ed, don’t we? Would you get the judges from the tent now?”

  Celia gave the rows of glorious blooms a last appreciative look. “I’ll be glad to. They should be finished with their refreshments.”

  As she walked to the tent, she breathed in the balmy morning air. The clear blue sky with the still, cool air refreshed her. And the grass was a lovely, verdant green. Earlier this morning when she cut her roses, the sun had just been peeking over the trees. How she gloried in its saffron light, gilding grass and foliage. The day couldn’t have started out more gloriously. In the distance, she heard the happy sounds of children playing impromptu games before the real competitions began. Contests and games had been planned for all ages, and at the end, a three-legged race for the boys and their fathers.

  “There you are, my dear Miss Thatcher.” Charles walked up, a wide grin on his face. “You look perfection in that white frocked dress.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She swept him a spontaneous curtsey. “Are you ready for the archery contest this afternoon?”

  “Absolutely. I’m planning a light lunch so I can be at my sharpest.”

  “I know you’ll do really well. When your mother and I saw you shoot at Harvard, I was sure no one could beat you.”

  “I don’t know about this local competition. We have a few hunters in the group. These country boys might come on stronger than one suspects. Then there’s Mr. Lyons. I wonder about his level of play. The trouble is he does nothing by half measures and just the fact he’s entered should tell a person something. Have you seen him this morning?”

  “No, but it’s early. His contributions for the flower show were delivered before I arrived. Your mother said Mrs. Macon brought them with Ned’s help.”

  “Well then, he might not appear until the contest itself. You know how sensitive he is about town feeling. Too bad. He’s rather a nice fellow, I think. Who would have guessed his family lived on Louisburg Square? Well yes, I suppose I could have guessed, but to know rather changes things. Of course, most of that brouhaha with him and his wife occurred when I was at school.”