The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  Celia wouldn’t go down that rabbit trail. Instead, she smiled and said, “I must go to the refreshment tent. I promised your mother I’d escort the judges to the flower tables.”

  “May I accompany you?”

  Her smile widened. “I think that would be permitted. Your mother also said I might be needed for other errands.”

  “Lead on, fair maiden!”

  Celia spent the next hour running errands with Charles, then afterward attending events with him. They laughed and clapped together at the children’s races. He intimated he wouldn’t have been present if it wasn’t for her, certainly wouldn’t have had half the fun. She told him she was flattered.

  Just as he took her elbow to help her over a tree root, they came upon Mrs. Adams sitting in the shade sipping lemonade. A wave of displeasure hit Celia. Mrs. Divers’s talk came to Celia’s mind. Had Mrs. Adams gossiped about her? However, Celia had forgiven her—but to have these negative feelings surface so quickly Celia wondered if she’d forgiven her at all.

  Mrs. Adams smiled nicely at them, and Celia made herself return the smile and comment on the lovely day. Charles was all affability. “We’re off to the three-legged race,” he volunteered.

  “What a delightful couple you make,” Mrs. Adams cooed.

  Celia had all she could do to keep the smile on her face. How she hated a comment like that. The woman was obviously trying to steer her toward Charles and away from— But even as her hackles rose, Celia was determined she would not let the woman spoil her day. Besides, Charles was pleasant to be with.

  “Now, Miss Celia,” he said, after they had lunched together, “I must leave you to get ready for the archery contest. I expect you to cheer me on. I understand you are awarding the winner.”

  “Yes,” she said laughing. “Your mother insists. I don’t know why, but she said for this particular event she wanted someone other than herself doing the honors.”

  “Or she doesn’t want to present the prize to her own son. For the awards, you and I would make a good-looking pair.”

  Celia blushed. “You are quite confident of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Do you mean the archery contest or with you?” he asked, a light in his eyes.

  “I meant the contest, of course.” She felt her blush deepen.

  He held out his hand to grasp hers. “Wish me luck.”

  “Of course.”

  She hoped he did well, but as he said, these country men could spring a surprise. Then there was Mr. Lyons—Edward. She had no idea he had entered. Now that the archery contest was shortly to begin, she craned her neck looking for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Ah, there were the Chestleys. She would walk with them to the archery field. On the way, they met up with Mrs. Harrod. How nice to be part of so congenial a group. When they arrived, Mr. Harrod came up to them. “You ready to take your places?” Because she was to present the prizes, she, along with Mrs. Harrod were to sit in a ribboned-off section at the front of the field.

  Mrs. Chestley shooed her off. “You go on, dear. We’ll be just fine here to the side.” Celia glanced fondly at the Chestleys as Mr. Harrod took both her and Mrs. Harrod’s elbows to escort them. After she was seated, she scanned the row of contestants. She didn’t see Edward. Of course, it was still a few minutes before the competition was to begin. People were scurrying around to find a place to stand. She noticed Mrs. Divers and Miss Waul finding a place alongside the Chestleys. And a boy squeezed in front with them—it was that boy that had almost knocked her over on the sidewalk last fall. He looked up at Mrs. Divers and smiled.

  Celia glanced at the line of archers. Charles caught her eye and smiled. The competition would begin any minute. She turned in her chair, scanning the crowd for Edward. A tall man with a bow was advancing just behind a family of four. The size and bearing of the man proclaimed him to be Edward. But his face! The family of four passed and he was now in full view. His eyes found hers and hinted a twinkle. She stared, she was looking at the flesh and blood version of his portrait as a younger man, beardless. The same picture that had so caught her fancy—the same luminous eyes, the lips, the high cheekbones, the closer haircut that made him seem more boyish. The debonair handsomeness of the young man in the picture translated into the man before her but with more maturity. She remembered her reaction on seeing the picture and the same reaction flooded her now.

  More than one person turned to look at him. She was vaguely aware of several girls whispering behind their gloved hands. If he was aware of the stir he was causing, he didn’t let on. He stopped in front of her and Mrs. Harrod. He bowed briefly, then walked on to take his place with the other contestants.

  “Celia!” Mrs. Harrod grabbed hold of her arm. “Such a transformation. Why, I never in my life! Words escape me.”

  Edward took off his coat and strapped on his arm guard, his broad shoulders and remarkable physique clearly outlined in his shirt. Celia was glad she was sitting. The sheer beauty and physical strength of the man—she was still feeling the shock of seeing the picture come to life.

  Should she look away from the archers, from him? That would seem odd—to look in another direction. That would call attention to itself. What she really wanted to do was feast her eyes on this man.

  But, she warned herself, they were friends only. It could go no further than that. Their difference in faith and the problem of Marguerite loomed before her. She turned to pay attention to Mrs. Harrod at her side. They could pass the time making a few choice comments to each other. In another minute, she could turn again to look at the field of contestants. However, when she did so, her eyes were only on him.

  Why had he done it, cutting off his beard and mustache? And trimmed his hair in that fashion? The townspeople hardly recognized him. Of course, he hadn’t gone into society much these last years. Had he cut his hair and beard so as not to be recognized? But, surely, people only had to ask who he was.

  She was the only one who had seen that portrait and commented on it. Had she revealed how much it had stirred her? Had he—had he done it for her?

  Thinking back on these last weeks, months, she remembered his special attentions. She had pushed them aside, not letting them mean too much. However, now that she put them along with this sudden change in appearance, it made her wonder. In spite of herself, she was flattered. No, it was more than that. She felt honored. She was special to him. Felt it deep within her. For a moment, she fantasized walking down the street together, in that particular way a couple does, walking close.

  Heavens! She brought herself up short. Her thoughts were carrying her away. She decided to talk with the lady on the other side of her, the wife of some dignitary, and take charge of her wayward thoughts. Celia had just made an observation about the beautiful day when the announcer for the event shouted. “Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention please. We’re about to begin.”

  Celia looked down the row of archers. It was a sight, seeing all those men lined up, ready to do battle. Charles’s and Edward’s height made them stand above most of the others.

  The announcer cleared his throat. “We are happy to include archery for the first time in our town’s celebration.” He looked down at his piece of paper. “Archery is estimated to originate some five to six thousand years ago. It was first used in hunting, and was favored in warfare until approximately AD 1600 because of its ability to outrange the slingshot and javelin.” He looked up. “Today, we are pleased to have twenty-one archers. The contest is arranged so that three will shoot at a time. At the end of round two,” he continued, “we will tabulate the scores and the nine men with the highest will remain in the contest.”

  He stepped off to the side and the first group of three put their left feet to the line, drew back their bows and let fly. The arrows thudded into the target. Each man shot three. The scores were called out and the arrows removed. Celia watched as wave after wave of men took their place at the line. A few arrows hit wide of the target. One tall gang
ly youth tried his best, but two of his failed to hit the target altogether. A short girl off to Celia’s side shouted encouragement. After his first round, he stepped back from the line and looked at her, shrugged his shoulders good-naturedly and rolled his eyes. Obviously, he had entered to please her.

  Charles and Edward advanced to the line in different groups of three. Celia tabulated the results of both their shots. All were in the gold circle of the bull’s-eye. A little thrill of excitement ran through her.

  When the gangly youth stepped up to the line a second time, several in the crowd shouted out good-humored advice. He gave a lopsided smile to the assembly, then concentrated on the business at hand. Celia was glad to see he did better, apparently enjoying himself, but surely, he wouldn’t make it beyond the second round.

  When Charles stepped up to shoot, Mrs. Harrod took hold of Celia’s arm. “He’s doing well, isn’t he?” Celia nodded. Next, Edward stepped up and shot all three arrows in the gold circle. Celia didn’t look at Mrs. Harrod to see her reaction.

  After the second round, the moderator of the games walked to front center and announced the names of the top nine archers. Just as she thought, he called Charles and Edward. The moderator thanked those who had participated and the crowd applauded. The eliminated ones broke ranks with the others. The tall, gangly youth gave an impromptu bow and everyone laughed.

  “That lends a little levity, which is good,” Mr. Harrod said. “However, now we’ll get down to the real competition.” Celia glanced over at him. He had straightened in his chair and was looking intently at the remaining men.

  The third and fourth rounds would see everyone eliminated but three. As the archers began shooting, the crowd quieted. Most of the arrows landed in the three center rings. When an occasional arrow landed in the outermost white ring, a good-natured comment went up from the crowd, suggesting the archer move it over to the left or up a ways to hit the bull’s-eye. Celia sat quietly, noticing where Charles’s and Edward’s arrows hit. A short, big-boned man also shot very well.

  Mrs. Harrod leaned over to her. “Charles will make the final, won’t he?”

  Celia smiled and nodded. “I’ve added his scores along with Edward Lyons, and both are doing extremely well.”

  “I hope Charles wins, my dear. I would love to see you present him the prize. Of course, Edward is our special friend, but not as special as our Charles, is he?”

  Celia didn’t know what to reply so just widened her smile.

  Edward hadn’t looked at the crowd or her since the competition began, but every time he walked forward to shoot, she sat up straighter in her chair, tense with anticipation. One of his arrows hit dead center and someone off to her left said loud enough for her to hear, “Ah, what’s that Lyons fellow doing here anyway? He should’ve been barred from the contest.”

  “You’re right there,” a high-pitched voice added fervently.” Celia recognized the last voice as Mrs. Divers. How utterly rude to speak out so. Up until this time, Celia had felt disposed to either Charles or Edward winning. But now, she suddenly felt herself taking up Edward’s part, hoping he would win. After all, hadn’t Charles the approval of his parents and the whole town? He hadn’t undergone suspicion, felt ostracized. She wondered if Edward heard the remark. If he had, he hadn’t given indication. Just then, the fourth round ended.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, some mighty fine shooting. As soon as we finish adding the scores, we’ll announce the top three finalists.” In the ensuing minutes, a murmur arose, the crowd speculating who would be in the final group. Finally, the announcer was handed a sheet of paper. He looked at it and nodded his approval. “From here on the old scores will be dropped, starting fresh. I will announce the names in alphabetical order.” He paused for drama. “Charles Harrod. Marcus Kirth. Edward Lyons.”

  Celia felt her heart in her throat. Charles looked at his parents and then at her. She smiled and then glanced in Edward’s direction and saw him looking back at her for the first time in the competition. She had almost missed his look when she smiled at Charles. Few, if any, would be rooting for Edward. She held his eyes with hers and gave an encouraging nod. He should know someone was cheering him on.

  “The contestants will shoot in the order announced,” the moderator said. “Each will go up to the line individually.” He turned to one of his helpers. “Make sure each archer has a different colored band on his arrows. Each gets three.”

  After all was readied, Charles stepped up first, taking his time at the line. The crowd was now very quiet. He drew back his bow and the first arrow hit the bull’s-eye, only an inch away from dead center. The crowd clapped. The two that followed hit inside the gold circle as well. Applause followed each bull’s-eye.

  “Three times nine is twenty-seven—top score,” the moderator said. “Next is Mr. Kirth.”

  Mr. Kirth hit his three arrows also in the bull’s-eye, but two landed close to the line of the red. The crowd applauded each good shot. The moderator scratched his head. “Another twenty-seven points. I would say that’s about identical scores, wouldn’t you?”

  He nodded to Mr. Lyons.

  Edward Lyons stepped up deliberately. Slowly he raised his bow, his shoulder muscles bunching up. He let the arrow go. It hit what appeared to be dead center. “Don’t that beat all!” someone said. A smattering of applause followed. Celia glanced back. It was the lanky youth, his eyes gleaming in rapt admiration. Her heart suddenly glowed with affection for the young man. Someone had dared to voice admiration for Edward.

  Edward’s second arrow hit next to his first. “Sakes alive!” someone exclaimed in the crowd. Again, a smattering of applause. Celia felt Mrs. Harrod stiffen. She would not for the world hurt her dear friend, but she wanted Edward to win. She would not make an open show of it, but there it was. She held her breath on the third shot. It was about an inch from the other two, about the same distance from center as Charles’s arrows.

  The moderator scratched his head. “Same score, twenty-seven points.” He paused, then said, “With those scores, I think we need more distance lads, don’t you?” He glanced around at his assistants. At their approving nods, he said, “Let’s move the target back thirty feet. Make that ten paces,” he added.

  Two men lifted the target, counted off the paces and set it down firmly.

  The announcer cocked his head. “I think that’ll work.”

  Charles stepped up first. He drew his bow back and held it steady before letting the arrow fly. It hit inside the red circle. The crowd clapped. He shot the second. It hit just inside the gold bull’s-eye. The crowd clapped again. He took his time with his third and last arrow. It hit dead center in the bull’s-eye. The crowd went wild. “He done good, real good!” Celia recognized the voice of the lanky boy. She glanced at the Harrods. They both smiled their satisfaction. “That’ll be hard to beat,” Mr. Harrod said in an undertone to his wife.

  The second archer placed his foot to the line. He also took his time, waiting an extra second before releasing each of his arrows. The first hit the red ring to the left of the bull’s-eye. The second hit the red on the other side of the gold. He steadied his bow with care for the third and it landed just an inch from Charles’s last arrow in the center. The crowd applauded appreciatively. Kirth had shot well, but clearly, Charles was ahead.

  The moderator nodded to Edward. He stepped up to the line. The crowd stilled. Celia’s breathing almost stopped. He lifted the bow, waited, and then released the arrow. It hit alongside Charles’s second arrow just inside the bull’s-eye. The crowd clapped politely. “Oh, boy!” Celia heard to her side. The lanky boy quietly explained to his girl, “That’s the best first shot of this last round.”

  Edward lifted his bow, steadied it, then let go the second arrow. It hit the center of the target, side by side, touching Charles’s third arrow. The crowd let out a collective breath; everyone had stopped breathing. Celia found her hands clenched together in her lap. She didn’t dare look at Mrs. Harrod. Her eyes fixed
on Edward. If only, if only he could make one more tremendous shot, he would win.

  He lifted his bow one last time, held it steady, then released the arrow. It flew across the field, the sharp snap of wood cracked the air. The third arrow had split Charles’s last arrow. Celia was the first to break the silence, clapping furiously. Others in the crowd joined in almost immediately. “He did it! He did it!” the lanky boy yelled. Others joined in yelling. Charles was the first to go up and shake Edward’s hand. Several of the archers went up to congratulate him, then the townspeople. It seemed as if they had forgotten their ill will and now happily claimed him victor. Celia was glad. She finally looked at the Harrods. She knew Mrs. Harrod was disappointed, but saw she had quickly submerged it and was now smiling. Mr. Harrod stepped up to congratulate the winner. “First-rate shooting,” he said.

  Mrs. Harrod took Celia’s arm. “Let’s go to the table with the ribbons, my dear. You are presenting, remember?”

  19

  Celia took her place beside Mrs. Harrod at the awards table. The announcer stood at Mrs. Harrod’s other side and motioned the contest finalists to line up near Celia. The crowd gathered around them. Edward had donned his suit coat once again and stood with hands clasped in front of him, his shoulders squared. He looked athletic, fit—and handsome.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer shouted, waiting a few seconds for the crowd to quiet, “we now have the honor of presenting the awards to our area’s finest archers. First of all, I’d like to say thank you to all who entered. It made for an entertaining match. Each of us who watched would like to say, well done!” He cleared his throat. “But now for the awards. Miss Celia Thatcher will present the prizes.” He nodded to Celia, then announced, “Third place, Marcus Kirth!”

  Mr. Kirth stepped up to the table and Celia shook his hand and handed him a white ribbon. Everyone clapped.