by Ruth Trippy
He nodded. “Let’s close the shop then. I’m surprised with these long summer days, our group didn’t stay longer. It’s still light outside.”
“I heard a number propose walks, the evening is so mild.”
“Not a bad idea. You know, I think a walk would do us good. What do you say?”
“I’d like that very much.”
A few minutes later, Mr. Chestley and she stood on the bookstore stoop. Which direction would he take? All of a sudden, she wondered—would it be too much to ask? His earlier sympathy emboldened her to ask if she might choose.
“Whichever way you want to go, Celia.”
“Thank you.” She gestured to the left, in the direction of Mrs. Divers’s and Edward’s homes.
Mr. Chestley held out his arm. “You are like a daughter to me, you know.” As she gratefully placed her hand in the crook of his arm, he added, “This feels more companionable, doesn’t it?” She nodded in agreement, wondering if the direction she had chosen had been wise.
Mr. Chestley patted her hand. “That was a good book discussion, Celia. I appreciated your opening quote from Pascal: that man is but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature; but he is a thinking reed.” He paused before adding, “I think our friend Mr. Lyons would have appreciated it as well.”
Celia looked over at her companion. “It might have piqued him. Remember how section three began? ‘A Letter to incite to the search after God.’ I wonder just how much Mr. Lyons searches after God.”
“You’ve talked with him?”
“Some. Science is so important to him, its way of discovering the world and truth so fundamental. And he doesn’t seem to think science and faith can agree.” Celia paused at the entrance to the road where her earlier inclination had led her.
“Would you like to turn here?” Mr. Chestley asked. “It is a pleasant way.”
“Yes, I think so.”
He now lagged behind ever so little, letting her lead the way. They passed Mrs. Divers’s house, and then as they came up to Mr. Lyons’s drive, she slowed her steps.
“I was sorry he didn’t come tonight,” Mr. Chestley said again. She felt his questioning glance in her direction as they stopped at the entrance to his driveway.
“Might we see if he is all right?” she asked softly.
“Actually, that’s just what I was thinking, but didn’t know if it would be agreeable to you.”
“It would.” Relief flooded her. With Mr. Chestley at her side, the visit would be proper. Without him, she could hardly have gone.
They walked down the pleasant drive and up the steps to the front door. Mr. Chestley lifted the doorknocker and gave a soft, clear rap. Celia wondered who would answer, the housekeeper or Edward himself.
The door opened. Edward. His countenance looked like he was carrying a great weight. Then he squared back his shoulders.
He gestured formally like the aristocrat from Beacon Hill Celia knew him to be. “Please come in. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but this is an honor.”
After they stepped into the front hall, and Mr. Lyons closed the door, absolute quiet inhabited the house. The outside world was left behind.
“Mrs. Macon has retired for the night. I don’t like to keep her unnecessarily on the job unless there’s—good reason. Follow me, please.”
The same immaculate, masculine aspect reigned in the drawing room as formerly. Celia looked around. Calm and order presided. But something was missing, she couldn’t say just what.
They seated themselves, Celia and Mr. Chestley on the divan and Edward on a chair across from them. Mr. Chestley began, “We missed you at tonight’s book discussion, the first one you’ve not attended. We wondered if you were all right.”
Mr. Lyons’s eye did not meet them directly, but gazed over their shoulders. “I was sorry not to be present, but you must know it was because of what happened the other day.” He looked first at Mr. Chestley, then at Celia. “I didn’t want to bring any negative influence to bear on your very worthy book discussion.”
“We understand,” Mr. Chestley said. “However, we also want you to know our concern. We realize we’ve heard only one side of the story.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Lyons was silent for a few moments as if ordering his thoughts. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “If you will allow me then . . . I’d like to say a few words about . . . this whole affair.” Mr. Chestley nodded his head. Celia leaned forward.
“First of all, let me say that I’m sorry for any pain this might have caused you. You are two very dear friends and I appreciate your coming tonight.” He looked down once again. “Regarding Mrs. Divers—I had realized, to be sure, that the death of Marguerite had greatly affected her. She expressed her anger to me, many times. I don’t know all she said to others, but I noticed people’s looks, and suspicious comments were dropped in my hearing. It didn’t take long before I chose to live a more solitary life, venturing out only when others would be less likely to be around. Mrs. Divers I avoided altogether. She was a bitter old woman, disagreeable and critical before her daughter’s death, and even more so afterward.”
He straightened in his chair. “Early in the marriage, she influenced her daughter and it negatively affected our relationship as husband and wife. As a result, I decided to limit my mother-in-law’s association with our everyday lives. In time, I discouraged it altogether except for Sunday afternoon visits and holidays. That might seem extreme with her living so near, but it was the only way to bring peace to my household. Because—after being married only a few months, peace was what I wanted more than anything else.”
He paused, his eyes avoiding theirs. “I had envisioned giving my wife things out of love and the generosity of my heart, but her increasingly shrewish ways eventually dried up those inclinations. She constantly wanted something or other and felt it was her due as my wife. It was difficult to believe she’d become so different from the person I’d courted. When I didn’t furnish her with her desires, she became petulant and complaining. Even waspish at times. It shocked me. I saw a reflection of the carping mother-in-law I’d come to abhor. This was outside of my experience growing up in Beacon Hill. Every woman I’d ever encountered there acted in a refined and proper manner.
“Thinking back now, I think I might have reacted too harshly. I set up parameters around Marguerite’s life so she probably felt confined, especially regarding seeing her mother. But at the time, all I wanted was peace. And if I had to, in effect, strong-arm it, I did.”
Mr. Lyons looked at Celia a long moment. She wondered what he was thinking. She had drawn back on the divan, feeling both shock and sympathy. Did it show in her countenance? He sounded so disillusioned. Even harsh.
“What I say next, I wish wasn’t necessary . . . but in light of circumstances. . . .” He cleared his throat. “Regarding Marguerite’s death, she had been ill for some time. But she’d been ill before and I found her an inveterate complainer, sometimes when nothing was wrong. Of course, she was truly ailing this time. I knew that. But the day in question, I didn’t realize how unwell she was, just knew I had to get out, away from the house awhile. I’m the first one to admit I’m not good in the sick room. Maybe it’s because I’ve been ill so little in my life, I didn’t have patience with her.
“I had let my housekeeper take her usual day off, because I didn’t feel she should be kept from it. She had spent time with Marguerite and needed breathing space as well.”
Here he paused, an earnest, almost desperate expression in his eyes. He looked directly at Celia. “I need you to know what happened that afternoon. You must know the truth. I want you to hear it from me, not some town gossip—or from Mrs. Divers—what she supposed to have happened. No one else was present beside myself.” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before him. “If you’ll allow me then.” He glanced at Mr. Chestley. “I am obliged you are here to act as witness—and to protect Celia, so to speak.” Then his gaze returned to Cel
ia.
“I had been attending Marguerite all morning, had just brought up the broth Mrs. Macon made the day before. Marguerite, however, would have none of it. I was at a loss what to do, how to please or help her. I put the soup on the nightstand within her reach and started to leave the room. She was weak and sounded congested, but still managed to cry out that I was a bad husband. And after all I had done for her. I couldn’t take it any longer and shouted, “Be quiet!” I went back to measure out her medicine, but she kept on, wheezing while she screamed out she was sorry she’d ever married me.
“I slammed the medicine on her bed table. She wailed, ‘Get out! I can’t stand you anymore.’ She choked. I rushed out of the room and heard her cry, ‘I want—I want to go home to my mother. And I will! I’ll shame you before the whole town.’
“I couldn’t leave fast enough. I wanted to throttle her, still that querulous tongue. At that point, I was afraid . . . afraid of what I might do.”
Edward stopped, swallowed. Celia took a deep breath; she had almost stopped breathing. Her eyes flickered to Mr. Chestley, but she could not tell from his expression how he was reacting.
Edward unclasped his hands before continuing. “I knew something had to be done to calm myself, to get back to a normal frame of mind, so I headed for the rear of the house. Get away and get outside was all I could think. Get to the woods.
“As I was going out the door I grabbed my bow and arrows. I knew I would need something to occupy my mind, to focus on something other than the hatred I felt for my wife. If I could concentrate on a target, aim an arrow, I hoped my equanimity would return.
“I must have wandered for a couple of hours. Marguerite was alone in the house, but I couldn’t go back. Besides, I figured it was the way she wanted it.
“After a while the stillness of the woods and the physical activity quieted me. The exertion calmed me in a way nothing else could have done. I can still see the sturdy oaks all around me that afternoon.
“When I returned, however, I dreaded going up the stairs to the room Marguerite occupied. The house was so peacefully quiet.
“Oh, to keep this stillness, I thought. I couldn’t check on her immediately. She must be asleep. Let sleeping dogs lie.
“So I warmed some soup Mrs. Macon had left for me, determining after I finished eating to take some hot broth to Marguerite. I cannot tell you how I wanted to prolong the quiet, the stillness I had found in the forest, the calm that had finally been restored to my soul.
“Maybe three-quarters of an hour later, I heated the broth and took the tray up the stairs. It was silent in the hall to her bedroom. Deathly silent, as I now know. I hesitated in front of her door that was ajar. I didn’t want to step inside, but finally steeled myself.
“My eyes immediately went to her figure, then her face—ashen in color. My dread of just moments before changed to a different kind of dread. I quickly placed the tray at the foot of the bed.
“Her face, her mouth, was crooked. It didn’t look normal. Only one other time had I seen a dead person shortly after death—my father—and her face looked like that.
“I stood for a moment and sighed, in sorrow or relief, I hardly know which. I just knew there was no hurry to ascertain her condition.
“Finally, I stepped forward and took the hand on the bedspread. It was cold and stiff. Even though I knew she was gone, yet I bent over to determine if any breath came out of her open mouth. There was none. I took her wrist and felt for a pulse. None.
“I then began going through the motions of what I thought I should do. I went to get Ned, asked him to get the doctor. After he left, I stayed with Marguerite, felt it the proper thing to do. After the doctor came, he officially declared her dead, from pneumonia he thought. I then asked if Ned would send his wife for Mrs. Divers. I’ll spare you the details of what happened when she arrived. I was thankful the doctor, Ned, and his wife were present. I knew I needed others nearby when she came.”
Edward looked at both of them sitting on the divan, then fastened his eyes on Celia once again. “Miss Thatcher, Celia. Will you forgive me for relating in such detail, the incidents of that afternoon? But I felt you had to know—all of it. I also wanted Mr. Chestley present to be a support to you when you heard my side of the story.”
Mr. Chestley shifted forward onto the edge of the divan. “Be assured we will support you if any untoward ramifications develop.”
“Thank you.”
A few moments of silence ensued. Then Mr. Lyons said, “Are you all right, Miss Thatcher? I know this has been a shock.”
“Yes, yes, but thank you for sharing what happened.” She glanced down at her folded hands. “However, I still feel sorry for Mrs. Divers and want the best for her.”
“Yes.” Mr. Lyons paused again, then asked, “Mr. Chestley, would it be all right if I showed Miss Thatcher something in the conservatory? Would you mind waiting?” At Mr. Chestley’s nod, he said, “Feel free to avail yourself of anything in the library.”
“Thank you, but I think I’ll stay right here. After a long day in the store, and with the book discussion tonight, I would welcome a few minutes of quiet. Go ahead, Celia.”
Once outside the drawing room, Edward led the way to the back of the house. “You’ve been to the conservatory by way of the front, but this is quicker.”
Celia was curious to see his conservatory again—it must be overflowing with blooms—but she wondered what he could have to show her. At the kitchen door, he took up cutting shears and a basket.
She accompanied him across the grass to the glass building.
He held the door for her, then once inside, led her to the far end. Following his purposeful steps, she could not see much beyond his broad back, but once he reached the corner, he stepped aside and let her view a rose bush. A glorious bush with striped roses, crimson splashed irregularly across pale pink petals.
He reached to cut a goodly number of sprays to place in the basket, then led her to the center of the conservatory where sat a settee and two chairs. “You see I learned something from Mrs. Harrod,” he said smiling. “No furniture was here the last time you came.” He set the basket of blooms on the table and motioned her to the settee, then took his seat beside her.
“This is Versicolor or popularly known as Rosa Mundi. It’s from an old strain of rose known as Gallica. The original Gallicas are thought to have come from Rome and were a bright magenta pink. Portraits of Gallicas appear etched on the walls of Roman ruins. It is a venerable class of rose. Medieval monks used Gallica petals to perfume soaps and salves. This striped variety is its progeny.”
“The petals are so big. What a striking flower.”
“Yes, the diameter of these flowers is unusually large. It is unsurpassed so I contemplated entering it in this year’s flower contest. I felt it a sure winner, but decided against doing so because of Mrs. Divers. You see, Marguerite gave this to me. Though I certainly feel less than kindly toward Mrs. Divers, I would never enter a rose to cause her pain.” His eyes caught Celia’s. “That woman accused me of many things. Of cruelty, even! As I said before, I could have done things differently. Yet, I would not be intentionally cruel. My upbringing would not allow that. You do believe me?”
Celia’s eyes started tearing up. The terrible disappointment, the questions and fears that had formed since Mrs. Divers’s accusations, she had hoped against hope they weren’t true. But how could they not be? And now the relief—to see evidence of his honor, his kindness—she grasped for the handkerchief in her pocket as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “I do believe you.”
She saw him shudder as some great bear coming out of hibernation. He stood up suddenly and began pacing the small space available. “Celia, for me to lose your friendship, your regard—I was sick with worry and dread. Dread you had lost faith I would do good to my fellowmen. But how could I not—with you in my life? You, who have brought kindness and beauty into it?”
Her memory flitted back to the months she had k
nown him, when she had learned his careful, kindly ways despite—on their first meetings—his bearish appearance and demeanor. How could she have doubted him? Her soul felt light, taking wing, borne up under the trade winds of those fine feelings that had been growing in her. She smiled, feeling like she was in sunlight. How different she felt from when first arriving.
An answering smile broke from his own face. “Celia, you are the reason I look forward to each new day. Bless you, bless you, my—” His hands clenched at his side. She looked into his eyes. Their dark pools held a depth of feeling that promised future sweetness. He stretched out his hands.
As she placed her hands in his and arose, she thought, this is so different from what she felt for Jack, for Charles. Why had she not seen this before? But she knew it now. The terrible disappointment she had felt with Mrs. Divers’s accusations, then the attendant pain. To have the pain assuaged as he told his side of the story about Marguerite, and now more than that, to know what she brought into his life. . . .
She wanted to stay and just be with him, to bring refreshment and nurture into his life. To be used by God to bring warmth and stimulation and rest. And she felt he would do the same for her.
He held her hands firmly, yet carefully, as if she would break. As if their relationship, restored just moments before, was too precious to handle in any way but in the most careful of manners. She let his large hands surround hers. The warmth of his touch coursed through her.
He looked down at her hands. “Yours are so tiny.”
“Or, I might say yours are so large,” Celia said, smiling.
“Both are true.” He smiled back. “See how nicely your hands fit in mine. A hand in a glove. See, if I close mine, yours are completely surrounded.”
Protected was the word that came to her mind.
Warm, soft breath exuded from him. It seemed almost a sigh. “I would see no harm come to you or your reputation. As much as I would desire more—time here, I should take you back to Mr. Chestley.”
She knew he was right because to be out here alone, even though it was a glass enclosure that could be viewed from outside, she knew the dictates of society. They had been gone long enough. Mr. Chestley might even be wondering where they were or what they had been doing.
