Brides of Virginia

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  “Here.” Rose handed him the little snippet of paper. She’d found it on the back page of the newspaper as they searched for the necessary words.

  “Thanks. You know, I ate at the diner, and supper hasn’t agreed with me. The chicken was a mite bit greasy.” He winced and rubbed his stomach. “Could I trouble you for some bicarbonate?” While Garret continued to paste the rest of the message, Rose went in search of a cure.

  By the time she came back outside, he’d started to fold the letter. Garret set it aside and accepted the glass she held out to him. “Thanks, Rose.”

  She held a plate with bread on it—the bread sparkled in the lamplight. Carefully, she stepped around the trays of paper scraps and scissors and sat beside him. “Bread can help, and so does a little peppermint. My nanny used to make this for me. Try it.”

  Garret accepted the thick slice of buttered bread that wore a mantle of crushed candy. It smelled yeasty and minty. Just before he took a bite, he raised his brow. “Nanny?”

  Rose watched as he chewed. “Nanny.” She moistened her lips. “Garret, I’ve not corrected the folks’ assumption in Buttonhole that I’m hard-pressed financially.”

  “So you have a little nest egg that allows you to do as you will?”

  Rose nodded. “So you finished the letter? I want to see it all put together.”

  He thought about putting her off, but she’d find out soon enough. Garret handed it to her. She leaned to the side a bit to catch more light on the cut-and-paste letter, and her gasp told him she’d read the last line.

  “Rose, you just admitted your clothes have grown shabby.”

  “I can buy or make my own clothes.”

  He swallowed the last bite of bread. “That’s not the point. Other people have noticed the sad condition of what you wear, even if you haven’t. To their way of thinking, the Secret Giver would want you to have some new clothes. Hiring the seamstress to do a good deed while buying the sewing machine for her is exactly what everyone would expect, and it’ll keep them looking elsewhere for the benefactor.”

  She gave him a disgruntled look. “You may be right, but I was right, too. You, Garret Diamond, are a pain in the neck.”

  The next afternoon, Rose wanted to serve a healthy slice of her mind to her pain-in-the-neck partner. He’d slipped half of the money in her sugar bowl when she wasn’t looking, and now he was hustling her into the mercantile. “Garret, I’m busy! You’re entirely too commandeering. Can’t you see how I need to—?”

  He opened the door to the mercantile and announced loudly, “Here she is—show her the note!”

  No less than nine chattering women and girls surrounded Rose; all started talking at once, trying to give her the news. Lacey Norse clutched the pasted-together gift letter and wept for joy. Rose didn’t have to feign any emotion. It was a touching moment. She glanced over at Garret. He smiled and headed toward the storeroom.

  It was turning into quite a pleasant little party. Rose had to smile. All of her lovely friends were celebrating the Secret Giver’s wonderful plan to provide Lacey with the much-needed sewing machine while providing Rose with new clothing. They wanted to help choose the fabric and patterns and crowded into the sewing corner of the store.

  Mr. Deeter watched from the window of the post office and called out, “Don’t you all go fancifying Rose until she’s nothing but flounces and froufrou.”

  Rose laughed. “Simple is best. I have to be able to ride my bicycle.”

  “This. Just look at this,” Leigh Anne’s grandma said as she lifted a bolt. “A plaid wool is sensible and stylish for her.”

  “Grandma, it’s summer. Wool is going to be too hot and itchy for her.”

  Patience Evert sneered at Leigh Anne. “A lady wouldn’t speak of such things.”

  Rose smiled at Leigh Anne. “I was about to say exactly what you did, dear heart. The summer heat can be so oppressive.”

  “And she got swoony just yesterday,” Mrs. Blanchard said.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Rose huffed. “It was nothing, I assure you.”

  “Twaddle.” Mrs. Blanchard produced a dark blue muslin. “The only reason you’re feeling better is because you ate your prunes this morning. This is practical and will wear well.”

  “It’s a nice shade.” Rose reached out to touch it.

  “Nonsense. This is a time to cast practicality to the wind and be whimsical.” Cordelia lifted a green, water-stained taffeta. “You need a new Sunday-best dress, and this green will do wonders for your eyes.”

  “Yes, it would,” Lacey agreed. “I can just imagine you in it. Mrs. Busby, the ivy print dimity beside you is ideal for a shirtwaist for her.”

  “And this would make a perfect match for the skirt!” Charity added.

  “It would,” Rose agreed. “Oh, it’s all so very pretty. It’s been awhile since I even paid attention to fashion, and these fabrics are marvelous.”

  “What do you think, Mr. Diamond?” Missy Patterson asked in an adoring tone. “Won’t our plain Rose look lovely in it?”

  He picked up Pickle and put her in Leigh Anne’s lap. Rose secretly wished Garret would like this green. She truly favored it; and since these clothes were his idea, it would be nice if he was pleased with the choices, too.

  He cocked his head to one side, then pressed his lips together in a thoughtful line. “Miss Rose will look fine in those. Green suits her—pulls out the green in her gray-green eyes. I confess, though, I’m partial to something …” His voice trailed off as he spiraled his hand in the air in a hopeless gesture.

  “More feminine,” Mrs. Jeffrey filled in. “What about this cotton print?”

  Rose was about to admit it was pretty, but Garret jumped right in. “Now that’s a good one.” He jutted his chin and added, “The flowery one just to the side of it is easy on the eyes, too.”

  The bell over the shop door clanged. “Shiver me timbers, what’s goin’ on in here?” Zeb Hepplewhite hobbled into the middle of the store and gawked at everyone.

  “The Secret Giver struck again,” Garret said.

  “He slipped a note under the mercantile door,” Lacey said as she pointed to the six-drawer Singer that now held a conspicuous spot in the middle of the store. “I’m getting that wondrous sewing machine!”

  “Well, how’d ya like that?” Zeb scrunched the side of his face and waved his hand in Rose’s direction. “What does that have to do with you all hanging enough bunting off of Rose to make her the grandstand for a picnic?”

  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all morning.” Rose laughed as she disentangled herself from clinging ivy dimity, sprays of cabbage roses, and clinging mossy green. She paused and fingered the floral that Garret said brought out the green in her eyes. It was one of the prettiest things she’d seen in a long time. “I’m especially fond of this one.”

  “The Secret Giver wrote that I’m to make Rose three new outfits and …”

  While Lacey filled Mr. Hepplewhite’s ears with the goings-on, Mrs. Blanchard tugged on Rose’s sleeve and hissed, “Don’t be mush-mouthed, young woman. You’re going to ruin Zebulon’s fun if you don’t say that a bit louder and let him know just how much you like this piece. Haven’t you figured out yet that he’s the Secret Giver?”

  “Well …,” she stammered.

  Mrs. Percopie cut in, “No, he’s not. It’s the banker.”

  Mrs. Jeffrey shook her head. “No, no. The reverend and I finally figured it out. It’s Mr. Deeter.”

  “The postmaster?” the other two women asked in hushed unison.

  Mrs. Jeffrey’s head bobbed emphatically. “He was appointed to the position because he comes from good family—one that actually managed to maintain its wealth after the War Between the States. He’s been paid a steady salary all of these years from the United States Post Office Department. Besides, from sorting the mail, he knows everybody’s business.”

  Rose glanced over and caught Garret looking at her. A wave of warmth washed over her
. She’d never had a man pay attention to her or notice the color of her eyes. Oh, a handful of years ago, there had been a few swains who’d known she’d inherit Daddy’s fortune. Mere boys, they’d acted like lovesick puppies, and she’d not felt anything but disappointment that they’d seen only the green of dollar bills instead of the green of her eyes. Garret hadn’t known about her wealth; he’d simply cared about her.

  He winked very slowly, then turned and headed toward a display.

  “Isn’t that so, Rose?”

  “Huh? Oh, I suppose, if you say so.” She had no idea what she’d agreed with, but it certainly put a smile on Constance Blanchard’s face.

  Mrs. Busby muffled a twitter behind her hand. “I declare, Rose, it’s a blessing you decided not to marry. If you hadn’t noticed that man was better looking than chocolate cake until Constance said so, you simply were intended to be alone.”

  Chapter 13

  Mmm-mmm-mmm.” Garret stood at the front door and hummed his appreciation loudly. “Peaches. I don’t rightly recall the Good Book saying what heaven smells like, but I declare, this is the scent.” He muttered under his breath, “Too bad they don’t taste anywhere as good as they smell.”

  “Let yourself in,” Rose called. “I’m busy.”

  Garret opened the door, and Caramel slinked out and rubbed against his leg. For being the runt of the litter, she’d still managed to thrive under Rose’s loving care—but that came as no surprise. Everything and everyone Rose touched flourished.

  Garret stepped in, set down the twenty-five-pound bag of granulated sugar, and peeled out of his coat. After hanging the coat on one of the hall tree’s hooks, he carried the sugar into the kitchen. “Looks like I’m just in time with this.”

  Rose didn’t turn around. “Please pardon me, but I don’t want these to scorch.”

  “Not to worry. The view’s as pleasant as the fragrance.” He smiled at the sight of her standing by the stove in her old brown paisley skirt. Damp tendrils curled all around her face and the nape of her neck, and her cheek bore a hectic flush from the heat of the stove. Her apron was askew, and her hips and bustle jostled in cadence with the vigorous way she stirred the pot.

  A good four dozen jars of peaches sat in higgledy-piggledy rows on the table, and several smaller jars sat in steaming rows. “Just say the word. I’ll move the pot for you. In fact, I can hold it and pour the jam directly into the jars if you direct me.”

  Rose cast a surprised look at him.

  He shrugged. “My great-aunts loved to cook, but they were both getting frail enough that they couldn’t lift a heavy pot. On more than one occasion, I rolled up my sleeves and helped out.”

  Minutes later, he curled his hand around sunny yellow crocheted pot holders, hefted the pot, and took it to the waiting jars. In a matter of minutes, he and Rose managed to fill all of them. She hastily wiped the jar mouths clean, popped on the lids, screwed the collars in place, and set them in a water bath to seal them.

  “Whew!” She lifted the water dipper for him to take a sip, but he shook his head. After taking a long, cool drink, Rose set it down and smiled. “Thank you for your help. That went much faster and easier.”

  Garret swiped his forefinger through a blob of jam on the edge of the table and wiped it off on a damp dishcloth. “I’ll help with the next batch if you’ll give me a jar. I’ll send it to my great-aunt Brigit. She’ll love it.”

  “Bite your tongue, Garret. I’m done with peaches for the day. You just feel free to take one of these jars and let me rest.”

  “From the looks of it, you’re done canning for the year. What did you do? Go strip every last peach from the trees?”

  “No.” She laughed. “This is only a portion of them. I’m going to deliver peaches to Cordelia tonight. Mrs. Kiersty already took a bushel, and she’s sending Mr. Hepplewhite for more tomorrow.”

  He looked at the empty tulip-decorated sugar sack she’d set aside. “Want to refill your canister before I put this sugar in the pantry?”

  “It was generous of you, Garret, but I think you’d better take it back to the store.”

  “Balderdash.” He opened the door to her pantry and stared at the room in shock. “Woman, what—”

  “Now, now. You have to understand Sears ships things by weight. I often had them use bags of sugar or flour to bring the weight up to one hundred pounds so the price of freight dropped.”

  Her so-called pantry was actually a third bedroom. He’d never seen such a collection of things. Speaking aloud, Garret took stock. “Thirty. Forty. Fifty pounds of sugar. Fifty pounds of flour. Beans. My word, you have enough beans in here to feed all of Buttonhole for a month!” He continued to scan the room.

  “Maybe Cordelia could use that sugar you brought to me.”

  He turned and scowled at her. “Maybe Cordelia could come grocery shop here at your house!”

  Rose’s smile faded. “Cordelia doesn’t know about what I keep in there. She’s been very careful not to take liberties with my home.”

  “Why? She’s not starchy like some of the other women.”

  “This was her childhood home.”

  “You don’t say.” He felt his unreasoning anger fade. Rose had stocked this room and used most of the contents to make meals for Old Hannah, soups and teas for Mrs. Kiersty and the boardinghouse folks, countless lunches and suppers for Hugo and Prentice….

  Rose turned back toward the kitchen. She cut a fresh loaf of bread, took the slice, and sopped it in the bottom of the jam pot. When she held that treat out to him, Garret covered her fingers and gently pushed it back toward her mouth. “You have it. I’ll take the heel.”

  “No.” She grinned. “I feed the heels to the birds.”

  “Woman, you never cease to amaze me. You can find something nice to do for anyone or anything.”

  “I’ve had nice all my life. There’s nothing wrong with me making sure others have a turn at it, too.” She cut a slice and handed it to him.

  As he slowly pretended to dredge his own slice, yet soaked up no more than a speck of the still-warm jam that lined the pot, he asked, “What’s our next Secret Giver project going to be?”

  “Shirts, I think. Mary Ellen used to sew all of Hugo’s shirts. He’s nearly worn them out, and he’s not gotten a new shirt since she passed on.”

  Jealousy stabbed at Garret for a moment. Rose did Hugo’s laundry every week. Indeed, Garret had seen Hugo stringing up a new clothesline for her just last Sunday. Hugo relied on Rose for meals, laundry, and babysitting. With all of those essentials met, Hugo did nothing more than fill Rose’s stove and lamps and made sure she had firewood. Hugo didn’t seem like the type to take advantage of a woman’s sweet and generous heart, so that meant he must be biding his time before he convinced Rose that Prentice shouldn’t be a motherless boy. That argument would hold a lot of sway.

  Garret barely tasted the dot of jam on the bread that he shoved in his mouth. Two chews, and he swallowed as he scowled.

  “It occurs to me that you wash, mend, and iron Hugo’s shirts. The least he could do is mend your fence.”

  “I wouldn’t want him to.”

  “That’s beside the point.” He took a quick glance out at the fence. Caramel leapt up on it at that moment, and even the kitten’s slight weight made the rickety fence wobble. Garret looked back at Rose and demanded, “Has he ever offered?”

  “No.” She gave a small shrug and nibbled on her bread.

  He wiped his hands off on a damp towel. “Well, I’m going to see to it that your fence is repaired. It’s an eyesore.”

  “No!” Rose shook her head adamantly. “Leave my fence alone.”

  “Tell me why, Rose.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  Rose stared straight back at him, her gray-green eyes sparkling with defiance. Her hairpins must have come loose as she shook her head. A few pinged onto the floor, and her not-quite-on-the-top topknot started to uncoil. Hectic color filled her cheeks, and she reach
ed up to keep her hair from coming down. Realizing she still held the jam-covered heel of bread, she halted the movement.

  Garret froze, too. He’d love to see her hair flowing over her shoulders. Her blush made him do the gallant thing. “Allow me to help.” He hastily collected the pins he could find and stood behind her. She shifted uneasily. “Being antsy and fidgeting is making it come down. Hold still, Rosie.”

  Garret tucked the pins between his lips and gazed at the ever-loosening, honey-blond mane. The tiny tendrils at her nape weren’t damp anymore, he noticed.

  Soft. Her hair felt incredibly soft. He knew he ought to simply try to crank it back into a tighter twist and jam in those pins. As soon as he did, she could wash her hands, excuse herself, and go make herself presentable again.

  Instead, he held the bulk of it in his left hand. Tresses spilled from his grasp in a warm, satiny fall that went past her hips. Rose shivered and let her bread drop into the sink as she curled her hands around the edge of the counter.

  Garret took a steadying breath and finger combed the portions by her temples and forehead back into his hand with the rest. At first, he started to twist the abundant mass counterclockwise, then changed his mind and went the opposite direction.

  Rose inched to the side a bit, her movement nervous. She turned as much as she could and looked at him from the corner of her eye, over her shoulder. He could see vulnerability in her expression that he’d not seen before. She usually looked so self-assured and carefree. This was a different side of her—unguarded, unsure. “You needn’t fuss, Garret,” she whispered unsteadily. “Just—”

  “Seems to me,” he said around the pins in his most soothing tone, “you’re the one who’s fussing, Rose. Your hair is glorious.”

  He’d never dressed a woman’s hair. Never wanted to—until now. At least twenty different shades of honey, wheat, and gold shimmered in his hands. From having been twisted so tightly together, the strands still hung in a long, loose spiral. As he twisted them and coiled the length back onto her crown, Garret knew he wasn’t arranging it as she would have. Rose always crammed it tightly into a knot that would fit in a stingy teacup; he’d eased it into a … a delicious cinnamon roll–like coil that took his entire handspan to keep in place as he anchored it with the pins.