For Whom the Roses Grow

by Rebekah Blackmore

  They must have gone to town, Jo realized, feeling a stab of disappointment that they didn’t wait for her before going. She could not remember either woman saying that they needed anything, but with all the turmoil surrounding Mrs. Anderson, Jo easily could have missed a passing comment. Jo still wanted to talk to the girls, though, so she would just have to catch them on their way back. Besides, a trip into town would do her good, give her something to distract her from her fear and anxiety.

  Since she had left her boots on when she had napped with Mrs. Anderson, it took no time at all for Jo to be ready for her journey. She snagged a slice of the bread to eat while she walked and made her way out of the house and down the pathway to the woods.

  Before she could make it all the way off the property, however, Jo noticed something moving in the corner of the rose garden. From across the yard, she couldn’t tell what the creature was, but it looked big and dark against the newly blossomed buds. She quickly ate her slice of bread and headed over, taking cautious steps and trying to stay hidden behind the topiaries and bushes as she approached the mysterious creature. It wasn’t often that she had seen bears or other large mammals on the property, but Dessie and Susanna often spoke of deer and elk devouring the garden in the days before Mrs. Anderson got sick. Jo had only begun her work, but she still didn’t want anything to ruin her precious work.

  Jo grit her teeth and paced her steps, trying to keep quiet as she tried to figure out the best way to get rid of such a large animal. As she got closer to the garden, however, voices began to carry on the breeze. Why, that wasn’t a mysterious animal at all! It was Dessie and Susanna, working in the garden!

  Jo quickened her pace and jogged down the path, a smile splitting her cheeks as she saw new plants growing alongside the roses. There were flowering bushes and vines, gorgeous blooms that she had never seen before. “What’s all this?” she asked, awestruck by the beauty in front of her. She reached out and ran her fingertips over a bright-orange petal, marveling at the silky texture.

  Dessie and Susanna glanced at one another before looking at Jo. Dessie’s brows were furrowed as she said, “We thought you had planted these. Did you not get these with the roses?”

  Jo shook her head and looked at Susanna. “Sussie, you were with me when I bought the roses. Do you not remember?”

  “I do, but I thought perhaps you went back and got these, as well.”

  “No. I have never seen these before in my life.” She gathered her skirts and crouched down, examining a dark-pink flower with more petals than she had ever seen on a single flower. She leaned forward and sniffed it, letting out a pleased hum at the fresh aroma. The bud smelled sweet without being too floral, with just the slightest hint of musk. It reminded Jo of Mrs. Anderson’s natural scent.

  Dessie ran her hand over another blossom. “I wonder where they came from, then. Mrs. Anderson must have a garden faerie looking out for her.”

  “She must.” Jo put her hands on her thighs and pushed herself back up. She looked around to see that most of the weeds and ivy that she had left on the angel statues were now on the ground in a pile. Only one of the four statues had green left on it, and even that was only a few vines. Jo waved her hand at the pile. “Did you do that?”

  “Yes, we did. We figured that with all the hard work you have put in to making this place beautiful for Mrs. Anderson, it was only fair that we help you finish. Besides, with how lovely the weather is becoming, perhaps Mrs. Anderson will have a desire for fresh air. I mean, you managed to convince her to leave her bed chamber, perhaps you can convince her to leave her house.” Susanna smiled at Jo before coming over and giving her a hug. “How is she doing?”

  “Well, her fever broke, but she’s still sleeping. Doctor Lenaldi gave her a sedative while he was here, and he said she might end up resting for a while.”

  “Did he say what caused it?”

  “Just the weather, but . . . ” Jo trailed off, biting her lip. She wasn’t sure she wanted to admit it out loud, but she wasn’t so sure that Doctor Lenaldi was correct in his belief. Yes, the weather had changed rather suddenly, but Jo had seen with her father the way that people’s health declined after their heart had been broken. Mrs. Anderson may not have admitted her feelings to Jo, but the anger and sadness that she felt in regards to Hattie’s kiss was evidence enough.

  “But . . . ?” Susanna prodded, moving to Jo’s side and putting an arm around her shoulder encouragingly. She leaned her head against Jo’s temple and rubbed her upper arm.

  Jo held her breath for a moment before letting it out and continuing with her thoughts, her voice tight around the lump in her throat. “The other day, before Mrs. Anderson locked herself in her room . . . I did something that I shouldn’t have, and Mrs. Anderson saw. She was furious and locked her door out of spite against what I had done.”

  Dessie’s eyes widened. “Is this about when Hattie kissed you?”

  Susanna let out a gasp and spun on her heel, placing both of her hands on Jo’s shoulders and locking her eyes with Jo’s. Spots of red appeared high on her cheeks, and her nose crinkled up. “Oh, Jo, tell me you didn’t kiss someone else. You are sweet on Mrs. Anderson! And with that girl from town? Why, I thought you were barely even friends!”

  Jo nodded absentmindedly before looking at Dessie. “How did you know about that?”

  “I was helping Theresa, remember? Hattie came by to talk to her immediately after and told us everything. She said that Mrs. Anderson slammed her window shut the moment Hattie’s lips touched yours, she was so mad.”

  Susanna loosened her grip and took a step back. “Oh, Jo.”

  Jo bit her lip and nodded again. “Yes, that’s right. I thought that Mrs. Anderson was still resting, so I was emboldened to try and see if a relationship with Hattie could develop. She’s much closer in age and statute to me than Mrs. Anderson is, and I knew that she was interested in me romantically. I tried not to think about Mrs. Anderson when it happened, but when I heard the window I knew that I had done something wrong.”

  Jo was quiet for a moment, stepping to the side and toying with a blossom. “I tried to apologize to Mrs. Anderson, but she locked me out. I could hear her crying through the door.” Her voice began to quiver up again. “She said that she must have misunderstood what she thought we had, and that she didn’t want to hear anything about my ‘trysts with the village wenches’.” The tears began to slip down her cheeks.

  Susanna let out a gasp, and Dessie looked appalled. “Oh, Jo,” Susanna said, echoing her sentiments from earlier, “you must have broken her heart. Do you think that’s why she fell ill? Because her emotions were too strong for her body to handle?”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

  Dessie let out a long breath through her nose and crossed her arms, the cautious expression on her face morphing into anger. “Jo, I should have told you this weeks ago, but Mrs. Anderson has been head-over-heels for you since the moment you walked into this house. That day when Sussie and you purchased the roses in town, Mrs. Anderson woke up for the briefest of minutes. She called me up to help her to her water closet, and while we were there, she confided in me that her interests tended to gravitate towards women, and that she found you remarkably lovely. She asked if you had ever shown any interest in the fairer sex, and when I said you have, many times, she took my hand in hers and asked if I thought she would be capable of winning your affections.”

  At Dessie’s words, Jo’s heart sunk. So she was right in her assumptions about Mrs. Anderson’s feelings. She should have kept her fleeting interest in Hattie to herself. If she had, Hattie and she would have stayed friends, and Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t have sent her away. Mrs. Anderson would have kept taking her medicine, and likely wouldn’t have gotten sick.

  This was all Jo’s fault.

  Before Jo knew what was happening she had fallen to her knees in her dirt, her dark-blue skirt turning brown from the damp earth. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed, her chest feeling like i
t was filled with broken glass. Her heart was racing, and she had a feeling akin to being doused with ice water that started near her shoulders and went down to the tips of her toes.

  She was dying, she was sure of it.

  She could feel either Susanna or Dessie squatting down beside her and rubbing her back comfortingly while the other stroked her hair, but she was too far gone to entirely notice what was going on around her. She did notice, however, that each breath she took felt shallower and shallower, and that spots of black were beginning to swim into the corners of her vision. She knew she was looking down at the grass, but the spreading darkness made her vision shrink and shrivel until she could only see a few blades at a time.

  Soon, everything went black.

  ***

  When Jo next awoke, she had to blink several times before her eyes adjusted to the dim light streaming in through the window. She could tell she was in a bed, but she wasn’t sure whose bed it was, especially considering the unfamiliar green-and-blue quilt covering her legs. It didn’t match the décor of any other room in the house. Jo had a simple, scruffy brown sheet in her bedchamber, Dessie and Susanna had a white quilt (both in the room they shared and in “Susanna’s” room), and Mrs. Anderson had a thick down-filled red monstrosity. The pillows, too, were an odd color, and when she looked around the room, she realized that all the furniture looked out of place.

  Next to the bed, there was a small bookstand that was crammed so full that books were spilling out into a pile on the floor. There was an armoire against the left adjacent wall, but the hinged, designed doors were open and revealed that the wardrobe was void of all articles of clothing. There was some sort of metal contraption leaning against the opposite wall next to a large window. The blood-red curtains were drawn, and the gold drawstring that would have opened them was sitting in a pile on the floor next to the metal doohickey. Next to it was also a wooden trunk and a cup full of wooden sticks.

  When Jo got out of bed and went to examine the sticks, she was shocked at what she saw. Why, the sticks were not sticks at all! They were paintbrushes. She opened the trunk next (the lock and hinges had rusted off) and discovered that it was holding hundreds of small tubes of paint.

  This must be an easel, then, she reasoned, running her hand over the metal stand and finding the lever to raise or lower the bottom latch. Up close, she could see small specks of color on the iron legs, and a few miscellaneous strokes where Mrs. Anderson’s brush must have slipped.

  Jo nearly dropped the brushes that were in her hand as she realized where she must be. Mrs. Anderson’s studio.

  Now that Jo knew where she was, she couldn’t help but examine the room more fully for signs of Mrs. Anderson’s work. She couldn’t see any completed canvases, unless—ah, yes!

  Jo pushed the tips of her fingers against the back of the armoire and popped the panel off its grooves, something she had only seen done once or twice. Back at her brother’s house, Matthew had an armoire that had a false back. He hid his alcohol behind it (his wife had never approved of his drinking, especially after she saw what a horrid man it turned Matthew’s and Jo’s father into), but Mrs. Anderson . . . she was smart. Hiding her work behind a removable panel in a locked room was the perfect way to ensure that no one ever saw her work, ever again.

  What Jo didn’t understand, however, was why she was so afraid of anyone else finding her work. The paintings, albeit unevenly shaded, were still some of the most stunning pieces of artwork Jo had ever seen.

  She pulled one of the paintings out of the stack, her eyes widening as she realized what she was looking at. She wasn’t sure how Mrs. Anderson had managed to do it, but the painting was a family portrait of herself, Jacob, Casey, and Molly. Mrs. Anderson was sitting in a wooden chair with Molly in her arms, the baby girl wearing the same dress that Jo on the cradle saw her very first day in the house. Jacob was standing behind Mrs. Anderson with a hand on her shoulder, and Casey, no more than seven or eight years old, was standing next to the chair with his hand on the arm of the chair.

  Jacob Anderson looked completely different in the image than Jo imaged him to. She expected a heavy beard and goatee, and dark hair, but that wasn’t him at all. Mrs. Anderson had painted the image in color, which meant that his dark-red locks, similar in color and texture to Mrs. Anderson’s, burned bright against the hunter-green background. He had no facial hair, and his sunken-in features looked almost gray. He was incredibly tall and lanky, and had fingers that looked like they went on for miles. Casey had the same fire-colored hair and was the spitting image of his mother, but Molly had golden, strawberry-brown locks and resembled Jacob more than Mrs. Anderson.

  They really did make a beautiful family.

  Jo examined the image for a moment more before she put it back down and picked out another painting. She wasn’t sure who this one was of, but it clearly had been done at an earlier time in her life. The lines were much more sharp, although the style seemed to be a bit underdeveloped. The image itself, however, was just as striking as the one before it.

  A young woman with white-blonde hair and alabaster skin stared at Jo from the canvas, her icy-blue eyes looking as though they were staring straight into Jo’s soul. She had full, wine-colored lips and rosy cheeks, and her long lashes looked as though they were miles long. The painting stopped right below her shoulders, the dusty-purple satin of her cap sleeves and bodice highlighting the deep caverns of her collar bones. Her skin looked like it was glowing, and there were a few light-blue specks that showed the freckles across her nose and cheekbones.

  Jo couldn’t help but wonder if this gorgeous woman was Evie, the woman who had caused Mrs. Anderson so much misery. If it was, Jo could see why Mrs. Anderson had fallen for her, especially with her lovely, delicate features. She looked like Aphrodite, especially when she was compared to the dull, drab façade that was Jacob Anderson’s visage.

  Jo put the painting back and shut the back panel, suddenly feeling exhausted and famished. She shut the armoire and took a step back, taking one last glance around the room to see if she had missed any interesting paintings or artifacts in the room. At first glance, there wasn’t anything exciting, but when she looked a second time, especially when her eyes passed the door, she realized that she had been wrong.

  Mrs. Anderson was awake.

  20

  Jo let out a gasp and ran across the room, dropping down to her knees in front of Mrs. Anderson’s chair and taking her hands in hers’. “I’m sorry,” she said, squeezing the older woman’s hands before lying her head down on Mrs. Anderson’s lap. Tears sprang to her eyes as the older woman began to run her fingers through Jo’s hair, but they did not fall. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, for any of this—”

  “Shh,” Mrs. Anderson soothed, moving one of her hands around to cup Jo’s chin. She lightly pushed Jo’s head up so that Jo had to look at her. “I do not blame you for causing me to fall ill. That was my own misdoing, not taking my medication. It is not your fault that you do not share my interest. Miss Threadgood is a lovely girl, or at least she was, growing up. Pretty, too, like her mother.”

  At first, Jo was surprised that Mrs. Anderson knew who Hattie was, but the she realized it made sense for her to know. Hattie was nineteen; Mrs. Anderson would have only been fourteen when Hattie was born, well before she cut herself off from the rest of the world. Before she had time to say anything, Mrs. Anderson continued speaking. “I must admit, though, Joanna, I was deeply hurt to see you kissing her. I could tell that the female form intrigued you, but I truly felt that you returned my interest—”

  “I do.”

  Mrs. Anderson’s brows furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your interests, ma’am. I very much return them.” She blinked rapidly, trying to rid herself of the tears blurring her vision. She slid her fingers in between her cheek and Mrs. Anderson’s hand, pushing her away before interlacing their fingers and dropping a few light kisses against Mrs. Anderson’s knuckles. She coul
d hear Mrs. Anderson let out a gasp above her when she darted her tongue out to taste the webbing in between her fingers.

  “Joanna, I . . . ” she trailed off when Jo moved her kisses up to her lace-covered wrists. “Joanna, look at me, please. If you truly do feel this way about me, then I do believe that we need to talk.” Her voice began to sound breathy as she finished speaking.

  Jo immediately stopped her kisses and looked up at Mrs. Anderson to see that her eyelids had begun to droop and her cheeks were still ghastly pale. In all her excitement at Mrs. Anderson being awake, she had nearly forgotten how sickly the woman still was. It had been mere minutes (or hours, Jo supposed, if Mrs. Anderson had woken up while Jo was sleeping) since she had been roused from her medicine-induced slumber. It should not have come as a surprise that coming to Jo exhausted her.

  Regardless, Jo nodded and stood up, moving behind Mrs. Anderson’s chair to turn her back in the direction of her bedroom. Before she could get the chair turned all the way, though, Mrs. Anderson used what little strength she had left to dig her heels into the ground. Jo looked down at her in confusion and tried to move her again, but Mrs. Anderson frowned and pointed to the bed that Joanna had woken up in. “Joanna, I’ve spent three years keeping this room locked up. I had Dessie unlock it the moment I awoke so I could share this part of my life with you, and that’s what I intend to do. Now take me to that bed.”

  Jo couldn’t help but chuckle at the forceful, demanding tone that Mrs. Anderson was using. It was much more like her than the breathy, tired murmurs she was letting out before. It made Jo grin. “Yes, ma’am.”