A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “Mother, here is yours, and Tom and Abby, here are yours.” They opened identical envelopes and found tickets and prepaid reservations at the beach for late June. Even Mrs. Blake chuckled delightedly.

  “How thoughtful of you, dear! Mrs. North will be perfectly envious. And Tom and Abby for company! Why, Abby, what a blessing getting out of the city will be at that stage of your development. Two cool weeks at the ocean.”

  “But you will be back by then, won’t you, Rose?” Tom asked intently. “You will go with us?”

  Rose brushed his questions aside. “In any event, I’ll probably have other obligations in June, but don’t worry about it. It could work out.”

  Cook brought the lovely pink-frosted cake into the dining room followed by the staff, who joined in singing “Happy birthday to you!” She thanked them all with tears in her eyes. When would this family circle be together again?

  The echoes of their singing came back to her that night as she lay in bed, and in her mind Rose imagined she heard a baby voice piping “to yew!”

  Chapter 6

  Rose lifted her cheek to Tom’s goodbye kiss while he held her hands in his. He grinned his “little brother” grin but spoke soberly.

  “Sis, I know this change of scenery will be good for you, so don’t be worried about Mother’s fussiness. I’ll see she has company and doesn’t get too lonely—but you mind your ‘Ps’ and ‘Qs’ and see we have nothing to worry about, right?”

  The look of manly concern on his face made her proud and caused tears to prick her eyes. He stared down for a moment and then continued, still keeping her gloved fingers in his.

  “Only don’t be gone too long, Rosie. What I mean is . . . You will be coming back, won’t you?”

  Good Tom! Her loyal champion, proven and true. Rose disliked distressing him. And yet she mustn’t fool herself into believing her future was bound up in his. Tom had Abigail and a child coming soon.

  “Tom, dear, I promise I’ll do what I believe is best for me. Will that please you?”

  His curly head nodded mutely. Rose stretched up to plant her kiss on his cheek.

  “Give my love to all. I will write soon.”

  She turned and the porter took her traveling bag in hand and assisted her to mount the steel steps into the train. A few minutes sufficed to settle in the car he led her to but she was on the wrong side of the train to see Tom. The cars lurched backwards as the conductor strode through shouting, “Allll abooooard!”

  One unoccupied seat remained on the other side of the car, and she hurried to its window. Tom was searching anxiously for her. His face cleared when he saw her waving.

  What am I doing? Rose wondered. Fear surged up into her throat and her mouth went dry. The train moved forward sluggishly, great puffs of black smoke belching from its engine. In panic she thought, I can still get off! I should go back! But she stayed, waving until Tom’s blonde hair was blocked from view.

  Cautiously she returned to her seat, inwardly cringing from every stranger around her. She sat still in the seat and watched the station as they passed through and beyond, faster and faster. Brushing the unwanted tears away, she pressed her lips tightly together in resolve.

  “If God has spoken to me, then I will be led by him. I’ll find the right place because he will show it to me, and everything will be all right. At the very least I will have obeyed him.”

  She drew a measure of strength from the thought, and out of her bag she pulled her notebook. With pencil in hand she began to make plans. When no one appeared to harass or intimidate her, she relaxed and the day passed quickly. In and out of busy stations, rolling south for now through bare fields and smoky cities they steamed. New faces arrived and familiar ones departed. The car wasn’t overly crowded, and no one came to claim the seat next to her. Rose had never traveled alone before, but as long as no one made familiar, she was happy to be left singular with a warm glow of this is it! running around in her heart. Her scribbling continued until the porter surprised her by announcing dinner. Even alone in the dining car her serene mood remained. She lingered over her coffee until the porter showed her to her sleeping compartment. The swaying of the train was soothing, and her thoughts wandered.

  I am thirty-three years old now. And for the first time in my life I am doing something on my own. The newness of the experience was satisfying, and she recalled a similar one from when she was thirteen years old. She and Tom were returning from town in their family’s carriage when Tom pointed out Pastor and Mrs. Greenstreet walking.

  Rose took it into her mind to stop the coachman and invite them to ride up. They were happy to and expressed their thanks to such a degree that Rose was inspired to invite them to dinner. Such an invitation was proper, and the circumstances did warrant it, but she knew full well Father’s particular aversion to mixing socially with preachers, even their own. He went to church on Sundays, and that was duty fulfilled. One didn’t have to see the minister outside of church, after all!

  Rose chatted pleasantly with the Greenstreets, quenching every other consideration and ignoring Tom’s goggling stare, and soon handed them neatly, with grace as befitted a young lady, into her mother’s keeping. Such an afternoon! Everything was of course properly gone through and the Reverend and his wife enjoyed their dinners immensely. But Rose had never seen such struggles for composure in her parents.

  “Whatever possessed you to do such a thing, Rose?” her mother remonstrated fruitlessly that evening. Mr. Blake had merely retired to his study in tight-lipped silence and had not reappeared for supper.

  “Why, Mother, did I do something wrong?” Rose had inquired sweetly.

  “No child, of course not.” Her harried mother left the room, defeated, to speak placations to an indignant cook.

  Rose laughed aloud at the reminiscence and smothered her face in the pillow of her rocking sleeper car. Yes, she was stepping out like that again. This time looking for . . . a place a place to dream, she thought sleepily. I can always go back, were her last conscious thoughts. Trains run both directions.

  The train carrying Rose on her venture in faith stopped early the next morning, and she was required to transfer to another one. This new vehicle was pointed due west and began its chugging progress through heavily populated communities and small patches of country and past landscapes the likes of which were new to her experience. Rose stared transfixed for hours at the unfolding miles.

  They stopped often, sometimes only for an hour or a few hours to take on coal, water, or other passengers. Twice they stopped overnight, and Rose would enjoy a hot bath and a “real” bed in a hotel—taking care to return in plenty of time for the train’s departure. One day began to blend with another, and all the while she kept her Bible close by, waiting for some indication, some direction.

  The passing scenery was more open as the days sped by. Farms abounded now, newly plowed. Any cities were mostly smaller and farther apart. Miles to the north were the Great Lakes, she was informed, the inland fresh water seas of America. Rose had no real desire to see large bodies of water, and they had already crossed more rivers than she could count. Still she paid her fare and rode on.

  Every other day she wrote a letter to her mother, Tom, and Abigail combined. She knew they would all read each other’s letters from her so she just wrote the one, filling it full of colorful descriptions and observations.

  Her most meaningful comment was how the whole land was coming alive right under her watching window. To Rose, it was like seeing a flower unfold before her eyes, and she always remembered the sweet joy of it in years to come.

  Some days she was forced into company. Most was pleasant; with other companions she remained silent and aloof. Once a drunken young man presumed to talk to her but a gentleman passenger alerted the conductor, and the two of them removed the offending individual. Then in Illinois, she faced a swiftly approaching choice: Would she go north, south, or across the Mississippi? Mainly because it was the most daring thing to do she continue
d straight west.

  The day they crossed the wide river a spasm of trepidation came on her, and haunting memories of the icy tragedy besieged her. However, seeing the broad expanse of water flowing calmly in the warm April sunshine banished the ice-choked images. This river wasn’t the frozen deathtrap of her imagination! It could be gotten over.

  Into the homestead and frontier country they went. Rose had already seen more of “real life” on this trip than she’d ever seen in her sheltered existence; now she began to experience it too.

  The nicer trains with new upholstery and sleeping cars were gone. She found it difficult to sleep in the same seat she also spent the day in and harder still to keep up her standards of grooming. Often she would walk up and down the aisles of the car to get relief from aching bones and cramped muscles.

  More than once she put her head slightly out of an open window, risking soot or cinders to briefly escape the smell of soiled babies, greasy food, and unwashed bodies. Finally, one evening, the train slid into a small town, and the conductor announced a layover of several hours.

  Instantly Rose was on her feet. She questioned the conductor at length and then returned to her seat and pulled her bag out. She was going to take a rest from riding trains! Stepping down from the car without assistance (no fancy porters out west!), she made her way to the ticket office, spoke to the man about her trunk, and turned to the town’s main street. A clean hotel was her desperate concern—and there it was!

  Chapter 7

  The next morning Rose felt like a new woman. She had gotten a room from a Mrs. Owens who managed a genteel boarding house and had even finagled a long, hot soak. Rose had washed her wheat-colored hair twice, rinsing it in lavender water. Finally, with a clean gown on and the smell of smoke, food, and other unmentionable odors cleansed from her senses, she’d slept long and soundly. The sun was far up and breakfast past when she opened her eyes. But what did it matter? She was off that moving train, and would not get back on until she was good and ready to.

  The town was certainly primitive by city standards, but somehow on this morning it was quaintly pleasant—and besides, it was standing still and the breeze offered a delightful mixture of fresh, natural scents. She looked around curiously. There were so many strange sights, sounds, and people. And here it was spring, wonderful, wild, western spring. Even the wide prairie views all around the town were green and alive. From what she’d heard and read, prairies were dreary and dry, but these weren’t! Somehow she must find a means to get out from town a distance to really see it.

  The people in the streets were dressed far more casually than she was. Rose turned right and found a “general store,” a sort of mercantile/drygoods and grocery combined. Shyly she entered to the rustic clerk’s cordial greeting in an accent unfamiliar to her. Thus encouraged, she fingered some of the yard goods and notions while trying to surreptitiously see everything else in the store. Her clothes were definitely out of place here with their sweeping skirts and yards of ruffles. Most of the women made their own clothes, she surmised by what she saw, and made them more for service than style.

  Other people were looking too, Rose finally noticed. At her. A faint flush crept up her neck, but she bore their scrutiny well. The discreet appraisals from the other customers were friendly and frankly admiring.

  Back out in the warm sunshine, she strolled the remainder of the street and found a very respectable-looking establishment with a prominent sign that read “RiverBend Savings and Loan: Real Estate, Bonds, Investments.”

  Rose let herself into the tidy front office and was ushered into the presence of a young “Mr. Robert Lewis Morton, Loan Executive,” complete with suit, vest, and ascot. A definite transplant.

  “Hmm! I shall get on very well here!” she smiled to herself and Mr. Morton as he rose to make introductions. His quick brown eyes summed her up, and he self-consciously adjusted his tie while seating her opposite his desk.

  Yes, she’d just arrived last evening while traveling and sightseeing. A short layover to recover from the rigors of the train, she responded to his questions. No, she was traveling alone. His eyebrows went up slightly in what Rose took to be disapproval.

  “This is a charming little town, Mr. Morton,” she went on, ignoring his look. “Tell me something about the area and the people living here. I’m particularly interested in the lovely countryside.”

  “Ah, Mrs. Brownlee, RiverBend is a humble but hard-working community. It is a small part of a larger, mainly agricultural area. Many families have farms acquired by homesteading, (an extremely demanding way to earn a farm, I assure you!) and are now successful in their endeavors. We have a variety of nationalities represented ’round about: German, Irish, Swedish, and your plain, garden-variety American.”

  “All good quality mostly. Even have a small Norwegian group. Not much different from the Swedes as far as I can tell, but they’ll tell you how different. Do a little dairying too, although we don’t foresee dairying as a major growth here—too far west, at least right now. Still they’re prosperous folk. Very determined and industrious. Do almost everything. Have to way out here! Well, we’re also proud have a little church, three schools (one in town, and two in the country), and socials often enough to keep everybody happy.”

  “And we’re growing! Why, our town has doubled in population in the last three years. My goodness, yes, many folk from back east, down south, and even from foreign countries have found a good life here. I myself am finding great success in my business.”

  He paused to let that impress her while he drew a breath. Running his eyes over her fashionable attire once more, he suggested brightly, “Perhaps you would care to see some of the country? I have a buggy, the weather is fine, and there is a business property I must examine. Would you be available to accompany me on a day excursion tomorrow? We could, say, breakfast at seven-thirty at Mrs. Owens’ and leave around eight-thirty while it is still cool, take a basket lunch, and return in the early evening?”

  Secretly, Rose, was delighted at the prospect of being shown the countryside, but she was not particularly impressed by the forwardness of Mr. Morton, so she replied with a studied politeness, “Perhaps we can meet around nine o’clock, Mr. Morton, and tour as you graciously offered. I will have Mrs. Owens prepare a lunch and let her know I will be back by tea time.”

  “Of course, of course, madam, just as you say! Nine o’clock sharp will be fine,” he smiled ingratiatingly.

  “Well, then, Mr. Morton, I thank you for your time and hospitality.”

  She stood, keeping her manner indifferent and civil. It wouldn’t do to have Mr. Morton or any man attaching significance to her behavior. She would be doubly careful from now on.

  A chain of thoughts unfolded as she made her way back to the boarding house. How very much her life had altered since that night in January! That a gentleman saw her as an object of possibility was both surprising and hurtful. She still found it difficult to accept her single status.

  That she was a woman of independent means made her more vulnerable to those whose interests in her money might be of first consideration. Mr. Morton struck her as just such a man. She had to be at least six years older than him.

  “I am still Mrs. James Jeffrey Brownlee. No one can take that from me!” she muttered defiantly. Somehow the pleasure of the day had waned, and she retired to her room. With a disciplined determination, she pulled her Bible from her bag and settled in a chair by the window to read. Her passage was in I Corinthians, chapter four. Verse 7 spoke to her strongly:

  For who maketh thee to differ from another?

  And what hast thou that thou dids’t not receive?

  “Yes,” she reflected, “I have a portion of security, even wealth to some, and yet it was all given to me. I never worked a day for such abundance. It is God who has blessed me.”

  Rose stopped and bowed her head and sincerely thanked him for what she had. She acknowledged, too, that her many questions remained unanswered and lifted them
up to the Lord again. But now with a newly found gratitude she felt a closeness to him that she’d lacked before.

  Reading on, she was moved to tears over Paul’s hardships and persecutions. No one had inflicted pain on her out of meanness or spite as they had Paul. Everyone had tried to comfort her. How alone he must have often felt and yet, at the end of the chapter, a verse stood out like a beacon:

  For the kingdom of God is not in word, but in power.

  Rose marched around the room in her excitement. Now she began to understand why Pastor Greenstreet’s words held no conviction or comfort—they had no power! Where did one get the power Paul was talking about? For a long while she stood, lost in reflection.

  A knock on her door brought her out of her meditation. Mrs. Owens, the owner of the boarding house, was standing there, warmly polite.

  “Your trunk was delivered this morn’. Are you wanting it sent up, Ma’am?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you!” Ah, the man at the depot was as good as his word. Now she would have a selection to choose from for her excursion tomorrow. The freight man had promised to call for her trunk any day she chose to continue her journey, but right now it would be good to have her things available. Trains running west arrived and departed Tuesdays and Thursdays, barring delays.

  After the man brought her trunk to her room, Rose opened it and gently unfolded the tissue surrounding a deep blue skirt and jacket. She began working the creases out with her hands and found some hooks to hang the clothes on. Both of her traveling suits, as fashionable as they might be, were stained and road weary, while this ensemble was fresh and “springy.” The dark suit would also convey the measure of decorum needed in a lady still in mourning.

  Against the inside of the trunk was another box, and she managed to extricate it without disturbing the rest of her careful packing. A brimmed straw hat of natural color, trimmed with royal and white ribbons and a simple nosegay at the crown was snugly fitted inside.