A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “Say, Mrs. Brownlee, Prince and Snowfoot are really glad to be home,” Søren said reassuringly.

  “Thank you, thank you for taking care of them!”

  And she ran off to look them over, leaving the boys behind.

  Everything and everyone, (meaning Prince, Snowfoot, and Baron) was fine, she concluded happily. The Thoresens had gone by the time she wandered back to the house. Sighing in deep contentment, she seated herself on the porch and watched the shadows fall on the prairie and fields. The fields were a soft, hesitant green, not really fully awakened yet, but the evening was warm and promising.

  She readily readjusted to the daily flow of chores and weekly events that she looked forward to. At services on Sunday she was greeted cordially, even warmly, by most but Vera was overjoyed to have her back.

  “Rose, how I’ve missed you!” The ladies’ study group is growing so well but it just isn’t the same without you.”

  “The ladies’ meeting isn’t the only thing growing!” Rose teased. Her friend’s figure had expanded considerably in her absence.

  Vera blushed and laughed prettily. “Yes, baby is coming along fine. Just about three months to go. We can hardly wait.”

  “And are you getting ready?”

  “Oh, Rose, God is so good! Our parents are so excited that they have sent quite a few things including a baby bed. I’ve been sewing merrily the last few weeks too!”

  Fiona joined them, and Rose squeezed her fondly. Meg and Fiona hadn’t waited for Sunday to pay a visit to Rose, and she had already been welcomed heartily. A half-dozen steaming Irish scones in a basket had been in their hands when they knocked at her door.

  “Aye, ye’ve been sewin’ girl,” Fiona chuckled. “Few babes coom t’ the worl’ wi’ sech a foine layette as this ’un has already. Why, what she does wi’ needlework an’ embroidery on plain cotton is fit fer t’ crown prince o’ England, I’m thinkin’!”

  “And a crown prince or princess is what they are getting, too, Fiona. As if you don’t remember how we all fuss over our first one so.” Recalling her new nephew, Rose added, “And I can’t tell you what a darling little man my brother’s boy is—why Jamie Blake is every bit as big already as Sean, Fiona, and besides that—”

  She would have bragged on but they laughed her into giggles so she couldn’t continue.

  “Well, he is a cutie!” she finished triumphantly.

  “Oh, an’ have ye heard Sigrün’s weddin’ is fixed last Saturday o’ May?” Fiona filled in the details of the big event being planned “far grander than Sally Gardiner’s for ’tis Amalie’s first child t’ marry and Jan has set his mind on it bein’ everything Sigrün an’ Amalie would be wishin’.”

  Rose was happy for both Sigrün and Amalie, and Jan Thoresen rose in her estimation as a man who showed he understood what was important to female thinking. “The weather will be lovely then,” she thought aloud.

  A little frown puckered Fiona’s brow, and she answered slowly, “Ye-es. Should be at that, boot a fair cold spring we’ve been havin’ s’far, an t’ almanac has bid farmers t’ be sowin’ late—not ’til mid May even. We’ve seen it snow afore in June. Nae a freezin’ snow, boot there ’as been killin’ frosts in May, too.”

  Vera listened placidly to all this, but Rose grew alarmed. “I’m going to put my garden in this week, Fiona. Do you believe it’s too soon? Yours was in this time last year.”

  “Aye, an early spring we were havin’, too. Best be waitin’ loike ever’one else and plant mid-May. Mind ye an’ that’s nae guarantee neither.”

  Another three weeks! At home Rose examined her shrubs and bushes. They were budding out nicely—slowly, she admitted—but coming along still. Her beds were full of the tender tips of tulips and iris; the daffodils, hyacinth, and lily-of-the-valley were poised on the brink of bloom. Still there was something to what Fiona had said, for the day’s warmth was often just a bit too tentative, the evenings a little more brisk than one cared for. Rose asked Little Karl Thoresen to plow the garden, so I’ll be ready, she told herself, and he arrived mid-week with the wagon and plow horse. The plow was in the wagon’s bed. Within a quarter hour he was hollering “gee-up!” and criss-crossing the plot back and forth, turning over the soil that had been asleep all winter. Rose and the Baron lounged near the garden. Rose, girl-like with feet bare, was watching the dark, damp earth as it came up, enjoying the gentle breeze. She heard Baron’s growl of disgust before the step behind her and a greeting.

  “Gud day, Mrs. Brünlee. Is Karl do good job?”

  “Goodness! Hello, Mr. Thoresen, how are you?” She discreetly hid her feet under her skirt, but he merely looked away with a soft grin and squatted down a few feet off.

  “I fine, denk you,” he answered her question and repeated his. “Is Karl do good job?”

  “Oh! Oh, yes, certainly. I’m just anxious to plant soon, you know and—” she remembered to slow down. “And I’m very ready for spring and summer again.”

  He wrinkled his leathery face as he squinted up at the sky and around the yard. “Ver cool time still, eh? Maybe yes can plant now and all right.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe come hard freeze, kill everyt’ing.” He smiled wryly. “Get plant again!”

  They both laughed at his joke, then Rose questioned seriously, “So you think it may be late enough now?”

  His slow, steady smile took in her anxious query.

  “If soft snow come,” he struggled for the words he wanted and Rose sensed his frustration. “If snow not freeze, if melt away quick, okay then. If snow or frost hard on plants, then some die. We see, ja?”

  Rose understood and nodded. It was up to her to take the chance, the risk.

  Jan helped Karl load the plow into the wagon and lifted his hat to Rose when they left later. She wandered around the plot several times in contemplation before she decided.

  “I’m going to do it. Tomorrow morning.”

  Actually, the day was gloriously warm and everything she wanted when she put the garden in. By herself this time, not as Fiona’s protégée, she marked off the plot, staked her rows, and planted the seeds. The dirt was warm to her bare feet as she padded along. When she stood still and dug her toes into the coolness it was nice, not uncomfortable. By afternoon when she finished, the day was verging on being hot. She took a short break for lunch and returned to work, this time with a hat on, to dig the furrows while the ground was soft and easy to move. Stretching her sore muscles around three she surveyed her day’s labor and was content.

  “I can easily trench the rest tomorrow. The important thing is, the garden is in!” Her spirits continued to climb as throughout the week the weather moderated and continued warm. The leaves on her bushes and shrubs and her tiny fruit saplings unfurled and turned up to the sky. White bells of the valley dotted the flower beds along the porch along with yellow and purple crocus, bonny yellow daffodils, pink and lavender hyacinth, and the shoots of other, later blooming bulbs and tubers stretching up in the warmth.

  She even breathed a sigh of relief when Fiona told her a week later that she had put her garden in, too. All over, spring was “happening,” and the farmers were busy in their fields, working from dawn to dusk to make up for the few weeks they’d been delayed.

  The height of Rose’s joy was when the buds began to form on her roses. She checked the calendar carefully.

  If all went well, the first of her blooms would grace the most sacred of all occasions . . .

  Then two weeks into May the wind shifted in an afternoon and the temperature dropped ten, twenty, thirty degrees as night descended.

  Chapter 26

  The chill wind had blown until dark clouds scudded across the night sky and in the morning when Rose awakened, the Baron was scratching and whining imperiously at the door. When she opened it, he bounded through, shaking fresh snow in all directions while Rose stood in the doorway staring. At least several inches of soft, wet, spring snow lay everywhere, and the sky glowered threateningly. Ros
e would have judged it to be before sunrise if she hadn’t known better.

  Remaining calm, she sought her memory. What was it Mr. Thoresen had told her? If the snow were soft and melted off quickly, the damage would be minimal? Rose grabbed up her shawl and walked out to check the garden. Traversing the porch to the south side of the house she first examined the roses then strode into the snow to the garden, then the “orchard.” Everything was thoroughly coated, but the snow was so heavy with moisture that she was sure it would melt off as soon as the sun came out. The sun, however, was not to be seen and Rose shivered as a bone-chilling gust of wind struck her. She was hardly dressed for the present turn in the weather.

  Back in the house she changed into warmer clothing and went through the chores. Ever present was the worry about the snow and drastic change in the temperature. Not only her small garden but the whole community’s crops for the next year were at stake. The coffeepot sent forth its usual appealing aroma, and Rose took no notice. Breakfast held no allure. She viewed the long day ahead trapped inside with disappointment and an irritable temper.

  Finally Rose sat herself in the rocker before the stove, ottoman beneath her feet and a cup of coffee beside her, and took up her Bible. If winter would persist a little longer, then so must she. Turning to where Vera had been teaching, Rose reread her careful notes. They were studying the book of Ruth. Oh, how she ached as Vera described the young Ruth’s circumstances: a widow and a foreigner in Israel, not even welcome in her husband’s country and forced to work each day among unfriendly strangers just to glean enough grain to keep herself and her mother-in-law from starving through the winter. Then, out of the blue, a relative of her husband begins to assist her efforts. Acting on her mother-in-law’s advice, Ruth calls upon this relative to “redeem” her and her husband’s property by marrying her! In the end, he does so, giving Ruth and her mother-in-law a home and security, and her husband’s name and property to their first born son. Vera pointed out how the relative had not been a young, handsome man. It had been a marriage of necessity and convenience, yet out of commitment to the God of Israel and great mutual respect for each other they formed a lasting union resulting in the eventual birth of King David—and also the Lord Jesus.

  It was such a tragic and romantic tale the way Vera presented it. Rose considered Boaz’ words to Ruth:

  Blessed be thou of the Lord, my daughter:

  for thou hast shewed more kindness in the latter end than at the beginning,

  inasmuch as thou followest not young men, whether poor or rich.

  And now, my daughter, fear not;

  I will do to thee all that thou requirest:

  for all the city of my people doth know that thou art a virtuous woman.

  Seemingly, Ruth understood a man’s character to be more important than youthful romance and chose it as a superior match, even though she was still young and attractive.

  Engrossed in her thoughts, Rose put her Bible away and straightened the kitchen. All activities must be done inside today, so she made herself look over her clothes and begin a mending project, occasionally opening the door or going to a window to check the weather as the day wore on. Around three, Rose was considering hitching Prince to the buggy for a drive. The threatened storm had not materialized and the clouds showed promise of breaking up and letting in a bright day’s end. The knock at the door startled her and then Baron’s unfriendly attitude as he tore up the side porch and around to the front let her know who it was before she opened the door.

  “Mr. Thoresen, hello!” Rose was so glad to see another face.

  Ja, god-dag,” he greeted her. “You please to take ride?” He indicated his buggy in the yard pulled by his team of bays.

  “Yes, yes!” Rose, in her haste to enjoy the unexpected treat left Jan on the porch with the Baron while she scrambled into her long coat, bonnet, and mittens. Glowing and anxious to get out into the fresh air, she bustled through the doorway and distractedly shooed Baron as he pushed against her. Jan’s eyes glinted with humor, but she didn’t notice.

  They drove away, slowly, sloshing through the wet and melting snow, the breeze catching at their clothes and whipping their cheeks. The urge to sniff the air and see all about was like a thirst to Rose, and she closed her eyes in bliss.

  “Day to ride—not to house, ja?” Mr. Thoresen observed.

  Rose agreed heartily. “I was feeling so ‘cooped up’ because of the snow. I’m glad you came.”

  Across the snow-clad plain on little used roads and tracks the bays charged with a will. In her own enjoyment Rose never wondered at Jan’s coming today. They drove on and after a while Jan spoke, loudly enough to hear over the swish of the wheels and the wind whistling by,

  “Ve go, look river. Ver big now. Grand.”

  Rose hid a smile. “Grand” was not a word she’d ever heard Jan Thoreson use. He’d just added that one recently.

  He pulled the team up as they approached the brow of the overlook and laid the buggy alongside the edge. Below and running from the north was the very creek that divided their properties. It was wider and deeper here where it emptied into the much larger river. Fresh snow covered the banks of the creek and hung over the sides of the small torrent in outlandish, drooping pillows. The junction of the two streams was swollen and swift, wickedly so in Rose’s imagination. It was both “grand” and disquieting to her. The still, white plains in the distance seemed surreal in their picture-like quality as the sun’s late rays broke through and touched them. All was silent save for the shifting of the team.

  Watching the river, she was reminded of that night when heavy, heaving chunks of ice floated in another river . . . the horses screaming, Clara crying—she shivered and shook off the oppressive memory. Jan was speaking, very slowly and carefully forming his thoughts.

  “ . . . name vas Elli. Vas gud, best, and kind woman.”

  Rose saw that he was holding in his hand a small tintype set in a morocco case. Instinctively she reached out to examine it. He set it gently in her palm, and Rose beheld a woman’s face, unsmiling as the custom was, but nevertheless with some quality that made Rose smile back into the sweet likeness. A familiar something, too . . .

  “Who . . .?” She looked up inquiring and Jan was studying her steadily. Could he sense her preoccupation of the last few minutes? Her lack of attentiveness couldn’t have gone unnoticed.

  “Mine vife, Elli.” He spoke patiently; Rose knew he was repeating what she had not heard the first time.

  He continued. “Fever, ver bad come. Our daughter Katrin, mine brot’er Karl, and mine Elli die. Go to God. For eight year.”

  Re-examining the image of the woman, Rose now saw the resemblance Søren bore her in the cheeks and the nose. His mother in this picture was young still.

  Why, she was closer to my age when this was taken, Rose thought. Yet she is dead, gone from her family like James. Tears of sympathy sprung to her eyes.

  “I haf much love for Elli. Ver hard lif mit no Elli,” Jan said slowly. There was a pause before he went on, each word chosen, practiced. Rose had never heard him speak so much in English. “You love, too. Your man.” And very softly, “He die, too, ja?”

  His understanding undid her. Voice shaking, Rose tried to answer back. “Yes, he died. And my children, my sweet little ones, too.” She gestured at the water. “Our carriage slid into a frozen river like this one. They all died. They drowned. Except for me.” Rose wept and felt shame. She’d been so strong, so healed at their graves yet now, here where the memory was more real, she struggled with but couldn’t seem to stop the grief.

  The buggy pulled away from the high bank. Making a wide circle, they turned back in the direction of her home. Now, before them and off every snow-clad feature near or far, the setting sun burned with ribbons of red, pink, and oranges; clouds edged in scarlet-purple defied blue backgrounds, and the majestic white of distant ranges danced in every hue of dress the sunset could conjure up. Slowly peace and control returned to Rose�
�s heart. She breathed deeply and gathered her wits about her. The tears had dried but the shame of their memory had to be dealt with. She was about to speak up and apologize when Jan stopped the team. He turned and faced her in the seat. The deliberateness of his manner confused her into stammering,

  “Mr. Thoresen, I’m very sorry for my behavior . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  He shook his head once, decidedly and spoke. “I sorry! Not know (he searched for the word) river?”

  She acknowledged this and he continued.

  “Mrs. Brünlee, vas Mr. Brünlee Christian?”

  Rose was surprised into just nodding.

  “Mrs. Brünlee, ven trust Jesus, not gone alvays, now only.” There was encouragement in his tone and an earnestness in his expression made her look him full in the face. His eyes were open down to his soul. “I tell you trut’, little woman, God never gone, alvays vit you. As Christian brot’er I promise you, God vill help.”

  A flood of gratitude welled up in Rose. She wanted to thank him, express it someway, but he “chirruped” to the horses, and neither of them spoke going home. Deep in thought, Rose turned over the events of the afternoon and, yes, even her changing impressions of this man, Jan Thoresen. For he was far deeper than she had imagined—how had she once thought him rather bland and unemotional, an old, worn-out farmer and Amalie’s dutiful but indifferent husband? Rose shook her head. None of that seemed to fit anymore. How different everything and everyone seemed from her first impressions that spring a year ago!

  In front of her house he helped her down and escorted her to the front door. The Baron made a fuss there, fawning on her and nearly overturning her, threatening low in his throat at Jan. She patted him and attempted to quell his exertions, but he was too wound up to be placated.

  “Down!” Thunder rolled in Jan’s voice, and Baron dropped to the floor of the porch like he’d been shot.