Micah gave him a stern look that reminded Andre of the boy’s other grandfather—a minister with an Old-Testament appearance, intelligent blue eyes, which he’d passed on to his son and grandson, and a heart of loving kindness. “I don’t think that’s what Maman had in mind.”
Andre suppressed a smile. “Perhaps, mon-fils, we can keep this a secret between us, eh?” He held up a hand. “Not a lie, you understand. Just don’t offer the information to my daughter.”
“Hah, as if I would. Unless Maman asks, of course,” Micah said hastily, picking up the opera glasses, holding them to his eyes, adjusting the focus, and looking outside. “The work’s coming right along,” he intoned, mimicking his father’s voice before pulling away the opera glasses and setting them on the table.
Andre watched with amusement. Ever since he’d met the boy, who’d snuck into the sickroom after a heart attack landed him and Delia in Sweetwater Springs, he and the child had become conspirators. “Now, away with you, scamp. Let me read Marty’s letter in peace.”
His grandson flashed an impish grin, stiffened and clicked his heels together, and snapped a salute. “Aye, aye, sir!” Lowering his arm, Micah left as quickly as he’d entered.
After the glass door closed, Andre shook his head and allowed his grin to break out. Micah provides me with endless entertainment. Then he glanced down at the envelope and saw the wavering letters of Marty’s usually impeccable script. His smile fell away.
With a feeling of foreboding, Andre sank into the nearest wicker peacock chair. As if to prepare himself, he picked up a glass of water from the table and sipped, wishing the hour wasn’t too early for wine. Fortified, he opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper with Marty’s shaky handwriting on both sides, and began to read.
Dear Andre,
The time has come to straightforwardly inform you that I am dying. My doctor has told me that I won’t see the New Year. I suppose the news will come as a shock, imagining me as I was several years ago when last you saw me hale and hearty—or as least as hearty as a reclusive scholar could ever be. But I’ve suffered a wasting sickness this past year, news that I’ve kept from you. Now I’m but withered, yellowing skin over bones. I think my doctor is generous in allotting me several months of life. I suspect my time will come in a matter of weeks, if not days.
This letter might appear disjointed. I’m writing in pieces when I have the strength to wield the pen and my thoughts are clear.
Don’t suppose me angry or sorrowing, old friend. I’ve had a good life and now am longing to join my dearest Eleanor in the Elysian Fields. Life holds little meaning when I can no longer read, nor spend time with my family. I rarely see John. That second wife of his clutches my son tightly to her bosom and always has an excuse for him not leaving her side, no matter the needs of his sickly father. For the same reason, my younger grandchildren are all but strangers. Thank goodness my oldest granddaughter still sometimes sneaks away from her stepmother. Cora’s visits brighten my days. But still, Andre, I’m ready to leave the burdens of life behind.
However, there’s Rose. Never did a man have a more special sister. Rose is talking about giving up her job at the library to nurse me. So far, I’ve forbidden her to do so. But, as I’m sure you recall, underneath her shy exterior, my sister has a stubborn streak. In spite of my brotherly injunction, I suspect she will give her notice any day now, and I’m helpless to gainsay her.
Wetness dimmed Andre’s vision. He remembered Rose, as he had so many times over the years, with an ache of regret. He had to stop and pull out a handkerchief to wipe his eyes before reading on.
As you know, my fortune (such as it is) along with the house and most of the contents, came from my dear wife’s family. Due to our marriage settlements, after my death, everything is willed to our son. And the doctor bills and medicine charges have drained my finances. What little I’ve retained will go to Rose, with a small bit left for Cora. Unfortunately, the child (although Cora’s a young lady now) has never found favor with my son’s second wife, who keeps her poorly clad and firmly under her thumb. So far, the harridan (I cannot bring myself to write her name) has not managed to squelch Cora’s independent streak. I hope the bequest will fund my granddaughter’s escape from her family.
With the exception of a few volumes that I know you’ve coveted, and another batch for Cora, I’m leaving the contents of my library to Rose. If I willed the books to John, that rapacious daughter-in-law of mine would sell them or perhaps use the volumes as fuel for the fire.
Normally, I would not speak so bluntly about a lady and a close relative. However, I think being on my deathbed entitles me to honesty. For the most part, my library isn’t a valuable collection but rather an extensive one, which I know Rose will appreciate and use for the rest of her life.
I worry about my two beloved girls. Cora is young and pretty. I suspect given half a chance to go into society, my granddaughter will be snapped up by some worthy man who will provide for her. However, the girl is stubbornly set on nursing and perhaps would even be a physician if she could, although my son and his wife are equally against the idea.
Cora has devoured my medical texts and has checked out all the available volumes from the library. For her birthday last year, I gave her Grey’s Anatomy, although she has to keep the volume here for fear of her stepmother discovering the book and throwing it away.
Rose, however, is a different case. As you know, she’s stubbornly remained a spinster. Now that she’s past childbearing age, I don’t expect that situation to ever change. I have no doubt, after my death, this house will be sold, and Rose will be turned into the street. If John and his wife do invite Rose to live with them, the offer will be made so begrudgingly that my sister’s pride will not allow her to accept. I don’t like the thought of her being alone in shabby lodgings, just getting by.
Andre’s heart squeezed. Only after he’d fumbled for the small bottle of digitalis from his vest pocket, shook out a pill, and washed it down with the glass of water near to hand, did he realize the pain might not be physical. He forced himself to continue reading, not easy given his watering eyes and the deterioration of Marty’s handwriting, almost to illegibility.
So, my old friend, I’m asking you to take care of Rose. You were always fond of her, and at one point, I had high hopes that more would develop. I would have loved to call you brother. All those years ago, when you came to me for advice about your change of circumstances, I thought you were making the right decision to relinquish the courtship, and thus I encouraged you to travel to Europe and leave Rose behind. I thought she’d find another man to marry and raise a family. Hindsight shows our mistakes in stark clarity….
But you’ve been my brother in spirit, Andre, and the bond we have will never die, although my body does. Someday, we’ll walk together in the Elysian Fields, old friend.
Marty
Andre held himself very still, as if moving meant he’d shatter into an unmanly burst of tears. Slowly, the squeezing pain in his heart ebbed.
With a long, slow sigh, Andre sat back in his chair, remembering a golden time when he and Marty were young and full of vigor. He’d been fresh-come to New York, which was as foreign from New Orleans as could be. After a few lonely weeks, he’d wandered into Marty’s bookstore for some reading material and made an instant friend in the owner. Not long after, he’d accepted an invitation to the Collier home for supper and met Rose.
My dear, dear Rose.
Thinking of her only brought the twang of familiar regret.
At twenty-one, Marty’s sister had been shy, pretty in an understated way, with wire-rimmed glasses muting the sparkling intelligence in her gray eyes. She was as different from his former mistress, Isabella Fortier, with her exotic beauty and greedy, grasping personality, as a woman could be.
Rose’s bright mind drew him and, over long discussions on books, his bruised trust in women recovered. He began a quiet courtship, sinking into a loving relationship as
if coming home where he belonged—with whom he belonged.
Andre suspected Rose had also fallen in love with him. Until I broke her heart.
* * *
When they didn’t have company, Andre, Delia, Joshua, and Micah—dined en famille, all clustered at one end of the long table to converse, instead of his daughter sitting far away at the foot. The maid served the food on their green transferware instead of the best china. This evening, they didn’t need the light of the two large silver candelabra and the electric crystal chandelier overhead, because sunlight streamed through the windows overlooking the garden.
The four took their regular places at the long table. His son-in-law, wearing a dark blue suit, sat at the head, Delia to one side and Andre to the other, facing the marble-topped sideboard in front of a cherry blossom mural.
Micah sat next to Delia, and the boy’s wink and grin at Andre told him that his daughter had no knowledge her father hadn’t spent the afternoon napping in his bed.
His mood still somber, Andre had to force a smile in response.
Andre didn’t believe in the adage that children should be seen and not heard, and he’d encouraged Joshua to allow the boy free rein at the table—as long as he minded his manners, that is. Truth be told, his son-in-law wasn’t fond of the stricture, either, and had readily agreed. Their meals certainly involved more laughter with young Micah participating.
The light from the windows glinted on the auburn strands in Delia’s dark hair. She was dressed in a loose-fitting tea dress of pale peach. Her olive skin was a trifle pale from the nausea accompanying the early stages of her pregnancy, but her hazel eyes glowed with the happiness she’d shown ever since her marriage.
After he’d read Marty’s bad news, Andre’s appetite was slight. He only sipped at the soup course—a hearty chicken and vegetable, normally a favorite—and didn’t touch the golden sourdough roll on his bread plate.
Around him, conversation flowed about the upcoming Harvest Festival to benefit the new church. Even Micah contributed, expressing his excitement and detailing everything he wanted to do at the event.
Normally, Andre would be interested in every detail of the discussion, especially since he’d contributed the land and the architectural drawings for the church. In addition, the idea for the Harvest Festival sprang up during one of the Bellaire-Norton dinner parties. Ever since, he’d had his fingers in almost every aspect of the planning and almost burst with pride about how his adopted community came together to throw the biggest shindig this town had ever seen—perhaps bigger than the whole state of Montana had ever seen.
Delia looked over at him, her eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “You’re very quiet, Papa. That’s not like you. Are you feeling unwell?”
Andre set down his spoon. “I had a letter today from Marty.”
Her brow crinkled. “Your friend in New York?”
“Marty wrote that he’s ill, and the doctor does not expect him to live out the winter.”
Delia sent him a sharp glance. “I know he’s one of your oldest friends, Papa. But you are not to even think of going to New York.”
Andre couldn’t resist shaking his head and giving Joshua an amused look. “Henpecked by my own daughter. Be warned, my dear boy. This is what awaits you.”
Joshua’s slight smile made the skin around his eyes crinkle. But wisely, his son-in-law remained silent.
“Papa!” Delia exclaimed.
Andre raised a hand in placation. “I know with my creaky heart I cannot travel to New York. However, it grieves me not to see my old friend once again…to bid him good-bye before he takes that great, last journey.”
“Surely Marty has family? Haven’t you mentioned he has a son and grandchildren?”
“Before he passes, Marty doesn’t expect to see much of his son John, whose second wife is in a delicate condition and often ill. She won’t let him leave her side. But Marty has his sister Rose. She’ll take good care of him.”
Something in Andre’s expression must have alerted his sharp-eyed daughter, for Delia gave him a searching glance. “I don’t recall you mentioning Rose before.”
“Have I not?” he casually replied.
“Is Rose married? Does she live with him?”
“Rose should have married. She’s beautiful and smart.” I expected her to fall in love with a worthy man and raise a big family of bookworms. “I don’t know why she didn’t.” Guilt weighed like a stone in his stomach, making him lose what little appetite remained. Surely not because of me.
Andre became aware of his daughter watching intently. “Perhaps—” he hurried to say “—because Rose was terribly shy.” With a reminiscing smile, he thought back to their many conversations. “Although, eventually, not with me.”
The interest on his daughter’s face encouraged him to continue. “She works as a librarian.” He frowned. “Marty tells me Rose has given up her job to nurse him.”
Joshua, who’d been quietly listening, set down his teacup. “If Miss Collier has left her employment, what will become of her when your friend dies? Will she be provided for?”
The question made Andre firm his mouth and clench his jaw. He forced himself to take a breath. “In a most basic way. Rose must have some savings. Marty will leave her a small annuity and his library of books. He has quite an extensive collection.”
“I hope your Rose has a close circle of friends,” Delia commented, her eyes fill of concern. “Else she’ll be lonely.”
He frowned at her. Sometimes my daughter is entirely too perceptive.
Andre tried to ignore Delia’s implication about the feelings for Rose he’d buried long ago. After he’d pulled away from their courtship, they’d both started avoiding each other. She took the job at Stone Street Library. When he dined at Marty’s, Rose would work late or visit friends. Later, she’d moved out of her brother’s home and into a small flat in a woman’s boardinghouse. He had no idea how she’d feel about him twenty-two years later. He calculated their ages. “Goodness. Rose must be in her forties by now. I always think of her as a woman in her twenties.”
Perhaps she’ll only view me as an old friend. He picked up his soupspoon and scooped up some broth.
“Too bad your library isn’t built.” Delia’s tone was as carefully casual as his had earlier been. “Your Rose could move out here and be the librarian.”
“She’s not ‘my Rose,’ dear one.” However, struck by the idea, Andre paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, feeling an unexpected lift of his spirits. Would Rose think of moving to Sweetwater Springs? Perhaps she’d consider working as the first librarian in a new library an interesting challenge?
Seeing Delia’s knowing glance made Andre refrain from rubbing his hands together. Outwardly calm, he finished a sip of soup and set down his spoon. Then he couldn’t help a grin slipping across his face. “Splendid idea, daughter. That’s exactly right. No time to waste. I must get started on the Sweetwater Springs library at once.”
CHAPTER THREE
After dinner, Andre went to his study, located between the music room and the library. His son-in-law had his own space on the opposite side of the library, close to the entrance of the home, so people could discreetly enter and speak to him. A large window at the back, flanked by long, narrow panels of stained glass, overlooked the conservatory, garden, and park. On sunny days like this one, Andre had plenty of light by which to read or write.
For a moment he paused, his fingertips skimming over Meditations. The worn volume containing the writings of Marcus Aurelius lay open on his desk. Over the years, the words of the ancient Roman philosopher often brought him wisdom and comfort. He was tempted to pick up the book and wander over to the leather chesterfield and take consolation from the familiar pages. But first, he had a duty to fulfill.
Andre moved to the leather chair behind the desk. He pushed aside Marcus Aurelius, pulled out a sheet of paper, moved the bronze inkstand in the shape of an eagle closer, and picked up his pen. He h
esitated, reluctant to put down the words on paper that would make Marty’s dying more real.
The inkstand was a gift from Rose, and he often thought of her when he used it. After a moment, Andre inhaled a shaky breath, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and wrote the salutation. He pressed lightly on the pen, trying to keep his handwriting neat, so as not to betray the depths of his emotion.
Dear Marty,
’Twas with great sorrow that I read the news of your illness, and, ever since, the memories of our years of friendship have been on my mind.
First of all, I want you to rest your mind about Rose and Cora. Your sister and granddaughter are welcome to come live with my family. There’s more than enough room in this big house I’ve built. As you know from my previous letters, Sweetwater Springs is very different from New York—small and primitive. But your dear ladies will find a community of strong, lovely women who will extend the hand of friendship, beginning with my own dear daughter. Rose and Cora will be warmly welcomed, and I’m sure they’ll quickly find their place among us.
He paused, smiling at the thought of Rose and Delia—the two women he loved most in the world—forming a friendship. The thought gladdened his heart. Again, he dipped the tip of the pen into the inkwell and continued his letter.
Plenty of young men of good character in need of a wife reside in Sweetwater Springs. Or if Cora wants to put her nursing to good use, our two doctors might find her employment. Even if she chooses to work, the men will line up to court her. There’s no reason she can’t be married and also find opportunities to follow her vocation—at least until the babies come.
He thought of his own grandbaby, who’d arrive in about six months. When he’d first found out Delia was enceinte, he’d written Marty, and, for courtesy’s sake, also his own family in New Orleans.
Marty’s return letter was filled with congratulations. His family’s not so much. They weren’t thrilled Andre had chosen to acknowledge his illegitimate, octoroon daughter as if she’d been born to him and a lily-white wife. Aside from Marty and his family, only the Nortons, the Livingstons—with whom they’d stayed while Andre convalesced after his heart attack—and Sheriff K.C. Granger knew the truth of Delia’s background.
A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel Page 2
