A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  Two steps behind Cora, Rose moved stiffly as if tired or sore, a contrast to Cora’s buoyant steps. Or maybe she’s reluctant.

  Although she pointedly avoided his eyes, Andre hungrily watched Rose, noting how she’d barely changed. He saw some lines around her eyes and mouth, and gray threads in the brown hair fringed across her forehead and pulled back under her plain, dark hat. She’d remained thin, although with perhaps a few more pounds giving shape to her slender figure. From behind her spectacles, the same intelligent gray eyes surveyed her surroundings. Her gray duster appeared somewhat wrinkled and smudged.

  Delia surged forward, hands outstretched. “Miss Collier and Miss Cora, welcome.” She gave both of them a hand.

  After greeting Delia, Cora dropped her satchel and bounced over to give Andre an exuberant hug. “I can’t believe we’re finally here! Oh, thank you for inviting us!”

  He couldn’t help but grin, and then shifted back and held Cora’s shoulders, the better to examine her face. “I’m happy you’re here, too. Look at you, all grown up and beautiful.” So like the young Rose I remember. “The men in this town will be knocking down my door.” He kissed her cheek and lowered his voice, speaking in her ear. “I’m glad you persuaded your aunt to travel with you.”

  “Grandpapa said Aunt Rose is the most amiable of women, but she has a stubborn streak that makes her worse than a mule. I’m just the same way, so I know how to get around her.” With an unladylike smirk, Cora pivoted to face her aunt.

  Delia concluded her welcome to Rose and also turned toward him, an expectant look on her face.

  Andre knew he couldn’t hide the warmth he felt for Rose. For now, he didn’t care. Later, he’d keep more emotional distance.

  A pause ensued, but finally good manners demanded Rose meet his eyes. “Mr. Bellaire,” she greeted him with a prim smile and clipped tones. She half-way raised her hand, seemed to think better of the gesture, and lowered her arm. She slid her gaze away from his face.

  Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting to see if Rose would further acknowledge his presence.

  Andre had to resist pulling at his collar to relieve the pressure on his throat that threatened choke off his speech. He captured her gloved hand and took a quick breath. “My dear Rose, I’m so glad you and Cora have arrived safely. Please know you are welcome.” Further words froze in his throat. Looking down at her, all he could think over and over were two things: She’s still as beautiful. I love her just as much as I ever did.

  For a moment, he caught a hint of vulnerability, quickly veiled, in her eyes. A stray tendril of hair blew across her face. As he’d done many times in the past, Andre longed to tuck the tress back into place and drop a kiss on her soft cheek. I no longer have that right. A swift ache of sadness followed the thought.

  Rose raised her chin. “We’ve brought ten crates of books.” She glanced behind her at the train, where the porters unloaded the baggage car. “Four boxes of household possessions and our three trunks. I hope you’ll take the books, and we’ll be able to fit everything else in our lodgings.”

  Andre cleared his throat. “About those lodgings…. People rented them for the Harvest Festival and have not yet vacated the premises. So, you’ll have to stay with us for the time being. Your baggage will be safe here until my coachman can haul everything home.”

  Rose frowned. “There must be a hotel.”

  “Far too expensive for more than a couple days.” Andre tilted his head toward the coach. “Come, ladies.” Although he wanted to extend an arm to Rose, with three ladies, he couldn’t favor just one or two, so he bowed slightly and waved an arm toward the steps. Before he could move toward their satchels, his guests picked up their own.

  “Allow me,” he said, reaching to take both leather bags.

  Rose resisted his resolve, and then relented.

  Delia led the women down the steps.

  Andre followed with their bags, grateful with their backs turned he could quietly gasp for breath.

  Cora glanced at the street and stopped. “I’m relieved to see a paved road. I thought everything would be dirt like we’ve seen in other small towns on the way here. In our part of New York, we’re used to having the streets swept or shoveled regularly.”

  “Only until just past the hotel and in front of my house.” Andre pointed ahead. “Mostly we do have dirt streets—well, mud today. The quartzite bricks stop right before the mercantile. Although some of our citizens eventually plan to add the bricks to the street in front of their homes or businesses.”

  “Patchwork streets.” Cora laughed.

  Delia raised one eyebrow. “I guarantee you won’t find the roads so funny when you’re up to your ankles in mud and other muck.” She shuddered.

  “Ugh!” Cora wrinkled her nose.

  “I know,” Delia agreed. “We’re lucky to avoid the worst by taking a carriage out when the streets are bad. But most people aren’t so fortunate. Of course, you’ll have the use of ours.”

  “We wouldn’t presume to use your carriage,” Rose said in a repressive tone. Her lips tightened.

  Delia touched Rose’s shoulder. “No presumption at all. Why, Papa built the stables almost as big as the house. My husband has his own surrey for his visits around town and beyond. We have a two-seater surrey as well as this coach for when we need to transport more people. Then Micah has a darling little carriage, which is pulled by two miniature horses called Falabellas and seats two, provided they’re not heavy. Oh, and the sleighs, including Micah’s.” She smiled and rested a hand on Andre’s arm. “Papa spoils him.”

  “Birthday and Christmas gifts. Besides, I like those little horses, too.” Andre slanted a glance at Rose. “They’re irresistible.”

  For the first time, her expression lightened when she looked at him. “I look forward to seeing them.”

  “I’ll take you for a drive.”

  “I’m sure that’s not necessary,” Rose said hastily. “But I know Cora would love such an excursion.”

  Andre hid a wince at her rejection. Probably for the best. He remembered a romantic sleigh ride through the streets of New York and what soon came after.

  Cora leaned to nudge Rose with her shoulder. “Don’t listen to her, Mr. Bellaire. Aunt Rose would love to go with you.”

  Delia’s lips pressed together—perhaps, from the light in her eyes, to hide a grin. She tilted her head in the direction of the coach and led them to Sam, who dismounted from the driver’s seat to meet them. “This is Sam Herbert,” she said, placing a hand on his arm. “Our coachman and stable man.” She smiled up at him. “And friend, of course.”

  Sam bowed and flashed the newcomers his charming grin. “Mr. Bellaire didn’t warn me to expect two such lovely ladies,” he drawled. “Welcome to Sweetwater Springs.”

  Rose and Cora murmured greetings.

  “This town is a good place to live, even with the tough winters.” Sam gave a dramatic shiver and helped Cora inside the coach. “You’ll need to keep warm.” He reached to take Cora’s satchel from Andre, and then accepted Rose’s.

  With both hands full, the coachman nodded at Andre and stepped around the women. Once out of Rose’s line of sight, Sam sent him a knowing smirk and went to stow the luggage.

  With a hand to her elbow, Andre helped Delia inside and then turned to Rose, holding out a hand.

  Rose hesitated before placing her gloved hand in his. Instead of stepping inside, she looked up at him, a hint of warmth in her eyes. “I’m eager to see the library. Can we go there first?”

  Andre’s stomach tightened, dreading telling her the truth. He’d thought he’d have more time before he had to confess. Who knows how she’ll react?

  They were too close to the train station and the hotel. He feared Rose would balk at coming with them, instead staying the night here, and then heading back to New York on the next train out.

  With a whistle and a release of brakes, the train began to chug away, easing his immediate worry. Andre smi
led down at Rose hoping his expression looked natural. “Cook is waiting with dinner. She’s been preparing for your arrival all day, sure you two will be starving after your journey.”

  Delia, on the verge of climbing into the back seat, paused, and sent him a sharp glance.

  With a little feeling of panic lest his daughter prematurely reveal his secret about the barely-begun library, Andre gave her a slight shake of his head.

  Delia rolled her eyes at him, and, before Rose could turn and notice, she smoothed out her expression, gathered up her skirts to climb into the coach, and moved to take a seat.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Rose sounded reluctant.

  “He is right,” Cora called from the interior of the coach. “I, for one, have worked up quite an appetite. That lumpy porridge at breakfast was almost inedible.”

  With a nod, Rose allowed herself to be helped into the coach.

  Andre climbed in after them, taking a seat next to Delia and across from Cora and Rose. He nodded for Sam to shut the door.

  As the carriage started, Andre glanced back and forth between the three ladies he adored. Having them here across from him, his knees mere inches away from Rose’s, suddenly overwhelmed him with gratitude and no small amount of excitement.

  Somehow, he suspected this might become a frequent state of mind when in Rose’s presence.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Rose worked hard to keep her expression cool and calm, to not reveal how shaky and upset she felt on the inside. She’d underestimated how seeing Andre again would unnerve her. How just his smile could suck her back in time twenty-two years, make her feel as giddy and silly as a green girl and, at the same time, want to burst into tears and wail with all the pain in her broken young heart.

  Eagerly, Cora started asking questions about the town.

  Andre assumed the role of guide, pointing out the various buildings they passed, with Delia giving brief character sketches of the owners.

  As much as possible, Rose avoided looking at him, keeping her gaze upon Delia. But watching the younger woman only made matters worse. She looked so much like her father, although with a little darker coloring and more refined features. He had the wider brow. Her hands were different—Rose didn’t have to look at Andre’s to compare—and, except when pointing out a landmark of interest, Delia kept hers quietly folded in her lap.

  Up until their arrival, Rose believed she was prepared for meeting Andre’s daughter, thought she’d overcome the hurt of the young woman’s existence, and been prepared to meet her with equanimity. Now, looking at Andre’s beautiful, poised daughter, she realized she’d thought wrong.

  Between glances out the window to see the church, the schoolhouse, the sweetshop and a dress shop, Rose couldn’t help studying Delia’s face, seeing Andre in his daughter’s hazel eyes, in the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head when she smiled, the soft Southern drawl.

  Would our child have looked like her? Rose had to pull her imagination back before she concocted a daughter who looked like Delia, except with gray eyes and glasses, paler skin, maybe with freckles on her nose.

  The carriage turned right, drove a ways, and then turned left.

  “Second Street,” Delia stated.

  “Not a bit like Second Street in New York,” Cora quipped, leaning to look out the window. “Much quieter, thank goodness. I suppose there are Second Streets in towns and cities all over the country. And probably the world, although they wouldn’t be in English, of course.”

  Rose forced herself to join in the conversation. “I understand from my brother that your home is newly built.”

  “That’s right,” Delia answered. “We’ve only been living here about six months. Papa had so many workmen, at times they looked like ants swarming an anthill. We lived in another town while the house was being built because there wasn’t any place to stay here. The hotel only opened last December.”

  Still the same energy and determination. Rose couldn’t help peeking at Andre through lowered eyelashes.

  He caught the look and smiled, lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. But his eyes appeared sad.

  Rose wondered if he remembered the past and also felt nostalgic or if there was another problem on his mind. None of my business, she chided.

  Underneath them, she could feel the wheels transition from the mud of the street to the quartzite brick pavement in front of his house. The carriage slowed to a stop, and soon Sam opened the door on the opposite side and grinned at them. “The Bellaire-Norton residence,” he announced in a grand tone. “Or the Norton-Bellaire residence, whichever you prefer.” He reached out a hand to steady Rose as she stepped out.

  They’d pulled up in front of a three-story mansion made of chunky bricks, similar to brownstone but with a more pinkish hue. Rose caught her breath at the beauty of Andre’s home. She studied the house, forcing herself to breathe—not that his mansion in New York hadn’t been large and elegant, but there he was just one wealthy man among many. His house was practically a hut in comparison to the Astors’ and Vanderbilts’—not that she’d ever been inside any of the homes belonging to those families.

  But this one—from the cone-topped round tower on the left, to the pergola perched in the front center, to the shiny copper trim under the pergola—seemed to fit perfectly against the frame of the distant, blue-gray mountains. She had a sudden wishful ache to live here—not just pass through on the way to another home.

  From the corner of her eye, Rose saw Andre glance at her as if searching for her reaction, but she kept her expression composed, almost blank, so as not to betray her longing.

  “You must be exhausted,” he said quietly.

  She managed a smile. “A bit. I’m looking forward to a bath and a meal that’s not shoveled down.”

  “You shall have both forthwith,” he promised.

  Cora scrambled out of the coach and gazed up at the house. “Oh my. Such a beautiful place, Mr. Bellaire. Whatever is that stone on your house? Looks like the same as the brick on the street. So unusual.”

  “The house is Sioux quartzite. The same stone surfaces the hotel and the business building housing the newspaper, only that façade is polished, not rough bricks. The stone is quarried locally and is also located in South Dakota. Western stone for a Western home.”

  Rose, with Cora behind her, followed their hostess over a long walkway of the same bricks, which bisected a broad dirt yard lined with quartzite brick planters, empty yet of flowers.

  Delia gestured to the yard. “Looks so empty, I know. We’ll plant in the spring.” She stopped in front of an entryway with two carved wooden doors. Before she touched the knob, the door opened.

  A tall, colored butler in a black suit bowed and stepped back.

  To Rose’s shock, she recognized the servant from Andre’s house in New York, his curly hair grown completely white. Lines etched the sides of his mouth and nose. “Rufus.” Rose smiled at the man with more warmth than she’d shown to Andre or Delia. “Twenty-two years later, you’re still answering the door.”

  “And twenty-two more, God-willin’. Good to see you, Miss Collier.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Miss Cora.”

  “Hello, Rufus. Nice to see a familiar face.” Cora threw a smile at Andre. “Perhaps I should say another familiar face.”

  The butler’s smile widened. “Miss Cora, you’re always a breath of fresh air. If you two head on in, you’ll see another familiar face.” He waved toward the interior of the house. “My wife is waiting just inside. Why, Tilda’s been like a cat skittering over a hot tin roof waitin’ for the arrival of you two.”

  “She always gave me cookies.” Cora practically bounced through the door.

  Rose followed more decorously surprised her niece visited Andre enough to be on familiar terms with his servants. Well, growing up, she did spend a lot of time with Marty, and he probably took her on calls with him.

  Tilda waited in the wide entryway, a broad smile on her fa
ce. “Miss Cora, look at you, all beautiful.” Contrary to her husband’s cat analogy, she stood firmly planted in a familiar proud, strong stance, her handsome face in repose. But her eyes danced with obvious happiness.

  “Hello, Tilda,” Cora beamed at the maid.

  “You too grown up for my cookies, Miss Cora? I hope not, because I elbowed Cook away from the stove to bake you a batch.”

  “Never!”

  The woman chuckled. Next, she turned to Rose. “I remember you, too, Miss Collier. You’re welcome here, more than you know.” Her wise eyes studied Rose’s face. She seemed about to say something further, but then stopped.

  Rose smiled with genuine pleasure. “What a nice surprise to see you both here.”

  “We could never leave Mr. Bellaire. Our two daughters work here, too.”

  “How lovely for all of you.” Rose took one quick glance around the space, seeing the leaf-pattern green wallpaper and wooden panels up to the chair-rail.

  Delia reached Rose’s side. “Tilda will show you to your rooms and the bathroom.”

  “Oh, good!” Cora clapped her hands together. “I didn’t dare hope for indoor plumbing.” She beamed at Andre. “But I should have known better.”

  With a fond expression in his eyes, he matched Cora’s smile. “There’s a bathroom on the first floor and another on the second.”

  They followed Tilda up the broad, curving sweep of staircase, past a statue of a woman in a Grecian robe holding a flame aloft at the foot of the banister. The green carpet patterned with gold flor-de-lis muffled their footsteps. Gothic-arched stained-glass windows over the landing, showing flowers instead of the usual heraldic symbols, cast a yellowish light.

  When they reached the landing, Tilda turned to them. “Your bedrooms are right across the hall from each other.” She gestured down the corridor. “The bathroom is straight ahead. You can freshen up now, and then after you finish dinner, you can have a bath or a nap or both.”