In her interest in the book, Rose forgot her jealousy of Sophia Maxwell. She turned the volume to examine the title, Wildflowers of the United States. “Oh!” She exclaimed. “We have this in our library.”
She glanced up for a moment. “I meant, the library where I worked. I’ve spent many happy hours studying the illustrations. How exciting that I’ll be able to meet her.” She opened the book to view the chapter on Montana and paged through some of the illustrations before closing the volume and leaning forward to hand it to Cora. “When there’s time during the day, and the light is better, I’ll spend time looking at each wildflower in Mrs. Dunn’s chapter. When the new library is built, we’ll have to display this somehow. Maybe a special shelf or a lectern somewhere—like a European library displaying an ancient manuscript.
Cora looked up from perusing the book. “So Sophia Maxwell is here visiting her sister?”
“Yes,” Delia replied. “She’s been here all summer and will remained to sing at Caleb and Maggie’s wedding.”
“And you think she and Mrs. Dunn will attend the tea party?”
Delia gave a decisive nod. “I’m sure of it. Papa has charmed them both. Those two are great favorites with him. Too bad the youngest Maxwell sister isn’t here.” She smiled at Cora. “Like you, Emma’s studying nursing. I don’t think she’s much older than you.”
“With the weather holding—” Andre shifted in his chair “—I’m sure we’ll have a trio of our most influential ladies, Pamela Carter, Elizabeth Sanders, and Samantha Thompson, attending church. Their ranches cluster together in the valley on the other side of a low mountain pass. Although cluster is such a poor descriptor when the ranches, especially the Carter and Thompson spreads, are rather vast, at least by East Coast standards.” He went on to add more details about the three women.
Too many people to remember. Rose’s thoughts tangled, and she stood. “I need to jot down this information. I’ll be right back.” She hurried out of the parlor and up the stairs to her bedroom. Once inside, she turned on the electric light and moved around her bed to open the wardrobe. On the bottom, she found her lap desk.
She hesitated before removing the sloped-top rosewood box, a gift from Andre on her twenty-second birthday. At the time, he’d predicted she’d use the desk on her travels, the hint being that she’d take those journeys with him. Pressing her lips against old pain, she pulled out the desk and carefully balanced it on one arm.
She ran a hand over the top, feeling the inlaid motif of roses in shades of gold, looking as bright as the day she’d unwrapped the box. She touched the small key set into the lock on the front. The desk had sat unused and practically forgotten in the bottom of her wardrobe, hidden from sight by the hems of her dresses and rediscovered after she’d taken out all her clothing prior to the move.
Shaking off the old memories and resentment the gift represented, she clutched the desk to her chest and left the bedroom.
Once downstairs, Rose took her seat, avoiding looking at Andre. Setting the desk on her lap, she turned the key and opened the top. Inside, a compartment held stationery. Two inkwells with fresh ink flanked a pen cove. She’d cleaned out and refilled them before leaving New York.
Removing a piece of stationery and one inkwell and the pen, Rose positioned the paper on the sloping surface. She unscrewed the top of the inkwell and set it to the side in a special groove for that purpose. Then in neat copperplate, she wrote down names and descriptions.
Rose paused her pen and a blot dripped off, blurring a word. She clenched her jaw and continued her list, focusing only on the women who might attend. At one point, she looked up, giving Delia a questioning glance. “You said something about a woman and her baby?”
“Aunt Rose, you look just like a student taking notes,” Cora teased. “You should have a slate and chalk.”
“Pen and ink are much more efficient for this matter,” Rose responded in a prim tone.
“Now you sound like a schoolmarm.”
Cora’s teasing made Rose’s cheeks heat. “Librarian,” she corrected. “Note taking is essential for the work.” I sound so staid and boring.
“Back to the discussion,” Joshua directed in a firm tone. “You were asking about Maggie Baxter, who is betrothed to Caleb Livingston. Their wedding is coming up soon. She has a baby—Charlotte….” He wrinkled his brow as if thinking. “Six or so months old. One of my first baptisms in Sweetwater Springs.”
Andre reached over to touch Rose’s arm. “Caleb and Maggie have quite a story. She was married to a most unpleasant fellow. Beat her, he did. On the drive here from Morgan’s Crossing, their wagon collided with Caleb’s buggy and went over the side of a mountain, killing the brute and sending Maggie into labor.”
“They were in the middle of nowhere, can you imagine?” Wide-eyed, Delia clasped her hands together. “Caleb had to deliver the baby.”
“He brought Maggie and Charlotte to his house to live and fell in love. Best thing that could have happened to that man.” Andre made a sour face. “He’s certainly changed, thank goodness.”
“Papa….” Delia said in a warning tone.
“You have a more forgiving heart, my dear.” Once again, Andre raised a hand to deter a response. “But I will say no more about Caleb Livingston.”
Curious, Rose wondered about prying more details out of the man. Although to enquire more would be the height of bad manners and would be poking her nose into matters that did not concern her.
Really, in spite of feeling she knew Andre intimately, the years must have changed him as they had her. He and Rose were practically strangers—at best acquaintances.
I must keep that in mind.
* * *
The next day after church, Rose stood between Delia and Cora in the entryway of Andre’s house, greeting the ladies after they passed through the front door and deposited their outerwear in the coatroom. Some women they’d already met at church, or Cora knew from paying calls with Delia, but most were strangers to Rose.
Her niece, looking fresh and pretty in her new seafoam-green day dress with a matching green ribbon threaded through her chignon, stood still and straight, as excited energy vibrated from her body.
Delia, clad in a basque and skirt in the color of molten gold with jewelry to match, which turned her hazel eyes the same color, looked nothing like any minister’s wife Rose ever saw. Her expression glowed brighter than the gold she wore. Earlier that day, she’d confided her happiness about being pregnant and her belief that the worst of the morning sickness appeared to have passed.
Rose felt immeasurably older then both young women and also combated a bout of shyness that, by her age, she should have outgrown. Being the center of attention made her feel as if dozens of bees buzzed in her stomach, and her breathing felt constricted. She wished she could be more like Cora, eager to meet everyone and make friends, instead of wishing she could retreat to her bedroom with a favorite book.
Even her new outfit in a shade of smoky-blue, worn with her mother’s pearl necklace, as well as her mirror’s assurance that she looked her best, couldn’t give Rose enough confidence to banish her awkward feelings. Knowing she was under scrutiny didn’t help, even if everyone appeared friendly—everyone, that is, but Hortense Cobb, the mercantile owner.
With a frown, the short, stout woman planted her feet in front of Rose, studied her with close-set brown eyes, and sniffed. “I’ll have you know I think building a library in this town is a waste of money. Too much reading promotes idleness, and idle hands, as you well know, Mrs. Norton—” she glared at Delia and emphasized her role of minister’s wife “—will be all too eager to do Satan’s work. And, so, I told your father when he promoted the Harvest Festival. I predicted no good would come of such an outrageous production.” She jerked her chin. “I was right, too.”
A tall, brown-haired woman wearing male attire—jacket, vest with a watch chain and fob, trousers, and her hair in a long braid flipped over her shoulder—entered jus
t in time to hear the last few sentences. Her cold gray eyes bored into Mrs. Cobb’s back, and she clenched her jaw.
A shiver ran down Rose’s spine, and she had no doubt this person was the formidable Sheriff Granger. As far as she could tell, the lawwoman wasn’t armed, but she radiated enough authority not to need a badge and gun. I wouldn’t want to be in Mrs. Cobb’s shoes right now.
Delia gave the shopkeeper a brittle smile. “Actually, Mrs. Cobb, no such quotation exists in the Bible.” She turned to greet the sheriff, her smile becoming genuine. “Sheriff Granger, I’m so glad you could make our tea party. Here is our new librarian, Rose Collier, and her niece, Cora Collier, who is studying nursing.”
The sheriff nodded at them both. “I’m looking forward to having a library in Sweetwater Springs,” she said in a husky voice. “Don’t usually have much time for reading, but I sure do like sitting in front of a warm stove with a rousing adventure tale when the snow’s coming down too hard for anyone to be out and about causing mischief.”
Mrs. Cobb glared at the sheriff but wisely held her tongue.
“If more people were reading—” Rose couldn’t help subtly poking at Mrs. Cobb “—you’d have fewer people out making mischief.”
“True. As for the Harvest Festival—” the sheriff said, her eyes narrowing at the shopkeeper “—that was a fundraiser for the new church not the library. The town paid a horrible price for those funds. But from Deputy Rodda’s sacrifice and the efforts of our posse, as well as Seth Flanigan and my son Walter, now our community is safe in a way we wouldn’t have been with those outlaws secretly living among us.”
Mrs. Cobb flushed an ugly red, and her bug-eyed stare turned baleful.
Delia smiled and patted the lawwoman’s arm. “And you ended up with a husband and son. Bet you didn’t see that coming.”
A smile softened Sheriff Granger’s features. “Not in a month of Sundays.”
With a sniff, Mrs. Cobb moved away into the parlor.
The sheriff lifted her chin in the shopkeeper’s direction. “She doesn’t approve of my heathen, redskin husband and my newly-adopted son, who should be packed off to reform school,” she quoted.
Cora gasped, raising a hand to cover her mouth.
“Mrs. Cobb said that to you?” Rose questioned, disbelieving anyone could be so mean.
With a shrug, the sheriff seemed to dismiss the rude remarks, but her expression remained bleak. “She wouldn’t be brave enough to say anything so nasty to my face. But gossip goes around here faster than lightning.”
“Everyone I know is delighted with your marriage,” Delia said firmly. “Once people meet your son, they’ll see Walter’s a beautiful child, inside and out.”
“How old is Walter?” Rose asked. “Does he like to read?”
“He’s eight, going on eighty. A little old soul, that boy is. Don’t rightly know whether Walter likes to read.” She let out a slow breath. “I’ve only been his mother for a few days, and we have two puppies….”
Grinning, Cora clasped her hands in front of her. “Puppies always take precedence over books, even with my aunt.” She giggled. The playful face she scrunched at Rose made her look about Walter’s age.
“True,” Rose agreed. “But puppies grow up. I can suggest some stories that boys like, if that will help. Perhaps some Mark Twain, if you’d like to borrow my copies.”
“No need. Those I have. I’ll come to you when we’ve gone through the books.” With a nod, the sheriff moved past them.
Next to arrive was Caleb’s sister, Edith Grayson, sweeping in to make an entrance with her brother’s betrothed, Maggie Baxter. Although both had dark hair and eyes, the two women provided an interesting contrast in beauty—Edith, tall and elegant, and Maggie olive-skinned, with high cheekbones and a Slavic cast to her features.
Rose stiffened her spine, inwardly ready to deflect any arrogant behavior toward herself or Cora.
Contrary to her “haughty” reputation, Edith greeted Rose with genuine warmth, taking her hand and smiling. “Miss Collier, I regret that after my brother’s wedding, my son and I are moving to Boston, so I’ll not see the new library. But I’m sure my family and friends will write me about all the details.”
When Maggie took Rose’s hand, shadows lingered in her eyes. “I don’t think books will ever be anything but a treat for me. With my late husband, I had to hide my books from him or he’d destroy them.”
Rose held in a gasp, remembering Andre saying the man was abusive. What she must have endured! She squeezed Maggie’s hand. “I can’t even imagine the pain, the fear.”
“I’ve come to see that was one of his many ways to control me.” She released Rose’s hand.
“Maggie will never have to be afraid again,” Edith said stanchly. “My brother would never hurt her. Indeed, the besotted man plies her with books and trinkets and any other thing she desires.”
“Or I don’t desire.” Maggie laughed. “There’s no stopping Caleb, especially when it comes to my daughter. He spoils her, protects her….”
“I’m so glad you and your baby are safe.” Rose smiled warmly. “And you can read to your heart’s content. We’ll have to investigate each other’s collections.”
“We’re so busy with this wedding—” she nudged Edith “—someone is determined to make a big production of the event. I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever again have time to myself to read. But definitely, as soon as I do, I’ll enjoy browsing through your books.”
The flow of women ended, and the three moved out of the entryway and into the parlor. Their guests drifted into groups, accepting teacups and saucers from Tilda or Milliana and partaking of the assortment of small sandwiches and cookies. The sounds of voices filled the room, and various scents of perfume sweetened the air.
Needing to figuratively catch her breath, Rose gravitated toward a quiet corner where she could stand and observe without being required to chat. Over the years, she attended similar tea parties held for Stone Street Library donors. Luckily, Mrs. Nicklesby-Ward was in charge of those events, and, after the welcome greeting, Rose could linger on the periphery and avoid much of the social engagement.
As if checking the list she’d written down and memorized, Rose noted each guest and matched her to the description. Cataloging the women settled her a bit, so even as she accepted a cup of tea and some cookies from Tilda, she continued adding to her mental file, including the attendees not on the original list. A few more ladies had slipped in later. She saw identical twins with Irish accents, one pregnant, and a thin, shabbily-dressed woman, her blond braid wrapped around her head, European-style, who kept glancing around as if awed to be here.
Delia rustled over and touched Rose’s arm. “You’re not mingling.” Her hazel eyes showed concern.
“I’m a bit overwhelmed.” Rose fudged the truth. If Delia knew how uncomfortable she felt, her hostess would remain by her side instead of taking care of their guests’ needs. “I’m affixing everyone’s names to faces.”
“Goodness, there’s no need for that.” Delia’s Southern accent was molasses sweet. “Contrary to how this appears today, we really are a small circle of friends, whom you’ll see over and over again.”
But I still wish to know their names.
“Have you met everyone?” Delia gestured around the room. “I know the ladies seemed to arrive in a bunch and others have straggled in.”
“I’ve met most. Remembering their names, that’s a different matter, which given my new position as town librarian is important.”
Delia laughed. “I understand. I used to make Joshua give me the names and histories of anyone we were liable to meet at social events or parish calls.” She rolled her eyes. “Just as I think I know everyone in the area, a person or family appears whom I’ve never met. Perhaps only my father-in-law is acquainted with everyone, for even if they don’t attend church and live in the most remote places, he makes a point to seek out each person or family at least once a year for a pas
toral visit.”
Rose made a little shooing motion. “Go be the hostess. I’m fine, really, I am. I’ll go meet Cora’s new friend.” She gestured toward her niece, talking to a pretty girl with pansy brown eyes and a snub nose, probably a few years younger than Cora. The two had their heads together, obviously about to become bosom companions.
“Elsie Bailey, the dressmaker’s apprentice,” Delia told her.
“Ah, the one your father thought would be Cora’s kindred spirit. Appears he’s correct.”
“Note their air of suppressed excitement.” Delia sighed. “Did you ever have that much energy at their ages? I certainly didn’t.”
“Cora’s the hare,” Rose said wryly, patting her chest. “I’m the tortoise. Not to mention you are close to Cora’s age, and I am ancient.”
With a laugh and a wave, Delia moved on.
Still smiling, Rose walked closer to the two young women, slowing when she could hear their conversation, not sure if she should interrupt their budding friendship.
“How lucky you are to live with Mr. Bellaire.” Elsie’s eyes were wide and guileless. “Isn’t he a darling man? Such a charmer.”
Rose stiffened and stopped, her smile falling away.
“He’s so fun. I adore him.” Cora looked over, saw Rose’s disapproving expression, and tossed her head.
Vowing to make time for that serious talk about the dangers of certain older men, Rose turned. She watched opera singer Sophia Maxwell, clad in a pale pink gown with violet embroidered trim that eclipsed even Delia’s outfit, glide into the room and garner everyone’s attention. A small, violet-feathered fascinator clung to her short, dark curls. A big, round amethyst in the center matched the ones around her neck and wrists and in her ears.
With a graceful hand movement, the Songbird made excuses for her sister Lily, who’d stayed home with a sick baby.
Rose frowned, disappointed not to meet the illustrator. Oh, well, there will be other opportunities.
Sophia accepted a cup of tea—no sugar or cream—and began to hold court among the ladies who approached her.
A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel Page 13
