A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  If Andre’s involved, how much more elaborate and expensive will our scheme become?

  Not my concern, she reminded herself. What’s important is Cora’s comfort will be assured.

  I wish I could say the same for her safety and reputation.

  About ten minutes later, Delia returned to the parlor with her father, whom she’d apparently filled in about the plans.

  He went around and greeted everyone.

  Women’s gazes followed him.

  Andre stopped before each lady, taking her hand with a slight bow, addressing her by name, and saying a few other words. He obviously captivated them all, before settling with a cup of tea and a plate of food in one of the wingchairs.

  Rose didn’t know whether to envy Andre for his easy assurance or the recipients of his attentions.

  While they waited, the ladies helped themselves to more tea and dainties, shifting chairs or sitting on the sofas in a loose circle around Andre. They passed the time with asking Sheriff Granger details about her posse’s capture of the outlaws.

  Rose listened as avidly as everyone else. The sheriff mentioned Anthony Gordon, the newspaper owner, had already interviewed her and some of the posse members. She thought of her earlier conversation about the diaries and hoped the lawwoman and the men also wrote down firsthand accounts. She decided to suggest the idea to the sheriff the first time they had a private moment.

  Rose knew her niece kept a diary and religiously entered her life story every night. I’ll encourage Cora to also write down Brian Bly’s account of hunting down the outlaws.

  Finally, Rufus entered, bowing and mentioning Mr. Hank Canfield’s arrival, and letting Sheriff Granger off the conversational hook. Hank was a handsome, lanky man, dressed like a cowboy, in a brown vest that matched his eyes and a new-looking white shirt.

  Rose glanced at Elsie and saw pink suffusing the young woman’s cheeks, and her lips turned up with apparent pleasure.

  Hank sent an uneasy look around at the women watching him. His gaze paused briefly on pretty, blushing Elsie and then, with an expression of relief, fastened on Andre. “Mr. Bellaire, what’s this about?”

  Andre waved toward the other wingchair, left empty for their latest guest. “Come join us.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Hank remained standing.

  “Very well.” With broad strokes, Andre summed up their plan.

  As he listened, Hank’s expression darkened, and he planted both hands on his hips. “Mr. Bellaire, with all due respect, I can tell you that Brian Bly won’t like this arrangement. He’s stubborn and a loner. The last thing he’ll want is some female fussing over him.”

  “Dr. Cameron says your friend will need constant nursing,” Andre pointed out in a calm tone. “Will you provide that?”

  Hank clenched his jaw but lowered his arms. “I’m willing to stay the first night or two, and then look in on him once a day.”

  “That won’t be enough, Hank,” Cora said, hotly. In her righteous indignation, she disregarded proper manners and addressed the man informally.

  His eyes narrowed. “And you are?”

  “Cora Collier. I’m in nursing. If Mr. Bly’s injury is as bad as I’ve heard described, he should not be moving around at all, not if he wants to recover the use of his leg.”

  “Look.” Hank sighed and rubbed a hand over his head. “Bly’s not sociable at the best of times. I’ll bet being incapacitated and in pain, having a strange female around him, why, he’ll be down right cantankerous.” He cut Cora a sharp glance. “I tell you true, Miss Cora, nursing Brian Bly will be no picnic, so get any Florence Nightingale notions out of your head.”

  Cora bristled. “I’ve volunteered at a hospital in New York. I know what I’m getting into.” She dipped her chin, sliding a sideways guilty look in Rose’s direction before turning back to her opponent. “Not that what I do is anyone’s business.”

  Rose hadn’t known about the volunteer work and wondered if Marty had been privy to his granddaughter’s antics. What other secrets has she been keeping?

  “I’m Bly’s friend and neighbor,” Hank retorted. “He’s not here to speak for himself, so I need to.”

  Andre raised a hand in appeasement. “We all have Mr. Bly’s best interests at heart.”

  “Do have some tea, Mr. Canfield,” Delia said, Southern sweet. She gave Hank a teacup and saucer, which looked incongruously dainty in his rough hands. “I hope you like cream and sugar.”

  The man nodded.

  “Are you prepared for using an outhouse and hauling water from a well?” Hank asked Cora, a gleam of challenge in his eyes. “Because that’s what awaits you.” He flipped a hand toward the ceiling and walls. “Nothing like this place.”

  Cora tilted her chin to a stubborn level. “I’ll manage.

  “Well, Miss Cora,” Hank rubbed the back of his neck and glared at her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He dropped into the other wing chair, jittering his teacup.

  “Can you describe the cabin?” Andre asked, his drawl soothing. “What’s inside?”

  “The cabin is snug, made of clapboard,” Hank said, his tone softening. “Bed. Small table. One chair. Rudimentary kitchen. Heated by a two-burner stove.”

  Rose put a hand to her throat to stop a silent mew of protest. Oh, dear Lord. Please soften Cora’s stubborn mind.

  Delia handed Hank a plate with sandwiches and cookies. “Now, you eat up, you hear, Mr. Canfield,” she said with a smile.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re right, Rose.” Andre frowned. “As is, this cabin is a totally inappropriate place for our Cora.”

  “Uncle Andre!” Cora wailed, sounding like a six-year-old.

  “Delia is also right.” He nodded at his daughter in approval. “We must make changes to the cabin to ensure the comfort of our girl, as well as welcome home our wounded hero so he can recuperate in comfort and have the best of care.” He slanted a wide-eyed glance of innocence at Mr. Canfield. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  With his mouth full of sandwich, the man could only nod, trapped by the genteel persuasions of father and daughter.

  “Andre!” Rose ground out. “You can hardly go around building onto and furnishing the homes of everyone who wants to employ Cora.”

  “My dear Rose, I hardly think that will be necessary,” he chided, although his eyes twinkled. “For all we know, Cora will change her mind after her first real experience of having the sole responsibility for a tetchy patient.”

  “One can only hope,” she said, soto voce.

  With a scowl, Cora crossed her arms. “I won’t.”

  Andre looked from Rose to Hank. “Remember, though, this is really for Brian Bly, who selflessly sacrificed himself to help bring the murdering culprits to justice. He’s a hero, and he deserves all the comforts and succor we can provide.”

  “I don’t think Bly will see things in the same light,” Hank muttered. “He won’t let Miss Cora go home with him.”

  Cora’s smile at poor Hank was sharp enough to cut. “Then when everyone leaves tomorrow to drive back to town, I’ll stay. Since I’m already there, he can hardly kick me out of his house.”

  “He’ll probably try,” Hank mumbled, shaking his head.

  She stuck her nose in the air. “Well, he won’t succeed.”

  By now, Rose was thoroughly cross with Cora and her stubborn, impetuous choice to ruin her reputation. Those two will deserve each other.

  Andre gave them all a benevolent smile and settled back in his chair. “Shall we figure out exactly what’s needed for our jaunt to Three-Bend Lake tomorrow?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Andre and Cora walked with some of the ladies outside, leaving Rose and Delia to help Tilda and Milliana clean up. The two servants stacked most of the cups and plates on trays and left the parlor.

  Delia and Rose went around the room, gathering stray teacups and saucers, napkins, some of the small plates, empty now of cookies and sandwiches, and setting the
m on another tray. Then they began moving the balloon-backed chairs into their original positions.

  After the chatter of voices, the parlor was blessedly silent, and Rose welcomed the peace, relieved to no longer have to act social. She paused for a moment and took a deep breath, inhaling the many hints of perfume left behind, grateful she’d survived the tea party with her dignity intact and no embarrassment to Andre. Hopefully, Delia doesn’t have any more social events planned, at least for a while.

  She didn’t look forward to tomorrow—another long day packed with strangers. If not for her duty to Cora, she’d prefer to remain here. But I cannot.

  She had to see Mr. Bly’s home for herself, to make sure Cora would be comfortable and the proprieties satisfied—at least as much as was possible under the circumstances. Even if my conscience allowed, it would look odd if I didn’t go along.

  The thought of her headstrong niece brought up more worry. I must make her promise to leave if the man seems minutely unsafe. She can take refuge with the Swensens. I’m sure Mr. Canfield would escort her there or bring her back here.

  Stopping to look out the front window, Rose saw Andre still in conversation with the beautiful Sophia Maxwell. The Songbird’s back was to the window, so Rose had a full view of Andre’s face, his smile broad, his hands gesturing as he spoke. He touched Sophia’s arm. She must have said something amusing, for he threw back his head and laughed.

  With a jealous clench of her stomach, Rose turned away from the window and stalked over to a balloon-backed chair, her movements sharp as she shoved it into position. She paused, her hands on the top of the chair, and snuck another glance out the window, only to see Andre still absorbed in his conversation with Sophia.

  With a swish of skirts and whiff of perfume, Delia came close and also looked out the window, before moving around the chair to touch Rose’s shoulder and slide her palm down her arm to take her hand. “About Papa….”

  What about him?

  She squeezed Rose’s hand, apparently needing to summon her full attention. “I’m concerned about him going on this jaunt tomorrow. You might have noticed that he’s not…strong.”

  Rose turned to face her, thinking over the times she’d spent with Andre. Except for the reaction two days ago to Joshua’s news, he’d seemed fine. She withdrew her hand from Delia’s clasp and tilted her head toward the window. “Your father looks in good spirits to me.”

  “Spirit is different from body. Charisma isn’t the same as health.” Delia pressed her lips together, as if holding back saying more. She cast a worried look out the window and bit her lip.

  Rose wasn’t quite sure what Delia was telling her. “Andre displayed plenty of vigor today in his determination to see Mr. Bly taken care of and Cora protected.”

  “That’s just it.” Delia spread her arms. “I’m worried he’ll get too involved in constructing the additions to Mr. Bly’s home. He’ll tire himself out and won’t have a place to rest, even if he could be prevailed upon to do so. Perhaps he’ll even cause himself some harm. At…at the same time my father’s a proud man who hates to display his weakness. Hates to have physical frailty. Although he understands and often might even appreciate my concern, he doesn’t like when I get bossy, to use his word.”

  The thought of Andre in poor health weighed heavily on Rose.

  “I’d like him to stay home tomorrow. Well, after he goes to the mercantile and buys out the place for Brian and Cora.”

  With a stab of guilt Rose pictured Andre spending lavishly at the mercantile. “I wish he wouldn’t. I mean…this whole debacle will cost so much money.”

  Delia shrugged. “That’s Papa for you. I’ve long since given up keeping him from spending when he’s feeling generous. Sometimes, I protest. Usually, since there’s no stopping him, I’ve had to learn how to receive.” She gave Rose a wry smile.

  Rose raised her eyebrows. “Most women wouldn’t complain.”

  “Most women grew up with their fathers present—at least for part of their lives.” Delia’s voice firmed. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t care if he were a pauper. I’m just grateful to have him.”

  Delia’s fierceness surprised Rose, opening her eyes to the deep bond between father and daughter. “What do you have in mind for tomorrow?”

  “I want him to stay home when everyone else drives to Mr. Bly’s. Joshua and I can easily go in Papa’s place to carry out his wishes.”

  Rose shook her head, not seeing Andre detaching from his latest scheme. “He’s already so involved.”

  “If I just ask him to remain and rest, he’ll refuse. If I insist, I’ll hurt his feelings, which is the last thing I’d ever want to do. Nor do I want to shame him in front of the community by ordering him to stay home.”

  “I understand,” Rose murmured, feeling helpless.

  “So we’ll need more subtlety. If you could come up with a reason for Papa to remain home, to stay back because he’s your host….”

  Oh, no. Ohhhh, no! I can’t be alone with Andre.

  “Maybe something to do with books?” Her hazel eyes pleaded.

  Delia’s concern penetrated Rose’s reluctance, increasing her worry about Andre’s health. As much as I want to, I can’t deny her appeal. “I suppose…I could be too fatigued, ill, maybe, to go.” Although, she didn’t want to stay back from the expedition, pleading a headache or other illness would make an acceptable excuse.

  Even as Rose thought the words, she became aware of how drained she felt. Socializing with strangers at the tea party—even though everyone but Mrs. Cobb was friendly—had definitely sapped her energy.

  Delia’s expression brightened. “Yes, you suffering from fatigue would work. Papa wouldn’t want you left all by yourself.” She gestured toward the sofa. “You could rest here. Recline with a cup of tea and a book.” Their plotting must have made her feel better, for she gifted Rose with an impish smile. “You can’t tell me that’s not one of your favorite activities.”

  “A bookworm can never have too many opportunities to read,” Rose admitted, with a rueful smile. “I can’t remember when last I read for my own pleasure. I’ve spent so much time reading aloud to my brother to keep his mind occupied during his illness. His choice of books usually involved history, philosophy, biographies, natural sciences…not that I didn’t like those, too.” She reached up to rub the skin between her eyebrows. “But the mechanical sciences and technology books he enjoyed often made my brain ache. Perhaps if I’d had a degree in engineering, I’d feel differently. Sometimes, at least, I persuaded Marty to listen to one of the classics or a book of poetry.”

  Delia chuckled and took a few steps to pat the shelf of her bookcase. “If you’re supposedly not feeling well tomorrow, then you’d probably prefer to read something more relaxing. After all, we must properly set the scene to convince my father. I have plenty of the latest novels. Papa buys them direct from his sources in New York. He doesn’t wait for them to trickle across the country.”

  “He would,” Rose said dryly.

  Yanking out a book, Delia held it up. “Have you read The Country of the Pointed Firs by Sarah Orne Jewett? Or if you’d like something spooky, The Library Window by Mrs. Oliphant?”

  The new titles caught Rose’s interest. “Either or both.”

  Delia selected a second one, stacked the volume on top of the first, and held both with one arm, while she searched the shelves for another. “Or this marvelous book of poetry by A.E. Houseman.” She pulled out the book, touched the spine to her chest, and let out a breath. “A Shropshire Lad. Beautiful and haunting, with such distinctive imagery.” She added the slim volume to the pile. “I’ll call your attention to the poem I’ve bookmarked. ‘To an Athlete Dying Young.’” She handed Rose the books. “Gave me the shivers.”

  “I’ll gladly read all three, although I’m supposed to distract your father, not wile away the day with my own pleasures.”

  Delia laughed. “I supposed I became carried away. You know how books can do that to
a person.”

  “One of their greatest appeals.” In perfect clarity, they grinned at each other.

  “As a distraction for your father, though….” Rose tapped her chin. “My brother willed some books to Andre, which I know your father coveted. They’re in a crate that must be in the attic. His name is printed on the side, to distinguish it from mine. He and I could unpack those volumes together, talk about integrating them into his collection. That will certainly keep him busy.”

  “Marvelous!” Delia briefly clasped her hands together. “You know Papa very well.”

  “Not really,” Rose demurred. “We haven’t spoken in years.”

  “Some things don’t change.” Delia inhaled a breath, a thoughtful expression on her face. Once again, she took Rose’s hand. “There’s something I must tell you, something I think you should know.” She tilted her head toward the sofa. “Come, let’s sit for a moment.”

  Rose wasn’t sure she was ready for any more intimacy with Andre’s daughter. All she wanted now was to retreat to her room and take a nap before supper. But, obediently, she followed Delia to the sofa and took a seat, shifting to face her.

  “Papa and I have a secret, which I think he’d want you to know, but because he’s protective of me, he won’t tell you.” She hesitated.

  Rose waited, hiding her impatience for this conversation to be over.

  “Papa wasn’t married before he met you. He had a mistress in New Orleans—a quadroon mistress. My mother. She never told him about me. I’m illegitimate with Negro blood.” She glanced down at her hands, dusky pink staining her cheeks.

  Shock made Rose reel and her stomach clench. She inhaled a sharp breath and slowly let it out. Later, she’d mull over her reaction. Now, all she could see was the vulnerability of the woman before her. She reached to take Delia’s hand. “How brave of you to share your story. I’m honored you trust me.”