“We started with your daughter, and then to your mistress, from there, to your mother—with a touch on your brothers—and finally to your grandfather,” she teased, her eyes bright behind her spectacles.
He swallowed and chuckled.
“Back to Delia and your family. What happened when you acknowledged her?”
“In the South, taking a quadroon mistress was a well-established tradition. Having illegitimate children with Negro blood is quite common. Some families acknowledge those children—send them to school or set them up in a trade. Others pretend to ignore their existence. My family is the latter. I suspect I have several such nieces and nephews. I say suspect, because after leaving New York, I was only in New Orleans a few days before discovering Delia and leaving.”
“How sad to have family and never know them.”
He had years of practice in banishing familial pain. “My mother and brothers are angry with me for leaving New Orleans. For making Delia a central part of my life.” Andre ran a hand through his hair.
“I remember some of what you shared, like setting your slaves free and how that caused a rift. You’d think by now your family would have learned what kind of man you are.” She leaned to lightly touch the back of his hand. “You did the right thing taking Delia away from New Orleans.”
“I’m not forgiven. I doubt I ever will be.”
“Delia is such a wonderful young woman and a good and loving daughter. They’ve no idea what they’ve lost with their prejudicial judgment. Sad, really.”
“So I tell myself.”
“Still hurts, though, doesn’t it?” She reached for another sandwich.
Andre leaned forward, caught her hand, and kissed the back. Although, he wanted to press his lips to the pad of each finger and draw her closer, he returned her hand back to her lap. “Enough of the past,” he said in a light tone.
Rose gave him an impish smile, one that took him back to the first time she’d caught his interest with that very same smile, so at odds with the solemn, shy demeanor she’d displayed with him until then.
Leaning over the arm of the sofa, she appeared to look for something. “Ah, just as I thought.” She reached down.
He tilted to the side but couldn’t see what Rose was doing.
She straightened, a large, slim book in her hand. With a triumphant smile, she extended the volume toward him.
Puzzled, he stared at the brown cover with the inked illustration and title. He set down his cup and saucer and took the book, recognizing the copy of Dante’s Inferno, with the illustrations by M. Gustave Doré. He had the same one in his library.
“Open to the flyleaf,” Rose commanded. “Read what’s written there.”
Obediently, Andre followed her orders, flipped open the front cover, and recognized his own handwriting.
To Marty,
With many thanks for your friendly welcome to New York.
Andre Bellaire
1873
She smiled, but behind the glasses, her gray eyes grew misty. “I have a crate of books here that my brother wanted you to have. Some he knew you coveted, but a few, like this one, are merely sentimental.”
Andre swallowed down the lump in his throat. “In one of his letters, Marty mentioned planning to do so.” He closed the book and thumped the cover with his knuckles. “Good times.” Setting the book on the empty wingchair next to him, he leaned forward. “What else is in that crate?”
Not until the light through the windows began to fail did Andre realize they’d spent the whole day in the parlor—except for a couple of discrete trips to the bathroom, and one raid on the kitchen, the spoils of which they’d brought back and set on the butler’s table to eat.
The day had passed like a dream, in many ways so ordinary, eating, talking, discussing books—but still Andre held every moment dear. This was what life with Rose would have been like.
He couldn’t, shouldn’t, ache with regrets, for a life spent with Rose would have meant never discovering Delia, and, therefore, he wouldn’t have the loved ones and the good life in Sweetwater Springs he now possessed.
Yet, the heartfelt regret for what he’d missed with Rose lingered.
* * *
A few days later, Micah brought Rose two letters—one from Cora and the other addressed in an unfamiliar childish hand.
Eagerly Rose took them and went to her room to tear open Cora’s and read her description of Brian Bly’s predictable reaction to her presence in his home. After some brangling, her niece had managed to forge an uneasy détente with her patient. She shook her head. I wonder how that situation will turn out.
Next, Rose opened the second letter. Eagerly, she pulled out a single piece of flowered stationery, a little grubby, with writing on both sides. A flip to the back and a glance at the signature line told her this one was from young Jimmy Ortner. With a smile, she settled back in her chair and began to read.
Dear Miss Collier,
I was sad and surprised when I went to the library and you weren’t there. I wanted to talk to you about Moby Dick and the White Whale. But then I heard you went West to Montana, and I don’t blame you one bit. Montana sounds exciting and better than New York any day!
You were right about the book being hard. Took a long time and a lot of words before the White Whale showed up. Parts were boring, and I almost gave up. But I liked the battles with the whale and the spooky parts. I think there were things I didn’t understand. I wished you were still here at the library, so I could bring you the book and ask you about them like I did before.
I tell you, though, I didn’t like everyone dying, but at least Ismael didn’t. I wouldn’t want to work on a whaling ship, even for the adventure. I rather go out West like you and be a cowboy. Have you seen any cowboys yet?
What should I read next, Miss Collier?
When I asked her, my teacher suggested I read Treasure Island and The Swiss Family Robinson and Captains Courageous, but I told her I already read them. She sure was surprised! Started making noises about more reports! Next time, I’m keeping my big mouth shut.
Ma made me take this letter to school and have my teacher correct my words and spelling. Then I had to rewrite it on Ma’s good stationery. Twice! Because the first time I ended up with a big fat blot in the middle of white whale. I didn’t think you’d mind, but Ma screeched when she saw it, saying I’d ruined “the presentation” and “wasted a piece of precious stationery.” As if I wanted to write on a paper with flowers! I got the speech again about ‘if something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.’ I think she should have just let me tear off a sheet from my notebook. Less trouble that way.
When my teacher read the letter, she questioned me about the book and made me write a report. I had to stand in front of the class and read the whole thing. At least, she gave me extra credit. But it wasn’t worth the work because Neddy Patrucio beat me up at recess for showing off. When she saw my black eye, Ma screeched again. She didn’t like me saying it was her fault. Sent me to bed without my supper.
So today, I rewrote this letter and added what happened. Then I snuck into Ma’s desk and got an envelope and stamp. I put the letter into the mail without her reading what I wrote. You won’t mind the blots, will you? Ma will screech again if she sees that I wrote about her screeching. Don’t know why, cuz she always says to tell the truth.
The next time, I’m going to write you a letter in secret. I’ll just have to save up to buy an envelope and stamps, but there’ll be less trouble, even if I do have to give up sweets for a month.
Your friend,
Jimmy Ortner
Smiling amid pangs of sadness and missing Jimmy and her other favorite patrons, Rose went to her wardrobe, removed her writing desk, and carried the box over to the dressing table, setting it on top. She sat, and as she went through the motions of preparing to write, she thought of what she’d reply to the boy. Something simple and straight to the point.
She dipped the quill of her pen int
o the inkwell and began to write.
Dear Jimmy,
Reading your letter was almost as good as talking to you in person. Thank you so much for writing. Of course I won’t mind notepaper and blots. What’s more important is you’re communicating with me, and I don’t think you need to be perfect.
I haven’t been in Sweetwater Springs long enough to meet cowboys, although I’ve seen a few men at church who had bowlegs and Stetson hats. I suspect they might work on the local ranches. If I do meet them, do you have questions you want me to ask?
Rose paused for a moment, wondering if she really wanted to ask men she didn’t know any of the inventive questions Jimmy might think up. She decided she needed a caveat. I’ll do what I can to find the information.
As for your teacher’s reports…. I’m sure she was proud of you and wanted the other students to know the wonders of reading stories. I know reports are extra work, and I hope they inspire some of your friends to read the books, too.
I can give you some more reading referrals, but I won’t ask for reports. I’d rather have your letters. Next, perhaps you’d like the fantastical fiction of Jules Verne, such as 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea or Journey to the Center of the Earth.
Please give my regards to your mother.
All the best,
Miss Collier
She sat with the letter for a moment, a sudden bout of homesickness shaking her. All in all, she wasn’t displeased with her life in Sweetwater Springs. But the constant toll of being around Andre and his family and holding her heart apart leached away her happiness.
Her niece, at least, seemed to be thriving in her new home in the mountains. The quarrelsome relationship with her patient, instead of discouraging the young woman, only stimulated her enthusiasm for her profession.
Rose let out a sigh and reached for the small cloth pen wiper to clean the quill of her pen.
If I could go back in time, I’d send Cora here by herself, and I’d remain in New York. Boredom would be preferable to having my heart broken again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A few days later, Andre sat at the table in his study close enough to Rose to inhale the scent of her characteristic rose soap. The two compiled lists of future calls they wanted to make to potential library donors. He made suggestions, while she took notes.
With each name Andre added, he also told Rose stories about the person or family, trying to amuse as well as familiarize her with the townsfolk. He enjoyed seeing her smile, and, even better, coaxing her to laugh. Since she tended toward solemnity, watching her expression brighten also lit something inside him. She brings me energy.
“Yoo hoo, you two,” called Delia from the hallway.” Caleb Livingston’s relatives have arrived.” She walked through the doorway waving an envelope before handing it to Rose. “And this is a wedding invitation that came for you and Cora. Edith’s son Ben delivered it with her apologies for the late notice. She’d been stranded at a ranch in that brief snowstorm we had this week. Ben actually made a joke about his mother being unusually absent-minded. No doubt, she’s caught up in all the wedding preparations.”
With a frown, Rose set the envelope aside on the table.
How curious. Andre steepled his hands together and sat back in his chair. “I can’t imagine Edith Grayson, of all women, acting absent-minded. She’s always so poised and organized. What are these relatives like?”
“I haven’t met them yet.” Delia wrinkled her nose. “You know how word gets around in a small town?”
“Not really.” Rose smiled. “But I’m beginning to.”
“When I called on Mrs. Hatter, she gave me all the latest gossip, and Ben added a bit more information.”
Andre raised his eyebrows. “So, does this word say if these people are as aristocratic as most upper-class Bostonians?”
“I’ve heard they praised Caleb’s hotel,” Delia said in a wry tone. “Something about ‘The Livingston being a fine edifice for such a backwater place.’”
“Damned with faint praise, as the saying goes.” Andre chuckled and then sobered. In spite of his lingering resentment for Caleb Livingston, he could understand wanting one’s family’s approval and acceptance. He still couldn’t help sometimes wishing his own family would accept his daughter instead of continuing to condemn them both for the relationship. “That must have been a relief.”
Delia wrinkled her nose. “They’ve disparaged everything else. Joshua was there when the church was pronounced, ‘so chah-ming’ in a tone that meant anything but.”
Her attempts at a Boston accent made Rose laugh. “The church is charming,” she teased. “Especially that huge, stained-glass window in the front commemorating somebody’s marriage.”
Delia blushed. “Papa’s surprise wedding gift.”
“Of course,” Rose said, slanting a droll look at Andre.
Delia waved a hand toward the window. “The Livingston relatives will probably find the people here chah-ming as well. Although, I don’t know what they’ll think about the whole community—rich, poor, and in-between—attending the wedding.”
Rose stiffened, her gaze straying toward the invitation.
Andre could see how much she didn’t want to attend an event with hundreds of strangers. Rose struggled so with her innate shyness, although she’d obviously learned over the years to present an outwardly assured countenance. Only one who knew her as well as he did could recognize signs of her discomfort.
Back when he courted Rose, Andre had slowly introduced her to his friends and business partners. He only held small dinner parties and always invited Marty and his wife, as well as some others from her small circle of friends. He’d watched her gradually become comfortable with his friends and associates.
Had she known before arriving in Sweetwater Springs that she was jumping into the midst of a tight-knit community—all but himself strangers to her? And, of course, Rufus and Tilda. But Rose hadn’t known about those two before she’d arrived. He admired her courage in making a new life away from the people, routine, and community that gave her comfort.
His daughter didn’t seem to notice Rose’s reaction, for she kept on chattering. “I certainly hope they won’t say aloud their opinion of people. But they are Cabots of Boston.” Delia mimicked Edith’s Boston accent. For a moment, her hazel eyes appeared haunted; the pain of other rejections showed. Then she quickly slid on an expression of equanimity. “They probably think they can treat people however they want.”
Andre’s protective instincts flared. “If any of them get snooty with you, daughter, just tilt your chin at a haughty angle.” He demonstrated. “Look down your nose. Slide on your Southern accent until it’s honey-thick and say in a regal tone, ‘I am a Bellaire of New Orleans.’”
His snobbish expression made them both laugh.
Delia quickly sobered. “Maggie will have to bear the brunt of their scrutiny. But if they dare disparage her, Caleb will send them home with their tails on fire.”
Andre tilted his head, studying his daughter, who often provided a fount of unexpected wisdom for him. “You really think so? I had the impression that he and Mrs. Grayson wish to make a positive impression on them.”
“Of course, but Caleb is very protective of Maggie and Charlotte.”
“He’d better be,” Andre growled. “In the eyes of upper-class society, his marriage to Maggie will be seen as a misalliance. I don’t know why he even invited his highbrow relatives to the wedding.”
Delia fingered the edge of a paper on Andre’s desk. “At the tea party, Edith said they sent invitations only to be polite, never expecting they’d be accepted.”
Just like I did with my family when Delia married Joshua. He didn’t say so aloud. His beautiful daughter didn’t know about the invitations he’d sent with such hope and the bitter rejection letters he received back.
Andre turned his mind from the pain of his family’s judgment and focused, as he had the past two years, on making life better for the people h
e loved, the ever-growing circle of friends, and the caring he felt in general for his community. He slid a sideways glance at Rose—including Sweetwater Spring’s two newest members.
He noted the tightness of her jaw and the way the hand in her lap clenched into a fist. She’ll find all the hoopla about this wedding difficult. I know Rose would prefer to hide away with a book instead of attending.
Andre couldn’t help a wishful thought that he could hide away with her for the next few days. He imagined them reading in front of a fire. Sipping tea. Content with each other and blessed silence.
A glimmer of an idea came to Andre, and, while the two women talked about the wedding, he began to spin a web.
* * *
The morning before the Baxter-Livingston wedding, Rose left the breakfast room, a heavy feeling of inertia weighing down her spirits. She did not look forward to all the hoopla happening today and tomorrow. The comings and goings this week had been bad enough. Who’d have thought a minister’s house would be such a center of social activity?
Rose sighed, missing her niece. A pity Cora wasn’t in town. She’d have sparkled in the center of every activity, garnered plenty of attention, and enjoyed every moment.
At least Cora wrote regularly. Thank goodness, Hank Canfield made frequent trips to town; probably, Rose suspected, to pay visits to Elsie. Ah, young love. So much joy. So much possibility…for pain.
Mature love can cause just as much pain.
Before she reached the staircase, familiar footsteps sounded behind her.
She didn’t stop and turn to see the cause of her pain.
The footsteps quickened to catch up. “Rose.” Andre reached her side and touched her arm.
This time, she halted and turned toward him, subtly sliding a few inches to the side to put more space between them.
“Now that you’ve finished cataloguing your books and mine—a task, by the way, which you’ve accomplished much quicker than I thought possible….”
A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel Page 17
