The Soul of the Rose (12 page)

12

S
aturday evening arrived and Celia gave a last look in the mirror. She had taken special care to arrange her hair in a twisted coil at the nape of her neck, something she thought different and elegant. The dress Mrs. Chestley approved was the same dark one she’d worn to the Harrods’ dinner, but with the addition of a lace collar Grandmother had given her at Christmas. The collar was wide and draped down the front. Then, as she was about to leave that last day, Grandmother pressed a small box into her hand. “Something Aunt Hattie gave me years ago; they’re larger than the ones from your grandfather. Their size will balance well with your wealth of lovely hair, my dear. There now,” she said in a half-whisper. “I don’t see you half as much as I’d like. Whenever you wear them, think of me.”

Pearl earrings! Perfect with her present dress. When Mrs. Chestley saw them, she pronounced them the finishing touch. And now, as Celia stepped out her bedroom door, she caught Mr. Chestley’s eye as he waited for his wife.

“Celia!” He looked her over approvingly. “You do these old eyes proud. I couldn’t be more pleased with you, if you were my own daughter.”

“I’m sure Mr. Lyons’s home is all that is gracious. I want to do it credit.”

“Oh, you’ll do more than that, my dear. You’ll be the jewel in the setting. Mark my words! And I think
you
had something to do with our invitation.”

“You and Mrs. Chestley are the ones he really meant to invite. I was just an afterthought.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

After reaching for a blanket from the guest bedroom closet, Mrs. Divers temporarily placed it on the bed. Then she looked out the window. This second story gave her a better view. Of course, she knew just seeing Edward’s house would upset her, but she supposed looking was force of habit.

But what was this
?
She craned her neck.

As fast as she could, she hobbled to the bedroom door. “Miss Waul! Miss Waul! Come here—to the guest bedroom. Quick!”

A few moments later, her companion lumbered up the stairs.

“Look! Out this window and tell me what you make of it.”

Miss Waul huffed her way across the room and peered into the darkness. “Well, if Mr. Lyons’s house isn’t all lit up. Usually it’s dark as a tomb.”

“Yes! Not only are the front rooms lighted, but the drive is marked by lanterns. I’ve never seen the like. What do you make of it?”

Miss Waul shrugged her shoulders. “What time is it?”

“I think it’s near seven o’clock.”

“Well, it’s obvious he’s going to have some kind of company. Unless they’ve already arrived.”

“Let’s keep watch a bit,” Mrs. Divers insisted.

“Of course.”

“I’ll stand a few minutes. Then you take your turn. We’ll drag over that chair for one of us.”

“All right. Would you like some tea, something to warm you?”

“That might be good. Why don’t you go down, fix some, and bring it up.”

Miss Waul turned and crossed the room. Just as she exited the door, Mrs. Divers called, “Come back! A carriage is turning into the drive.”

Miss Waul hurried back to the window. She stretched her neck. “There’s just enough opening in the trees to see. It’s pretty dark, though.”

“But we’ll be able to see
something
. There’s enough light with the house lamps and all.”

“To be sure.”

Mrs. Divers all but held her breath as she observed the driver get off his perch and climb the steps to the front door. “Ah! That’s Edward coming out. I’d know him anywhere. Look, he’s accompanying the driver down the steps. I can’t see them now. They’re on the other side of the carriage.” She felt her insides quiver with excitement. “Now look, Miss Waul, Edward is escorting one of the ladies up the steps.”

“And there’s another man who’s helping the other lady.”

“Can you identify anyone?”

“The portly man—I think that’s Mr. Chestley. Don’t you think?” Miss Waul asked.

“I think you’re right. And if that’s Mr. Chestley, one of the women has to be Mrs. Chestley. And the slender one—would have to be Miss Thatcher.”

“I think you’ve solved it, Mrs. Divers. In fact, I’m sure you have. Come to think of it, who else could it possibly be? That man doesn’t socialize with anyone. The only place I know he goes besides the grocers is the bookstore.”

“And out to hunt,” Mrs. Divers added. “I saw him just the other day. Took that big bow of his.” She shuddered.

“There!” Miss Waul said with finality. “Everyone’s inside. I would think they might have been invited for dinner. If so, they’ll be there for a while and we can relax some. Would you like me to get that tea?”

“I would think we could go downstairs, sit by the fire as usual, then come up here for a spell.”

“We could take turns standing by the window.”

“Exactly, Miss Waul.”

Mr. Lyons gestured to the middle-aged woman in black with a white apron who stood waiting at his side. “This is Mrs. Macon, my cook and housekeeper. She’ll take your wraps.” He helped Mrs. Chestley with her coat. Celia noticed he helped the older lady first. How correct and gentlemanly of him.

Her eyes scanned the front hall. Its rich dark wood embraced a spacious foyer whose various doors and arches led to other rooms, but its striking feature was a wide staircase that mounted up to an airy second floor.

Mr. Lyons gestured to an arch to their left. “Would you like to sit in the drawing room? Dinner will be ready shortly.”

Celia saw Mrs. Chestley’s eager look. What fun they’d have talking over the house when they returned home. Mr. and Mrs. Chestley preceded her, and Mr. Lyons stretched out his other arm to encourage her to enter, almost touching her. Celia smiled up at him. He was so deferential in seeing to their comfort. She felt his care once again, and a certain protectiveness. Involuntarily she remembered his wife and her thoughts clouded. What had gone wrong?

As they entered the drawing room, Mrs. Chestley turned to their host. “What a beautiful room.” Sand-colored walls gave the room a lighter appearance than the great hall. A large tapestry depicting a medieval hunt dominated the wall opposite the fireplace. Chairs and couches upholstered in shades of brown and crimson, their dark woods complementing the door and window frames. Drapes at the windows were deep brown velvet.

Sitting down, Celia felt the room’s comfort, yet also its lovely formality. A luxurious, masculine room.

“I’ve never been in this house,” Mr. Chestley stated. “Wasn’t it built by one of the town’s benefactors? At least, that’s what I heard after my wife and I arrived as newlyweds.”

“Yes, the man who built this house gave a large sum of money to the local Congregationalist church for their present building. I understand he was a member who originally hailed from Boston. Years later when his wife passed on, he put this up for sale. I heard about it through a mutual friend in the city, and on seeing it, decided on its purchase. Suited me admirably. He didn’t build this on Elm Street, like the Harrods, where most of the town’s larger homes are built. He wanted to walk out his back door and hunt the fields and forests—like myself.”

“Are you a sportsman then?” Mrs. Chestley asked.

“Bow and arrow. As a boy, I used to pretend I was Robin Hood. Made up all sorts of stories as I trekked through the woods at my grandparents’ summer home. The memory of their house spurred me to purchase this.”

“Are you still able to visit the house?” Mrs. Chestley asked.

“It burned to the ground.”

“How terrible!”

“Yes, it was.”

Celia thought a shadow passed over his countenance. Could she lighten the conversation? “Playing Robin Hood, did you have your band of merry men?”

Mr. Lyons smiled at the remembrance. “As a matter of fact, I did. Summers at my grandparents, I joined the local gang of boys. We built forts, played cowboys and Indians. But our favorite game was Robin Hood. Most of us had read the story in school, I guess. That summer we used imaginary bows. Next Christmas, I begged my parents for a bow and arrow. They thought it better than a gun. So the following year I took my bow to the grandparents’ and started a local craze. From then on, we boys had archery contests and the like. I’ve never lost my love of the sport. Even here, I go out on a regular basis.”

“Sportsman as well as literati,” Mrs. Chestley said. “An unusual combination.”

“I believe one balances the other.”

The conversation continued on surface topics: the weather and Mr. Chestley’s plans for the bookstore. In a few minutes, Mrs. Macon appeared in the doorway, announcing dinner. Mr. Lyons held out his arm to escort Mrs. Chestley, and her husband followed suit by offering his to Celia.

When Mrs. Macon brought out the first course of cream soup, Celia couldn’t help smile. She knew Mr. Chestley would consider it the epitome of comfort soup, just enough substance to make one feel fed, but not too filling before the more substantial main course to follow. She fingered the thick, yet soft damask napkins and gazed at the centerpiece of crimson roses.

“
Général Jacqueminot
, from my greenhouse,” Mr. Lyons said, nodding to the flowers. “I took care to cut them nearer the bud stage when their color is a bright red. When they are fully open, their color takes on a purple hue. If you like, I’ll send them home with you. ”

Celia could see care had been taken in every detail; everything spoke elegance, yet masculinity prevailed.

“Ah!” Mr. Chestley exclaimed when the main course arrived. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or is that crown roast of pork?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Macon assured him. “And I’ve taken care to make sausage from the trimmings and put it in the crown to flavor and moisten the roast.”

“Mrs. Macon, Mr. Lyons, you are spoiling us,” Mrs. Chestley said.

“It was my intention to treat you as the valued friends you are.” Mr. Lyons directed the conversation in pleasant paths, very much the master of his house. He told them about Christmas observances in Boston, then asked how their families celebrated. Celia found him especially interested in her family and what she had done during her visit. As dessert was served, he asked, “And what about that young man who escorted you onto the train? He said he would be paying a visit.”

“Oh, he’s an old friend. We’ve known each other for years. In fact, we went to school together.”

“Is that Jack?” Mrs. Chestley asked. “You didn’t tell me he was coming for a visit.”

“He didn’t make any specific plans. Just said he’d come
sometime
.”

“Well, be sure to let me know if he does. I’m glad to hear he’s doing
something
.”

Celia felt herself blushing and involuntarily glanced at Mr. Lyons. His dark eyes met hers.

“After dinner, I would like to show you my library,” he said. “I think you’ll find something of interest.”

“We’d be honored,” Mr. Chestley said.

Mrs. Macon entered just then and asked if anyone would like more dessert. “Speaking for myself, I don’t think I could eat another mouthful,” Mr. Chestley volunteered. “It was all delicious, simply delicious.”

Mrs. Chestley turned and beamed at Mrs. Macon. “My husband gets considerably simpler fare at home.”

“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure to prepare a meal for more than one person. The cook in me has taken wing.”

“Then we’ll have to do this again sometime,” Mr. Lyons said. “Now then, if we’re ready, shall we go to the library?” He rose and pulled Mrs. Chestley’s seat back for her. Then he held out his arm to escort her. Celia followed with Mr. Chestley.

Mr. Lyons led them into the hall and turned toward the back of the house. A door on the left opened into a brightly lit room with a crackling fire. Books lined the walls. Various niches held marble busts that Celia thought might be authors, but her gaze was immediately drawn to a picture on the far wall, above his desk.

“Mr. Lyons!” Her voice caught. “The French print!” She crossed the room to the picture.

Mr. Lyons moved from Mrs. Chestley’s side to stand near Celia.

“I can’t believe it! You framed my picture,” she accused. “I am envious!” She turned to him. “But I couldn’t be more pleased. The frame suits it perfectly, the curves and scrolls in brushed gold is exquisite.”