The Soul of the Rose (13 page)

“Your reaction is reward in itself,” he said in an undertone. They stood for some moments together, quietly looking at the picture.

Mr. Chestley came to stand beside his wife. “Look, my dear, how handsomely framed. An unusual piece for your library, Mr. Lyons.” He turned and looked around. “But look at all you have here.”

“Yes, besides books, I’ve collected other items that caught my eye over the years.” He turned to guide them around the room. Gesturing toward the busts, he said, “Here is Cervantes. This next, Dante.” He proceeded from one object to another. Celia looked at each piece with interest, noticing how often he looked at her when explaining an object. She felt that while he included the others, somehow, he wanted
her
to see all he had.

In one corner of the room, under glass, stood a display of quills, ink pens, and other writing paraphernalia. “See this quill,” he said. “It is said to have belonged to Benjamin Franklin. Some of the others belonged to my great-grandfather who was a great one for journaling. I occasionally read one of his journals. He comments on much that happened in his day. It’s been instructive to read his philosophy of life and see how similarly our minds work. The journals are kept in my mother’s library.”

He turned to Mr. Chestley. “You, sir, would find the bookcase behind my desk of interest. Miss Thatcher, I dare say you will as well.” He led them to his desk, and sitting in his chair, took a key out of the top drawer and unlocked the cabinet directly behind it. Pushing a glass panel to one side, he extracted a volume and handed it to Mr. Chestley.

Mr. Chestley looked at the spine, then opened to the title page. “A first edition. Remarkable! Do you have others?”

“Oh, yes. Sit here in my chair so you can better see. And, Mrs. Chestley, here is a book with illustrations you might find interesting.” He handed her a volume before rising. “Why don’t you come over to the settee in front of the fire. I’ll stoke up the flames. And Miss Thatcher, feel free to browse wherever you like.”

Celia wandered from section to section, amazed at the variety and scope of the library. She wondered if Mr. Lyons would be willing to lend her a book occasionally.

Sometime later, Mr. Chestley said, “I would need hours to appreciate all of this.”

“Well then, you must return.”

Mrs. Chestley rose, looking at her husband. “My dear, if you would like to return at a later date, then we should go now. It is getting late, and,” she smiled at their host, “Mr. Lyons has been most gracious.”

“You don’t have to stand at that window any longer, Miss Waul.” Mrs. Divers covered her mouth in a yawn. “We’re both getting tired. Maybe I can send off to his housekeeper tomorrow to make sure who was there.”

“It’s a shame, us waiting all this time and not to know.” Miss Waul shifted her weight onto her other foot. “But wait! Someone is coming out of the house.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Divers bounded out of her chair and crowded her companion at the window.

“Why!” Miss Waul burst out, “jumped like a cat, you did. I didn’t know you could move so. Up in a jiffy.”

“Neither did I. My excitement superseded my arthritis.” Mrs. Divers put her hand on her hip. “I think I overdid it. My achy old bones! I’ll pay for it tomorrow.” She adjusted her spectacles. “We could see better if you dimmed the lamp in the hall. Leave just enough light to find your way back.”

“All right, but I don’t want to miss a thing.”

“Hurry, then.”

As soon as Miss Waul returned, they gazed at the scene playing out through the aperture in the trees.

“Yes,” Miss Waul said, “that rotund figure is certainly Mr. Chestley.”

“Then we know the others. Well, I’m surprised Edward invited them.” Mrs. Divers rubbed her hip, feeling cross. “Or had anyone over, for that matter.”

“Me, too.”

“Well, it really is time we go to bed. I’m a’ aching and a’ paining all over. Tomorrow is time enough to discuss all this and if there’s anything we can do about it.”

13

C
elia, dear! Mrs. Adams and I are here to deliver a little something.” As Mrs. Harrod closed the bookstore door, she motioned her friend to the counter where Celia stood. “Look what I have—a package for you. Can you guess who sent it?”

Celia looked up smiling at one of her favorite people. Mrs. Harrod never failed to bring lighthearted gaiety wherever she went.

Mrs. Harrod hid the package behind her back. “Now guess.”

“Let’s see . . .”

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s from Boston.”

“Boston! That couldn’t be your son?”

“One and the same.” Mrs. Harrod produced the brown-wrapped parcel from behind her back and laid it on the counter. “Do open it now. I’m sure Mr. Chestley wouldn’t mind. I can’t wait to see what Charles sent you.”

Celia reached for the scissors beneath the counter to cut the twine. “Whatever do you think possessed him to send this?”

“Oh, I might venture a guess.”

Celia glanced up to see a pleased little smirk on her friend’s face and felt a blush warm her cheeks. It didn’t take much perception to see where this mother’s thoughts were going. Celia had thought Charles terribly interesting, but hadn’t a notion to hear anything from him. Yet a letter had followed a week after her return from home. And now this.

“This doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Mrs. Adams said, “when I saw the gallant way he escorted you home after the Christmas party.”

Celia felt it necessary to downplay the romantically intended hint. “It looks like it might be a book, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mrs. Harrod said. “Charles would be sure to send something that pleased.”

Just then, the bookstore door opened. Celia glanced up while Mrs. Adams turned around and exclaimed, “Mr. Lyons!”

“Oh, do come and join us, Edward,” Mrs. Harrod said. “Christmas isn’t over yet. See, Celia has received another present.” She nudged Mrs. Adams aside, making room for him at the counter. “Celia thinks it’s a book. And I’m inclined to agree.”

Mr. Lyons took off his hat, smoothed his hair, and approached them.

Celia took off the last of the wrapping and turned to see the cover. “It’s a novel.
Jane Eyre
.”

“
Jane Eyre?
Oh my. Did he include a note?” Mrs. Harrod leaned over to see, then laughed. “My gracious, I’m nosy as can be. What do you do with someone like me, Edward, who wants to know all her son’s doings with an attractive young woman?”

A sealed note fell from the pages. Celia felt her blush deepen.

“Well, good. I’m glad he had the manners to include a note. A mother likes to see her son follow through on the niceties.” Celia held it up, hesitating, and Mrs. Harrod quickly said, “But of course open that later, my dear. You’re going to think me meddling, and I won’t have
that.
But I hope you like the book. The binding is unusual—blue. It might match your eyes. What do you think, Edward?”

“Mrs. Harrod!” Celia remonstrated.

“Oh, just a little fun. Look at Edward, Celia. And hold up the book.”

Celia did as she was told. After a long moment, her eyes flicked down from the intensity in his.

“It is a near match.” He held out his hand for the volume. “Let me examine it. The binding doesn’t seem original to the book.” He opened it. “See, several pages at the front and back don’t quite match the rest. Charles has had it rebound for you, Miss Thatcher.”

“There!” Mrs. Harrod crowed. “I knew he would make it special.”

“It is absolutely lovely,” Celia said. “I will enjoy owning it. I read the story some years ago and look forward to reading it again.”

“Well, we won’t tell Charles you’ve already read it. I would think he would be much chagrined.”

“But this story bears up under a repeated reading. It will be a pleasure.”

“Good. I hope you don’t consider it forward, my dear, his giving you that particular book. Such a story!” She looked at Mr. Lyons archly. “What do you think, Edward?”

“I don’t know if I have any particular opinion to express. Not to you ladies, at any rate.”

“That sounds a little—mysterious, don’t you think, Mrs. Adams? Like he’s keeping something rather important from us.” Mrs. Harrod looked at Edward more closely, then turned back to her friend. “You know, I think he’d make a perfect Mr. Rochester. Maybe a young Mr. Rochester, since he’s trimmed his hair and beard, but certainly the same large, dark figure I envision.”

Celia looked at Mrs. Adams to see her reaction. The woman was positively glowing. “I think you’ve caught him exactly,” she said excitedly.

Celia contemplated Mr. Lyons some moments. Yes, he did look the part. Even acted the part.

“And,” Mrs. Harrod suddenly laughed, “they even have the same first name. Oh, dear! Edward, I do believe I have stumbled onto something. You can no longer be that hermit who lives across town. You will now be the enigmatic Mr. Rochester.”

“I hope you won’t spread that around, Ma’am. I’m enough of a curiosity in this town without adding fuel to the fire.”

“Just as long as you don’t have a deranged wife in that second-story turret of yours.”

“That I can assure you, Madam, I do not.”

Celia noticed Mr. Lyons’s brows gathering in a frown and Mrs. Harrod must have as well, because she quickly added, “Don’t worry, Edward. I was just joking. You know me!” She said this last lightly with the particular feminine sprightliness she was known for. “And now that I’ve delivered the present, I must go. Oh, by the way, just a reminder. Edward, we hope you’re planning to enter the flower show this year. Celia, he will have some beauties.”

Celia almost said he certainly did, if the roses on his dining room table the other night were any indication. But for some reason she hesitated to reveal she’d had dinner in his home. Of course, the invitation had been primarily to Mr. and Mrs. Chestley, yet she felt it too—privileged or private a thing to reveal—she wasn’t sure.

At Mr. Lyons’s silence, Mrs. Harrod said, “Well, of course, you will enter. It will be another excellent opportunity to become reacquainted with the town. Won’t it, Mrs. Adams? Now, we truly must be off. Celia, I will see you next week.”

“Thank you for delivering the package.”

“No trouble at all. I was dying of curiosity to see what was inside. You were very sweet to open it in my presence. Now, Mrs. Adams—” She fluttered a little wave before preceding her friend out the door.

Celia turned to Mr. Lyons. “Thank you for waiting. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Well . . . I . . .” He looked rather chagrined, Celia thought. “I’m wondering if my offering will be anticlimactic, after that.”

“Oh, please don’t think so.”

He grimaced slightly, then opened his coat and took a small book from an inner pocket. “I meant to lend this to you after dinner the other evening.”

Celia held out her hand for the little book.
Lyrical Ballads.
She opened to the title page. “There is no author; what is this?”

“Actually, two poets collaborated on the work. This first edition came out anonymously. Look through it and see if you can guess the poets.”

She scanned the various titles. “
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
. Ah! Coleridge, isn’t it?”

“Correct.” He smiled. “Now, can you deduce the other?”

“Here’s
Tintern Abbey
. That is familiar.” She pressed her lips together in concentration. “Oh! I almost have it. . . .”

“If you’re acquainted with Coleridge’s history, you’ll remember these two became friends, took long walks through the hills of their region, and evolved theories of poetic diction—which resulted in this joint publication.”

She looked up at him. “This is like a mystery. I’ll guess Shelley. Or Keats?”

“No to both. But you’re in the right time period.”

“Can you give me another clue?”

“His name starts with a W.”

“Wordsworth!” On his nod, she laughed, feeling quite sheepish. “A rather obvious clue. But I needed it, I’m afraid. I’ll never forget the poem’s author now.”

“The collection of poems was published again and attributed to both writers. But this is a rare volume and I was curious to see if you could guess the authors.”

“In that case, I will be certain to treat it with extra care. You are very good to bring it.”

“You know, I invited the Chestleys and you to use my library whenever you like.”

“That was most kind. I wondered if we would take advantage of your offer. Not that we wouldn’t have wanted to, but you must realize most people are rather in awe of you.”

“I don’t know if
awe
is the right word.”

“Well—” She stumbled a bit. “One certainly doesn’t dream of taking advantage of you. Or even want to appear to do so.”

“If I was apprehensive about that, I wouldn’t have extended you the invitation.”

“Thank you.” Celia smiled. She felt the compliment. “It will have to be at the Chestleys’ convenience.”

“I understand.” He stood looking at her a moment. “I was thinking, if the Chestleys are too busy, who else might accompany you? That older woman from the other side of town who attends the book discussions?”

“Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes, do you think she would enjoy the library?”

Celia laughed. “I’m not sure how great a reader she is, but for the pure triumph of saying she’d been in your house—”

“Is it as bad as that? Well, maybe we’d better limit the invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Chestley for the present.”

“Maybe so. It will be the greatest of pleasures.”

“And please don’t wait on ceremony. Or on another dinner invitation. What say you come on a Sunday afternoon? That should not interfere with work.”

“If it’s too early, it might interfere with Mr. Chestley’s Sunday afternoon nap. But later, he and Mrs. Chestley usually take a walk. If they were to extend their walk to your house, maybe I could accompany them.”

“That would be good.” He looked at her a long moment, inhaling a long breath, then exhaling as if deeply satisfied. He stood at the counter some moments longer. To bridge the quiet, Celia said, “I can’t help but second Mrs. Harrod’s invitation.”

“What?”

“The flower show.”

“We’ll see. I don’t know if you realize it, but at the back of my house is a freestanding conservatory. When you come on a Sunday afternoon, early enough for a good bit of daylight, you might see that as well.”

“I didn’t realize you had a conservatory. Mrs. Harrod never mentioned it.”

“Probably because hers is superior.”

“Have you seen hers?”

“Just once.”

“She’s enlarged it recently, probably since you’ve visited. It seems the only thing left to add is exotics from different countries.” Celia wondered if she should offer, then forged ahead, “I might mention you would be interested in seeing her conservatory again, if that would afford you the slightest pleasure.”

“It would.”

“Then I will suggest it.”

Another long moment of silence ensued.

“Well, I’d best be off then,” he said. “Keep the book as long as you like.”

“Thank you. It was most kind of you to bring it, to even think of it.”

“No kindness at all. I assure you.”

But as he closed the door, she thought it surely was. It gave her pause. He who was known to be a hermit, of sorts, making a special trip to the store . . . and then, offering free access to his library to the Chestleys and herself. . . .

In her mind’s eye, she could visualize the richly appointed library: its volumes of thought, books of faraway places, and stories of varied experiences. She could see herself while away many an hour in one of the comfortable chairs near the fireplace.

Would Mr. Lyons be present? Would this give them more opportunity to talk—of religion, of his beliefs. She—she wanted to do so. He had such a fine mind, she didn’t doubt his keen interest in examining the issues of the day, but he also seemed to have left the moorings of his faith. The thought of him teetering between belief and unbelief distressed her. Didn’t Mr. Lyons too clearly demonstrate the thinking of many in these times?

Her father had said how quickly man resorted to his own devices, came to his own conclusions—mistakenly searched for answers to the great questions of life apart from God who had given that life. She thought back to her first conversation with Mr. Lyons about Emerson, on this very spot.

Celia folded the wrapping from Charles’s gift, then put the twine in a box under the counter. Reaching for the scissors, she looked down at them. Such a useful item. Yet how easily she could cut outside prescribed lines and cause a defect in the object, even ruining it.

Just so with her budding friendship with Mr. Lyons. Didn’t it need thought and care? She thought back to their time in the library after dinner, how they had enjoyed looking at the French print together. Two like minds, two similar sensibilities. Had she such affinity with anyone else?

Her father. She and her father were closer, they agreed on more and years had formed their relationship. She trusted him implicitly. Could she trust Mr. Lyons? She felt the underlying conflict in their beliefs, in their views.

Yet, there was something with Mr. Lyons she didn’t have with her father. Her memory relived the scene in the library when they gazed at the French picture. She and her father had looked at art once in a gallery. But that had all been rather intellectual and impersonal compared to this instance. Mr. Lyons had bought the picture and had chosen the frame himself. He liked the picture, knew she liked it. Did that enter into his decision to purchase it, hang it in his treasured library and then make certain the Chestleys and she saw it? That
she
saw it? She remembered standing with him in front of the picture, standing close: pleasuring in the beauty, in the meaning of the loneliness and harshness of the scene. Sharing it . . . together.

“Oh!” A quiet gasp burst out her parted lips. Her deep enjoyment reliving those moments shocked her. She stood quietly, hardly breathing. Yes, she saw the need for care with Mr. Lyons, the need to be circumspect. That she should be careful not to engage too much of his time or interest, or her own. The books lined up on the bookshelves suddenly came into focus. She was back in the bookstore. How had her mind wandered so?