The Soul of the Rose (15 page)

“Good! Well, then, follow me, and I’ll show you the latest addition to my conservatory. Of course, you remember this room we’re in.”

“Yes, but not this seating area or that table and chairs over there.”

“No? Then you haven’t been here for some time. I added the furniture a couple of years ago. Just about the time of—well, no matter.” Her hand dismissed the subject with a little flutter. “We shall have tea here later. But now, let me show you my exotics. The room is kept extra warm and moist, imitating the tropics. I am most fortunate; when I want something showy for the house when we have guests, Hatfield takes them out of their hothouse, returning the little Cinderellas at the stroke of midnight.”

Edward opened the door for the ladies and followed them into a room filled with ferns, broad-leafed potted plants, and a rubber tree.

“My husband was most generous on my last birthday,” Mrs. Harrod said. “Otherwise, this room would be quite empty.”

Edward examined several orchids peeking from the greenery. “You have some noble specimens. I’ve never tried raising them. They have a reputation for being difficult.”

“Not if you choose the right varieties. I started with
cattleyas
and
phalaenopsis
. Most orchids love humidity and good air circulation. But I believe these varieties could be grown at normal room temperatures with moderate humidity. This is to say, you wouldn’t necessarily have to have a special room for them like I do.”

“I still think it’ll be some time before I grow orchids. When I do, I’ll come to you for advice.”

“And I’ll be glad to give it,” Mrs. Harrod said laughing. “Look here, I have a fan back wicker chair off to the side, behind this fern. Anyone can sit here and pretend they’re in the tropics.”

“Move from summer to the tropics, all within the space of two rooms. And in a New England winter to boot. Quite an accomplishment.”

“Thank you. Now, take your time looking at the various specimens. When you’re ready we’ll return to the main part of the conservatory for refreshments.”

Later, partaking of tea and cakes, Edward felt himself swelling with congeniality. He wasn’t often in the company of ladies, especially two such charming ones.

After tea, the three of them walked around the main room of the conservatory, Mrs. Harrod proudly showing off a rose she had trained into a climber. “
Céline Forestier
. It’s usually a large, loose shrub. An excellent repeater, otherwise, I doubt if it would bloom this time of year. Smell its fragrance.”

“A delicious scent,” Mr. Lyons said. “Pale yellow with hints of buff, apricot, and pink. Beautiful.”

“If you’d like a cutting, it’s easily propagated.”

“Thank you. I have a special fondness for the rose.” He looked at Miss Thatcher, wondering if she was enjoying this as much as he. “In fact, the rose is something of a specialty of mine. A favorite is the
Centifolia
. I wonder, Miss Thatcher, if you know to what I’m referring. The Dutch flower paintings from the seventeenth century onward?”

Celia laughed. “For once I can make an informed comment because my grandmother raises them. Its common name is cabbage rose, isn’t it? I’ve always loved their enormous, full-bodied flowers with hundreds of petals.”

“Bravo, Miss Thatcher.” Edward tipped his head approvingly. “To me they are a queenly flower. Because of the size of the bush, most are in my yard. However, in my conservatory, I have a white one that I am working on to force earlier than its usual blooming time, which is late in the season. Do you know which variety your grandmother has?”

After half an hour of such talk, Edward reluctantly looked at his hostess and suggested it was time for him to leave. “Mrs. Harrod, you’ve been a perfect hostess. It’s been a pleasure to talk with someone as informed as yourself. Miss Thatcher has had to listen all this time to two plant enthusiasts.” He smiled at Celia. “More than you bargained for?”

“I had no idea the two of you were so knowledgeable. I caught only about half of what was said.”

“But Celia is a quick learner.” Mrs. Harrod took Celia’s arm. “If she likes, she can come back when you return, Edward. And you must return.”

“I will look forward to it.” He looked at Celia. “May I escort you home, Miss Thatcher?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Mrs. Harrod said, “but you can’t. I’m keeping her a little longer. I’m hoping to prevail on her to accompany me to Boston.”

“Boston?”

She laughed. “I declare, Edward, you should see your face.”

In truth, for a second his mind had gone blank with surprise.

Mrs. Harrod continued, “I’ve asked Celia to accompany me on my spring shopping trip. I need someone’s advice on what looks best on me. She said she’d stay and advise what in my closet could be donated to charity.” Her eyes twinkled. “I have another idea what might be done with a few of those clothes.”

“Well, ladies—Boston! I was just thinking of all you could see. Miss Thatcher, you must visit the Athenaeum. You will not find a better library anywhere.”

“Of course, you would suggest a library!” Mrs. Harrod quipped.

“This one has some unique displays. I will be sure to procure you an introduction and a specially guided tour. It is a privately owned collection, you know.”

“Well then, that might be nice.” Mrs. Harrod held out her hand. “You would know what is most interesting to see, having grown up there.”

Mr. Lyons took her hand and bowed over it. Then it struck him—they would be sure to visit Charles, might be entertained by him. That was an unpleasant thought.

He let go of Mrs. Harrod’s hand, then looked at Celia. “Miss Thatcher?” Hogwash with convention that dictated a lady offer her hand first. He extended his. She followed his lead and lifted hers. He grasped it, bowing over it, held onto it longer than was strictly necessary. If he could not walk her home, he would have this small piece of her. And impress on his memory the feeling of her slim hand in his.

15

C
elia fastened the top button of the silvery-blue walking dress Mrs. Harrod had given her a few weeks ago. She had never owned anything so lovely. The tiny pearl buttons down the front and a pleated flounce highlighted its beautiful bustle. She had dressed her flaxen hair in a sophisticated braid curled at the nape of her neck. Absolutely, she felt the height of fashion.

“If you’re going to accompany me to Boston shops to give counsel on my new outfits, you must look the part,” Mrs. Harrod said. The other outfit and dresses she gave Celia out of her closet had been altered to fit her figure.

Celia looked around the hotel sitting room for what seemed the hundredth time. The Louis XIV furniture fitted exactly her idea of elegant feminine appointments. How had this happened? It was all due to this extraordinary lady who had befriended her. Celia felt the honor of it, the privilege. As Mrs. Harrod brought delight into her life, Celia wanted to be a delight to her.

“My dear, are you ready?” Mrs. Harrod sailed into the room. “I declare! After that meal last night, I hope I retain something of my girlish figure. The waiter
would
tempt me with all those delicacies. What was your favorite? Mine was the lobster bisque. Oh dear, I do want my measurements just right for today’s shopping. Of course, you don’t have to worry. You have the tiniest waist.”

“This beautiful outfit you gave me accentuates it. I’ve never had anything so elegant.”

“And it looks perfectly ravishing on you. It didn’t fit me anymore, so I’m glad I found someone who could wear it.” She smoothed the front of her dove gray suit and picked up her handbag. “Now, let’s be off. We have a lot to accomplish before we meet Charles this afternoon.”

Celia was unaccustomed to walking into the type of shop Mrs. Harrod apparently frequented. The one time she’d been to Boston, she remembered glancing into the windows of refined establishments like these, never thinking to enter one. Now, she quietly followed her companion, letting her take the lead,
being introduced as her particular friend, and sitting in a com
fortable chair while Mrs. Harrod was shown pictures of the latest fashions from abroad. Swatches of material were brought out, and Mrs. Harrod kept looking to her for an opinion. Celia smiled to herself. The lady had some pretty definite ideas as to what she liked and what would look good on her. Only once did Celia offer a dissenting view that a more subdued green would look more elegant in a particular afternoon dress.

Mrs. Harrod held off the swatch, closed one eye to better visualize it against the picture. “I absolutely agree. Now, do you see why I brought you along? My husband will thank you, too, for keeping me from making such a costly mistake. He tells me when I enter a room and open my mouth to speak, I exude color enough.” She laughed. “I see now if I wore that bright green, I would absolutely overwhelm people. Now, let’s finish our business here and have a quick bite of lunch before we meet Charles. I don’t know what he has in mind, but if he wants to take us around Boston, we’ll just have to think about shoes tomorrow.”

After ordering lunch, Mrs. Harrod asked the proprietor if he could procure them a buggy or some such vehicle, to drive them to her son’s school. “He wants us to meet him at this address; he said two o’clock.”

A pleasant ride through Boston ensued with the driver, acting as impromptu guide, pointing out several landmarks. When Mrs. Harrod complimented him on his knowledge, he answered, “Drivers of any hack know something of the city’s history. And such a history, ladies. It’s fortunate you came at a pleasant time of year.” After they crossed the Charles River into Cambridge, he looked back over his shoulder. “Harvard University just ahead.”

The ride fascinated Celia. She sat forward in her seat, eagerly taking it all in. The area here in Cambridge was more open than Boston. Trees had begun to bud, some to leaf, creating clouds of fairy green.

The driver nodded to a red brick building. “Now, there’s your address.” He lowered himself off his perch and held out his hand to help them down.

When they entered the hall and were just about to ask at the front desk, a familiar figure bounded out of a nearby alcove. “Mother!” Charles cried, “So good to see you.” He hugged her hard. “Celia, how wonderful you’ve come.” His eyes welcomed her.

Celia couldn’t help note how fine Charles was looking—and such a gentleman.

“I’ve set aside the rest of the day for the both of you. But before we go, I have a little surprise. Back of here, we’re allowed to play different outdoors sports. If you’ll follow me. . . . ” He led them down the hall to the rear of the building, then out and along a walk to an archery range on the fringe of the property. A young man stood at some distance from a target, shooting arrows.

“Charles! Have you taken up your boyhood sport?” Mrs. Harrod asked.

“Wait until you see, Mother.” Charles led them across the grass. After introductions were made, Charles’s shooting companion said, “He has quite the upper hand of me, Ma’am.”

“Well, I must say I am surprised. I can’t wait to see a demonstration.”

Charles smiled at Celia and after taking up a bow and a quiver of arrows, turned to face the target. She watched him, interested. He raised the bow with assurance and let go an arrow, hitting the center circle, exactly alongside his companion’s last arrow. Both ladies clapped.

“Not perfect, but that will do for starters. My colleague has agreed to have a little competition,” Charles said.

An agreeable rivalry followed. The men each shot three rounds. Mrs. Harrod declared herself vastly entertained, especially when Charles’s final shot hit dead center. She clapped again and Celia enthusiastically followed suit.

Charles took off his arm guard and handed his bow to his companion. “Would you be so good as to take these? I’m escorting my mother and Miss Thatcher on a tour of Boston. Mother, I’ve hired a carriage for the remainder of the afternoon.”

Minutes later Charles handed his mother up to her seat.

“Let me arrange myself a moment,” she said. “Charles, you and Celia sit opposite me.”

Charles smiled and held out his hand to help Celia, then settled himself beside her.

“Something occurred to me just now, seeing you shoot,” Mrs. Harrod said, looking at her son, “I’d like to include an archery contest as part of our flower show this June. It would draw more men, make it more of an event. Don’t you think so?”

“Your shows are always an event, Mother, but if you’d like to add archery, why not?”

“Well, I’d want you to help me.”

“In June, you say? When I come home next, just tell me what you want done.”

“Thank you!” Mrs. Harrod leaned over to pat her son’s knee.

“Now,” Charles turned to Celia, “did you do anything besides shopping this morning?” On Celia’s shaking her head, he said, “I thought not. Mother is an indefatigable shopper. Since we’re on this side of the river, I’ll show you Harvard. There,” he pointed, “on our left is the School of Divinity. You know, these last decades it has become quite the bastion of modernism. Thoroughly Unitarian, I’d say.”

“My father said as much,” Celia said. “It is sad, considering the first two hundred years it was a stronghold of Puritan, then later Calvinistic thought.”

“Why do you say sad, my dear?” Mrs. Harrod asked. “I was never clear on what Unitarians believed.”

Celia leaned forward. “They deny the doctrine of the Trinity and hold that God exists in only one person. Jesus, therefore, is not divine. But they do accept his moral teachings.”

Charles looked at Celia. “I suspected you would be well-informed on the subject. Then you also know that Boston and nearby Concord and Walden Pond were the seats of Transcendentalism. And I know you don’t agree with that,” he said, laughing.

“True.” Celia smiled.

“I find transcendental thinking interesting,” Charles con-tinued, “an idealist’s view of life. Not too many years ago, it was thought radical, but opposition has lessened considerably, especially around these parts. You might be aware Harvard’s embrace of liberal Christianity and Unitarianism has made it possible for Transcendental theologians to make their philosophy more acceptable. When we drive back to Boston, I’ll take you by Emerson and Thoreau’s homes.”

“You sound like a thoroughly modern thinker.”

He sat back with his arm draped over the posterior of the seat. “It behooves one to know the different systems of thought, and at this point, I think one way seems as good as another.”

Celia glanced at Mrs. Harrod. Wasn’t she disturbed by her son’s talk?

“Relax, my dear Miss Thatcher, I haven’t turned heathen yet. Sit back and enjoy the ride. That’s better. Now, before we leave Harvard Yard, look around this corner at that large clapboard house. It’s known as the Wadsworth House. Washington slept there.”

He laughed at his mother’s skeptical look. “He really did!”

Late the following evening, Celia took off her wrapper and climbed into bed. Sitting up, she turned and placed an extra pillow behind her. She wasn’t ready to sleep yet. What a lot she had to think about. Charles’s stance yesterday about spiritual things disturbed her, yet it hadn’t seemed the time to provoke an open discussion. And then, the luncheon this noon with Mr. Lyons’s mother. Something there had piqued her interest—disquieted her, would be a better description.

The day had started innocently enough. Escorting them shopping this morning, Charles had asked, “Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Athenaeum? We won’t stop now, but this afternoon you can certainly visit.” He then took his mother to her favorite shoe shop and they spent an hour ordering three new pairs to go with the dresses she’d ordered yesterday—a new pair for each outfit. Celia wasn’t used to such extravagance. She had one everyday pair and another for Sunday. Mrs. Harrod certainly lived on a different economic scale than she did. Yet, Celia felt herself to be her equal.

That may very well be, but she had met her match at lunch today. She turned to plump up the pillows. Before she left for Boston, Mr. Lyons had paid her a visit in the bookstore and said his mother had extended an invitation to lunch. He’d already arranged it with Mrs. Harrod. Celia’s first thought was that she didn’t merit such attention, and her next was of his extreme generosity. That quickly followed with curiosity to see his boyhood home.

Charles had stopped the carriage in front of a red brick townhouse, the façade a restrained Greek Revival. “
Ma mère et mademoiselle!
”
He gestured with a flourish. “I let you off in arguably the most prestigious address on Beacon Hill—Louisburg Square. Do not let the modest exteriors fool you; inside, I hear, is a completely different world. I envy your invitation to the crème of Boston society.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Lyons would include you in our party if she knew you were with us,” his mother said. “I could ask her.”

“Absolutely not! I wouldn’t disarrange Mrs. Lyons’s plans for the world. But I will depend on you to tell me about your visit. Now both of you have a good time. I’ll be along to pick you up at two o’clock.”

When he handed them out of the carriage, he purposely took Celia’s arm, catching her eye. “Now, my dear, you are not to ogle too much. Edward Lyons’s home might be ancestral, but it’s mere side entertainment. Your real interests lie with our party.”

His comment took her by surprise. He had said it with a chuckle, but she heard the serious undercurrent.

The butler opened the door and showed them into the drawing room. Oriental rugs had the same warm reds Celia remembered in Mr. Lyons’s house. Grand landscapes in gilt frames surrounded the marble fireplace—how these paintings must have nurtured Mr. Lyons’s love of nature. And the crystal chandelier sparkled from both the gaslight and natural sunlight from the windows. Richly ornate and dignified described the room.

They had been received with perfect cordiality. Mrs. Lyons, patrician in both look and mien, inquired after their health, then asked how they had left her son.

“Oh, he’s quite the most robust man I know,” Mrs. Harrod said. “He has added much to our circle of society. But only recently.”

“I surmised as much.”

Celia smiled at the delicate reference to his hibernation.

“And I must add,” Mrs. Harrod said, “Miss Thatcher has had much to do with his coming out of his shell. She has the most fascinating book discussions.”

“Book discussions! Did I hear someone refer to book discussions?” An older gentleman with white hair and a goatee hurried into the room.

“Let me introduce my brother recently arrived from St. Louis,” Mrs. Lyons said. “Herbert, this is Mrs. Harrod and her friend Celia Thatcher. They both live in the town in which Edward now resides and have been most kind to him.”

The elderly gentleman acknowledged the introduction with a courtly bow. “Honored to meet you.” He looked at Celia with a spark of interest in his eye. “Edward wrote me around Christmas—I suppose he thinks it his duty to write his uncle at the holiday—and he mentioned with more than the usual enthusiasm a couple of book discussions he attended.” He smiled. “And now I think I know why.”