The Soul of the Rose (21 page)

“I must have wandered for a couple of hours. Marguerite was alone in the house, but I couldn’t go back. Besides, I figured it was the way she wanted it.

“After a while the stillness of the woods and the physical activity quieted me. The exertion calmed me in a way nothing else could have done. I can still see the sturdy oaks all around me that afternoon.

“When I returned, however, I dreaded going up the stairs to the room Marguerite occupied. The house was so peacefully quiet.

“Oh, to keep this stillness, I thought. I couldn’t check on her immediately. She must be asleep. Let sleeping dogs lie.

“So I warmed some soup Mrs. Macon had left for me, determining after I finished eating to take some hot broth to Marguerite. I cannot tell you how I wanted to prolong the quiet, the stillness I had found in the forest, the calm that had finally been restored to my soul.

“Maybe three-quarters of an hour later, I heated the broth and took the tray up the stairs. It was silent in the hall to her bedroom. Deathly silent, as I now know. I hesitated in front of her door that was ajar. I didn’t want to step inside, but finally steeled myself.

“My eyes immediately went to her figure, then her face—ashen in color. My dread of just moments before changed to a different kind of dread. I quickly placed the tray at the foot of the bed.

“Her face, her mouth, was crooked. It didn’t look normal. Only one other time had I seen a dead person shortly after death—my father—and her face looked like that.

“I stood for a moment and sighed, in sorrow or relief, I hardly know which. I just knew there was no hurry to ascertain her condition.

“Finally, I stepped forward and took the hand on the bedspread. It was cold and stiff. Even though I knew she was gone, yet I bent over to determine if any breath came out of her open mouth. There was none. I took her wrist and felt for a pulse. None.

“I then began going through the motions of what I thought I should do. I went to get Ned, asked him to get the doctor. After he left, I stayed with Marguerite, felt it the proper thing to do. After the doctor came, he officially declared her dead, from pneumonia he thought. I then asked if Ned would send his wife for Mrs. Divers. I’ll spare you the details of what happened when she arrived. I was thankful the doctor, Ned, and his wife were present. I knew I needed others nearby when she came.”

Edward looked at both of them sitting on the divan, then fastened his eyes on Celia once again. “Miss Thatcher, Celia. Will you forgive me for relating in such detail, the incidents of that afternoon? But I felt you had to know—all of it. I also wanted Mr. Chestley present to be a support to you when you heard my side of the story.”

Mr. Chestley shifted forward onto the edge of the divan. “Be assured we will support you if any untoward ramifications develop.”

“Thank you.”

A few moments of silence ensued. Then Mr. Lyons said, “Are you all right, Miss Thatcher? I know this has been a shock.”

“Yes, yes, but thank you for sharing what happened.” She glanced down at her folded hands. “However, I still feel sorry for Mrs. Divers and want the best for her.”

“Yes.” Mr. Lyons paused again, then asked, “Mr. Chestley, would it be all right if I showed Miss Thatcher something in the conservatory? Would you mind waiting?” At Mr. Chestley’s nod, he said, “Feel free to avail yourself of anything in the library.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll stay right here. After a long day in the store, and with the book discussion tonight, I would welcome a few minutes of quiet. Go ahead, Celia.”

Once outside the drawing room, Edward led the way to the back of the house. “You’ve been to the conservatory by way of the front, but this is quicker.”

Celia was curious to see his conservatory again—it must be overflowing with blooms—but she wondered what he could have to show her. At the kitchen door, he took up cutting shears and a basket.

She accompanied him across the grass to the glass building.

He held the door for her, then once inside, led her to the far end. Following his purposeful steps, she could not see much beyond his broad back, but once he reached the corner, he stepped aside and let her view a rose bush. A glorious bush with striped roses, crimson splashed irregularly across pale pink petals.

He reached to cut a goodly number of sprays to place in the basket, then led her to the center of the conservatory where sat a settee and two chairs. “You see I learned something from Mrs. Harrod,” he said smiling. “No furniture was here the last time you came.” He set the basket of blooms on the table and motioned her to the settee, then took his seat beside her.

“This is
Versicolor
or popularly known as
Rosa Mundi
. It’s from an old strain of rose known as
Gallica
. The original
Gallicas
are thought to have come from Rome and were a bright magenta pink. Portraits of
Gallicas
appear etched on the walls of Roman ruins. It is a venerable class of rose. Medieval monks used
Gallica
petals to perfume soaps and salves. This striped variety is its progeny.”

“The petals are so big. What a striking flower.”

“Yes, the diameter of these flowers is unusually large. It is unsurpassed so I contemplated entering it in this year’s flower contest. I felt it a sure winner, but decided against doing so because of Mrs. Divers. You see, Marguerite gave this to me. Though I certainly feel less than kindly toward Mrs. Divers, I would never enter a rose to cause her pain.” His eyes caught Celia’s. “That woman accused me of many things. Of cruelty, even! As I said before, I could have done things differently. Yet, I would not be intentionally cruel. My upbringing would not allow that. You do believe me?”

Celia’s eyes started tearing up. The terrible disappointment, the questions and fears that had formed since Mrs. Divers’s accusations, she had hoped against hope they weren’t true. But how could they not be? And now the relief—to see evidence of his honor, his kindness—she grasped for the handkerchief in her pocket as the tears spilled down her cheeks. “I do believe you.”

She saw him shudder as some great bear coming out of hibernation. He stood up suddenly and began pacing the small space available. “Celia, for me to lose your friendship, your regard—I was sick with worry and dread. Dread you had lost faith I would do good to my fellowmen. But how could I not—with you in my life? You, who have brought kindness and beauty into it?”

Her memory flitted back to the months she had known him, when she had learned his careful, kindly ways despite—on their first meetings—his bearish appearance and demeanor. How could she have doubted him? Her soul felt light, taking wing, borne up under the trade winds of those fine feelings that had been growing in her. She smiled, feeling like she was in sunlight. How different she felt from when first arriving.

An answering smile broke from his own face. “Celia, you are the reason I look forward to each new day. Bless you, bless you, my—” His hands clenched at his side. She looked into his eyes. Their dark pools held a depth of feeling that promised future sweetness. He stretched out his hands.

As she placed her hands in his and arose, she thought, this is so different from what she felt for Jack, for Charles. Why had she not seen this before? But she knew it now. The terrible disappointment she had felt with Mrs. Divers’s accusations, then the attendant pain. To have the pain assuaged as he told his side of the story about Marguerite, and now more than that, to know what she brought into his life. . . .

She wanted to stay and just be with him, to bring refreshment and nurture into his life. To be used by God to bring warmth and stimulation and rest. And she felt he would do the same for her.

He held her hands firmly, yet carefully, as if she would break. As if their relationship, restored just moments before, was too precious to handle in any way but in the most careful of manners. She let his large hands surround hers. The warmth of his touch coursed through her.

He looked down at her hands. “Yours are so tiny.”

“Or, I might say yours are so large,” Celia said, smiling.

“Both are true.” He smiled back. “See how nicely your hands fit in mine. A hand in a glove. See, if I close mine, yours are completely surrounded.”

Protected
was the word that came to her mind.

Warm, soft breath exuded from him. It seemed almost a sigh. “I would see no harm come to you or your reputation. As much as I would desire more—time here, I should take you back to Mr. Chestley.”

She knew he was right because to be out here alone, even though it was a glass enclosure that could be viewed from outside, she knew the dictates of society. They had been gone long enough. Mr. Chestley might even be wondering where they were or what they had been doing.

He let her hands go, swept up the basket of flowers and led her to the door and out onto the grass. “I want you to take these home with you, as evidence of my honor.”

He stopped a minute in the kitchen to recut the stems and place damp cloths around them before returning them to the basket. “Mr. Chestley can carry these for you.” As they walked down the hall to the drawing room, they heard a quiet snoring.

“Bless his heart,” Celia said. “The poor dear was tired, but he was kind enough to walk me here.”

“I am grateful he did.” Edward slowed their pace and said softly, “And I will sleep tonight, the first good sleep I’ve had since the flower show. Look,” he said, standing on the threshold to the room, nodding to Celia’s employer, “I could have kept you longer in the conservatory and he would have never noticed.” Reaching for her hand, he drew her hard to his side. They stood a few moments looking at each other, then she drew away and cleared her throat to warn her employer of their entry.

Mr. Chestley startled and sat upright in his chair. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. Was I sleeping?” His countenance looked sheepish. He glanced at Mr. Lyons. “I must have dozed off a bit. Been a long day, you know.” He looked at the basket of flowers. “Well, did you accomplish your errand then?”

“Yes,” Edward said. “I’m glad you came today.”

“Yes, it’s been most enlightening.” Mr. Chestley stood up and held out his hand for the basket. “This will all smooth over in time, Lyons, we’ll see to that.”

Edward escorted them out the front door, then on the landing took Celia’s elbow to escort her down the steps. “Goodbye then,” he said, pressing her arm.

As she and Mr. Chestley turned the corner from Mr. Lyons’s street to their own, she saw a carriage approach his drive. Wasn’t that Mrs. Adams?

Without further reflection, she reached into her pocket and deftly let the handkerchief drop on the road. She had forgiven Mrs. Adams for spreading the gossip about her. She truly had, but she couldn’t help wanting to know where she was going.

After they had gone a few steps, hoping she judged it right, she said, “Oh, Mr. Chestley, I dropped my handkerchief at the corner. I’ll be just a few seconds retrieving it,” and she hurried back to the corner.

She looked back down the road to Edward’s drive. Sure enough. Mrs. Adams’s carriage had turned and entered it. And she was alone. The hypocrite.

Celia woke the next morning, at first dreamy, with the most amiable of thoughts. The wonderful feeling of Edward’s regard, the wondrous feeling of her response to him. Had it only been yesterday morning when she had lain on this same bed in shock, confusion, and despair? When she had discovered how much she had become attached to Edward and reeled with the pain of it all? But now such relief since last night’s revelations.

She stretched luxuriously, reached for her pillow and wrapped her arms around it. Oh, how she would like to. . . . Yet, even as she gloried in these thoughts, on waking more, her mind suddenly cleared and two sharp, clear questions presented themselves.

First, what was Mrs. Adams doing, going to his house alone?

And second, what were Edward’s intentions regarding herself and their future? She sat up in bed. What about that most important of impediments—their difference in faith? Yesterday, she had put this question far back in her mind.

But now, especially this last, a means must be devised to speak to Edward. As soon as possible.

21

C
elia shook out the folds of her rose-colored dress. She had chosen it with care for Sunday afternoon’s walk. Edward was partial to the whole spectrum of red and rose. Even now, she could feel the warmth of his hands around hers. The thought of seeing him again was welcome. No, more than that, her very soul reached out to him. However, the thought of what she must confront him with made her heart heavy. Nevertheless, it must be done. Deliberately, she took her shawl from the hook and draped it around her shoulders.

Sunday afternoons she always walked, often alone, so what she did now was normal. Mr. and Mrs. Chestley had been apprised she might be gone longer than usual, she didn’t want them to worry.

She decided to walk past Mrs. Divers’s and Edward’s houses, not directly enter Edward’s drive. Instead, she would go past a ways and then come back. Was that subterfuge? In her heart, she didn’t want Mrs. Divers thinking, if she happened to be looking out the window, that she was heading straight for Mr. Lyons’s house. Instead, she would
happen
to drop by on the way back. Hopefully, his housekeeper would be about the house providing some chaperonage, but whether she was there or not, Celia had to see him.

Twenty minutes later, she approached Edward’s house. She had meant to take an hour walk, but couldn’t delay the visit any longer. The trees in leaf obliterated Mrs. Divers’s home from view. That was good. She would not for anything give Mrs. Divers and Miss Waul something to gossip about. For who knew how this visit could be interpreted.

She walked to the door, lifted the knocker, and rapped a firm but quiet knock. A wait ensued. She hoped Edward was in. The thought hadn’t occurred to her he might be out, maybe walking in his woods.

Finally, the door opened. Mrs. Macon looked at Celia, then glanced beyond her to see who else was present. “Can I help you, Miss Thatcher?” Celia noted she didn’t invite her inside, but kept her standing at the door. Edward must be out.

“I must talk with Mr. Lyons. It’s very important.”

“Mr. Lyons is out at present,” Mrs. Macon announced formally, but then Celia saw her eyes soften. “He’s been gone a while, so might return shortly. Would you like to wait for him?”

“I would appreciate that.”

Mrs. Macon led her to the drawing room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

Celia chose a chair from which she could see the doorway to the hall. She wanted to glimpse Edward as soon as possible. She chastised herself for her foolishness, but there it was. She had seen him only yesterday, and yet it seemed an age.

As she sat there, she steeled herself against what she must do, even while she longed to see him. This must be done, this clarification of views. A visit like this was not customary, a woman taking the initiative in a call. Edward would certainly wonder why she came.

She squirmed in her seat. Maybe he would be upset she had gone beyond the bounds of propriety, and then she’d have to leave. If things became awkward between them, and if he never reached for her again—to hold her hands—she would have to accept that.

Celia felt herself start to tremble. The longer she waited, the harder the trembling was to control. Oh, maybe she shouldn’t have come after all.

At that moment, she sensed and thought she heard the sound of a door opening at the back of the house. Then quiet. Maybe he was taking off his boots and coat, Mrs. Macon indicating her arrival. Perhaps he would think this visit unseemly and suggest another time and place.

Then she heard his footsteps hurry down the hall, beating a quick staccato. He was wasting no time.

She rose precipitously from her chair. Edward paused for a moment at the drawing room entrance, his eyes searching hers. He was dressed in browns, casually, for walking, his shoulders nearly filling the doorway. “Celia!” Warmth exuded from his voice. He came forward. Then just as suddenly, a shadow crossed his features. “Is anything wrong?”

Yes, a lady unaccompanied, calling on a man, was most unusual
.
“Nothing wrong, exactly. But I had to discuss something important with you.”

“Important?” He looked around at the drawing room, then apparently decided it wasn’t quite the place, because he said, “Why don’t we go to the library?” He stood aside to let her precede him down the hall.

Once they entered the room, he deliberately shut the door. Mrs. Macon would not be able to hear them. It relieved her, yet—alone together?

“This is an unexpected pleasure, I am gratified you came. So you need to tell me something?” He scanned her face, then led her across the room to the fireplace. As they approached the settee with chairs on either side, his hand reached out to guide her to the settee.

“I think I should sit here,” she said, indicating the chair.

He took his stand in front of the settee. “This would be more conducive to—conversation.” Warmth shone in his eyes.

“Thank you, but I think this would be best.”

How she wanted to be near him. He suffered the same, she guessed from his manner. But she must be wise. And strong. She had always been a woman of principle. A woman of integrity. She also admitted she’d never had this level of temptation before. Temptation? As soon as she viewed it in that light, her ardor checked and she settled herself into the chair. He took the side of the settee nearest her.

She made herself look over his shoulder, avoiding eye contact. “I was thinking of when we first met, the cold, fall evening when you came into the store for your Tennyson and we talked about Emerson. You remember?” On his nod, she continued, “What impressed me was how differently we viewed the thoughts, the writing of the man. This has to do with what I need to talk with you today.” She felt on surer ground now. “Edward,” looking at him now, “I need to be direct. Tell me, do you believe God is interested in your life, to the point that He would desire to have dealings with you?”

“Ah, we are serious this afternoon.” His dark eyes smiled at her, yet at the same time, they were cautious. “Can you tell me why?” He was deflecting her question.

“Because it is important for me to know.”

Edward cleared his throat. “All right, then. Is God interested in my life, in my affairs?” He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees, pressing the tips of his fingers together. His face lowered for some moments, then he raised it to look at her. “I consider God a being which has a degree of influence in the affairs of the universe. I’m not quite sure how much. God seems rather too big and grand and inscrutable for mere man to know or understand. Of course, when man gets into trouble and prays, help often mysteriously comes. I can’t explain that. Some connection seems to exist . . . yes, a degree of connection . . . but I think the word
interest
in my affairs or the affairs of the world in general would be putting it too strongly.”

She had feared this, expected it, but recently had pushed the real knowing of it far back in her consciousness. As on her first meeting him, she felt on the edge of a precipice. She looked at him cautiously. “I wonder,” she said, “how much your upbringing has influenced your beliefs. You were raised in the church.”

“Yes, but a church that didn’t throw man’s intellect out the window.”

“Well yes, that is important.” She looked down at her folded hands before continuing. “If I told you I not only believe God is interested in my life, not only believe it but have a knowing deep inside of me, what you would say?”

He shifted his position, looked at her earnestly. “Celia, where does your knowing come from? I cannot imagine anyone, even a contemplative individual, able to know God in such a way. It seems wishful thinking.”

Her eyes flicked away from his. How could she explain? But she had discovered what she needed to ascertain. He didn’t believe in God, didn’t know God the way she knew to be essential. So where did that put their growing care for each other, her growing attraction to him?

Being alone with him worked on her sensibilities. Even this room kindled feelings for him, so evocative of their shared interests and passions: the books, the painting above his desk, the flowers—yes, the flowers! She suddenly realized what had been missing from the rooms when she and Mr. Chestley visited yesterday. Flowers had now returned in abundance. Pink roses spilled out of the silver bowl on the mantel. They told her that his soul had come out of its shock, its shame, its humiliation. He was back to his former self. She glanced at his eyes. Yes, she saw the hope there. He was watching her intently, his focus on her. Was she now going to wrench that hope from him?

All this flashed before her in a matter of seconds. She arose suddenly from the chair, walked a little way, then turned back.

He rose as well. “What is it, Celia?”

She looked at him, her eyes widened at the monumental task in front of her. Silently, she sent up a prayer.

“This knowing God,” she began, “is not wishful thinking. It only seems that way to people who have not discovered it for themselves.” She grasped the back of the chair. “Let me ask this. Do you believe in the historicity of Christ? In other words, do you believe Jesus existed?”

“I know some who question it. But I believe the historical evidence is compelling, overwhelming, in fact. Ancients like Tacitus and Josephus and others all attest to Jesus’ existence. Yes, I do.”

“I’m glad, because He is the kingpin in my case for knowing God. You see, if a person wants to know God, Jesus provides the way. Jesus was God’s Son. He claimed to be so. Do you have a Bible here, Edward?”

“Yes, in that section of books to the right of the fireplace. Third shelf up, in the middle.” She turned, searched the shelves, then reached for it.

He gestured her to sit with him on the settee. “We can look together,” he offered.

She hesitated. But it seemed the obvious thing to do, so she settled herself next to him. She opened the Bible, thumbing carefully through the pages. “Consider this passage from the gospel of John.” Handing the Bible to him, their hands touched. The inner warning she felt in deciding whether to sit next to him was immediately confirmed, but she went on calmly. “Here, the ninth verse of the fourteenth chapter.” She leaned over and pointed to the spot. “Start reading in the middle of the verse. Jesus is speaking.”

“
He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father
.”

“See how closely the two are identified with each other? Look a few chapters back to John 10:30.”

He turned a few pages and read, “
I and my Father are one
.”

Celia’s eyes lifted from the Bible and looked directly at Edward. “Not the typical statement a great teacher or even a prophet would make. Don’t you agree?”

“Christ was a great teacher. Or a prophet. We both know this,” he said evenly. “But God? No. In my view, that is where fanciful thinking takes over.”

“Edward. Do you accuse me of being fanciful?” Her eyebrow arched playfully.

He smiled for the first time in their conversation. His hand moved as if to reach for hers. Then he arrested it. “But can you prove Jesus is Deity?”

She folded her hands demurely in her lap. “Think about His miracles. These proved He was more than mere man. He raised others from the dead. And more important, He himself rose from the dead. After His death on the cross, He came out from the grave three days later. These all testify He was God.”

“If you want to believe those miracles were actually true—and His resurrection—”

“Yes, what about His resurrection?” she interrupted. “When you read the accounts of the gospels, you discover that Christ was seen alive by many after his death. The disciples, Mary Magdalene, the two men on the road to Emmaus. Paul the apostle tells us that over five hundred saw him after His resurrection.”

She shifted on the settee to turn toward him. “Edward, who would die for something they knew to be untrue? Remember when we considered this on the train? Think of the lives and deaths of the disciples. All except John died hard, cruel deaths for saying they had lived with Jesus and believed Him to be God. I ask again, who would die for something he knew to be a lie?”

Edward looked at her. Was it admiration or amusement in his eye? “Miss Thatcher, you present a very good argument.”

“I don’t want to only present a good argument, Edward. I want you to see the truth of it as I do. This issue of God, and especially whom you consider Jesus to be, is pivotal. Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the Truth, and the Life, no one comes to the Father except through Me.’ ”

“Celia, you cannot convince me in a single sitting. Maybe I am too set in my ways, in my thinking.”

“I don’t want to argue you into anything, but listen to this. I am not speaking of something I merely believe, something my parents taught me, something that sounded logical so I espoused it. No. When I was young, I wanted to know God the way my father and mother did. However, I couldn’t break through the barrier between God and myself. In fact, my life, my inner life had turned bleak. I despaired of ever finding meaning to life the way I yearned for.

“One evening, however, something extraordinary, almost mysterious took place. I had finally told my father how hopeless I felt. He said, ‘Why don’t you tell God what you just told me. In a simple prayer. Tell Him how much you want to know Him. Confess the fact you’re a sinner—like everyone else. That you know Jesus’ death on the cross was to take the punishment for your sin, to reconcile you to God. Remember that Jesus said He was the Way to God, the only Way.’

“And, Edward, I did just that. I put my whole trust in what Christ had done, put my trust in Him alone. Confessed that nothing I had done or would be able to do, would find God’s favor. That night something birthed in me. When I raised my head after prayer, my whole way of viewing life changed. I looked about me. Everything was alive and fresh. Believe me, Edward, I would not tell you something that was untrue. This new life with God is something real. It is something I know. I
know
, Edward. Not something I
merely
believe
.”

Edward sat back on the settee. “I’ve never heard it put that way before. This was never part of my church’s teaching.”