The Soul of the Rose (8 page)

8

E
dward Lyons reached for the knocker. What had he let himself in for? It had been so long since he’d attended a dinner. Remembering Mrs. Harrod would have everything up to snuff for the holiday season, he had donned his best suit. Not formal wear, because his hostess had said no to that, but he’d opted for the best he had without resorting to evening dress. And he’d had his hair and beard trimmed. The barber said he looked more civilized.

When he passed the bookstore and the Chestley home, he wondered about Miss Thatcher. Maybe he should have offered his escort. The evening was pleasant enough for walking, but somehow he hadn’t felt free to make the proposal. At the book discussion, when describing Scrooge she had glanced at him. Quite directly so. What
did
she think of him? If Mr. Chestley had walked her down tonight, maybe he would offer to accompany her back.

A servant opened the door. Ah, Hatfield
.

“Good evening, Mr. Lyons. Please come in.”

The vestibule smelled pungently of evergreen. Garlands festooned the staircase railing and doorway entries. Mrs. Harrod could be depended upon to fill her home with the holiday spirit. He remembered she was a great champion of plants and flowers of all varieties.

“May I take your coat, sir?” And then, “Would you follow me?” Hatfield led the way to the first doorway on the left. Voices raised in appreciative laughter. Edward stopped on the threshold. “Thank you, Hatfield.”

Edward surveyed the assembled party searching for his hostess. Mrs. Harrod came forward immediately. “Mr. Lyons . . . Edward. So good of you to come. How distinguished you look. You bring credit to my drawing room.” She took his arm. “This is like old times, isn’t it? Let me introduce you.” She gently guided him to the edge of the gathering and called for everyone’s attention. “It’s been so long since we’ve had the honor of Edward Lyons’s presence, I want to make certain everyone knows him and that he feels a warm welcome.”

Edward nodded at each introduction. Mrs. Harrod had been true to her word. The gathering consisted mainly of family with three or four others in attendance. “Edward, you know Mrs. Adams, of course. We’ve enjoyed the book discussions together.” Next to Charles sat Miss Thatcher, his head bent attentively to hers. Now he rose, and Miss Thatcher looked up. She was dressed in a simple dark dress that hung gracefully about her person. Pearls encircled her neck and her hair coiffed into an elegant chignon. When Mrs. Harrod made the introduction to Miss Thatcher, her eyes looked up into his.

Mr. Harrod approached and held out his hand. “Lyons, glad you could come. Want you to have an opportunity to talk with our new neighbor, Judson Darrow. He and his wife are newly arrived from Boston.” Mr. Harrod drew him off to the side where an elderly gentleman sat. “Darrow, I’d like you to meet a Boston Brahmin who has decided to grace our fair town, Mr. Lyons.” With that, the three of them talked agreeably about the old days in Boston where Mr. Harrod had taken his law training.

“Dinner is served,” Hatfield announced.

Mr. Harrod approached his new neighbor’s wife, offering her his arm. Mrs. Harrod motioned for Mr. Darrow to escort Mrs. Adams, and then approached Edward. “Would you escort me in, please?” They led the way, the others pairing off, following suit. Leading his hostess to her chair at the foot of the gala table, Edward noted his name card placed to her right. His confidence rose. Mr. Darrow was seated on her other side. Charles escorted Miss Thatcher to the seat next to the new neighbor and then sat by her. Mrs. Adams was seated on Edward’s right.

“Your table is beautiful, Mrs. Harrod,” Celia said. A pair of porcelain angels stood either side of the scarlet poinsettias in the table’s center. All else was white napery, crystal, and silver.

“Thank you. The poinsettias were an offering from Mr. Lyons. He sent them on ahead—from his wonderful greenhouse.” Edward looked at his hostess and smiled, then glanced across the table at Miss Thatcher. Her eyes had an appreciative glow.

After everyone quieted, Mr. Harrod gave a hearty welcome and offered grace. Two servants carried in the first course, a delectable terrapin soup.

Mrs. Harrod turned to Mr. Lyons. “Are you remaining here for the holidays? Or will you visit your mother?”

“She’s invited me to see the new church in town, hoping my interest in architecture will lure me to Boston.”

“Are you referring to Trinity Church?” his hostess asked. On Mr. Lyons’s nod, she continued, “Charles said it’s been completed, but won’t be consecrated until next February. He said it’s quite the marvel.” She looked over at her son. “Didn’t you say no pillars obstruct the congregation’s view of the preacher?”

“Yes, Mother. It’s all quite beautiful. I especially like John LaFarge’s painted murals and decorations. They will be completed by the Consecration. I believe people from all over will come to visit. The preacher, of course, is very popular.”

“Isn’t that Phillips Brooks?” Celia asked. When Charles smiled his assent, she added, “I understand he’s written the words to that new Christmas carol, ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’ ”

“I think you’re right.”

Edward noted the warmth in Charles’s tone as he answered Celia. Edward watched her quiet animation. She
was
lovely. He would offer to walk her home.

Celia held her soupspoon in midair. “I believe he visited Bethlehem a number of years ago during the Christmas season, and later wrote the poem for the children of his church to sing during their annual program.”

Charles offered, “He exchanges pulpits with Boston ministers of other denominations. Is ecumenical in that regard.”

“I heard him speak at the Chautauqua Institute,” Mr. Darrow said. “He certainly has a way with words, a most able speaker.”

“Ah, Chautauqua, that new summer institute for vacationers who want to improve their minds by studying history, art, and literature,” Charles quipped. “I heard one of the topics was ‘The Importance of Science to the Religious Thinker.’ What do you think of that, Mr. Lyons? You keep up on that sort of thing, don’t you?”

“I try. I subscribe to
Popular Science Monthly.
”

“Oh, do you?” Charles laughed. “Quite the radical publication, isn’t it?”

“It is an active advocate of the scientific method.”

“Yes, but I also understand the editor denigrates manifestations of popular religious belief. Calls anyone who attends a camp meeting an ‘ignorant blockhead.’ ” Charles’s mouth crooked a grin.

Edward glanced at Miss Thatcher. She sat up straighter. Was she perturbed? He answered, “At times Youmans can be rather extremist in his views. But the intent of the magazine is to obtain the most accurate knowledge of our known universe.”

“And that includes expostulating on Darwinian theory?” Charles asked. “Some consider that a dangerous idea.”

Edward hesitated. “Possibly. Yet I believe one needs some knowledge of it.” Edward sat back in his chair, feeling the slightest bit of annoyance. It was the host or host’s son’s prerogative to steer the conversation. Still, he felt an edge had been introduced and wasn’t sure he liked it. He had come with the intention of smoothing away any controversy regarding himself. And here he was, exposed in a touchy subject.

Mrs. Harrod put down her soupspoon. “I wonder what the Reverend Brooks would say about this new thinking in science?”

“Well, Mother, he’s a learned man, so I believe he keeps abreast of it. But I’ve heard he’s decided not to enter the debate. He emphasizes the love of Christ, asking his congregation, instead, to devote themselves to improving the lives of the poor.”

“Which is as it should be,” Mrs. Harrod said. “And in view of the Christmas season, I think we can honor him later on by singing his Christmas carol. Now Celia, how did you come by that interesting tidbit about his writing the words?”

Edward was grateful his hostess directed conversation to less controversial matters.

At the end of the meal, he rose with the rest of the company. Mrs. Harrod had been right. He needed to venture more into society. The meal was delicious and the company first-rate. Except for that one conversational snag, the dinner had gone well. He felt his soul taking wing.

This was a good home. Charles and his brother were fortunate to have this with such parents. Edward’s memory flitted back to his own youth. His father had kept his nose close to the business grindstone so he’d seen little of him. And his socialite mother—well, Boston had a strict social code, and Mother was its obedient servant.
How
he’d learned from her. Though he now saw the need to venture out, it would be on his own terms.

As he entered the drawing room, Mrs. Adams beckoned him to her side. They had talked extensively about one of his favorite books at dinner. But it was a pleasant feeling, being thus summoned. “Please sit, Mr. Lyons, at dinner I didn’t have an opportunity to express how I felt on the subject of the new science. I agree with you . . .”

A few minutes later, the Harrods permitted two of their grandchildren to join the after-dinner socializing. Edward looked across the room. The children surrounded Miss Thatcher, dancing around her. The little girl then asked to sit on her lap and Miss Thatcher readily agreed. Miss Thatcher must have begun a story because the boy leaned against her listening. His arm crept up to encircle her.

A scene from
The Christmas Carol
came forcibly to mind. Scrooge, with the spirit of Christmas Past, stood watching children run laughing around the older daughter of the household, lovingly tugging at her dress and person. Edward found himself echoing Scrooge’s sentiments:

What would I not have given to be one of them! . . . As to measuring her waist in sport, as they did, bold young brood, I couldn’t have done it; I should have expected my arm to have grown round it for a punishment, and never come straight again. . . . I should have liked, I do confess, to have had the lightest licence of a child, and yet to have been man enough to know its value.

“Mr. Lyons! I don’t believe you’ve heard a word I’ve said this last minute,” Mrs. Adams accused him, smiling, “Is there more interesting sport across the room?”

“My apologies, Ma’am. I’ve been so little in society these last years, I’m easily distracted. You were saying—”

“Yes, as I was saying . . .”

A while later, Edward noticed a chair vacated near Miss Thatcher. He talked a little longer with Mrs. Adams, wondering in good conscience when he could excuse himself. Nearby sat Mrs. Darrow. He hadn’t yet asked her how she liked their town after residing in Boston. Maybe he could make his way to her and afterward—suddenly Mrs. Adams excused herself. “Our talk about poinsettias has been most interesting, sir. The ones you brought Mrs. Harrod were just beautiful, but I’ve monopolized you long enough.” She laughed, her eyebrow arching provocatively as she left him.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” he murmured.

On the way across the room, he stopped to make a few comments to his host, decided against engaging Mrs. Darrow in conversation, and adroitly stepped to the empty chair he had spied earlier. Here he could seem to be part of a larger group around Miss Thatcher.

As he sat, he quietly assessed the situation. Near her, he felt reticent yet strangely energized. She was a mere girl, yet he felt her to be his equal. Her handling of Dickens at the book discussion proved that. Afterward he would have liked to have stayed and talked with her, but she was busy with people buying books. He had paused, instead, to glance over the art prints Mr. Chestley had displayed around the store. The French winter scene—with its row of trees with their gnarled, pruned limbs had drawn his interest. How deeply scarred they were. Yet new life sprouted from the limbs. . . .

“I see you’re stopping at that picture,” Mr. Chestley had said. “Does something about it particularly catch your attention?”

“The colors suit my mood.”

“Our Celia was intrigued by that one. She looked at it for some time. And now I notice every once in a while, she’ll stop and look at it.”

Edward stirred in his seat and looked closely at Miss Thatcher. He’d like to know her thoughts on the print. That would be something they could talk about. Before he could approach her, Mrs. Harrod suggested charades. First, the children must be sent upstairs.

The charades were Christmas carols. After that, Mrs. Harrod said they must all gather around the piano and sing carols. “Let’s begin with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem
’.
”

Everyone sang with good cheer. After singing several others, the party broke up.

Edward looked over at Miss Thatcher, alone for the moment. Just at that juncture, she glanced over at him and smiled. He quickly rose and approached her. “Did you enjoy the evening?” he asked.

“Oh, yes! It isn’t often I do something like this. It’ll provide memories for many days to come and has begun the holidays wonderfully for me.”

“I’m glad to hear that. It has been some time since I’ve done something like this myself.”

“I know Mrs. Harrod was gratified you accepted her invitation.”

Edward acknowledged the delicate compliment with a brief nod. “We haven’t had an opportunity to talk much this evening. Would you allow me to escort you home? I noticed the weather was unusually mild on my walk here—”

“Mr. Lyons!” Charles interrupted as he stepped near. “I’m sure your offer is appreciated, but I’ve just ordered the buggy for Miss Thatcher.”

Edward hesitated before speaking. “I’m sure that would be pleasant for Miss Thatcher.”

“Well, I thought I’d take her on a little ride as well.” Charles smiled. “Something to finish off the evening.”

Irritation pricked at Edward. Then he remembered he was in the home of the Harrods and this was their son. He should have first preference.

“Certainly,” he said. “I hope Miss Thatcher enjoys the ride.”

“Thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Lyons,” Celia said.

“If you’ll excuse me, then.” He bowed formally and crossed the room. He would thank his host and hostess and then leave.

Within a few minutes, he stepped into the hall. Hatfield would bring his coat and hat. Somehow, he felt discomposed, but did not stop to analyze it. He just knew he was ready to go home.