The Soul of the Rose (9 page)

9

C
elia closed her valise, excitement welling up. She was going home! How she looked forward to seeing her parents, brothers, and little sister.

And Charles had offered to bring her to the train station. How flattering. When he took her home last night, he tucked the traveling blanket carefully around her knees. Said he wanted to make certain she was warm and comfortable. She wondered. . . . A knock sounded at the front door.

“Celia!” Mrs. Chestley poked her head into the room. “That must be young Mr. Harrod. Mr. Chestley will take your portmanteau.”

Outside Charles took the luggage from Mr. Chestley and strapped it to the buggy. Mrs. Chestley took Celia’s arm. “Now, are you going to bake my cream cake for your family?” She glanced to the back of the buggy and said a little louder, “Make it for that young man, Jack, it’ll put him on his knee in no time.”

Celia felt herself blushing. “Mrs. Chestley!” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Chestley whispered back.

Charles came around the buggy. “I heard that bit about the cake, Mrs. Chestley. Before you go pairing off Celia with some young man, don’t you think I should have a sample? Might give me ideas, too.”

“We’ll see!” Mrs. Chestley looked archly at Charles. “Now, let me hug you, Celia.”

Mr. Chestley followed suit. “Give our regards to your family.”

After Charles handed Celia up into the buggy and she settled herself, she wondered what they would talk about, but then their conversation took off. Charles told how he loved to travel, and after he graduated and passed the bar, hoped to go on the Grand Tour. Then he’d join his father or try a firm in Boston. He caught her eye. Too bad she wasn’t delaying her trip until after the holidays, then he could accompany her as her hometown was right on the way. “Do you go to Boston much?” he asked.

“No, I’ve been only once in my life and that was a family excursion. We looked forward to it for a whole year.”

He laughed. “To hear you talk, you make it sound as if you had planned an extended trip out West, or some such.”

“Well, it was special, because usually we made our yearly trip in the opposite direction to the Chestleys. That’s how the opportunity came for me to work in the bookstore.”

After he settled her on board the train, he stood on the platform and waited until the train left the station. How nice to be attended by such a personable young man. She wondered if they’d become better acquainted, for by the time she returned, he’d be back in law school. Their conversation on the way to the station had been perfectly entertaining. Last night, too, when he had taken her home after the Christmas dinner. Then she remembered Mr. Lyons’s offer to walk her home. She wondered what they would have talked about.

If truth be known, she longed for a long, serious conversation. She was tired of talking about the weather and surface topics. She wondered if people thought her too serious—a bluestocking. How she had wanted to interject her thoughts during the serious talk at the Harrods’ Christmas dinner, but had refrained. Then afterward, she entertained the children. Delightful in its own way, but after a while she longed for some adult to approach her. She caught herself glancing at Mr. Lyons conversing with Mrs. Adams. They talked at length, the woman very animated. My, she had already sat with him at dinner, and here she was, claiming his attention again. She wondered if Mrs. Adams’s mind had that fine edge that Mr. Lyons would appreciate. Celia rather doubted it, the way she had brushed off the French print.

Celia caught herself up short. Why was she being so critical of the woman? It showed a marked degree of unkindness in herself—just because she had slighted Mrs. Smith? There might be another explanation for her behavior. Celia should give her the benefit of the doubt.

Her mind veered back to Mr. Lyons. Even though he had a reputation as a curmudgeon—and she believed it after what Mrs. Divers had said—Celia still felt some connection with him. Knew that when she went into deeper waters, he could follow. The certainty of this satisfied something fundamental within her.

She gazed out the train window. The miles were sweeping by in a succession of rolling hills. Trees dotted the frosty landscape, their black branches like fine lace against the blue gray sky. She was going home! To a father and mother with whom she could talk as seriously as she liked and not feel constrained to contain herself. Her soul rose like a fish to bait at the water’s surface.

As the train neared her hometown, she sat up straighter, straining to see familiar sights out the window. There was the church spire where she would worship Sunday with her father preaching. Her eyes moistened and a happy tightness welled up in her chest. Snow must have fallen the night before because a lovely dusting covered the fields and roads. Never had home looked so beautiful.

“Father!” Celia threw her arms around his neck. She noticed one old matron staring at her open demonstration of affection, but she didn’t care. She absolutely did not care. How wonderful to see Father again.

“Mummy!” Her mother’s face lifted in delight at Celia’s kiss.

“My eldest is back in the nest, at least for a week.” She held Celia off. “You look wonderful, my dear. We’ve all missed you.”

Celia looked around at her younger siblings who quietly waited their turn for hugs. Joe, Eric, and Euphemie. She embraced her little sister extra-long.

“We promised we’d drop by Grandma’s on the way home,” Euphemie said. Mother nodded and added, “She’s all eager to see if her oldest grandchild has changed in four months.”

“Here, you two,” Father beckoned her brothers, “carry Celia’s portmanteau between you. Celia, I’ll take your valise. Euphemie, take my hand. Celia, you can walk with your mother. She wants first claim on your time. You and I will have a good talk in my study later on.”

The others groaned. “Aw,” Eric complained, “I want to hear what she has to say, too.”

“Well then, if you all feel that way, the first night will be a family time in the study.”

Celia looked from one face to another. How bright and fresh they all appeared; she hadn’t realized what a handsome group they made. They might not be rich, but they were a grand-looking family.

The second she walked in Gram’s door, the smell of freshly baked cookies met her—with all the attendant memories. Every Sunday they had walked to Gram’s for a visit, and at the end were treated to sugar cookies.

Gram gave her a long, hard hug. “You’ve been away too long. Come to the kitchen table, we’ll visit there.” She set down a blue plate piled high with the fondly remembered sweets.

“Do we get more than one?” Joe asked.

“Of course! We’re celebrating Celia’s homecoming.” Gram tweaked Joe’s nose.

Celia looked at her grandmother. She was as warm and sparkly as ever. One never left Gram’s without sustenance for both soul and body.

“Jack has been asking after you,” Gram said as Celia took her second cookie. “You know, there’s nothing I’d like better than to have my oldest grandchild settle down close to me.” She reached over and hugged Celia again. “It feels like you’ve been gone an age. So what about Jack? Or is there someone else?”

Celia laughed. “Let’s see, how many suitors have I corralled in four months?” She held up her fingers. “There’s Johnny, all of nine years old. And there’s . . .” she laughed, “a quite charming young man, a future lawyer I met a few days ago. However, he’ll be back in Boston before I return, and a five-day acquaintance is rather quick to decide such things, don’t you think?”

The next morning Celia and her mother stood over the kitchen stove, brewing a batch of spiced apple cider. Cider was one of the things Celia had missed at the Chestleys’. She smiled at the little painting of the Chestley’s bookstore and street she’d drawn as a child. It still graced the wall by the kitchen table. What a happy thought that was, her life with them. And now here she was in this dear kitchen with her very dear mother.

Her father stuck his head in the door. “Smells inviting.”

“Well, my love, you’re not invited yet,” Mother said. “But you will be duly so when Celia and I make doughnuts this afternoon, then we’ll have Grandma over.”

“Celia and I need to talk.”

“Certainly. After I have her to myself a little while longer.” She walked up to her husband, smiled her loveliest, and shooed him back through the door. Celia saw the mischievous gleam in her mother’s eye when she occasionally took over the reins and ruled her husband.

“Your father loves you and is keen to talk about serious issues, but I have something I want to ask you.”

Celia sidled up to her mother and gave her a little hug. “A mother and daughter chat?” Her mother nodded. “How are you doing?” then looked at her closely. “You know, after Trudy?”

“Better. Much better. I’m so glad you sent me to live with the Chestleys. There’s been so much to learn and meeting new people . . .”

“So you’ve forgiven . . . yourself?”

“Yes, Mummy.” Celia held her mother close a moment longer.

“I’m glad.” Her mother’s face brightened. “Now, let’s sample the cider.” She dipped a ladle into the amber brew, then poured it into a cup. “Tell me what you think,” and handed it to Celia.

“Mmm. Just right, I’d say.”

“Good. You may finish that. Now, tell me something. I’m very curious about something you dropped in conversation yesterday. What’s this about a budding lawyer?”

“Oh! Just what I said at Grandmother’s. I’m not sure I’ll ever see him again. But he drove me home after the Harrods’ Christmas dinner and then again to the train station today. He’s also very nice looking.” Celia grinned. “Reminds me of Father.”

“Well!” Her mother laughed. “I like him already.”

“Me, too, but I’m not counting my chickens anytime soon,” Celia said in a teasing tone. “Besides, I love my life with the Chestleys; I’m not looking to get married just yet. I’ve so much to tell you.” All the news she hadn’t been able to convey in letters now came pouring out: the people she met, the special spots in the town she liked to walk, her job in the bookstore.

“What do you like best about your work?” Mother put down the big spoon she was using to stir the cider. “Here, let’s sit a few minutes.”

With her elbows on the table, Celia cupped her face in her hands. “Our book discussions. I love the fact that Mr. Chestley lets me choose the title for the month. Those times you and father talked books with me were wonderful preparation.”

“
The
Scarlet Letter
was your first choice?”

“That’s right. I didn’t know the level of thought the community would bring to the book, but wanted to choose one that brought possibility for deeper discussion. I had no idea it would stir things up so much. It’s curious, Mother, but several counter-parts to the characters seem to live right there in town.”

“How is that?”

“One is a veritable Rev. Dimmesdale.”

“Oh?”

“Do you remember my mentioning a curious man who comes into the bookstore every fortnight? The one with the shaggy hair and beard?”

“Yes . . . but you might remind me of the details.”

“He’s something of a mystery. When I first saw him, he looked poor and unkempt, but is apparently independently wealthy and highly educated. After he married, something disturbing happened to his wife and she died. At first, when Mr. and Mrs. Chestley told me about it, and how Mr. Lyons became a hermit afterward, I thought he had a broken heart and felt sorry for him. But then I talked with his former mother-in-law, Mrs. Divers, and she thinks the worst things of him. It made me think I had interpreted the situation completely wrong.” Celia scrunched her brows together. “Then a few days ago he was invited to the Harrods’ Christmas dinner, and I saw he was well thought of, even sought after as a dinner guest. He seemed more refined with his hair trimmed and seeing him in their cultured surroundings.”

“Have you had much to do with him?”

“Not outside of his fortnightly trips to the bookstore and the monthly book discussion. But the few times we’ve spoken have been most interesting. Once I asked his favorite passage in Tennyson, and he quoted two lines from “Break, Break, Break”: