Page 18 of A Late-Blooming Rose
The interior of the small home was redolent with the sweet smell of baked goods and frilly with crocheted doilies draped over every piece of furniture. Embroidered cushions were scattered on the settee and chairs. The fussy décor was made even more crowded by the addition of several crates and bushel baskets holding fruit, potatoes, cabbages, and carrots, as well as a table covered with platters of cookies, cakes, and pies, along with several crocks of different sizes, two shallow baskets of eggs in sawdust, jars of pickles and preserves, three jugs, and several loaves of bread.
Mrs. Hatter appeared flustered, glancing at the laden table and running her hands down the apron she seemed to have forgotten to remove for company. “Dearie me. From early morning, people have been so generous, stopping by to inquire about Horace and bringing us so much food. I declare, I donotknow what to do with everything.”
Delia handed over her parcel. “We’re all bringing meals, so you don’t have to think about cooking and can dote on Mr. Hatter. We also have treats to coax an invalid’s appetite, custard and such. And Papa—” she glanced at Andre “—wanted to make sure your husband is comfortable while he recuperates. These few things can go in the bedroom for now, so they’re not in your way.”
“Oh, my! Thank you.” Mrs. Hatter clutched the package under one arm. She gestured toward the crates and bushels. “Why, I haven’t even had time to move everything outside to the root cellar.”
“Let me take care of that for you.” Andre started to stoop for a bushel of apples.
Frowning, Delia caught his arm. “Perhaps, Sam could see to everything. With your help, of course.”
“I’m afraid my daughter coddles me,” Andre explained to Mrs. Hatter in a wry apology.
“As well she should, Mr. Bellaire.” Mrs. Hatter shifted the parcel to her hip. “Although, you men! I’m sure I’ll have the same difficulty with my Horace when he wants to be up and about before he should.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her lips trembled before she firmed them.
Andre dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and extended the square.
Mrs. Hatter made a negating motion. “Thank you, Mr. Bellaire, but I have my own. Let me set this down in the bedroom and fetch it.” She vanished through a closed door next to the kitchen, and then emerged with a square of cotton in her hand. “Horace is still sleeping.” She wiped her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m such a fountain today.”
Delia patted the woman’s shoulder. “That’s to be expected, given all you’ve gone through. Do tell us how Mr. Hatter is doing. I hear he’s regained consciousness.”
“In a manner of speaking. Horace drifted in and out all morning. He seems to be sleeping deeper now, thank goodness.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Dr. Cameron says rest is what’s best for a head injury, and that Horace should become more lucid later today or tomorrow.”
“Good to hear.” Delia gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Is there anything I can do to help? Let you sit down while I make a nice pot of tea? You probably could use a cup by now. What about you, Papa?”
“Only if it’s convenient,” he said. “No need to go to any extra work on my account.”
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Norton.” With a distressed expression, the woman clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m afraid I’m out of tea. I brewed the last of my leaves for my first visitors. With all the preparations for the Harvest Festival, I allowed my supplies to get low, thinking I’d replenish everything after the excitement was over.”
“That’s right.” Delia smiled. “Weren’t you in charge of the embroidery booth, where people could purchase handkerchiefs or pillowcases and have them monogramed? When I went by, you seemed to be having quite a success.”
“Why yes,” Mrs. Hatter’s tight expression brightened. “We did quite a brisk business and sold out ofeverything. Although, some people wanted a simple design instead of initials—flower, bee, ladybug.” Her words drifted off. “We were so happy at the amount of money we raised for the church—twenty-eight dollars and seventy-two cents! Can you imagine?” Her expression fell, obviously remembering the stolen money and the price her husband paid.
“We’re very grateful,” Andre hastened to reassure her. “Hopefully, Sheriff Granger will retrieve the church funds.”
“Well then—” Delia said in a brisk tone, waving toward the basket on the floor “—good thing I brought some tea. Now, you’ll have enough for all your visitors this week.”
Taking the hint, Andre lifted the basket to the table.
Mrs. Hatter made anxious sounds, fluttered her hands, and moved aside a platter of cookies and one of the jugs to make room.
“While you’re doing this,” Andre gestured toward the kitchen, “I’ll get Sam, and we can move some of these things to your cellar.” He left the women to their tea-making and strode down the dirt path to the picket gate.
On the street by the team, Sam held a bucket of water for the nearest horse to drink. With his arm raised, pulling the front of his coat apart, the gun belt holding a Colt, showed. He looked up when Andre approached.
“I’m in need of your strength, Sam, to haul Mrs. Hatter’s loot to her root cellar.”
“I’m the man for that.” He lowered the pail to the ground and stepped to the fence.
Andre sent Sam a pleased glance. The coachman, only a few years younger than him, was still as strong as he’d been as a youth.
Sam had lighter skin than Rufus and Tilly, courtesy of his mother and several generations of white overseers and randy Bellaire men impregnating the most attractive of the female slaves.
He and Sam grew up together, although the coachman was born into slavery, his parents having served the Bellaire family. Tilda, Rufus, and Lamentations the gardener were gifts to Andre on his twenty-first birthday. He’d immediately set all four free and then hired them at generous wages, which infuriated his father and caused many bitter family arguments. His brothers sided with their father, and his mother remained tight-lipped and aloof—torn between the ways of her Scottish father in New York and the beliefs of her husband and family, as well as the slave culture of New Orleans.
“All quiet out here?” Andre asked, with a glance up and down the street.
“I can hear the leaves of the trees turning fall colors. Reminds me of…” Sam hesitated and scratched the side of his neck. “You weren’t in the South during the war, though, especially before New Orleans fell. We walked tense and alert all the time, even during the calm days—” he waved down the road “—although the streets weren’t quiet like this.”
