Page 20 of A Late-Blooming Rose
Mrs. Hatter abruptly stopped and placed her hands on each side of her head. “I feel my wits are soscatteredtoday!”
“That’s to be expected in such worrying situations,” Delia soothed. “There’s still enough hot water. Let’s do a quick wash and dry, shall we?”
I’m not the only one who charms with a Southern accent when need be.Andre watched pleased and amused. He never tired of seeing his daughter interact with others.Would I have felt the same if I’d have known her from birth—her mannerisms, her personality familiar? Would I have taken her for granted?He suspected not.Delia is too special.
The coachman tilted his head toward the rocking chair on the porch. “I’ve no need for tea, so I’ll just have a seat out here.” Unspoken were the words,So I can watch over everything.
Delia handed Mrs. Hatter, who’d moved to sit on the settee, a cup and saucer.
She returned to the kitchen and poured tea into two more cups, deftly stirring in the right amount of sugar and cream for each of them. She carried both cups and saucers and walked toward him. “Here you are, Papa.”
“Thank you, my dear.” He took the cup and saucer.
Delia swished over to join Mrs. Hatter on the settee.
A sip of his tea told Andre she’d made the beverage just the way he liked it. All the years of living away from New Orleans couldn’t cure his taste for sweet tea—hot or cold.
Outside, Andre heard the rumble of Sam’s voice and cocked his ears. Hearing no response, his heartbeat quickened.Likely someone coming to visit.Still, he set down his cup and saucer on a nearby table, turned his back to the ladies so they couldn’t see, and put a hand on his gun.Guess that talk of the war spooked me.
A knock sounded on the door.
He glanced over his shoulder to Mrs. Hatter. “Allow me.”
At a nod from his hostess, Andre moved to open the door and saw an attractive blonde. He recognized her as Margaret Temogen. He’d met Sheriff and Mrs. Temogen of Morgan’s Crossing at church a few times when they visited Sweetwater Springs. They had a son, Charlie, about Micah’s age, and a young daughter, whose name he couldn’t remember.
While not as fashionably dressed as Andre’s daughter, Mrs. Temogen’s dark green dress suited her, bringing out the forest green of her eyes. Matching braid edged the shoulders, waistline, and hem. Her skirt rustling, she moved into the room, smiled and nodded at them all.
Mrs. Hatter set down her tea and stood with a tentative turn-up of her lips.
When they’d first met, Andre chatted with Mrs. Temogen for a good ten minutes, finding her warm and convivial. Now, although she held her head high and her smile didn’t waver, shadows lurked in her eyes.Fear for her husband, no doubt.
“Mrs. Hatter, we haven’t met. I’m Margaret Temogen.” She nodded a greeting to the older woman. “My husband is the sheriff of Morgan’s Crossing, who’s riding with the posse after that dreadful gang. I’m afraid I come empty-handed.” She turned her gloved hands palm up. “I thought to bring something from the mercantile, but I’ve heard after the Harvest Festival yesterday, the store looks like ravening locusts swept through the place, leaving only empty shelves.”
“Oh, oh, don’t worry in the least bit about bringing anything.” Mrs. Hatter rushed over, waving her hands in front of her in a negating motion before clasping Mrs. Temogen’s hand with both of hers. “Why, if you’d come just twenty minutes ago, you would have seen my home looking like the ravening locusts swept almost every item from the mercantile and brought them here. Mr. Herbert, the man eating pie on the porch, and Mr. Bellaire were kind enough to haul most everything to the cellar for me.”
She gestured toward Delia and Andre. “Do you know Reverend Joshua’s wife, Delia Norton, and her father, Andre Bellaire?”
“Why, yes. My family and I have worshiped in Sweetwater Springs several times, so Mrs. Norton and I have spoken before or after church—usually only for a few moments, for my wiggly children always want to move. Mr. Bellaire and I had a long conversation earlier this week at the planning session for the Harvest Festival.”
Delia looked back and forth between the two ladies. “Please, both of you, call me Delia. I know it’s confusing when two Mrs. Nortons who are ministers’ wives live in the same town.”
Andre had often heard his daughter make the same suggestion, in the process, offending those who thought a minister’s wife should be more formal. So he always tensed, awaiting the response, and knowing he couldn’t go to her defense. Delia had to fight her own battles.
Mrs. Temogen’s smile finally reached her eyes. “Then I’m Maggie.”
Neither of the ladies looked askance at Mrs. Hatter in expectation of a similar informal response, knowing older ladies tended to be more traditional and wanted to be treated with respect.
“Come, my dear Mrs. Hatter, and have a seat.” Delia set down her cup and saucer, stood, and moved over to their hostess. She put an arm around the older woman’s shoulders and guided her to the settee.
Mrs. Hatter waved a weak hand toward the kitchen. “But Mrs., uh, Maggie’s tea.”
“I’ll make the tea,” Delia offered, moving toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Hatter sighed in apparent relief.
Maggie sat next to their hostess and took her hand. “Tell me, how is your husband?”
Mrs. Hatter’s eyes filled with tears, and the tip of her nose reddened. “Dr. Cameron expects him to be fine. He’s sleeping now and very weak. It’s just so hard….”
