Page 25 of A Late-Blooming Rose
“I suppose you’re right.” Rose sounded reluctant.
“Heisright,” Cora called from the interior of the coach. “I, for one, have worked up quite an appetite. That lumpy porridge at breakfast was almost inedible.”
With a nod, Rose allowed herself to be helped into the coach.
Andre climbed in after them, taking a seat next to Delia and across from Cora and Rose. He nodded for Sam to shut the door.
As the carriage started, Andre glanced back and forth between the three ladies he adored. Having themhereacross from him, his knees mere inches away from Rose’s, suddenly overwhelmed him with gratitude and no small amount of excitement.
Somehow, he suspected this might become a frequent state of mind when in Rose’s presence.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rose worked hard to keep her expression cool and calm, to not reveal how shaky and upset she felt on the inside. She’d underestimated how seeing Andre again would unnerve her. How just his smile could suck her back in time twenty-two years, make her feel as giddy and silly as a green girl and, at the same time, want to burst into tears and wail with all the pain in her broken young heart.
Eagerly, Cora started asking questions about the town.
Andre assumed the role of guide, pointing out the various buildings they passed, with Delia giving brief character sketches of the owners.
As much as possible, Rose avoided looking at him, keeping her gaze upon Delia. But watching the younger woman only made matters worse. She looked so much like her father, although with a little darker coloring and more refined features. He had the wider brow. Her hands were different—Rose didn’t have to look at Andre’s to compare—and, except when pointing out a landmark of interest, Delia kept hers quietly folded in her lap.
Up until their arrival, Rose believed she was prepared for meeting Andre’s daughter, thought she’d overcome the hurt of the young woman’s existence, and been prepared to meet her with equanimity. Now, looking at Andre’s beautiful, poised daughter, she realized she’d thought wrong.
Between glances out the window to see the church, the schoolhouse, the sweetshop and a dress shop, Rose couldn’t help studying Delia’s face, seeing Andre in his daughter’s hazel eyes, in the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head when she smiled, the soft Southern drawl.
Would our child have looked like her?Rose had to pull her imagination back before she concocted a daughter who looked like Delia, except with gray eyes and glasses, paler skin, maybe with freckles on her nose.
The carriage turned right, drove a ways, and then turned left.
“Second Street,” Delia stated.
“Not a bit like Second Street in New York,” Cora quipped, leaning to look out the window. “Much quieter, thank goodness. I suppose there are Second Streets in towns and cities all over the country. And probably the world, although they wouldn’t be in English, of course.”
Rose forced herself to join in the conversation. “I understand from my brother that your home is newly built.”
“That’s right,” Delia answered. “We’ve only been living here about six months. Papa had so many workmen, at times they looked like ants swarming an anthill. We lived in another town while the house was being built because there wasn’t any place to stay here. The hotel only opened last December.”
Still the same energy and determination.Rose couldn’t help peeking at Andre through lowered eyelashes.
He caught the look and smiled, lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. But his eyes appeared sad.
Rose wondered if he remembered the past and also felt nostalgic or if there was another problem on his mind.None of my business, she chided.
Underneath them, she could feel the wheels transition from the mud of the street to the quartzite brick pavement in front of his house. The carriage slowed to a stop, and soon Sam opened the door on the opposite side and grinned at them. “The Bellaire-Norton residence,” he announced in a grand tone. “Or the Norton-Bellaire residence, whichever you prefer.” He reached out a hand to steady Rose as she stepped out.
They’d pulled up in front of a three-story mansion made of chunky bricks, similar to brownstone but with a more pinkish hue. Rose caught her breath at the beauty of Andre’s home. She studied the house, forcing herself to breathe—not that his mansion in New York hadn’t been large and elegant, but there he was just one wealthy man among many. His house was practically a hut in comparison to the Astors’ and Vanderbilts’—not that she’d ever been inside any of the homes belonging to those families.
But this one—from the cone-topped round tower on the left, to the pergola perched in the front center, to the shiny copper trim under the pergola—seemed to fit perfectly against the frame of the distant, blue-gray mountains. She had a sudden wishful ache tolivehere—not just pass through on the way to another home.
From the corner of her eye, Rose saw Andre glance at her as if searching for her reaction, but she kept her expression composed, almost blank, so as not to betray her longing.
“You must be exhausted,” he said quietly.
She managed a smile. “A bit. I’m looking forward to a bath and a meal that’s not shoveled down.”
“You shall have both forthwith,” he promised.
Cora scrambled out of the coach and gazed up at the house. “Oh my. Such a beautiful place, Mr. Bellaire. Whatever is that stone on your house? Looks like the same as the brick on the street. So unusual.”
