Page 29 of A Late-Blooming Rose
To keep from touching the table, Rose clasped her hands together, glanced away, and wandered over to some bookshelves, not big enough, she knew, to house Andre’s entire collection. Just as she bent to study the titles, Delia came up behind her.
“Those are mine. Papa and Joshua have taken over our library, although each has additional shelves of his favorite volumes in his own study. Please feel free to borrow any you wish to read.”
Rose smiled with warmth, grateful for the offer. “I’ll be sure to avail myself of your kind invitation.”
“Sorry to keep you waiting!” Cora called as she joined them, flashing each person a smile. Like Rose, she wore an older gray dress, although with blue trim instead of black. On the journey, she’d kept her gold locket tucked inside her gown for safekeeping. Now, she displayed the necklace openly.
Delia waved toward a large square opening in the wall. “Shall we dine?”
At their nods, their hostess led them from the parlor into the dining room situated in the back of the mansion. The room was three times as big as the one in Marty’s house. A long, cloth-covered table was set with green transferware and two enormous silver candelabra.
Once inside, Delia gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. “My husband is out on a parish call. I’d hoped he’d be back in time to join us, and perhaps he will come before we finish. If not, you’ll have to meet him later. And I’m sure Micah will race here straight from school.”
Rose wondered why Andre wasn’t sitting at the head of the table but didn’t want to ask.
He must have noticed her glance at the empty chair for he said, “I consider this to be Joshua and Delia’s house. I’m just the hanger-on.”
“Papa, don’t you dare give our guests the wrong idea.” Delia moved around the table. “If we have a big dinner party, I’ll take my place at the foot. But today, with all that table space between us, we’d have to raise our voices to converse. Not the most pleasant dining experience.” Her hand brushed the top of a chair. “Miss Collier, why don’t you sit across from Papa and your niece, and I’ll be here next to you?”
Rose studied an Oriental mural on one wall—a scene of cherry trees in full blossom. She recognized the gold mirror over the fireplace and a marble-topped sideboard as coming from Andre’s New York house and wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing the familiar pieces. The olive-green velvet curtains at the window overlooked what must be the back garden. Enticing scents came from the direction of the kitchen, which she guessed was located on the other side of the discreet door almost hidden in the wooden paneling.
Andre’s financial circumstances always intimidated her. Back when she thought he was courting her, Rose hadn’t wanted him to think she was interested in his money. She also wasn’t comfortable with his more formal lifestyle, the entertaining she’d need to do as his hostess, and what she knew of the differing expectations of an upper-class family. Now, though, she just tried to admire the room without building any fantasies of living here permanently.I’m only a guest.
As soon as they took their seats, Delia rang a little bell. The tinkling sound summoned the servers.
Tilda, Rufus, and another maid, whom Delia introduced as their daughter Milliana, entered carrying platters of food, which they offered to each person before setting them on the table.
In wealthy New York families, the butler and housekeeper would never have served at the table. Here, though, Rose didn’t notice as many servants, and some of the formality of Andre’s previous home seemed more relaxed.
The cook had prepared cream sauce drizzled over veal medallions, mashed potatoes sprinkled with chives, and asparagus—indeed all her favorites. Had Andre remembered? Or perhaps, Rufus or Tilda? This dinner was a feast in comparison to what the Colliers were used to. Both Marty and John’s households were solidly middle class, with only a few servants and less money to spend on food.
Rose set to with a hearty, although ladylike, appetite and saw her niece doing the same.
Andre nodded at the still-laden serving platters. “We eat simpler out here. Not so many courses.”
Cora cocked her head. “Why is that?”
“A number of reasons. As I think you know—” Andre spoke directly to the young woman “—my son-in-law is a minister, and he’s also the son of our minister here in town. He grew up poor, what with a small congregation and his parents sharing what little they had with others more in need. Until the last couple of years, Joshua was also a missionary in Africa—Uganda, where he also became used to a more restricted diet. He prefers we don’t waste food.”
Rose swallowed her bite of veal. “I suppose he saw starving people in Africa.”
Delia took a sip of her tea. “He’ll tell you stories of that time that will wrench at your heart.” She set down her cup. “We do have poor people in our community here, whom we’ll help if they allow. However, the members of our congregation have their pride and an amazing self-reliant attitude. Most won’t accept charity, so we have to be creative when offering help. It feels wrong to eat lavishly when many cannot.” She wrinkled her nose at her father. “Although, in every other respect, we dolivelavishly.”
Andre set down his fork. “I will not allow anything less. Money spent on homes, furnishings, clothes, etc., isn’t awaste, as many people believe. I’m not throwing money into the sea. People build, grow, sew, distribute. They make their living by the works of their hands. Every cent I’ve spent on this house, on myself, on my family, has gone into someone else’s pocket, which they in turn spend on their basic needs and than more money goes to others.”
Rose had never thought of wealth that way.
“Papa is most generous.”
Cora touched her locket. “Mrs. Norton, your father has always possessed a most generous heart. This was my sixteenth birthday gift.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Andre. “One most dear to me,” she added.
Rose sent her a reproving glance, which Cora apparently pretended not to see.
“Both of you, please call me Delia.” She glanced from Rose to Cora. “I don’t want to be so formal when we’re living together.”
Rose supposed she couldn’t continue to address Andre asMr. Bellaire, as she’d intended, as a way to keep him formally at arm’s length, to pretend their romance of the past never happened—or at least that she didn’t recall those golden days.
Andre beamed at her niece. “And I shall be Uncle Andre to you, Cora. I don’t know why your grandfather and I didn’t think of that years ago.”
