Page 42 of A Late-Blooming Rose
“How old is Walter?” Rose asked. “Does he like to read?”
“He’s eight, going on eighty. A little old soul, that boy is. Don’t rightly know whether Walter likes to read.” She let out a slow breath. “I’ve only been his mother for a few days, and we have two puppies….”
Grinning, Cora clasped her hands in front of her. “Puppies always take precedence over books, even with my aunt.” She giggled. The playful face she scrunched at Rose made her look about Walter’s age.
“True,” Rose agreed. “But puppies grow up. I can suggest some stories that boys like, if that will help. Perhaps some Mark Twain, if you’d like to borrow my copies.”
“No need. Those I have. I’ll come to you when we’ve gone through the books.” With a nod, the sheriff moved past them.
Next to arrive was Caleb’s sister, Edith Grayson, sweeping in to make an entrance with her brother’s betrothed, Maggie Baxter. Although both had dark hair and eyes, the two women provided an interesting contrast in beauty—Edith, tall and elegant, and Maggie olive-skinned, with high cheekbones and a Slavic cast to her features.
Rose stiffened her spine, inwardly ready to deflect any arrogant behavior toward herself or Cora.
Contrary to her “haughty” reputation, Edith greeted Rose with genuine warmth, taking her hand and smiling. “Miss Collier, I regret that after my brother’s wedding, my son and I are moving to Boston, so I’ll not see the new library. But I’m sure my family and friends will write me about all the details.”
When Maggie took Rose’s hand, shadows lingered in her eyes. “I don’t think books will ever be anything but a treat for me. With my late husband, I had to hide my books from him or he’d destroy them.”
Rose held in a gasp, remembering Andre saying the man was abusive.What she must have endured!She squeezed Maggie’s hand. “I can’t even imagine the pain, the fear.”
“I’ve come to see that was one of his many ways to control me.” She released Rose’s hand.
“Maggie will never have to be afraid again,” Edith said stanchly. “My brother would never hurt her. Indeed, the besotted man plies her with books and trinkets and any other thing she desires.”
“Or I don’t desire.” Maggie laughed. “There’s no stopping Caleb, especially when it comes to my daughter. He spoils her, protects her….”
“I’m so glad you and your baby are safe.” Rose smiled warmly. “And you can read to your heart’s content. We’ll have to investigate each other’s collections.”
“We’re so busy with this wedding—” she nudged Edith “—someoneis determined to make a big production of the event. I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever again have time to myself to read. But definitely, as soon as I do, I’ll enjoy browsing through your books.”
The flow of women ended, and the three moved out of the entryway and into the parlor. Their guests drifted into groups, accepting teacups and saucers from Tilda or Milliana and partaking of the assortment of small sandwiches and cookies. The sounds of voices filled the room, and various scents of perfume sweetened the air.
Needing to figuratively catch her breath, Rose gravitated toward a quiet corner where she could stand and observe without being required to chat. Over the years, she attended similar tea parties held for Stone Street Library donors. Luckily, Mrs. Nicklesby-Ward was in charge of those events, and, after the welcome greeting, Rose could linger on the periphery and avoid much of the social engagement.
As if checking the list she’d written down and memorized, Rose noted each guest and matched her to the description. Cataloging the women settled her a bit, so even as she accepted a cup of tea and some cookies from Tilda, she continued adding to her mental file, including the attendees not on the original list. A few more ladies had slipped in later. She saw identical twins with Irish accents, one pregnant, and a thin, shabbily-dressed woman, her blond braid wrapped around her head, European-style, who kept glancing around as if awed to be here.
Delia rustled over and touched Rose’s arm. “You’re not mingling.” Her hazel eyes showed concern.
“I’m a bit overwhelmed.” Rose fudged the truth. If Delia knew how uncomfortable she felt, her hostess would remain by her side instead of taking care of their guests’ needs. “I’m affixing everyone’s names to faces.”
“Goodness, there’s no need for that.” Delia’s Southern accent was molasses sweet. “Contrary to how this appears today, we really are a small circle of friends, whom you’ll see over and over again.”
But I still wish to know their names.
“Have you met everyone?” Delia gestured around the room. “I know the ladies seemed to arrive in a bunch and others have straggled in.”
“I’ve met most. Remembering their names, that’s a different matter, which given my new position as town librarian is important.”
Delia laughed. “I understand. I used to make Joshua give me the names and histories of anyone we were liable to meet at social events or parish calls.” She rolled her eyes. “Just as I think I know everyone in the area, a person or family appears whom I’ve never met. Perhaps only my father-in-law is acquainted with everyone, for even if they don’t attend church and live in the most remote places, he makes a point to seek out each person or family at least once a year for a pastoral visit.”
Rose made a little shooing motion. “Go be the hostess. I’m fine, really, I am. I’ll go meet Cora’s new friend.” She gestured toward her niece, talking to a pretty girl with pansy brown eyes and a snub nose, probably a few years younger than Cora. The two had their heads together, obviously about to become bosom companions.
“Elsie Bailey, the dressmaker’s apprentice,” Delia told her.
“Ah, the one your father thought would be Cora’s kindred spirit. Appears he’s correct.”
“Note their air of suppressed excitement.” Delia sighed. “Did you ever have that much energy at their ages? I certainly didn’t.”
“Cora’s the hare,” Rose said wryly, patting her chest. “I’m the tortoise. Not to mentionyouare close to Cora’s age, andIam ancient.”
