Page 6 of A Late-Blooming Rose
For a moment he paused, his fingertips skimming overMeditations. The worn volume containing the writings of Marcus Aurelius lay open on his desk. Over the years, the words of the ancient Roman philosopher often brought him wisdom and comfort. He was tempted to pick up the book and wander over to the leather chesterfield and take consolation from the familiar pages. But first, he had a duty to fulfill.
Andre moved to the leather chair behind the desk. He pushed aside Marcus Aurelius, pulled out a sheet of paper, moved the bronze inkstand in the shape of an eagle closer, and picked up his pen. He hesitated, reluctant to put down the words on paper that would make Marty’s dying more real.
The inkstand was a gift from Rose, and he often thought of her when he used it. After a moment, Andre inhaled a shaky breath, dipped the pen into the inkwell, and wrote the salutation. He pressed lightly on the pen, trying to keep his handwriting neat, so as not to betray the depths of his emotion.
Dear Marty,
’Twas with great sorrow that I read the news of your illness, and, ever since, the memories of our years of friendship have been on my mind.
First of all, I want you to rest your mind about Rose and Cora. Your sister and granddaughter are welcome to come live with my family. There’s more than enough room in this big house I’ve built. As you know from my previous letters, Sweetwater Springs is very different from New York—small and primitive. But your dear ladies will find a community of strong, lovely women who will extend the hand of friendship, beginning with my own dear daughter. Rose and Cora will be warmly welcomed, and I’m sure they’ll quickly find their place among us.
He paused, smiling at the thought of Rose and Delia—the two women he loved most in the world—forming a friendship. The thought gladdened his heart. Again, he dipped the tip of the pen into the inkwell and continued his letter.
Plenty of young men of good character in need of a wife reside in Sweetwater Springs. Or if Cora wants to put her nursing to good use, our two doctors might find her employment. Even if she chooses to work, the men will line up to court her. There’s no reason she can’t be married and also find opportunities to follow her vocation—at least until the babies come.
He thought of his own grandbaby, who’d arrive in about six months. When he’d first found out Delia wasenceinte, he’d written Marty, and, for courtesy’s sake, also his own family in New Orleans.
Marty’s return letter was filled with congratulations. His family’s not so much. They weren’t thrilled Andre had chosen to acknowledge his illegitimate, octoroon daughter as if she’d been born to him and a lily-white wife. Aside from Marty and his family, only the Nortons, the Livingstons—with whom they’d stayed while Andre convalesced after his heart attack—and Sheriff K.C. Granger knew the truth of Delia’s background.
Andre resented the need to hide Delia’s illegitimacy and Negro blood from all but the few who knew. He couldn’t predict who’d harshly condemn and shun his beloved daughter and, by extension, Joshua, Micah, and perhaps even the elder Nortons.I certainly don’t care what anyone thinks about me.But the idea of anyone possibly criticizing Delia’s future children—his grandchildren—almost broke his heart.
He wasn’t sure if Marty ever shared Delia’s origins with Rose.Rose.Just thinking of her banished his irritation and made him smile.
The bachelors out here might line up to court her.That vision wiped the smile off his face.
Rose tended to be reticent around men she didn’t know, and Andre doubted she’d changed much in that regard. Due to her shyness, she was overlooked by most suitors—fools that they are. But in Sweetwater Springs, with the dearth of available women, even a forty-four-year-old spinster would stir the interest of lonely men.
At the thought, jealousy stabbed through him. He took a breath, striving for a more rational viewpoint.
I can’t stand in her way.
She’s not my Rose. I made sure of that.
Resolutely, Andre jabbed the pen into the inkwell and returned writing.
Later, I’ll send a letter to Rose with an invitation. As a further enticement to move to Sweetwater Springs, I’m about to build a new library here, which will need a qualified librarian.
He paused. A drop of ink fell from the tip and onto the page, luckily in the margin. Still, he scowled at the blot.
Andre sat back in his chair and set down the pen, thinking of what else to say. Normally, he’d have filled the page with tidbits about his family and details about the upcoming Harvest Festival. But today he felt far too melancholy for those topics. He grew lost in thought for a while, reliving old times with his friend.
Then he picked up the pen and reminisced about some of his favorite memories with Marty. Knowing he might not have another chance to share his thoughts with his old friend, he wrote and wrote, moving to new sheets of paper when he’d filled up both sides of the previous one. His fingers cramping, he ended the letter and signed his name.
Once the ink dried, he folded the pages, stuffed them into an envelope, addressed the front, and added postage. Andre sat for a moment with the missive in his hand. The letter was thick and heavy. He wondered if a reply would come, if Marty would be too weak to hold a pen, or still be alive when the letter arrived.
From outside the open door of the study, he heard the sound of rapid footsteps.Micah.The boy never walked when he could trot or run.
With a small release of breath, Andre rose and moved to stand in the doorway, raising the letter to flag down his grandson.
With a small skid, Micah halted. “Yes,Grand-père?”
Andre handed him the letter. “Will you drop this off at the train station tomorrow before school?”
Micah glanced down at the address. “To your friend in New York who’s dying?” He looked up into Andre’s face. “You’re sad. I can tell.” He hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say more.
“Come here.” Andre dropped an arm about Micah’s shoulders and led him to the chesterfield, taking a seat and drawing the boy down by his side.
“You’re not going to die,Grand-père, are you?”
