Page 67 of A Late-Blooming Rose
Rose stared out to the right, unseeing of the street they passed.
Andre pulled up in front of a house with a large front yard surrounded by a picket fence. Smoke puffed from the chimney. He set the brake and tied off the reins.
Before he could come around to help her, she scrambled out from the sled and, back stiff, marched to the gate, her boots padding in the snow.
The brick path to the front door was shoveled clean. Not wanting to slip on the icy surface, she slowed to keep her balance, giving Andre time to catch up and take her elbow to help her up the steps to the porch, where he knocked on the door of the square vestibule.
They waited in silence for several long moments. Just as Rose wondered if the owner was napping, a stoop-shouldered man opened the outer door.
“Mr. Bellaire,” the man said with a startled expression. He glanced at Rose and then looked away.
“Mr. Marsden. Please pardon the intrusion. I’ve brought our new librarian, Miss Collier, to visit. I thought you’d like to meet her.”
Still upset with Andre, Rose was sure her smile appeared brittle.
But that didn’t matter since the man still couldn’t seem to meet her eyes. “Come in out of the cold.” He opened the inner door to the house and moved aside to allow them to enter.
They took a few steps into the parlor, which, while large and nicely furnished, had an unlived-in look, and no fire burned in the round stove situated in the corner, nor in the fireplace.
Rose had no desire to sit in the cold room and wished she’d never come.
Mr. Marsden suddenly stopped, turned, and gave Andre a helpless look. “Uh….”
“Perhaps the kitchen?” Rose suggested.
The man gave an eager nod, started to turn, and then paused. “The parlor is more comfortable.”
“On a winter day like this one, I think we’ll settle for warmth over comfort.” Rose tried to keep her tone friendly instead of ironic.
Andre touched the small of Rose’s back, to usher her forward.
To move away from his hand, she walked with quick steps, following Mr. Marsden’s shuffling gait.
The kitchen was large and warm. The man obviously lived in the room, for a daybed stood against the wall near the big black stove, and a worn leather chair sat on the other side, next to a table with a lit lamp. A book lay closed on the chair, a bookmark sticking out the top. From the flowers on the cover, Rose suspected a gardening book. A quick glance showed her that the hutch held mismatched dishes as well as books.
Mr. Marsden moved to the round table and pulled out a chair for Rose.
She smiled—again stiffly—and sat down.
The man still didn’t meet her eyes.
Andre claimed another chair.
Mr. Marsden didn’t think to offer them tea. He seemed unused to company, flicking a look at her and then down at his hands. His eyes were his best feature—big and blue and darkly lashed.
Why, he’s shy,Rose realized.Painfully shy.She could certainly understand his difficulty. The realization distracted her enough from her own inner conflict about Andre. She wanted to set the man at ease. “I see you’re reading, Mr. Marsden. Is that a gardening book? I’m hoping the library will offer a nice selection.”
He jumped to his feet and scurried over to the chair, picking up the book, and then handing her the volume.
She read the title,Les Liliacees, and opened the book about a third of the way, to an illustration ofStrelitzia Reginae. “I’m familiar with this one. I believe this is considered Pierre-Joseph Redoute’s masterpiece.” She tapped the page. “Doesn’t this have the loveliest drawings and descriptions of the flowers from Empress Josephine’s estate atMalmaison? This Bird of Paradise looks so exotic.”
For the first time, Mr. Marsden’s gaze lingered on Rose’s face. “My favorite part.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I like to plan what I’ll plant in the spring. Bird of Paradise won’t grow here, of course. Too bad, that.”
This time Rose’s smile felt genuine. “Winter is a time for dreaming.”
His eyes lit with the zeal of a true horticulturist. “Why, yes. You understand.”
Andre cleared his throat.
