Page 9 of A Late-Blooming Rose
Using a stack of books for a seat, Cora sank down across from Rose. “Mr. Bellaire is a nice man,” she chided. “I write him from time to time. His letters are always sointeresting.”
Shocked by the revelation, Rose could only stare blankly at Cora.
Apparently not noticing her great-aunt’s reaction, the girl blithely continued. “When I was little, he’d always slip me pennies. He gave me this necklace for my sixteenth birthday.” She touched her locket. “And sent pearl earrings for my eighteenth birthday.”
“I didn’t know about those gifts.” Rose couldn’t help wondering how else the dratted man had involved himself with her family without her knowledge.
Cora frowned. “You haven’t seen them because Step-mama won’t allow me to get my ears pierced. Also, grandpapa warned me not to talk to you about Mr. Bellaire. He said that you’d taken him in dislike.”
Rose recalled a long-ago conversation with Andre. “I gather pierced ears is a more popular fashion in New Orleans than in New York. Perhaps you can change the backs of your earrings to screw on.”
Curiosity became stronger than the long-held wounded pride that made her refuse to speak of the man. “Has Mr. Bellaire given you any other presents?”
“I saw him before he moved back to New Orleans, and he handed me several silver dollars and told me to buy something pretty. Then, there’s this.” She removed her necklace, opened the two halves, and handed the locket to Rose. “He made sure I had them.”
On each side was a miniature wedding photograph—Marty and his first wife Eleanor on one side, John and Cora’s mother Emily on the other.
Her throat closed up.All are gone now.
Rose took a breath. “I didn’t know about the photographs, either.” Andre’s insightful generosity gave her an ache behind her breastbone.
She handed back the necklace. “I mean… I saw you wearing the locket, but I assumed it was from your grandfather. I’d told Marty that I thought a necklace would be a suitable sixteenth birthday gift.” Her voice trailed off.
How could I have known about Cora’s relationship with Andre when I made such an effort to avoid him, indeed, any mention of him?
“You know Grandpapa always gave me books.” Cora plucked the letter from Rose’s hand and began to read.
Too churned up to remonstrate, Rose clasped her hands in her lap, trying to hold onto her composure.
With a pleased exclamation, Cora looked up, her eyes bright. “He’s invited me, too. Oh, this arrangement isperfect.”
“What?” Rose grabbed for the page and whisked it from the girl’s hand. “What do you mean, perfect?”
“I came here to tell you that I’m leaving New York.” Cora lifted her chin—the stubborn gesture indicating no one would budge her from her decision. “Step-mama is insistent I marry that dismal Richard Frishman—he of the clammy hands and fish mouth.Ick. All she cares about is his fortune. With my inheritance from Grandpapa, I’m free to leave.”
“Your paltry inheritance will not get you far,” Rose warned with a shake of her head.
Up went Cora’s chin again. “I’m not afraid to work hard.”
“I don’t doubt that, but I’m afraid for you.” Her stomach clenched, just thinking about the dangers a green girl could fall into. Torn between finishing Andre’s letter and learning more about her niece’s plans, Rose chose the letter, postponing for a few moments how she’d feel if Cora actually followed through on her plans to leave. She smoothed out the page and picked up where she’d left off.
In addition, Marty was quite concerned about his granddaughter, Cora, and I assured him that she also has a place in my home and family waiting for her. In Sweetwater Springs, she’ll have plenty of opportunities to marry, pursue her nursing interests, or both.
Rose let out a long, sad sigh. Cora wanted to leave New York. The girl had an amiable personality, but with a stubborn streak rooting deep on those rare times she stood her ground. No amount of talking or punishments would shift her resolve.
Without a doubt, Rose knew the girl would be safe and happy with Andre and his family, even if, for selfish reasons, she didn’t want any further contact with the man.Cora’s safety and well-being are more important than my feelings.Without a word, she handed back the letter.
If she moves to Montana, I’ll never see her again.
Her throat tight, she watched her niece avidly read the contents, memorizing every detail of the girl sitting before her—the tenseness of her shapely body, the curve of her cheeks, which had recently lost their girlhood plumpness, the grace of her hands, the way her brown hair curled across her forehead, the faint freckles dotting her nose. Rose loved those freckles, although Cora despaired of them and had even tried to bleach them away with lemon juice.
Cora finished reading and clutched the letter to her chest. “Oh, Aunt Rose, this isperfect! I’dloveto live with Mr. Bellaire’s family. Grandpapa shared many of his letters with me, and I feel I know his daughter Delia, and Reverend Joshua, and dear little Micah as well as if I’d met them in person.”
Marty had known better than to offer Rose any details of Andre’s life, but still he’d casually mentioned the discovery of the man’s daughter from a previous marriage, one she hadn’t know about—oh, how that news had hurt. Then, a few weeks later, came a letter that Andre dictated to his daughter, telling of leaving New Orleans with Delia to travel west. The worst news of all—his almost-fatal heart attack on the train and their decision to remain in Sweetwater Springs.
The realization Andre could have died made her feel as though the scabs had ripped from an old wound she’d thought healed. Rose fled to her former bedroom in Marty’s house, threw herself on the bed and wept.
His heart attack forced her to face the truth—she’d never stopped loving the man; he had a daughter she wished was hers; and if he’d died, a longing hope, no matter how forlorn, would have left her heart empty. She’d have to live with the pain of Andre’s loss for the rest of her life.
