Page 27 of A Late-Blooming Rose
Rose set her reticule on the nearest nightstand, unbuttoned and stripped off her gloves, and placed them on top of the bed. She reached up to remove her hatpins and pulled off her felt toque, wrinkling her nose at the dusty, rather battered appearance, not sure if the hat was salvageable, or if she even wanted to bother. She felt the same for the duster she wiggled out of and held at arm’s length.
Although tempted to toss both in the dustbin and not wanting to put either in the massive wardrobe in the corner lest the smoke smell transfer to the clothing she would hang, Rose looked around. Spying two decorative brass hooks near the door, she hung up her hat and coat. Until her future was set, she must be conservative. The hat and duster would wash.
Removing her spectacles, she pulled out her handkerchief, and breathed on the lenses. Once they fogged, she polished the glass clean and replaced them on her nose.
A knock on the open doorframe sounded. “Miss Collier, I have your satchel.”
“Come in, Sam.”
The coachman strode into the bedroom, carrying both their satchels.
“Just put mine, the darker one, on the bed. Cora’s in the bathroom, so you can put hers in her room.”
With a grin and a wink, he did just that.
“Thank you,” Rose called to his retreating back, opening the satchel and extracting her comb and brush. Luckily, a large, silver mirror hung over a dressing table, and she moved close to watch herself repair her coiffure—extracting the pins and undoing her braid before brushing out the length, rebraiding, and twisting the plait into a bun, then stabbing the pins back in. Although now neat, nothing could take away the faint smell of smoke clinging to her hair.
She leaned forward to look closer into the mirror and grimaced, noting the tiny lines fanning out from her nose and mouth and the threads of gray that seemed more plentiful than the last time she’d examined herself.
Rose had never been much of a beauty, and she’d long ago lost the fresh bloom of youth. Aging hadn’t bothered her much until this trip. She wondered if she looked as haggard to Andre as she did to herself.
“I’m done.” With a wide grin, Cora stuck her head into the room.
Rose quickly straightened, not wanting to be caught in an act of vanity, and moved toward the door.
“What a marvelous bathroom.” Cora placed a dramatic hand to her chest. “You can practically swim in the tub. I was tempted to forego dinner, but my stomach wouldn’t let me. However, I promised myself a return visit for a long soak.”
“My turn to admire the bathroom.”
“Enjoy.” The girl waved a hand in mock languidness. “I still have to do my hair. Don’t wait for me.”
Rose hurried down the hallway without stopping to admire the prints of botanicals hung against the same wallpaper as downstairs. She opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, admiring the club-footed tub that was indeed big enough to float in. She assumed the floor-to-ceiling cabinet held towels, and an oval mirror hung above the pedestal sink. The toilet sat tucked into the corner.
With a longing glance toward the tub, Rose used the toilet and washed her hands and face. While drying them on a clean white towel hanging next to the sink, she couldn’t help thinking of Cora’s intended visit to the tub. She hadn’t bathed since the night before they left New York, instead forced to resort to scanty sponge baths along the way. On the way out of the bathroom, she stooped to pat the porcelain lip. “I’ll be back.”
In the hallway, her niece wasn’t in sight, and Cora’s door was closed, so Rose continued on without her.
Pausing on the landing, she recognized a Joseph Turner landscape that was a particular favorite of hers, making her wonder how much of the house’s decor was Andre’s doing and what was his daughter and son-in-law’s.There’ll be time when no one is around to study each piece.
As soon as the idea came to her, she rejected the thought.Why do I care about his possessions or his taste? I’ll only be living here a short time and then, with a salary from the library, I’ll move into my own home.
So instead of drifting over to greet the Turner, she briskly walked to the stairs to see Andre and Delia waiting on the floor below. Without Cora’s presence to bolster her courage, Rose was aware of feeling unbalanced, vulnerable. Father and daughter looked so elegant—so beautiful, Andre in a masculine way, and Delia all graceful femininity.And here I am in a travel-worn outfit, smelling of smoke.
Seeing two sets of hazel eyes watching her every movement made her nervous and awkward. Her knees began to shake.Don’t trip, she told herself. The last thing she needed was to stumble and fall down the stairs.Wouldn’t that be a spectacle?
As she descended each step, her hand gliding down the railing, Rose took deep breaths to bolster her defenses and held her head high. Watching Andre track her progress, his eyes alight with what she used to think was love, made her aware of how thin the walls around her heart were.
I must find a way to shore them up.
* * *
Once Rose and Cora vanished upstairs with Tilda, Andre didn’t know what to do with himself, wanting only to pace in front of the stairs and await Rose’s return.Delia will think me mad. Or lovesick.He couldn’t allow either.
He removed his bowler and walked to the hat rack to hang it up.
Rufus helped him out of his overcoat and vanished into the coatroom. Reappearing, he headed toward the kitchen.
Her eyes sparking in a rare display of annoyance, Delia grabbed Andre’s arm and pulled him to the other side of the staircase. “Papa, what have you done?” she hissed in a low voice.
