by Isabel Morin
For days she turned the dilemma over in her mind, worrying it until she could hardly think straight. She had come all this way to find her father’s murderer. Why then could she not accept what must be done?
Because she loved Luke.
The truth of it came to her just as the sun disappeared from her window, ringing through her with a clarity bestowed by pain. All this time she’d wondered what made her go against all common sense to see him, but the answer was so simple, and so devastating.
Their weekly rides had come to mean so much to her. His warm voice, the way she felt around him. He eclipsed Will in every way. Yet there was no denying what she had to do. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay in bed, letting go of what she’d only just admitted wanting.
Chapter Seven
Rose had just finished inventorying the contents of the root cellar when Mrs. Craig poked her head down the ladder.
“Rose, I need you to go into the garden and cut enough flowers to freshen all the vases downstairs before the guests arrive.”
Grateful for the chance to wander in private, Rose snatched a basket from the kitchen and headed outside.
Screened from the house by a cluster of birch and maple trees, the flower garden spread nearly half an acre. Pathways wove between carefully tended daylilies, coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. The sun was just beginning to sink below the trees, casting long shadows across the beds
It was lush and bountiful, a balm to spirits brought low by both her painful realization about Luke, and the fact that she’d finally sent a letter to Will explaining she couldn’t marry him. He would be hurt and confused, and she knew of no way to ease his pain. Nothing could help that kind of hurt. She ought to know.
But there was no going back, and no choice but to end it. She couldn’t conceive of marrying him when she was in love with Luke. And Will deserved better. He deserved a wife who adored him, who would not think always of another man.
Slowly she made her way deeper into the garden, bending over to cut flowers as she went. Her basket was nearly full when she stood up and saw she was no longer alone.
Even silhouetted by the sun, she recognized Luke’s large frame and loose-limbed gait. As he drew closer she saw his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his head bent toward the ground. He looked lost in thought, a slight frown furrowing his brow. He was even more handsome, more powerful and compelling than she remembered.
Her heart beat frantically in her chest at the sight of him. Every day since her decision to halt their friendship she’d imagined seeing him for the first time, imagined what she would say. Yet now that he was before her she could scarcely breathe.
Everything in her wanted to be with him. Would she be able to turn him away?
***
Why had he accepted the invitation for dinner instead of going to his club? He was still exhausted from the ride home and didn’t feel at all inclined to make small talk with twenty people he hardly knew.
But it was hard to refuse when the invitation came from his father, and when there would be people who had an interest in the Western line – town officials and stockholders as well as business people. And, if he were honest with himself, he wanted to see Rose as soon as possible, even if he couldn’t speak to her.
The house was abuzz with preparations, servants hurrying about with table linens and polished silver, but Rose wasn’t among them. The commotion and heat drove him outside for some air, and without thinking he headed down the garden paths he knew so well.
Even without seeing her, Rose was all he thought about. Though he’d maintained his resolution to keep his hands off her, their carriage rides had forged an intimacy at least as dangerous as his lust. He’d made things harder on himself by getting to know her and learning how much he enjoyed her company.
He barely looked up as he strode along, deep in thought. Just knowing he’d see her tonight made him restless, and he needed to master his feelings before returning to the house.
He was turning down another path when something caught his attention, something bright at the edge of his vision.
Rose.
She was standing on the outer garden path near the edge of the woods, a basketful of flowers clutched in her hands. Her eyes were wide and she stood unmoving as he approached, as if unsure what she should do. Her head was uncovered, her hair vivid even in the darkening air.
Quickening his pace, he closed the distance between them. But she didn’t smile her usual smile. Instead she held herself stiffly and took a step away from him. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.
“Rose?”
“You’re home,” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
“You don’t look pleased to see me.”
“It’s not that. But I…I’ve been thinking about the way things are with us, our Monday drives …”
“Yes, what of them?” he asked warily.
“They’ve been lovely, but it’s too dangerous now. They must stop.”
He flinched as if he’d been slapped, but in fact the pain went far deeper. It was as if he were losing something essential he’d thought always to have. A rib or a lung. Surely something had been torn from him, for he could no longer breathe as before, and his chest felt hollowed out.
Her lovely face was pale and her voice trembled, but she spoke with conviction. He knew what she’d been risking these months, knew she was right to end it, and still he couldn’t stop himself from cajoling her.
“You know I wouldn’t hurt you for anything,” he said, desperate to change her mind, change her back to the woman who had so slowly and deliciously been opening up to him.
“You don’t want to but you will. You won’t be able to help it.”
Her words sliced through him. She was right of course. The way he felt for her, their time together could not have remained innocent for much longer. He’d been telling himself for weeks that their drives ought to end, had reminded himself over and over of her place in his father’s house. None of it had stopped him.
“So this is it?” he asked. Already she seemed unreachable, untouchable.
A fine tremor ran through her, as if they were standing out in the cold. Her eyes wide and somber, she nodded her head.
Weeks of restraint snapped at her silent confirmation.
Pulling her to him, his mouth found her soft lips as if it were his last moment on earth. For the space of three pounding heartbeats she resisted, and then the basket fell to the grass and her glorious body molded itself to his, her hands clutched in his shirt.
The heat of her radiated through him, scorching along his veins as he coaxed open her mouth, delving into all her secrets, secrets he had not even begun to know and would never again taste. Her scent surrounded him – the fragrance of her hair, the hint of musk that was her essence. There was nothing else but Rose, nothing but the need to keep her with him for as long as possible.
Fueled by her soft moans, dazed by her skin and heat, he dove his hands into her hair until the pins scattered into the dusky flowers at their feet. He wound his hands in it as he’d wanted to since the first moment he saw her, the silken strands tethering him to her, if only for the briefest of moments.
He pressed kisses along her jaw, the smooth curve of her cheek, kissed a trail down her throat to where her pulse beat madly. But his need for her was too fierce, too dangerous, and it was a few moments before he realized she was trying to push him away.
He pulled back and looked into eyes full of desire and confusion. He would have given up everything in that moment to have her, her lips passion-stung, her body trembling with feelings he’d stoked in her. But it was no use. Her gray eyes shimmered with tears and she looked at him as if he brought only pain.
Then she turned and fled. Her skirts rustled the plants like a storm wind, her bright hair brighter than the flowers that nodded at her passing.
He stood unmoving for long minutes as his blood cooled. He would never again know h
er thoughts, touch her skin, taste her sweet mouth. But it was best that it was over.
Best that he suffer rather than cause her more pain.
***
Rose took shelter in the laundry room, her thoughts racing, her body wracked by sensations she couldn’t contain.
Ending it was the right thing, so why did she feel like she was dying inside?
She couldn’t go out there and wait on Luke as if she weren’t torn apart. The idea was impossible. But neither could she hide away all night. Dazedly she emerged from the room, praying she wouldn’t crumble in front of the staff and guests.
Luckily, Mrs. Craig was too busy to notice her come in without flowers. It was nearly time for supper, so Rose headed into the dining room to help Lydia set the table. Lydia chatted non-stop for so long that it seemed she might not notice anything was wrong, but eventually she looked at Rose closely, a frown appearing between her eyes.
“You look positively peaked. Are you ill?”
“It’s nothing,” Rose said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’m simply tired and overheated.”
“If you say so,” Lydia replied, though she didn’t look convinced.
Wanting a moment to herself before the meal began, Rose headed into the kitchen and continued to the back door for some air. She stopped cold before she reached the door.
Sitting on the floor was the basket of flowers she‘d dropped. Luke must have gathered the blooms up and brought them back. Even this simple gesture filled her with longing and regret. Her eyes blurred with tears as she grabbed the basket and carried it into the kitchen.
“Very nice, Rose,” Mrs. Craig said, entering as Rose stood staring at the flowers. “Hurry now and put them out. We haven’t much time.”
Quickly, feeling the eyes of Mrs. Beech and Dottie on her, she filled half a dozen vases with flowers that had always brought her such pleasure, their perfume like a taunt now. One by one she set the heavy crystal vases in the downstairs rooms, nearly lightheaded with the fear that she’d encounter Luke. Fortunately he wasn’t in the drawing room with the rest of the supper party, but how in heaven’s name would she get through the evening?
She didn’t have long to wonder, as everyone began to file into the dining room soon thereafter and Luke appeared at the very last. There were sixteen guests in all, not counting the family. Fortunately only six of them were staying over, as the others hailed from Boston. Byrne was absent, preparing for a trip to Albany Rose was gratified to learn would last at least several weeks.
She’d hoped that if she refrained from serving Luke, Abigail or Lydia would attend to him. But it wasn’t to be. The other girls left Luke for her, assuming on their connection, and Rose had no wish to create more speculation by entreating them to take her place. In the end she was forced to bring him each course, ply him with drink and remove his empty dishes.
To be so close to him after what had happened in the garden, what had happened in her heart, was nearly unbearable. She felt his gaze upon her but refused to look at him. When her hand shook as she poured wine into his glass, she saw him move as if to help before he stopped himself. She knew by his rigid posture that he found the situation as painful as she did, but he refrained from anything that might draw attention to them.
It quickly became apparent that all the men present had an interest in the Western Railroad Company in one way or another. Most of them had brought their wives, so polite conversation was required until the men retired to the library. A few stray remarks surfaced, however, and Rose heard Luke quietly tell one of the men that the original route across the Berkshires was not possible. It was no great matter, he went on, as they already knew the alternate route they would take and were even now mapping it out. The line would come to Albany only a few months behind schedule.
Relief flooded her. Her aunt’s last letter had recounted how she’d refused Luke’s offer to buy her land, but hearing it from Luke himself confirmed that the matter had finally been put to rest.
Her relief was brief compared to the endless meal. The strain of waiting on the table began to show in the second hour of her ordeal, and by the time the raspberry tart and lemon sorbet were served, she was lightheaded and visibly trembling.
Then she knocked over Mrs. Cabot’s wine glass. Though it had been nearly empty, the dark red stain spreading over the white tablecloth was damning.
“How clumsy you are, Rose,” Mrs. Fletcher said. She turned to her guest. “My apologies. I don’t know what to do with her.”
Mortified as well as furious, Rose righted the glass and mopped up as best she could.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Fletcher,” Mrs. Cabot replied. “It’s not easy finding domestics who know how to serve. One must get them from England, if at all possible.”
At this Luke opened his mouth as if to defend her. Rose looked at him pleadingly and he subsided, jaw clenched.
“Yes, but would they be as pretty as this one?” asked Mr. Morris, one of the two young men who had come without wives. He sat to the right of Luke and was clearly in his cups. “I’d stand for a few spills now and then to have a pretty maid around day and night.”
A shocked silence followed this remark, and Rose could have died. Now Luke did rise from the table, his cheeks full of hectic color, his body rigid with anger as he glared at Mr. Morris, a much smaller man who cowed in his seat.
“What precisely is that supposed to mean?”
Rose and Lydia exchanged helpless looks of alarm and the guests glanced about them, unsure what was happening. Fortunately Mr. Fletcher acted quickly.
“You’ll understand that we take pride in treating our staff well,” Mr. Fletcher said, looking around the table with a gracious smile. “I feel as strongly as my son that one should never take advantage of one’s position. No doubt you all feel the same way.”
Mr. Morris nodded his head rapidly. “But of course,” he spluttered, his eyes darting up at Luke. “My apologies if I gave offense.”
“Since you’re already up, Luke, why don’t you bring your maps to the library?” Jonas suggested. “I think the men are ready to see what we’re up to.”
Luke looked at his father with bemusement, his fury visibly leaving him, and the whole table seemed to sigh with relief when he nodded in agreement and left the room.
The rest of the men filed out shortly thereafter, all of them laughing again and perfectly at ease. Rose looked on, amazed at how Mr. Fletcher had conveyed both his principles and his support for his son, dispelling the tension in the process. It was a remarkable feat, especially as most men in his position would simply have apologized for Luke. Once again she was struck by his fair-handedness.
It was hard to believe that such a principled man could be responsible for her father’s death. It seemed more likely that Byrne had acted alone. If that were the case, did anyone else know what he’d done? Perhaps Mrs. Fletcher? She certainly didn’t have her husband’s principles.
Mrs. Fletcher rose from the table and led the ladies out of the room. As soon as they had retreated to the drawing room Rose fell into one of the chairs, her head in her hands.
“Are you unwell, Rose?” asked Lydia. “Perhaps you ought to rest. We can handle the clean-up.”
Rose looked up, grateful for her concern but unwilling to abandon her duties.
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”
“Go to bed, Rose,” Mrs. Craig said, appearing beside her. “The other girls can handle this. It will do no one any good if you fall ill.”
With an effort Rose stood and went up the back stairs into the heat of the servants’ wing. Stripping off her sweat-soaked garments she fell into bed, grateful that she could, at least this one night, escape Lydia’s questions.
But as exhausted as she was, scenes from the long evening ran through her mind. Luke kissing her in the garden, watching her through the meal. Ready to defend her honor.
Exchanging looks over the dining room table was as close as they would ever be now that she’
d ended their friendship. Though she had finally done the right thing, nothing had ever felt so wrong.
***
Luke spent as little time as possible at Cider Hill after Rose’s decision to part ways. He woke early, ate quickly and didn’t come back until late in the evening. The few times he ran into Rose, he had to restrain himself from asking how she was, or worse yet, dragging her to him for another kiss.
He missed her. It was as simple, or as complicated, as that. More than anything he wanted to see her, and more than anything he could not endure seeing her and acting as if she meant nothing to him. He wanted to make everything right, and yet it was he who caused her pain. All he could do was stay out of her way and hope he could forget her.
Only once in those weeks afterwards did he see Rose for more than a few moments at a time, though she didn’t see him.
He was on his way to get his horse when he heard loud voices and laughter coming from beyond the stable. Curious, he headed toward the commotion, and on turning the corner saw Charlie and one of the maids acting out a play in the shade of a spreading oak tree, a crowd of servants and farmhands watching them.
After a few lines it hit him that they were performing Romeo and Juliet, one of the plays contained in the Shakespeare collection he’d given Rose. He’d come upon them during the balcony scene. A wagon had been pulled around and Lydia played Juliet standing atop it. Charlie stood on the ground gazing up at her in the part of Romeo.
“See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!”
Luke watched, his casual attention changing to stunned awareness. Standing there watching his father’s servants on their makeshift stage, he finally understood Romeo’s moonlight declaration.
If only he could touch her cheek. If only he could be so unfettered, so pure of spirit, holding nothing back.
Drawing closer to the rapt crowd he looked for Rose, knowing she must be somewhere nearby. Then he saw her. Standing a few feet behind the actors, Rose herself had no part in the play except as prompter and director, discreetly whispering forgotten lines and stage directions, an expression of pride and delight on her face as she watched her students shine.