The Soul of the Rose

by Ruth Trippy

  “Celia, you’re so silent and here I am going on and on like any lawyer trying to win his case. Have you anything to say?” He bent his head, trying to catch her eyes. “It’s not too late for us, is it?”

  She lifted her head to oblige him. “I’m sorry to be so quiet in response to your flattering proposal. You do me great honor, Charles, and you are a worthy man. A woman like myself could not be associated with a better family. Your mother has been generous to me from the very first, and your father has always treated me with a kindly deference. Regarding yourself, I could not imagine a better friend, companion. You are just the sort of person a woman values—values most besides a husband.”

  He pressed his jaw hard as if to control a sudden emotion. “Then it’s too late for us, in the way I envision?”

  “Yes, Charles, I’m afraid so.” She squeezed his hands sympathetically before withdrawing her own.

  He sat a moment gazing at her. “Celia, you are so beautiful. I hate to give you up. Is there no hope for me whatsoever? Does another—does Edward have such a strong claim on you?”

  “I want to be honest with you and tell you my heart is already engaged. It remains to be seen whether Edward will ever become the person he needs to be before I can accept him. But let us be friends, Charles.”

  He reached over, took her hands in his once again, and drew them to his lips, holding them long and tenderly. “Then I will take my leave. Another train leaves in less than an hour.” He put her hands down, and rose. “I will say goodbye to your parents and the rest of your family. You needn’t see me to the station. Just say goodbye here. I’d prefer it that way.”

  25

  Edward looked up at the knock. He had purposely closed his library door so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

  “Come in,” he finally said.

  Mrs. Macon appeared. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but someone is here to see you. A woman.”

  His heart leaped. Celia? “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Adams, sir.”

  What was she doing here again? But during her last visit, the woman had been kind, offering her help and support after the flower awards fiasco. He should give her a few minutes.”

  “Is she alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Show her into the drawing room.” Suddenly, he felt caution was in order. “Will you find something to do in the dining room—in earshot? I want Mrs. Adams to know you’re nearby.”

  “I can polish the silver, sir.”

  “Good.”

  As soon as Edward entered the drawing room, Mrs. Adams rose and extended her hands in greeting. “Mr. Lyons! How good to see you.”

  What could he do but take both her hands in his? He saw she had removed her gloves, her hands felt soft and—pudgy. He looked down on them an instant and noticed they glittered with rings. He looked up in the woman’s eyes. Did he detect a glitter there as well?

  “You were kind enough to receive me the last time I was here. Is your life getting back to normal?” She looked at him, tenderly he felt. And she had held onto his hands rather long. He was grateful for the clatter of silverware he heard from the dining room. He gestured for Mrs. Adams to retake her seat. He walked away to stand over the fireplace.

  She arranged her skirt carefully, then looked up and gave him an entreating smile. “I hoped things were better, because I have a proposal to make.” Her eyes sought to hold his. “I know that we are both interested in literature, both attending Mr. Chestley’s book discussions. I was talking with him the other day, and he seemed to think they wouldn’t have them anymore with Miss Thatcher gone. That really is too bad. So I was thinking I might continue them, but I would need help and hoped you might be available to do so.”

  “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Well, that we might consult together about the next book to be discussed. You are so much more widely read than I. And then once we’ve done that, we could meet again to talk about what questions to pose for discussion.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “It would be a wonderful way for you to get back into society. After the—well, the flower show, you know. And everyone loved the book discussions.”

  “I believe Miss Thatcher had a lot to do with that.”

  “Of course, of course. But I don’t believe she is returning, and it would be such a service to the community to continue the discussions, besides showing good faith on your part.”

  “I don’t know if people are ready to accept me.”

  Mrs. Adams moved forward in her chair. “That is why I am offering you my every support. I’m something of a leader in society, you know, and with Mrs. Harrod as my good friend—we would both like to see you rejoin our circle.”

  He considered her cautiously. “That is very kind of you, Mrs. Adams.” He breathed in deeply. “But I think I must say no. Besides, I believe Miss Thatcher will return to lead the discussions once again.”

  Mrs. Adams rose from her chair and started pacing the room. “You know, I’m sorry to say I believe you’re mistaken about Miss Thatcher. When I talked with Mr. Chestley, he didn’t say anything about her returning. I know what a help she was to him in the bookstore, and if anyone would know, he would.” She stopped in front of him. “You know how these young women can be. They take it into their heads to try something new, and when they get tired of it, they’re off to other things.”

  Her easy assessment of Celia irritated him. Mrs. Adams didn’t know Celia. Yet, her assurance that Celia wouldn’t be returning made him wonder, uncomfortably so.

  “So you see, Mr. Lyons, it’s for us to take up the reins. This would add to the community spirit, and I would lend you my presence, my support—aid you in any way possible. Help you to regain your rightful place in society.”

  “I don’t know as if I would aspire to that.”

  “But Mr. Lyons, I’m sure you must. Why, after I heard about your place in Boston, your ancestral home, I knew we were the poorer for not having your distinguished company in our midst.”

  She had been gesturing expansively when talking about his home, and now she stepped close, resting her hand on his arm. “And I would help you get over the initial . . . any embarrassment you might feel. It would be my pleasure.”

  She said the last word with such emphasis, such a sense of intimacy, he felt himself draw up. There was Marguerite, standing close, just before they married.

  These last weeks and months, this woman had been flattering him, much the way Marguerite had. His soul sickened. He’d been lapping up flattery and praise like a thirsty dog laps water. He’d been hungry to be accepted back into society, not for his own sake, but for Celia’s. How he had wanted Celia to be proud of him.

  This book discussion stuff was just a cover screen for Mrs. Adams to throw herself in his way. He looked down at her hand on his arm. He wanted to shake it off. It seemed to him she wanted to weasel her way into his good regard and eventually into his affections, supplanting Celia in his heart. Well, he would have none of it. Suddenly, she felt cloying, and he wanted to put as much distance between her and himself as possible.

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Adams.” He moved so that she had to drop her hand from his arm, and reached for the tapestry pull on the wall. “But I believe I will have to say no to your generous offer.” He wanted to tell her never to bother him again, but he would treat her nicely, for the sake of Celia, because of course she would be returning. “And as far as future interviews of this sort, if you will be so kind as to leave them to me to initiate, that would be much appreciated.”

  He looked up to see his housekeeper at the room’s entrance. “Ah, here is Mrs. Macon to see you out.” He led Mrs. Adams across the room. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He made himself wait until Mrs. Macon gestured for Mrs. Adams to precede her.

  “I was only trying to—”

  “I understand perfectly. Now, Mrs. Macon—” and he motioned the two woman to leave. He caught a flash of outrage from Mrs. Adams’s ey
es before she stiffly followed his housekeeper, then he turned sharply in the opposite direction to his library.

  His first thought was, now what should he do about Celia?

  Celia opened the door to her father’s study. “Sit down, dear.” He held up a letter that had been lying on his desk. “This came in today’s post.”

  Celia felt her heart skip. She couldn’t remember when Father had singled her out to tell about a letter.

  Her father’s eyes contemplated her as he talked. “Edward Lyons has written, asking if he might come speak with me. He outlines certain questions of his. Apparently, he is interested in what I have to say about the Christian faith. Says that he always considered himself a Christian, but you saw fit to disagree. He goes on to write at one point you suggested he talk with me.

  “ ‘Respectfully yours,’ he closes. Somehow, I sense he is conveying more than what that sentiment usually means at a letter’s end. From the scope and tone of his writing, he seems an unusual person. Even if I didn’t know your interest in him, I would be pleased to spend time with that kind of man.”

  Celia gazed at her father. The possibility of seeing Edward again, here, in her home! She experienced the wildest kind of anticipation, dread, fear, delight—her heart was a mixture of emotions, but she sat quietly.

  “You don’t say anything, daughter?”

  “It is beyond me to express anything. I feel full of conflicting emotions.”

  He looked at her some moments before speaking. “Would you think me a cruel father if I told you I think it best you see him as little as possible during his visit? Maybe not at all.”

  “But why, Father?”

  “To see how he reacts to such a stipulation. I want him to also have an opportunity to really hear what I say without him being distracted by you. In fact, if he knew at the outset he wouldn’t see you, I think it would keep the visit more to the point. But then, he might not come after all. That would settle the matter, wouldn’t it?”

  The thought of Edward not coming at all pierced her to the heart. She sat for some moments thinking over what her father proposed, then finally said, “As much as I dislike admitting it, I suspect you are right. We wouldn’t want him distracted, if there’s any chance of him coming to the truth.”

  “I even thought of traveling to his town, to see our old friends the Chestleys, but then I thought he might better see the circumstances in which you were raised. It might add force to my words.” He smiled. “And then I thought, there is blessing in this home, love for each other and love for the Lord. Here, in my study, I feel we can meet as equals. While we live modestly, I know no one has a library equal to mine in these parts. Considering his Boston heritage, I think it would be important.”

  “Yes, Father, it would be.”

  “So then, it’s decided. I’ll consult your mother but I think next week would do. If he needs to stay overnight, I will ask your grandmother to put him up.”

  Celia left the study in a welter of emotion. To have him here and not be able to see him filled her with dismay. But to have him here at all filled her with joy. Celia immediately sought out her mother to ask permission to be the one to clean her father’s study. Then she asked if she might wax and polish the front hall and add flowers to its one small table.

  Her mother looked at her and smiled. “Of course, dear. And since he might be staying at your grandma’s, you might give a hand over there as well.”

  In the days that followed, Celia had never loved housekeeping so much. Doing it for him. He might not be able to see me, she thought, but surely, I can keep a lookout for him, maybe from an upstairs window.

  Thursday of the following week came all too slowly and then all too quickly for all that Celia wanted to do. Her grandmother commented she hadn’t seen so much of her granddaughter in years and was delighted with the prospect of meeting this paragon of men. “I imagine he will manage things so that he can stay,” Grandmother said. “If he is in love with you, I can vouch for that.” Her grandmother grasped Celia’s arms, looked laughingly into her eyes, then brought her into a loving hug. “Well, I think I’m almost as excited as you are. I might even put in a word or two; you know, tell him how delightful you are and all that sort of thing. And that he better change his ways if he wants a chance at you.”

  “Oh, Grandmother, don’t get carried away.” But Celia felt herself dancing inside. “I want to keep him honest. Although,” here she became more serious, “he is, I think, a man who will not compromise his beliefs, even for love. In his own quiet way, he is proud of his noble heritage. How could he go against it? His family passes down customs and beliefs as though they were sacred. They do not easily change, for anyone.”

  “Yes, but remember, he moved out of Boston, away from all that and, from what I understand, a very close circle of family and friends. Many wish to be a part of his elite group but few are admitted. And here he left of his own accord. Maybe he is more independent in his thinking than you give him credit for.”

  “I hope so,” Celia said with more confidence that she felt. She knew she would not change her views. Why should Edward?

  Well, she would do all she could in the way of preparing the house to make his visit pleasant and memorable. God would have to be the One to work in his heart. She looked at her grandmother. But how could he stay hard-hearted around such a darling? In her own way, Grandma could give out point for point in a discussion but do it in such a charming way. And she had the benefit of age and wisdom. Edward would respect that.

  Celia thought of his mother, comparing the two women. His mother was a fine woman, highly thought of in the world. However, Edward might see something in her grandmother, a certain vitality of living, a clarity in the way she saw life, an ability to see what was important. And she had the courage to kick over the traces, if that’s what was needed. Celia loved her for it. Maybe it would be most advantageous for Edward to stay with her grandmother after all. Something might transpire right here in this house that Edward wasn’t anticipating. Celia smiled. That’s right, hit him on his blind side. She suddenly laughed.

  “What are you chuckling about, my dear?”

  “You, Grandmother! That’s who! I was thinking it might be very well that our Mr. Edward Lyons is staying with you.”

  26

  Celia quickly closed the hall closet door. Dare she leave it slightly ajar? No, she didn’t think she’d better chance it. Moments before from the upstairs bedroom window, she had seen Edward come down the road with her father. In this closet near the front door, she could be as near him as possible without being discovered.

  She held her breath, holding herself close against the solid wood, her ear near the crack. There! The front door opened. “Welcome to our home, Mr. Lyons,” her father said.

  “I appreciate your letting me come.”

  “Joe, please take Mr. Lyons’s bag. And tell Mother our guest has arrived, she’ll want to bring some refreshment. Won’t you come this way, Mr. Lyons? My study is down the hall.”

  Celia held herself hard against the door, willing Edward to sense her presence, to feel the stir she felt within himself, being this close. She heard their footsteps on the wooden floor, fancied she could distinguish his footsteps from her father’s.

  How pleasant his voice sounded. Now that she couldn’t see him, this quality was a welcome surprise. His stature, his bearing had so overawed her, she hadn’t particularly thought about his voice. Now she clung to this discovery with the intensity of a girl with a beloved doll.

  When she heard the door shut to the study, she prayed, “Oh Father, by Thy Spirit open Edward’s heart to the truth about You and Your son, Jesus. Please!” Every fiber of her being pressed into the words. What did Scripture say about a fervent prayer?

  As afternoon evolved into evening, she kept track of Edward’s movements, on occasion hovering near the room where he sat, trying to trust the Lord with all that went on.

  A three-quarters moon shone in the darkened sky, it
s white light filtering through the gauzy curtains of Celia’s bedroom. Tonight he was at her grandmother’s. She knew exactly in which upstairs room he would sleep—the best guest room, its bed quilt the colors of a sunlit dappled forest with its many shades of green and occasional splash of yellow. With the walnut furniture, the room suggested a forest. She had slept in that room many times. A faint fragrance of violets permeated the air. Yes, it was like the woodlands in spring. Just such a place existed in Edward’s woods.

  It was nearing eleven o’clock. Would he be sitting in the large armchair with a lamp lighted on its nearby table? Reading Pascal’s Pensées?

  Earlier today, her chores finished and no one around, she had quietly approached her father’s study. The two men had been talking all afternoon. She felt desperate to be near Edward again, to hear his voice. And to hear what was being discussed. Stealthily, she approached the closed door, avoiding the floorboard that creaked. She pressed her ear to the dark wooden door gently, so no unexpected sound would give her away. Even though she would not disobey her father and see Edward face to face, she felt shy letting her father discover this kind of stratagem. She honored him, but surely he had never been in such straits as hers.

  She concentrated on the voices within. “Edward,” her father said, “consider Pascal’s passionate defense of Christian belief, one of the greatest apologies for religion written since the Middle Ages. Note this section entitled, ‘The Misery of Man Without God.’ Here, Pascal paints man as puny and weak. When man realizes his insufficiency, then he can discover his need of God.

  “Pascal also describes man’s mind as simultaneously capable of intellectual power—and moral, spiritual, and intellectual imperfection. This last, the Bible refers to as sin.

  “The Renaissance seemed to mark man’s liberation from the limits of medieval scholastic thinking; it represented a new spirit of inquiry. Its point of view was sensuous and rational, with man placed neatly in the center of nature. Yet for Pascal the liberation was largely illusion. He discovered the supernatural order of grace and salvation was primary. For him, the rational exploration of this world, exciting and valuable as it was, presented merely one more episode in man’s voyage home to God.