by Janette Oke
What a difference one bright flower can make in a person’s life, she mused. But then she corrected herself. No, she told herself, it isn’t the flower—pretty as it is. It is a person who has brought joy to my heart. Thomas. A dear old man—just a gardener in some folks’ thinking—but a beautiful person. One I have learned to love.
The thought did not surprise Belinda. There were many older people in this household whom she had learned to love. Aunt Virgie, old Thomas, the straightlaced Windsor, Cook— even the stern-faced Potter. Belinda smiled to herself. She loved them all, actually. They were part of her life. Her Boston family.
Oh, she knew others her own age might pity her, being “stuck in a houseful of the elderly,” but Belinda didn’t feel shut in, restless, and forgotten. Not since she had given God the proper recognition in her life. She felt loved and protected— and needed. If only . . . if only I didn’t feel so lonesome for those back home, I could be quite satisfied and fulfilled living and working for Mrs. Stafford-Smyth at Marshall Manor, she thought.
TWO
Aunt Virgie
“Good morning, Aunt Virgie,” Belinda said softly, proceeding into the room when she had determined that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was awake.
The frail woman managed a smile. “Mawnin’, Belinda, deah,” she answered.
“Did you sleep?” asked Belinda as she went to open the drapes, knowing that it was some time since the older woman had enjoyed a good night’s rest.
“I did. Scarce can believe it myself, but I did. Oh, and it felt—it felt delicious, too,” she said with emphasis. “But you know what else? I feel that now I remembah how to sleep, I could just sleep on and on.”
“Then perhaps you should. You haven’t slept decently for days—or rather nights,” Belinda corrected herself with a sly smile.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth chuckled weakly at Belinda’s little joke. “You need sleep every bit as much as I,” she informed Belinda. “You’ve been up night aftah night. I declayah, I don’t know how you do it.”
Belinda leaned over the bed and laid a hand on the silvery head. “I’m fine,” she smiled. “In fact, I feel just great this morning. I’ve even been out weeding with Thomas.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth showed her surprise. “You have—at this hou-ah?”
Belinda nodded. “And you should just see the new rosebush!” she exclaimed, “It’s covered with the most exquisite roses. And they smell absolutely wonderful.”
Belinda thought of her other bit of news. She hardly knew how to tell it so it wouldn’t sound boastful, yet she had to share her delight with the older woman.
“And something else, too,” she said, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Thomas took me to his greenhouse.”
The building was always referred to as “Thomas’s greenhouse,” and no one else would have dreamed of trespassing. The truth was, the greenhouse, like every other building on the grounds, belonged to Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
“He did?” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, sounding duly impressed.
“He did—and more than that. He showed me a brand-new rose he has developed. He hasn’t even set it outside in the gardens yet. It had its first flower—though others are coming quickly.”
“I declayah!” said Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, seeming to enjoy the telling of the tale as much as the story itself. “It must be something very special to put that shine in you-ah eyes,” she noted.
“You will never guess what he has named the new rose,” Belinda said, feeling shy.
“Aftah some lovely lady, I suppose,” mused Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “They always do, it seems.”
Belinda could feel her cheeks grow warm.
“Well, I hardly expect he named it Old Prune Face, aftah me,” joked the elderly lady.
“Oh, Aunt Virgie,” protested Belinda, “no one would ever say that about you.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth just smiled. “Well, they should,” she said matter-of-factly. “I declayah, I looked in my hand mirrah befoah I went to bed last night, and I’ve lost some more weight. I do look like a prune, foah sure.”
She has lost weight, Belinda acknowledged silently as she looked at the pinched face against the pillow.
“Well, now that you are able to eat again,” Belinda assured the lady, stroking her hair back from the dear face once more, “Cook’ll have you fattened up in no time.” She smiled as she fluffed up a pillow and made the woman more comfortable.
“But you were telling me about that new rose,” encouraged Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “What did Thomas name it?”
“Let me show you the rose,” said Belinda quickly.
“You mean he picked one—already? He nevah does that.”
“Well, he picked this one—the very first blossom,” beamed Belinda. “Let me run get it. I have it in a bud vase in my room.”
“I declayah!” exclaimed the woman again.
Belinda soon returned with her cherished flower.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth said, her voice properly respectful, “it is a lovely one, isn’t it? I hope he chose an equally pretty name.”
Belinda felt her face flushing once more. “Well, he . . .” she began. “He . . . honored me by naming the rose Belinda.” Her cheeks flamed, and she wished she had never brought up the subject. Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would think her dreadfully selfcentered.
But the older lady beamed. “How very apt.” She smiled her appreciation. “Thomas is an astute old gentleman. He named a beautiful rose aftah a beautiful young lady.”
Belinda blushed further as she accepted the compliment.
“Just Belinda?” asked the woman further. “Often Thomas has added a descriptive word—something else to go with the lady’s name.”
“Princess Belinda,” admitted Belinda, dropping her face to hide her embarrassment.
“Princess Belinda—that is nice. That’s quite an honah, you know, to have one feel so about you,” said the elderly lady.
Belinda was able to face her then.
“It really isn’t me he is honoring,” she explained. “The name shows his feelings about you. You see, he named the flower after me because—” Belinda struggled to find the appropriate words—“because he wished . . . he wished to express his appreciation to me for . . . for caring for you. You are the one who is special to him.”
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stared wide-eyed at Belinda. “Me? Why, whatevah do you mean? What did he say?” she probed.
“He said something like ‘for carin’ for m’lady,’ ” Belinda said evenly.
“How sweet,” murmured Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, reaching up to brush at tears forming in her eyes. She was silent for several minutes as Belinda busied herself about the room. Finally she spoke again, softly. “You know, one gets to thinking sometimes that one is really of no worth at all. Life could just go right on without you, and no one would scarcely notice.” She sighed, then went on. “Heah I lie day aftah day, no good to anyone. And then . . . then a deah old friend, a gardenah, shows you he cares. Makes one wish to get bettah again.”
“Oh, Aunt Virgie,” Belinda cried, moving swiftly to the side of the elderly woman and touching her cheek gently. “The whole household has been tiptoeing about, hardly daring to breathe. We’ve all been worried half sick that you might . . . might not get better. We all need you . . . love you. Do you really have any doubt about that?”
The lady stirred almost restlessly and smiled back at Belinda.
“I’m a foolish old woman,” she answered softly. “I have so much to live foah, so many deah friends. I don’t deserve them, but I’m so thankful foah them.” She sighed again and stirred in her bed, shoving a pillow away with a pale hand.
“Belinda, deah,” she said with determination, “bring me my robe and slippahs.”
At Belinda’s little attempt at a mild protest, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth hurried on, saying, “One nevah gains strength by lying abed. I’ve got a lot of convalescing to do if I want to enjoy this summah before it’s gone. I’d best get at it. The blue robe, please.”<
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Belinda did not argue further. Once Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had made up her mind, it was useless to argue.
Belinda went for the blue robe, glad that the woman had requested the warmest robe in her closet. As she lifted the garment from the hook, Belinda felt an enormous weight of worry fall from her. It had been some time since she had seen a sparkle in her employer’s eyes. Truly she was on the road to recovery. Belinda could hardly wait to rush out to the kitchen to share the news with the rest of the household. They all had been very concerned.
“The first thing you need is a good breakfast,” Belinda stated as she helped the older woman into the robe and slippers. About to ring for Windsor and a breakfast tray, she responded to a light tapping on the door. Belinda opened it on its silent hinges. She could see the distress in Windsor’s eyes. “Is m’lady awake?” he asked in a raspy whisper.
“Yes. Yes,” Belinda assured him. “Come in. She’s much better this morning. In fact, I was about to ring to have a breakfast tray prepared.”
Windsor could not hide his relief, as practiced as the good butler could be at concealing his emotions.
“Come in, Windsah,” called Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
He stepped cautiously into the room, his hands fidgeting nervously. “Thomas wished to know if you’d like a bouquet, madam,” he announced with proper dignity.
“Oh yes,” agreed Mrs. Stafford-Smyth, a smile lifting the weariness from her face.
Windsor turned on his heels with a sharp click. “I shall be right back, m’lady,” he assured her and left the room with a great deal more briskness than he had arrived.
While Windsor was gone, Belinda hurried about, helping Mrs. Stafford-Smyth with her grooming and settling her in the comfortable chair by the open window.
Sarah came with two trays of nourishing food. For the first time in weeks, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth looked with some interest at the meal. Belinda smiled with relief and set a tray in front of the woman, accepting the other tray of food for herself.
They had just said grace together when there was another tap on the door. Windsor was back again with a bowl of fragrant, freshly cut pink roses. Belinda recognized them immediately.
“That’s the new climbing rosebush on the back walk,” she commented. “The one I told you about earlier. That’s Thomas’s new Pink Rosanna.”
“Pink Rosanna,” mused Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “What a lovely name.” She buried her face in the bowl of flowers. “And what beautiful flowers,” she added.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stroked a soft petal, then breathed again the sweet smell of the flowers.
“Tell Thomas thank you for the flowers,” she said, her voice husky. “I . . . I am deeply, deeply appreciative.”
Windsor nodded and departed as Mrs. Stafford-Smyth lifted her head and smiled.
Belinda took the rose bowl gently and set it on the small table close beside the woman.
“We’d best eat our breakfast before it gets cold,” she said softly, and Mrs. Stafford-Smyth nodded in agreement and lifted her spoon with some eagerness.
From then on, Belinda noted that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth grew a bit stronger each day. It wasn’t long before she was able to be up and about for short periods of time, and then she could walk the upstairs halls. At last she was able to make her way down to the rooms below. She enjoyed the summer sunshine as she sat with her needlework in the north parlor. She spent hours out on the veranda absorbing the smell and beauty of the garden. She presided once again over meals in the dining room. Belinda felt they had all been given a new lease on life. The whole household took on a new atmosphere—of thanksgiving and relief.
Belinda was thankful she could once again leave the house occasionally. She had especially missed the Sunday services at church. She was very glad to immerse herself in the stirring hymns, the Sunday Scriptures, and, yes, even the pastor’s message. She could hardly wait for the time when Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would be able to rejoin her in the worship. But I mustn’t rush her, Belinda reminded herself. She has been very ill. It wouldn’t do for her to have a relapse.
Belinda was determined she would be patient. But, oh, it was so good to feel the burden of worry slip away from her, from the house and its staff. The summer days seemed brighter, the flowers fairer, the food tastier—everything seemed better to Belinda now that Mrs. Stafford-Smyth was well on her way to full health.
THREE
Plans
As the summer progressed, Mrs. Stafford-Smyth again took over the running of Marshall Manor, giving her daily instructions to Windsor, Potter, and Cook. Belinda was able to catch up on her sleep, her mending, her letter writing, and her shopping. She gave a relieved sigh every time she thought of those trying weeks of early summer. She hadn’t realized just how deeply she had worried, how frightened she had been, how wearing were the days and nights when Mrs. Stafford-Smyth had needed her constant care.
Each morning Belinda met Mrs. Stafford-Smyth in the well-lit north parlor, where they breakfasted together and planned their day. Then Belinda read a Scripture portion and led them in a daily prayer. Belinda kept hoping for the day when Mrs. Stafford-Smyth would want to pray aloud, too.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth did attend church services regularly and gave the staff Sunday morning off so they might do likewise. And though lately she seemed more interested in matters of faith, she never expressed to Belinda her true thoughts on the subject.
Belinda longed to have someone she could discuss spiritual things with, but she was sure the senior pastor of the congregation was much too busy to be bothered by a young woman who just wanted to talk. The associate pastor was a single man, not much older than Belinda herself. Though Belinda knew she might appreciate discussing issues of faith with a seminary graduate, she also knew better than to suggest such a thing. Everyone, including the young minister himself, would surely think Belinda had no other intentions than to snare an eligible young man. Belinda had no desire to provide the opportunity for such gossip.
So Belinda continued on each day, enjoying the time spent in Bible reading and prayer but longing for spiritual fellowship. If only . . . if only Aunt Virgie could understand and share my feelings about faith, she kept thinking.
But another thought concerned her. If Aunt Virgie were to die now, would she be ready for heaven? The idea troubled Belinda. She loved the woman dearly, and the thought of her not being prepared for eternity made Belinda spend even more time in prayer for her friend.
Toward the end of summer Mrs. Stafford-Smyth decided to host another dinner party. Belinda by now was used to socializing with her employer’s wealthy and influential friends. She didn’t dread the prospect of another such dinner as Pierre had done during his last visit to the household. In fact, Belinda concluded, it is much better to have elderly company than no company at all. She and Aunt Virgie needed some kind of diversion.
“What should we serve for dinnah, deah?” asked Mrs. Stafford-Smyth as they sat together in the downstairs parlor.
Belinda looked up from her needlepoint. She really cared little what was served for dinner, but she thought that would be an inappropriate response.
Instead she said mildly, “Perhaps Cook would have some suggestions.’’
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth considered that possibility. “Yes,” she agreed at length. “I’m sure she would—but since this is my first dinnah party in such a long time, I’d rathah like to plan it myself.’’
Belinda smiled. “If you’d like to, then by all means you must.’’
“I was thinking of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,” the woman went on. “With asparagus tips and spiced carrots.’’
“That sounds good,” agreed Belinda.
“We’ll have a vegetable salad, with Cook’s special dressing.’’
“And her poppy-seed rolls,” suggested Belinda.
Mrs. Stafford-Smyth smiled, looking pleased that she had coaxed Belinda into sharing the planning.
“What about dessert?”asked the older woman.
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p; “Oh my,” said Belinda with a sigh. “I shouldn’t even think about dessert. I’m sure I’ve put on some pounds the last few weeks.’’
“And well you needed to,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth stated firmly. “You spoke of fattening me up. I declayah, you must have lost about as much weight during my sickness as I did.’’
Belinda was sure it hadn’t been all that much. She wanted to protest but let the matter drop.
“Cheesecake would be nice,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth mused aloud.
“Or fresh strawberry shortcake,” responded Belinda.
“Does Thomas still have strawberries?’’
“He says he has a second crop,” answered Belinda. “He is really proud of them.’’
“Fresh strawberry shortcake it will be, then. I nevah tire of strawberries, and we might as well enjoy them as long as they last,” reasoned Mrs. Stafford-Smyth. “Ring for Cook, deah,” she said to Belinda’s nod. “I’d like to get this settled now.’’
Cook arrived with a fresh apron neatly covering her plump form. Seeming to be a bit anxious, as she often was when being summoned to the sitting room, her face soon relaxed as her employer began to talk of dinner plans.
“And Miss Belinda would like some of your tasty poppyseed rolls,” Mrs. Stafford-Smyth went on, bringing a smile to Cook’s face. “And for dessert, I understand Thomas has another crop of strawberries. We’ll have your strawberry shortcake. With cream. Everyone loves that.’’
Cook openly beamed in spite of herself. She loved compliments on her cuisine—especially when the recognition came from her revered employer.
“We will serve dinnah promptly at seven,” went on Mrs. Stafford-Smyth.
Belinda smiled at the “promptly.” She knew that Mrs. Celia Prescott would be invited and, as Pierre had remarked so long ago, “Aunt Celia’s never on time.’’
But on the night of the first dinner party in ages at Marshall Manor, Celia Prescott was almost on time. She breathlessly fluttered in and greeted her hostess. “Virgie, deah, I am so glad you are up and about again! I was worried to death about you. You had that dreadful old flu for such a long, long time, I feahed you’d nevah recovah!’’