A Rose Blooms Twice

by Vikki Kestell

  “I’ll need this if I don’t want to burn myself red,” Rose muttered to herself. She found a lovely, clean shirtwaist and fresh stockings too. Putting the outfit in order, she closed the trunk and went to work sponging and brushing the two suits worn on her trip, rinsing out stockings, gloves, and lingerie, feeling generally useful and self-sufficient as she toiled.

  “My friends at home would be speechless could they see me at this moment. And wouldn’t Mother fuss about my hands?” Rose smiled as she worked.

  Dinner was served soon. Later, Rose finished refitting her wardrobe by brushing and blacking her shoes and retiring early. Tomorrow promised to be a new experience, and she was looking forward to it. Before she fell asleep, she thought of James. Would he have approved of her “therapy”? What would he have done if he had been the one left alone?

  Buried himself in work, no doubt. But I have no work. No place in society other than attending endless ladies aid meetings with other widows whose lives have no purpose, except possibly to remarry. Surely God will guide me, as he guided Abram, as he led Moses? Or is that only for great men of the Bible?

  Rose threw off the troubling new thoughts by once more reminding herself, I can always go back.

  But she hoped, somehow, that she wouldn’t.

  Chapter 8

  Rose was seated in the dining room promptly at eight the following morning. A young girl she’d not seen before laid the cloth and asked if she would like some coffee.

  “Yes, please. That would be nice.”

  The girl had a lithe figure clad in brown and white gingham under a stiff, white apron. Her hair was a wonderful auburn, two sleek braids coiled at the nape of her neck and pinned. Her complexion was deeply glowing; in all she was the picture of a healthy, lovely girl. She answered Rose’s smile with a bright one of her own, so Rose spoke to her when she brought her cup.

  “I’m visiting here a few days; my name is Rose Brownlee.”

  “Yes’m, I’m knowin’ that. My name is Meg McKennie—that is, Margaret; I’m just bein’ called Meg.”

  “That’s a sweet name, Meg,” and your brogue is enchanting, she added silently. “I didn’t see you yesterday when I had my meals. Were you gone somewhere?”

  “Yes’m. I went to me folks to see me new brother just born three day ago. They live about six miles out, and I was wanted to be helping some, so Mrs. Owens said I might have a day. Most days I’m helping serve here, ’cept Sundays.”

  “A baby brother! Why, you are almost grown yourself! Have you a large family, Meg?”

  “This is makin’ six. But there haven’t been any babies for a while. The next ’un is eight years. That’s Martha. I’m eldest and sixteen. Beggin’ your pardon for a wee moment, Mrs. Brownlee.”

  Meg poured coffee at two other tables in the dining room, then disappeared into the kitchen. When she returned she placed Rose’s breakfast in front of her. A luscious piece of ham, two biscuits covered with gravy, and a dollop of spicy-looking applesauce filled the plate.

  “This looks very appetizing, Meg,” Rose said. “By the way, I’m riding out to see some of the countryside today with Mr. Morton from the bank. Do you believe I’ll be quite safe in his company?”

  “Oh, surely, a lady will be right with Mr. Morton. ’Round here folks be worrying more ’bout their money wi’ him!”

  “Do you mean he’s not honest?” Rose asked, shocked.

  “Nae, he’s honest enow, but me mother says if he could figure how, he’d be charging a spider rent for spinnin’ a web on his property.”

  She laughed at Rose’s shocked expression, then Rose joined her, because Meg’s description was not only humorous, it also fit Rose’s first impression of the man.

  “Some folk who borrowed money of him find he ’lows no slack in t’ payin’ back, even when times be hard. But that’s not drivin’ now, is it, I’m thinkin? And ’tis bein’ a foine day fer it, too!”

  “I should be back by tea time, Meg. Do you have any time of your own today?”

  “Yes’m. Three-thirty to four-thirty I may call me own afore I must be helpin’ with th’ dinner. An’ we’re not in the custom of servin’ tea, I’m that sorry of.”

  “That’s all right, Meg. I’ll be sure to be back by three-thirty and, if you like, we can have tea in my room. I have my own little packet of tea, and we’ll have some cookies from the store and talk together. Would you like that?”

  “To be sure! Thank ye most kindly, Mrs. Brownlee.”

  “Good. Then you’d better give that gentleman over there his other cup of coffee, and I’ll see you this afternoon, all right?”

  Meg flashed her glowing smile and hurried off to get the coffeepot. Rose ate her breakfast heartily, surprising herself. If she continued eating like this, her clothes might begin to fit again rather than slide around like they belonged to someone else. Perhaps it wasn’t obvious to a stranger that she’d been ill and grieving; still, she couldn’t help contrasting young Meg’s vivid, apple-red cheeks to her own thin, sallow ones. Mr. Morton would do well to not appear too interested. Aside from her money, Rose laughed wryly to herself, she had few attractions.

  The morning coolness slipped away on a warm breeze. Meadowlark and killdeer practiced their warbles in the brush along the single-lane dirt track. Rose sniffed the air appreciatively. Was that sage? The endless vista was soothing—how wonderful it was to be alive today!

  Mr. Morton was enjoying the drive, too. Here and there they saw a house or a farm; some were close to the road, others were off in the distance. He commented on most: who the owners were, what kind of people they were and where they came from, bits and details about their families, and what they grew. The name McKennie caught her attention. Mr. Morton was saying, “ . . . good Irish family; lots of kids, of course . . . helps on a farm. Their piece goes straight back from here. See the house over there? Homesteaded it about nine, ten years ago . . . held out during the really bad years. Had to be tough folk to make it. The people who’ve been here ten years or better got the best land and the hardest ‘row to hoe’ in order to ‘prove up.’ Drought, blizzards, grasshoppers.”

  “But I believe they think it’s worth it now. Own their own land, free and clear. Better than land farther west of here. I foresee that part of the state coming of age in cattle, not farming, anyway. When a piece of really good corn land comes open around here now, it generally will sell well. Got a piece I’ll show you today that I’m holding sale on. Some folk from Pennsylvania will be out in a few weeks to look it over, so I need to see the house and outbuildings for value. The owners did real well ’til about four, five years ago. Had it proved up and paying, then the man’s health broke.”

  “Well, they held out hoping he’d get better, the wife and kids working it themselves best they could. Finally, her family made a place for them to come back to, and they left. The man wouldn’t sell then, though. I figure he hoped he’d recover and they’d come back. But he died this last winter. Now they’ll get a fair amount for the place, but it’s hard to put a price on ten years of your life.”

  All of what he talked of interested Rose. She began to feel that she knew some of the people, and what they were like. The few times Mr. Morton attempted to turn the conversation to herself, asking leading questions, she frustrated him by bringing the subject back immediately to the spring prairie they were driving through and the people settled nearby. It fascinated Rose to hear about folk who laid their futures on the line in order to carve 160 acres of farm land out of unplowed prairie sod in a bet with the government that they could hold out five years. Five years! Five years of back-breaking, heart-rending labor to earn your own land.

  “Over there is the river,” he waved his hand to the right. “It bends around a bit, which is how the town was named, and there’s a creek that joins it . . . right back that way. Other side of the creek are the Thoresens.” He pronounced it Torasens. “Actually it’s two farms, because the two brothers homesteaded it. They’re Norwegian people. I d
on’t rightly know where that Norwegian place is, myself. They don’t hardly speak English even now. Well, all the kids do since they’ve all grown up here and been to school.” He coughed politely as though deciding to concede a point. “Thoresens do real well, though. And they’re very respectable folk. Now the piece we’re going to see is just this side of the creek.”

  Rose strained to see the little creek ahead. They turned down the rutted trail alongside of it and started up a low rise. Spring runoff made the stream rush by energetically, and soon they were gazing down on it from the top of a small bluff.

  The bluff they drove on leveled out, dropped away toward the creek, and they found the deserted farm in the wide hollow between the rise and the streambed. Actually, it was picturesque from the road; only two cottonwood trees and a few low shrubs relieved the vast landscape, but everything was green all around, and the farm seemed sheltered, set apart from the prairie where it nestled in the broad hollow with its face to the creek.

  This little hill must be the only ‘bump’ for miles around, Rose thought.

  Across the creek in a stand of trees in the distance was a cluster of buildings: a large house, a much larger barn, sheds, and fences. An expanse of new green spread out in all directions from the house, even near to the opposite creek bank. The Thoresen homestead.

  “Here we are!” Mr. Morton gestured enthusiastically. “Why don’t you stretch your legs while I examine the buildings?”

  He helped her down and excused himself, so Rose walked around, glad to have her liberty. Even to her untrained eye she could see how “let go” the place was. What must have once been chicken coops were scraps of wood blown flat; a small “barn” stood off behind the house, but its doors were missing as were parts of the walls and roof. Everything was wind-worn and scoured to a dismal gray.

  Still, the roll of the hill, the creek ahead, and green fields in the distance across the creek all appealed to her. She wandered the breadth of the hollow, wondering if she would ruin her shoes if she walked the fifty yards to the creek bank. Mr. Morton called to her and she reluctantly returned.

  “Well, the house is nothing much to speak of, but you can see it’s a very pretty place.” Rose could almost hear money changing hands as he said the words. “The fields are prime—up over the rise, back of the house. Looks like they had a large green garden right over there.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely,” Rose murmured. “How much do you think the people will pay for it?”

  “Oh, enough. If they don’t care for this one, I’ve another south of town with better buildings. Not as nice a piece of land, but less cost to them initially. Yes, it would take some work and a little cash to fix this place up—but it would be worth it in my estimation. Good crop land and an excellent location.”

  They undid the hamper under one of the trees, spreading the food out on a checked cloth. The sun riding high overhead made Rose glad for the leafy branches sheltering them, and she took her straw hat off to feel the breeze on her head.

  Mr. Morton was delighted with the lunch—cold chicken and fresh buns, pickles, hard-cooked eggs, a small jar of preserves, and two slices of apple pie. While Rose nibbled, he made vast inroads into it, all the while carrying the conversation. Rose nodded and responded at the appropriate junctures; her preoccupation was missed by him.

  “And the railroad built line some 200 miles south of here to connect with—”

  “Mr. Morton, may I ask you something?”

  “Certainly, whatever you like!”

  Rose cupped her chin in her hand and inquired speculatively, “Do men hire out in this neighborhood for, say, carpentry or small farm labor?”

  Mr. Morton’s puzzlement was evident. “I . . . Well, I’m sure . . . that is, for cash money, I know of several skilled carpenters. And most any of the young men trying to get started will do most any odd job for wages. It makes me curious why you would ask.”

  “Oh, never mind me. I have peculiar flights of fancy.”

  Mr. Morton looked like he agreed. They packed the remnants of the meal and prepared to leave, but Rose delayed, saying, “I feel the need to stretch my legs just a bit before we ride back. Would that be a problem?”

  “No, certainly. I’d be happy to walk about with you, Mrs. Brownlee.”

  “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, sir. Just a few minutes will suffice, and I will return.”

  “Neatly done,” Rose congratulated herself. This time she did walk to the creek bank, feeling the lively, little brook soothe her spirit. A few minutes were indeed all she needed, and they drove away, hot sun beating on their heads, Mr. Morton loquacious as ever.

  Everything was ready. “Perfect!” admired Rose, standing back and examining her handiwork. She had pulled together this little tea party with as much care as she would have used for the Bishop’s wife. Of course, the Bishop’s wife would have been astonished at her improvisations, but Rose was flushed and proud.

  The two straight-backed chairs were each adorned with shawls for color. The night table sat between them disguised with an unhemmed square of muslin and set with borrowed crockery. The “tea table” also boasted a pert flowery bouquet while her straw hat wondered where its had gone.

  “This is actually my first real step back into society,” Rose remarked reflectively.

  Soon the tea was steeping in its little pot and plain gingerbread was arranged on a patterned plate in an inviting way. Rose glanced in the mirror over the washstand, twitched her collar into place, and smoothed her thick, dark blonde coil of hair.

  “Oh, no! I believe I’ve burned my nose!” she giggled. That would never do back home!

  There was a timid knock at the door, and Rose flew to answer it. Meg shyly hesitated on the threshold.

  “You are my honored guest today!” Rose encouraged gaily. “No shrinking violets here! This is not how we began at breakfast.”

  Meg took her offered hand and her reticence slipped away.

  “I’m thanking ye, Mrs. Brownlee, for th’ kind invitation. ’Tis a bright spot in my day, to be sure!”

  Rose replied warmly, “You are very welcome, Meg. I’ve had no companionship these last two weeks. We shall enjoy our tea and get to know one another, shall we? And please call me Rose, so we can be friendly.”

  “Sure an’ I ’preciate the liberty, ma’am, but in our family ’tis not done so. Could I be callin’ ye Miss Rose? ’Tis a grand name!”

  Rose liked that and seated her guest with decorum. Meg was delighted with everything so the conversation flowed merrily with the sipped tea and nibbled cakes. A veritable fount of information was Meg! Not only did she know something about everyone, (or everything about some!) but it was also always a good and honest report made even more appealing by her fanciful ways of speech and lilting brogue.

  Rose speculated that only near-perfect people lived in and near RiverBend, for Meg was careful only to have cheerful things to say about each one. Finally Meg began regretfully to excuse herself to return to work.

  Rose was reluctant to let her go. “This has been so much fun, Meg. Will you come again? Maybe tomorrow?”

  “I’m bein’ more than pleased to come again, ma’am,” Meg returned. Her eyes were shining with pleasure at the thought. “But tomorrow bein’ Sunday, I’ll be goin’ home tonight. We go to service and spend the day family-like. I’m wishin’ to see the baby, too, and be helpin’ me mother a bit.”

  “Will ye be comin’ t’ church, Miss Rose?” Our minister is grand at preachin’. There’s no church of our own kind here—two priests have come and had to leave when times were too bad—but me mother says: ‘Tho’ ’tis a shame for children to grow up wi’ out the church, ’tis a sin to grow up wi’ out God!’ So we go to service with everyone else.”

  “Even th’ other preacher left three year ago, but this new one (he’s been here just seven months, an’ his sweet wife) is so foine at tellin’ th’ Bible. If ye’ll be comin’, I’d be that proud to introduce ye to him and me father and
mother. Will ye come, Miss Rose?”

  “Yes, Meg, I’ll come. It would be my pleasure to meet your family, too.”

  Chapter 9

  Dressing with care and feeling a trifle nervous, Rose set out to church. It wasn’t a far walk, but it was out of the regular circumference of RiverBend. Set in an acre of wild spring grass, the whitewashed boards and single spire reminded her of pictures she’d seen of the west.

  “Silly! This is the West! . . . and it is so lovely . . . so free.”

  Unencumbered by streets, buildings, traffic, and smoke, the vista stretched out seemingly beyond the horizon.

  Others were walking through the tall grass to church, too. Rose waved to the grocer’s wife. She was in her Sunday best with scrubbed, wet-haired children strung out behind her. The grocer didn’t seem to be with them. A few wagons appeared and a fairly new buggy. The young man driving it was blond. That is to say his hair was a white-blonde, but his face and hands were brown—no, bronzed. It was a beautiful combination for the eye. He carefully handed down a plump, pleasant looking woman looking to be in her mid-forties. She, too, was blonde and tanned, but her hair was a darker blonde, and her face was work-worn. Still, both of them were in good spirits, and Rose was startled when a wagon pulled up beside them and a horde of children clambered down, some calling “Mamma” to the woman.

  “Really,” Rose chided herself, counting again, “There are only seven. No, just six; that girl is at least seventeen or eighteen—not really a child anymore.”

  The man handling the wagon good-naturedly swung the smallest child, a girl of about seven or eight, to the ground as she scrambled over the wheel. He was older than the woman, probably in his early fifties, and sun and wind burned like the boy.

  A whole family, thought Rose. And it took two vehicles to get them all to church.

  There was Meg! Rose realized with a start how much of an impact this girl’s friendship had made on her. Meg was flushed and beaming; her whole family stood waiting to welcome Rose, and she felt a tightness in her throat.