Andre resented the need to hide Delia’s illegitimacy and Negro blood from all but the few who knew. He couldn’t predict who’d harshly condemn and shun his beloved daughter and, by extension, Joshua, Micah, and perhaps even the elder Nortons. I certainly don’t care what anyone thinks about me. But the idea of anyone possibly criticizing Delia’s future children—his grandchildren—almost broke his heart.
He wasn’t sure if Marty ever shared Delia’s origins with Rose. Rose. Just thinking of her banished his irritation and made him smile.
The bachelors out here might line up to court her. That vision wiped the smile off his face.
Rose tended to be reticent around men she didn’t know, and Andre doubted she’d changed much in that regard. Due to her shyness, she was overlooked by most suitors—fools that they are. But in Sweetwater Springs, with the dearth of available women, even a forty-four-year-old spinster would stir the interest of lonely men.
At the thought, jealousy stabbed through him. He took a breath, striving for a more rational viewpoint.
I can’t stand in her way.
She’s not my Rose. I made sure of that.
Resolutely, Andre jabbed the pen into the inkwell and returned writing.
Later, I’ll send a letter to Rose with an invitation. As a further enticement to move to Sweetwater Springs, I’m about to build a new library here, which will need a qualified librarian.
He paused. A drop of ink fell from the tip and onto the page, luckily in the margin. Still, he scowled at the blot.
Andre sat back in his chair and set down the pen, thinking of what else to say. Normally, he’d have filled the page with tidbits about his family and details about the upcoming Harvest Festival. But today he felt far too melancholy for those topics. He grew lost in thought for a while, reliving old times with his friend.
Then he picked up the pen and reminisced about some of his favorite memories with Marty. Knowing he might not have another chance to share his thoughts with his old friend, he wrote and wrote, moving to new sheets of paper when he’d filled up both sides of the previous one. His fingers cramping, he ended the letter and signed his name.
Once the ink dried, he folded the pages, stuffed them into an envelope, addressed the front, and added postage. Andre sat for a moment with the missive in his hand. The letter was thick and heavy. He wondered if a reply would come, if Marty would be too weak to hold a pen, or still be alive when the letter arrived.
From outside the open door of the study, he heard the sound of rapid footsteps. Micah. The boy never walked when he could trot or run.
With a small release of breath, Andre rose and moved to stand in the doorway, raising the letter to flag down his grandson.
With a small skid, Micah halted. “Yes, Grand-père?”
Andre handed him the letter. “Will you drop this off at the train station tomorrow before school?”
Micah glanced down at the address. “To your friend in New York who’s dying?” He looked up into Andre’s face. “You’re sad. I can tell.” He hesitated, looking as if he wanted to say more.
“Come here.” Andre dropped an arm about Micah’s shoulders and led him to the chesterfield, taking a seat and drawing the boy down by his side.
“You’re not going to die, Grand-père, are you?”
“Of course, I am. Death comes for all of us, mon fils. I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since my heart attack landed your mother and me in Sweetwater Springs.”
“I don’t want you to die,” Micah said in a plaintive voice.
Andre sighed. “I don’t particularly want to either. Now that I have a family, I’ve too much to live for. I’ve never been happier. So, in a sense, you are keeping me alive.” His tone sobered. “I couldn’t ask for a better grandson.”
“But what about the baby? If it’s a boy, he will be your grandson—one of your own blood.”
Tears welled in Andre’s eyes. I surely am a sentimental old fool today. “I will dearly love the baby, too. But in a different way, a love that belongs only to him or her, just as the love I bear for my daughter is different than my love for you or for your father, or my old friend Marty.” Or for Rose.
Micah tilted his head, obviously absorbing Andre’s words.
“Love changes to fit whomever we love. Don’t you love your Grandfather Norton differently than you love me? Although, of course, you have good and deep feelings for both of us.”
“I s’pose so,” the boy said with a scrunch of his face.
“And you love my daughter differently than you loved your mother?”
Micah shoulders slumped, and he hung his head. “I didn’t love my mother. Well, I did. But she was always sick and cranky. She didn’t want me around.”
“Illness can change people. Sometimes for the better.” I’ve known people who handled the waning of their health, of their pain, with the patience of a saint. “Often for the worse.”
Andre couldn’t help but think of that long-ago bout of mumps that changed his relationship with Rose. “I’m sure if your mother had been well, she’d have been a different person—more loving.” Well, that’s practically a lie. From what Joshua confided, Esther Maynard Norton had never been interested in her son, reserving all her zeal for converting the African natives. But Andre wasn’t about to say so to Micah.
The boy shrugged.
Best veer back to the original topic. “If I have my way, I’ll be around to see you graduate from the university, get married, have children, and make me a great-grandfather. But if I die tomorrow, remember, I’ve left this earth a happy man. There are many who can’t say the same.”
The wrinkle of his nose indicated what Micah thought of that concept.
To lighten the seriousness of their discussion, Andre poked the boy’s side with his elbow. “Besides, I’ll have a front row seat in the heavenly window that looks down on earth. You can be sure I’ll be sitting there and watching you and your parents and any other of my grandchildren.”
“Micah!” From another part of the house came the sound of Delia calling the boy. “Bedtime.”
Andre tapped the letter in Micah’s hand. “Don’t forget to mail this tomorrow.”
“I haven’t forgotten one of your letters yet.” The boy bounced to his feet.
“Which is why I’m depending on you, instead of taking it myself or giving the letter to Sam Coachman to mail.” He playfully swatted Micah’s backside. “Don’t keep your mother waiting.”
With a grin, the boy ran out of the room.
Andre stared after him, realizing the letter just began the first leg of a long journey to Marty. Will he be strong enough to read it himself or will Rose read my words to him?
What if she takes me up on my invitation? His chest contracted. The idea was almost enough to cause another heart attack.
* * *
Two weeks after Marty’s death, Rose sat on a stool in her brother’s library surrounded by stacks of books and wooden crates. She glanced at the booklist in her hand and frowned. Exasperated, she reread the list of titles intended for Andre Bellaire. Bad enough she had to think of the man, whom she preferred to keep buried in the back of her mind along with other painful old memories. But having to track down books intended for him in her brother’s extensive and disorganized library was even worse.
No, writing that stiff little note to inform Andre of Marty’s death was worse.
Still, shouldn’t I have gotten over the man’s betrayal by now?
Perhaps I’m just lonely and vulnerable because of Marty’s death. After all, my grief is still fresh. Rose firmly returned her thoughts to the task at hand—clearing out her brother’s books.
Many a time, she’d tried to persuade Marty to allow her to organize his library. But he’d steadfastly refused, claiming he knew the location of every single book. From long familiarity, Rose knew where many of them were, too, though, they weren’t neatly categorized as her tidy librarian’s soul preferred.
Furthermore,
during his illness, Marty had taken books out of the room and never returned them, or, if he did, her brother seemed to have shoved them onto the nearest shelf. So, some of the places she’d thought certain volumes resided were empty, or she found another book in that space. After hours of searching for the volumes bequeathed to Andre Bellaire, she’d found all but two.
After that would come a bigger task—boxing up the rest of the books. As much as her heart cried sacrilege, Rose would have to sell the majority of Marty’s library, for she doubted she’d have space in her new lodgings to store the volumes. Even with selecting her favorites, she’d barely have space to move around her room, for books and furniture would overwhelm the narrow pathways.
She inhaled a shaky breath. Today the familiar smell of musty books didn’t bring her comfort.
“Aunt Rose?” the voice of her great-niece echoed down the hallway. “Where are you?”
“In the library.” She stood, placing her hands on the small of her back and stretching before hastening to greet Cora.
The girl bounded through the doorway with far from ladylike energy and gave her an exuberant hug. Cora looked like a prettier version of Rose in her youth—far more animation, no glasses, and no shyness. Too bad her stepmother dressed Cora in plain, unbecoming browns and grays, worn so often they appeared shabby.
Cora flung out her arms. “It’s so dreary here without Grandpapa. How can you stand it?”
“I know, darling, but because I must. These books won’t sort and pack themselves.”
“I hate that Papa is selling this house.” Cora stepped around her, and her gaze wandered over the partially empty shelves and stacks on the floor. She touched the oval gold locket she always wore. “You’ll be at this for days.”
“Now that you’re here, can you make yourself useful and help me locate these two?” Rose extended the list. “Or is there another reason you’ve dropped by, oh niece of mine?”
“Another reason.” Cora held up a letter. “I saw the mail arrived, so I picked this up rather than allowing the envelope to stay on the floor and be stepped on. It’s for you. Why don’t you read the letter while I look for these books? Then we’ll talk.” She reached out, deftly swapped the envelope for the list, and moved toward the shelves.
Rose turned over the letter to read the address, and her heartbeat sped up. Andre’s handwriting. With a grimace at the envelope, she sank onto the stool. Why can’t I get away from reminders of the man?
She didn’t bother to be neat, instead tearing open the envelope and pulling out the single page. Two small rectangles fell into her lap, and she picked one up to see it was a train ticket.
What in the world? She frowned and read the letter.
Dear Rose,
Although I was expecting the news, reading of Marty’s death brought me great sorrow. He was a good man, your brother, a steadfast friend, a loving family man. I know you will miss his presence. From this distance, I, at least, have the luxury of pretending he’s alive in his beloved library. I know you’re not allowed that illusion but must deal with the painful realities.
She sniffed back sudden tears, not liking how his understanding words affected her.
I’m not sure if you know that before his death, your brother expressed concern about what would befall you when he passed. You’ve selflessly given up your employment and your livelihood to nurse Marty until the end, thus putting your own financial future in jeopardy.
A stab of anger dried her incipient tears. How dare Marty share my personal business with Andre Bellaire! But just as quickly came guilt. He was dying and meant the best for me.
Still, she couldn’t quite banish her ire at the two men trying to manage her life. I can take care of myself! With a sniff of annoyance, she continued reading.
I know in the past, I’ve given you reason to distrust my intentions, a regret I’ve carried all these years. I cannot make up for the pain I caused you, but I can certainly ease your future.
Both to relieve Marty’s mind and to make sure you and Cora were taken care of, I promised him I’d invite you both to Sweetwater Springs. I’d like to offer you the position as the librarian of our new town library. We need an expert to take on the task of obtaining and cataloguing the books, as well as overseeing the needs of the patrons.
You and Cora are welcome to live with me and my family. My home is large, and there’s plenty of space. You’ll have your own rooms and privacy, and my family will make you both welcome.
Or, if you’d prefer, there are reputable lodgings in town where you can board.
“Absolutely not!” Rose dropped the letter into her lap.
Cora looked up from a book she was paging through. “Absolutely not, what?”
“I have no intention of moving to Sweetwater Springs, living with that man, being beholden, dependent on him. To—”
Cora crinkled her forehead. “What man?” She lifted both hands, palms out, fingers wide. “Wait, Sweetwater Springs. Mr. Bellaire lives there.”
“Yes, and he has…has—” Rose had to pull in a deep breath to speak “—the affronty to invite me to live with him.”
“I don’t think affronty is a word,” Cora said in a matter-of-fact tone, belied by the twinkle in her eyes.
“Well it feels like it should be,” Rose muttered, feeling younger than her niece. Who’s the librarian here? “Ef-fron-te-ry.” She sounded out each syllable to pronounce the word correctly.
Using a stack of books for a seat, Cora sank down across from Rose. “Mr. Bellaire is a nice man,” she chided. “I write him from time to time. His letters are always so interesting.”
Shocked by the revelation, Rose could only stare blankly at Cora.
Apparently not noticing her great-aunt’s reaction, the girl blithely continued. “When I was little, he’d always slip me pennies. He gave me this necklace for my sixteenth birthday.” She touched her locket. “And sent pearl earrings for my eighteenth birthday.”
“I didn’t know about those gifts.” Rose couldn’t help wondering how else the dratted man had involved himself with her family without her knowledge.
Cora frowned. “You haven’t seen them because Step-mama won’t allow me to get my ears pierced. Also, grandpapa warned me not to talk to you about Mr. Bellaire. He said that you’d taken him in dislike.”
Rose recalled a long-ago conversation with Andre. “I gather pierced ears is a more popular fashion in New Orleans than in New York. Perhaps you can change the backs of your earrings to screw on.”
Curiosity became stronger than the long-held wounded pride that made her refuse to speak of the man. “Has Mr. Bellaire given you any other presents?”
“I saw him before he moved back to New Orleans, and he handed me several silver dollars and told me to buy something pretty. Then, there’s this.” She removed her necklace, opened the two halves, and handed the locket to Rose. “He made sure I had them.”
On each side was a miniature wedding photograph—Marty and his first wife Eleanor on one side, John and Cora’s mother Emily on the other.
Her throat closed up. All are gone now.
Rose took a breath. “I didn’t know about the photographs, either.” Andre’s insightful generosity gave her an ache behind her breastbone.
She handed back the necklace. “I mean… I saw you wearing the locket, but I assumed it was from your grandfather. I’d told Marty that I thought a necklace would be a suitable sixteenth birthday gift.” Her voice trailed off.
How could I have known about Cora’s relationship with Andre when I made such an effort to avoid him, indeed, any mention of him?
“You know Grandpapa always gave me books.” Cora plucked the letter from Rose’s hand and began to read.
Too churned up to remonstrate, Rose clasped her hands in her lap, trying to hold onto her composure.
With a pleased exclamation, Cora looked up, her eyes bright. “He’s invited me, too. Oh, this arrangement is perfect.”
“What?” Rose grabbe
d for the page and whisked it from the girl’s hand. “What do you mean, perfect?”
“I came here to tell you that I’m leaving New York.” Cora lifted her chin—the stubborn gesture indicating no one would budge her from her decision. “Step-mama is insistent I marry that dismal Richard Frishman—he of the clammy hands and fish mouth. Ick. All she cares about is his fortune. With my inheritance from Grandpapa, I’m free to leave.”
“Your paltry inheritance will not get you far,” Rose warned with a shake of her head.
Up went Cora’s chin again. “I’m not afraid to work hard.”
“I don’t doubt that, but I’m afraid for you.” Her stomach clenched, just thinking about the dangers a green girl could fall into. Torn between finishing Andre’s letter and learning more about her niece’s plans, Rose chose the letter, postponing for a few moments how she’d feel if Cora actually followed through on her plans to leave. She smoothed out the page and picked up where she’d left off.
In addition, Marty was quite concerned about his granddaughter, Cora, and I assured him that she also has a place in my home and family waiting for her. In Sweetwater Springs, she’ll have plenty of opportunities to marry, pursue her nursing interests, or both.
Rose let out a long, sad sigh. Cora wanted to leave New York. The girl had an amiable personality, but with a stubborn streak rooting deep on those rare times she stood her ground. No amount of talking or punishments would shift her resolve.
Without a doubt, Rose knew the girl would be safe and happy with Andre and his family, even if, for selfish reasons, she didn’t want any further contact with the man. Cora’s safety and well-being are more important than my feelings. Without a word, she handed back the letter.
If she moves to Montana, I’ll never see her again.
Her throat tight, she watched her niece avidly read the contents, memorizing every detail of the girl sitting before her—the tenseness of her shapely body, the curve of her cheeks, which had recently lost their girlhood plumpness, the grace of her hands, the way her brown hair curled across her forehead, the faint freckles dotting her nose. Rose loved those freckles, although Cora despaired of them and had even tried to bleach them away with lemon juice.
A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel Page 3