A Late-Blooming Rose: A Montana Sky Series Novel

by Debra Holland

  “Miss Cora, Mr. Bellaire wants you to have the amber-and-gold room. Miss Collier is to have the blue-and-gray room.”

  Andre remembered my color preferences. Rose wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Or maybe the choice was only a coincidence. She thanked Tilda, and Cora echoed her, before they parted to their respective rooms.

  Rose stepped into the blue-and-gray bedroom, twice as big as her one at Marty’s, and caught her breath at the beauty of the space. She paused for a moment, enjoying the instinctive feeling of peace washing through her tired body.

  A canopied bed dominated the room, flanked by nightstands holding globed kerosene lights dripping with crystals. A chandelier in the center of the ceiling held light bulbs, showing the house was wired for electricity. Sunlight poured through two windows.

  Damask patterned with gray-and-blue covered the thick mattress and canopy, and matching curtains hung at the windows. All the fabric was far richer than she’d had at home or when she used to live in lodgings. Underneath her feet, a Persian rug with the same colors covered the polished wooden floors very different from the plain rag rug she was used to.

  A narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase sat empty, and she wondered why a bibliophile like Andre would go to the trouble of having a bookcase installed and not lining the shelves with volumes.

  “I’m using the bathroom,” Cora called, walking past on her way down the hall. “I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

  Rose set her reticule on the nearest nightstand, unbuttoned and stripped off her gloves, and placed them on top of the bed. She reached up to remove her hatpins and pulled off her felt toque, wrinkling her nose at the dusty, rather battered appearance, not sure if the hat was salvageable, or if she even wanted to bother. She felt the same for the duster she wiggled out of and held at arm’s length.

  Although tempted to toss both in the dustbin and not wanting to put either in the massive wardrobe in the corner lest the smoke smell transfer to the clothing she would hang, Rose looked around. Spying two decorative brass hooks near the door, she hung up her hat and coat. Until her future was set, she must be conservative. The hat and duster would wash.

  Removing her spectacles, she pulled out her handkerchief, and breathed on the lenses. Once they fogged, she polished the glass clean and replaced them on her nose.

  A knock on the open doorframe sounded. “Miss Collier, I have your satchel.”

  “Come in, Sam.”

  The coachman strode into the bedroom, carrying both their satchels.

  “Just put mine, the darker one, on the bed. Cora’s in the bathroom, so you can put hers in her room.”

  With a grin and a wink, he did just that.

  “Thank you,” Rose called to his retreating back, opening the satchel and extracting her comb and brush. Luckily, a large, silver mirror hung over a dressing table, and she moved close to watch herself repair her coiffure—extracting the pins and undoing her braid before brushing out the length, rebraiding, and twisting the plait into a bun, then stabbing the pins back in. Although now neat, nothing could take away the faint smell of smoke clinging to her hair.

  She leaned forward to look closer into the mirror and grimaced, noting the tiny lines fanning out from her nose and mouth and the threads of gray that seemed more plentiful than the last time she’d examined herself.

  Rose had never been much of a beauty, and she’d long ago lost the fresh bloom of youth. Aging hadn’t bothered her much until this trip. She wondered if she looked as haggard to Andre as she did to herself.

  “I’m done.” With a wide grin, Cora stuck her head into the room.

  Rose quickly straightened, not wanting to be caught in an act of vanity, and moved toward the door.

  “What a marvelous bathroom.” Cora placed a dramatic hand to her chest. “You can practically swim in the tub. I was tempted to forego dinner, but my stomach wouldn’t let me. However, I promised myself a return visit for a long soak.”

  “My turn to admire the bathroom.”

  “Enjoy.” The girl waved a hand in mock languidness. “I still have to do my hair. Don’t wait for me.”

  Rose hurried down the hallway without stopping to admire the prints of botanicals hung against the same wallpaper as downstairs. She opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, admiring the club-footed tub that was indeed big enough to float in. She assumed the floor-to-ceiling cabinet held towels, and an oval mirror hung above the pedestal sink. The toilet sat tucked into the corner.

  With a longing glance toward the tub, Rose used the toilet and washed her hands and face. While drying them on a clean white towel hanging next to the sink, she couldn’t help thinking of Cora’s intended visit to the tub. She hadn’t bathed since the night before they left New York, instead forced to resort to scanty sponge baths along the way. On the way out of the bathroom, she stooped to pat the porcelain lip. “I’ll be back.”

  In the hallway, her niece wasn’t in sight, and Cora’s door was closed, so Rose continued on without her.

  Pausing on the landing, she recognized a Joseph Turner landscape that was a particular favorite of hers, making her wonder how much of the house’s decor was Andre’s doing and what was his daughter and son-in-law’s. There’ll be time when no one is around to study each piece.

  As soon as the idea came to her, she rejected the thought. Why do I care about his possessions or his taste? I’ll only be living here a short time and then, with a salary from the library, I’ll move into my own home.

  So instead of drifting over to greet the Turner, she briskly walked to the stairs to see Andre and Delia waiting on the floor below. Without Cora’s presence to bolster her courage, Rose was aware of feeling unbalanced, vulnerable. Father and daughter looked so elegant—so beautiful, Andre in a masculine way, and Delia all graceful femininity. And here I am in a travel-worn outfit, smelling of smoke.

  Seeing two sets of hazel eyes watching her every movement made her nervous and awkward. Her knees began to shake. Don’t trip, she told herself. The last thing she needed was to stumble and fall down the stairs. Wouldn’t that be a spectacle?

  As she descended each step, her hand gliding down the railing, Rose took deep breaths to bolster her defenses and held her head high. Watching Andre track her progress, his eyes alight with what she used to think was love, made her aware of how thin the walls around her heart were.

  I must find a way to shore them up.

  * * *

  Once Rose and Cora vanished upstairs with Tilda, Andre didn’t know what to do with himself, wanting only to pace in front of the stairs and await Rose’s return. Delia will think me mad. Or lovesick. He couldn’t allow either.

  He removed his bowler and walked to the hat rack to hang it up.

  Rufus helped him out of his overcoat and vanished into the coatroom. Reappearing, he headed toward the kitchen.

  Her eyes sparking in a rare display of annoyance, Delia grabbed Andre’s arm and pulled him to the other side of the staircase. “Papa, what have you done?” she hissed in a low voice.

  I’m in for it now. “I’ve offered Rose the position of librarian. I told you I would.”

  “Does she know the library is only a hole in the ground, and not much of one at that?”

  “I…I might have misled her.”

  “Papa!” She gave his arm a little shake.

  “I was afraid she would say no,” Andre said with a sheepish duck of his head. “I didn’t lie. I did hire Rose for the position of librarian. Her salary will start right away.”

  “Being paid by you.”

  “I always intended to pay the salary of the librarian. You know that.”

  “Papa, this evasion isn’t good. When Miss Collier finds out, she’s going to be justifiably angry.” Delia shook her head. “And I will be on her side.”

  Feeling guilty and maybe a little ashamed about disappointing his daughter, Andre couldn’t say anything more in his defense. At the same time, he liked the idea of Rose and Delia ganging up on
him—rather ridiculous, when he should be like any other red-blooded man with a modicum of self-preservation and concern about the two women he loved banding together against him. “I’ll take whatever punishment you mete out.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’ll tell her right away? No more evasions?”

  “During dinner, I promise.”

  She cast him a narrow-eyed you’d better look. “Hopefully, the news won’t make Miss Collier lose her appetite.”

  “Then I’ll wait until after dessert.”

  “Good plan, Papa.”

  “Listen, darling.” He sought her gaze. “Please don’t mention anything to Rose and Cora about my weak heart. I don’t want them to worry.”

  “Remember you dictated a letter to Marty that I wrote and sent?” she said pointedly. “Would your friend have kept the news to himself?”

  He blew out a sharp breath. “Probably not.”

  “I won’t tell, Papa, at least not yet. But I won’t lie, either.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  Footsteps on the landing had him turn to see Rose. She wore a plain, gray traveling basque and skirt ribbed in black braid. She’d obviously unpinned and brushed her hair back into a tight coiffure.

  Andre watched Rose descend the steps. He could see over the intervening years, she’d lost none of her graceful movements but gained more poise. He moved to meet her at the bottom of the staircase and held out his hand to assist her down the last steps.

  Just the anticipation of touching Rose took his breath away. He couldn’t take his eyes off her face.

  How can I live with her, see her every day and not want more than friendship? He inhaled a shuddering breath.

  By continuously reminding myself that I might die at any moment, leaving her a widow.

  He exhaled. That should work.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With Delia’s gaze upon them, Rose couldn’t be rude and avoid Andre’s outstretched hand, as she might have done if they were alone. So gingerly she touched her fingers to his palm.

  A spark leapt from his hand to hers, making her stomach flutter. She pulled back her hand, and, not looking at him or waiting for an escort, boldly strode across the entry hall and into what must be the parlor—no, since the room ran the width of the whole house, a double parlor.

  The large parlor had an elegant yet comfortable look with Persian rugs spread over the polished wooden floors. Two velvet sofas as wide as beds, with plump pillows and round arms looked like perfect places to read. A grandfather clock ticked the seconds away. Balloon-backed side chairs with needlepoint covers provided plenty of extra seating, while the two wingback chairs near one end of a sofa and in front of the corner fireplace, surrounded in green marble, looked like the men’s domain.

  The sight of a black papier-mâché table with an inlay of pink roses in the center and a gold-painted border made Rose’s heart squeeze. Once, while on an outing with Andre, she’d seen the table in a shop window and stopped to admire the piece. Later, visiting his house with Marty, she’d spotted the table in his parlor. The purchase seemed to carry a message—you will be the hostess of this home, and the décor will reflect your tastes as well as mine.

  To keep from touching the table, Rose clasped her hands together, glanced away, and wandered over to some bookshelves, not big enough, she knew, to house Andre’s entire collection. Just as she bent to study the titles, Delia came up behind her.

  “Those are mine. Papa and Joshua have taken over our library, although each has additional shelves of his favorite volumes in his own study. Please feel free to borrow any you wish to read.”

  Rose smiled with warmth, grateful for the offer. “I’ll be sure to avail myself of your kind invitation.”

  “Sorry to keep you waiting!” Cora called as she joined them, flashing each person a smile. Like Rose, she wore an older gray dress, although with blue trim instead of black. On the journey, she’d kept her gold locket tucked inside her gown for safekeeping. Now, she displayed the necklace openly.

  Delia waved toward a large square opening in the wall. “Shall we dine?”

  At their nods, their hostess led them from the parlor into the dining room situated in the back of the mansion. The room was three times as big as the one in Marty’s house. A long, cloth-covered table was set with green transferware and two enormous silver candelabra.

  Once inside, Delia gestured to the empty chair at the head of the table. “My husband is out on a parish call. I’d hoped he’d be back in time to join us, and perhaps he will come before we finish. If not, you’ll have to meet him later. And I’m sure Micah will race here straight from school.”

  Rose wondered why Andre wasn’t sitting at the head of the table but didn’t want to ask.

  He must have noticed her glance at the empty chair for he said, “I consider this to be Joshua and Delia’s house. I’m just the hanger-on.”

  “Papa, don’t you dare give our guests the wrong idea.” Delia moved around the table. “If we have a big dinner party, I’ll take my place at the foot. But today, with all that table space between us, we’d have to raise our voices to converse. Not the most pleasant dining experience.” Her hand brushed the top of a chair. “Miss Collier, why don’t you sit across from Papa and your niece, and I’ll be here next to you?”

  Rose studied an Oriental mural on one wall—a scene of cherry trees in full blossom. She recognized the gold mirror over the fireplace and a marble-topped sideboard as coming from Andre’s New York house and wasn’t sure how she felt about seeing the familiar pieces. The olive-green velvet curtains at the window overlooked what must be the back garden. Enticing scents came from the direction of the kitchen, which she guessed was located on the other side of the discreet door almost hidden in the wooden paneling.

  Andre’s financial circumstances always intimidated her. Back when she thought he was courting her, Rose hadn’t wanted him to think she was interested in his money. She also wasn’t comfortable with his more formal lifestyle, the entertaining she’d need to do as his hostess, and what she knew of the differing expectations of an upper-class family. Now, though, she just tried to admire the room without building any fantasies of living here permanently. I’m only a guest.

  As soon as they took their seats, Delia rang a little bell. The tinkling sound summoned the servers.

  Tilda, Rufus, and another maid, whom Delia introduced as their daughter Milliana, entered carrying platters of food, which they offered to each person before setting them on the table.

  In wealthy New York families, the butler and housekeeper would never have served at the table. Here, though, Rose didn’t notice as many servants, and some of the formality of Andre’s previous home seemed more relaxed.

  The cook had prepared cream sauce drizzled over veal medallions, mashed potatoes sprinkled with chives, and asparagus—indeed all her favorites. Had Andre remembered? Or perhaps, Rufus or Tilda? This dinner was a feast in comparison to what the Colliers were used to. Both Marty and John’s households were solidly middle class, with only a few servants and less money to spend on food.

  Rose set to with a hearty, although ladylike, appetite and saw her niece doing the same.

  Andre nodded at the still-laden serving platters. “We eat simpler out here. Not so many courses.”

  Cora cocked her head. “Why is that?”

  “A number of reasons. As I think you know—” Andre spoke directly to the young woman “—my son-in-law is a minister, and he’s also the son of our minister here in town. He grew up poor, what with a small congregation and his parents sharing what little they had with others more in need. Until the last couple of years, Joshua was also a missionary in Africa—Uganda, where he also became used to a more restricted diet. He prefers we don’t waste food.”

  Rose swallowed her bite of veal. “I suppose he saw starving people in Africa.”

  Delia took a sip of her tea. “He’ll tell you stories of that time that will wrench at your heart.” She set do
wn her cup. “We do have poor people in our community here, whom we’ll help if they allow. However, the members of our congregation have their pride and an amazing self-reliant attitude. Most won’t accept charity, so we have to be creative when offering help. It feels wrong to eat lavishly when many cannot.” She wrinkled her nose at her father. “Although, in every other respect, we do live lavishly.”

  Andre set down his fork. “I will not allow anything less. Money spent on homes, furnishings, clothes, etc., isn’t a waste, as many people believe. I’m not throwing money into the sea. People build, grow, sew, distribute. They make their living by the works of their hands. Every cent I’ve spent on this house, on myself, on my family, has gone into someone else’s pocket, which they in turn spend on their basic needs and than more money goes to others.”

  Rose had never thought of wealth that way.

  “Papa is most generous.”

  Cora touched her locket. “Mrs. Norton, your father has always possessed a most generous heart. This was my sixteenth birthday gift.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Andre. “One most dear to me,” she added.

  Rose sent her a reproving glance, which Cora apparently pretended not to see.

  “Both of you, please call me Delia.” She glanced from Rose to Cora. “I don’t want to be so formal when we’re living together.”

  Rose supposed she couldn’t continue to address Andre as Mr. Bellaire, as she’d intended, as a way to keep him formally at arm’s length, to pretend their romance of the past never happened—or at least that she didn’t recall those golden days.

  Andre beamed at her niece. “And I shall be Uncle Andre to you, Cora. I don’t know why your grandfather and I didn’t think of that years ago.”

  “Well.” Cora’s eyes sparkled with humor. “Since you were Grandpapa’s friend, technically, I should call you Great-Uncle Andre. Just like Rose is my Great-Aunt.”