Chapter 11
CHAPTER 11
A heavy knock at his front door pulled Dale out of Les Liliacees and the comfort of his kitchen chair. He listened, wondering if he’d misheard. But the sound came again. He placed a bookmark between the pages he’d been studying and closed the book, setting it on the table next to his chair.
Who could possibly be calling in this weather? Dale thought of Miss Smith, and his heart thumped. He smoothed back his hair. Since the discovery of the dog, she hadn’t ventured over. Aside from his surreptitious visits to chop her firewood, neither had he gone to her house as he’d hinted to Andre.
He hustled down the hallway to the front, the soles of his worn slippers slapping on the wood floor. Hopefully, whoever was at the door didn’t expect to come inside and see him in his oldest warm clothes and lacking proper footwear.
Cracking open the door, so as not to let out the meager heat of the entryway, Dale saw Andre Bellaire standing with his houseguest, Rose Collier, a slender female with a fringe of brown hair showing under her warm hat.
He’d glimpsed the pair at church, the man bent attentively toward her with warmth in his eyes. But Dale didn’t expect to have to talk to her. He stiffened, bracing as he always did in the unexpected presence of a woman he didn’t know.
Relax , he tried to tell himself.
“Mr. Bellaire,” Dale said, startled, into addressing him formally. Face heating, he looked away from the pair.
Mr. Bellaire removed his bowler. “Mr. Marsden, Dale…if I may call you by your given name. Please pardon the intrusion.”
The man’s Southern drawl coaxed Dale into reluctantly raising his gaze. He envied the dapper man his effortless charm and nodding in acquiescence.
Behind the couple, he could see the Falabellas hitched to a sleigh. Ah, he took my advice.
Andre made a slight gesture toward the lady. “I’ve brought our new librarian, Miss Collier, to visit. I thought you’d like to meet her.”
The pair didn’t have the air of a courting couple. Perhaps the Falabella “magic” wasn’t working. As silly as the idea of midget horse magic seemed to Dale, he couldn’t help hoping for these two that love would bloom.
Still, Dale couldn’t yet meet the woman’s eyes. “Come in out of the cold.” He opened the door wider and moved aside to allow them to enter, his thoughts scattering about what to do with this unexpected company. Will they notice I haven’t dusted the parlor for a week? Should I serve tea? Wait, I used up the leaves a few days ago, and yesterday I ate the last of Mrs. Mueller’s cookies.
With a pang, he realized he could offer them his petit fours .
They followed him a few steps through the wide square opening of the parlor, which, while large and nicely furnished, had an unlived-in look. No fire burned in the round stove situated in the corner, nor in the fireplace.
Seeing through their eyes, Dale realized the space lacked a sense of hospitality. The chill of the room forced him to stop, turn, and hold up his hands, giving Mr. Bellaire a helpless look. “Uh….”
“Perhaps the kitchen?” Miss Collier suggested.
This time, Dale gave an eager nod and briefly met her eyes. Then he paused, thinking about the daybed and the impropriety of entertaining guests there. “The parlor is more comfortable for guests.”
“On a winter day like this one, I think we’ll settle for warmth over comfort.” Miss Collier sent him a reassuring smile.
Only slightly relieved, he turned and moved down the hall, trying to walk so the soles of his slippers wouldn’t slap the floor. He led them past the staircase, with its stack of books and his overflowing basket of clean laundry, into the warmth of the kitchen. At least, I straightened up this morning.
He didn’t dare look too closely to see the condition of his wooden floor, which he hadn’t swept or mopped since last week. I should have listened more closely to my great-grandma’s ghost.
Remembering his rusty manners, Dale moved to the round table and pulled out a chair for Miss Collier.
She smiled and sat down.
Andre claimed another chair.
Sitting and waiting for them to speak, made Dale’s stomach tighten. This is so awkward.
Being unused to company, Dale continued to fret about whether he should offer them something. Too cozy in his house and planning for spring, he hadn’t bestirred himself to go to the mercantile, even when running low on certain supplies. Did one serve visitors coffee? He didn’t have any cream. What if Miss Collier wanted cream? He didn’t have any.
Uneasy, he flicked a look at Miss Collier and then down at his hands.
“I see you’re reading, Mr. Marsden,” she said in a gentle voice, indicating Les Liliacees on the table. “Is that a gardening book? I’m hoping the new library will offer a nice selection.”
Relieved to have something to offer, he jumped to his feet and went to the table, picking up the book, and then handing her the volume.
She ran a finger under the title, Les Liliacees , and opened the compendium about a third of the way, to an illustration of Strelitzia Reginae . “I’m familiar with this one. I believe this is considered Pierre-Joseph Redoute’s masterpiece.” She tapped the page. “Doesn’t this have the loveliest drawings and descriptions of the flowers from Empress Josephine’s estate at Malmaison ? This bird of paradise looks so exotic.”
For the first time, Dale’s gaze lingered on Rose’s face, seeing the intelligence in her gray eyes that even her spectacles didn’t hide. He couldn’t help remembering Miss Smith’s blue eyes, also intelligent, yet shy, and brought his attention back to the librarian. “My favorite part.” He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob. “I like to plan what I’ll plant in the spring. Bird of Paradise won’t grow here, of course. Too bad, that.”
Dale wondered if he should mention the conservatory he had in mind to build in the next year or two, or the tropical garden he’d cultivated in his imagination. He dismissed the idea. I don’t need any critical remarks about being too fanciful. He’d had enough of those to last a lifetime. By the time he realized probably neither guest would be critical, the conversation had lulled.
“Winter is a time for dreaming.” Miss Collier smiled in obvious agreement of his spring garden plans and handed back the book.
Her remarks fired up his horticultural zeal, releasing his words. “Why, yes. You understand.” He gazed at her in admiration.
Andre cleared his throat.
Miss Collier ignored the man’s obvious attempt to get her attention and pressed on. “In New York, I’ve listened to many enthusiastic outpourings from library patrons eager to talk over gardening books and plants. Their yards might be small, but they make the most of what they have.”
Dale nodded, grateful for his large plot of land. “I consider myself fortunate to be surrounded by natural beauty.” The more they talked, the more comfortable he became.
As if stopping a growing intimacy, Andre laid a hand on the table. “Perhaps you’ve heard,” he said in a gruff tone. “We are soliciting donations of books for the library.”
Dale clutched Les Liliacees to his chest, his gaze flying to the buffet, anguished by the thought of parting with any of his treasures, the idea of the loss almost too great to bear.
“You don’t have to donate your own books,” Miss Collier said quickly, her tone reassuring as if she understood his possessiveness. “The other possibility is to donate money for books, or you can order new copies of your favorites to donate.”
“I can do that.” Relieved, Dale bobbed his head. He tapped the book still held tightly to his chest. “This one. Good to have a copy of this one for others to read.”
Miss Collier smiled. “And dream away the winter.”
Surely more of Sweetwater Spring’s inhabitants would enjoy reading and dreaming about gardens to escape the doldrums of winter. His brow crinkled. “Better order two. One won’t be enough.”
Miss Collier held his gaze, her eyes understanding. “I believe you’re right.”
“Bill me.” Dale glanced out the side window for a moment to the yard next door but saw no glimpse of Hester and Lucy. He squared his shoulders and then looked back at Rose. “Also order one called Language of Flowers . It’s a book for children by Kate Greenaway. I think they’ll find the colored illustrations and poems interesting.”
“Oh, yes! That book is charming. Adults will enjoy the poems and illustrations, too.” Miss Collier eyes kindled with enthusiasm. “Thank you.” She glanced at the hutch. “Perhaps, at another time, I can look through your other books. I’m used to a city library, and I’m sure there’s more need for horticulture books here in Sweetwater Springs than what we offered there. I need to educate myself as to which ones to order. Maybe you can advise me.”
He’d had gardening conversations with men here and there who’d sought his advice. But never a lady.
She is aptly named. “ Rose .” Dale said aloud in a tone of wonder. “If I’d had daughters, I’d have given them all flower names.” Rose, Lily, Violet, Poppy. He’d never dreamed of family and children, especially not girls. But the flower names gave the idea a poignant sweetness. “Your parents chose well.”
Frowning, Andre suddenly stood. “On that note, we should go.” His words were clipped, with barely any drawl at all.
Dale couldn’t help an inward kick of humor. Despite his disclaimers, the man was in love with Miss Collier, else he wouldn’t be circling the wagons around her so abruptly.
Andre reached for his bowler on the table and placed it on his head. “Best not keep the Falabellas waiting in the cold.”
Ah, yes. The little horses. Dale wondered if Hester watched them through her window with the same longing she’d displayed in town.
The faint sound of a dog’s joyful barking made him glance toward the back yard next door. Miss Smith frolicked in the snow with her pet. Their playfulness made him smile.
Feeling more confident than he could ever recall, at least when interacting with one lady and thinking of conversing with another, he looked back at the librarian. “I’d be delighted to show you my books at another time.”
Miss Collier stood and smoothed her skirts. “After Christmas, then, when I’m in need of dreaming. Will you be attending the Christmas Eve service tonight and the party at the hotel, Mr. Marsden?”
He tilted his head, the idea making his fingers drum nervously on the table. “The service, of course. I hadn’t thought about attending the party. I never do.” He straightened, met her gaze, and smiled. “But perhaps I will.” He resisted looking out the window again.
“Wonderful. How lovely to have a new acquaintance with whom to exchange visits.” Miss Collier clasped her hands together. “We’ll see you later tonight.”
“ Here .” Dale thrust Les Liliacees into her hands. “I’ll let you borrow this for a bit. Then you won’t have to wait to dream.”
She took the book with a smile and light in her eyes. As she profusely thanked him, Dale felt his chest expand. Talking to a lady hadn’t been so difficult, after all. Actually, he’d rather enjoyed the conversation with Miss Collier.
He cast another glance out the window at the woman playing with the dog. Maybe I can work up the nerve to call upon Miss Smith.
I wonder if she’s attending the holiday party.
While in the back yard, something shifted for Hester. Not right away. At first, she could throw the stick to the dog and laugh at Lucy’s antics. But all that time, the wood pile rebuked her. The uncut rounds, barely noticeable bumps under the new-fallen snow, and the stacked wood under the crude shed, brought out all her doubts and inadequacies.
Even though the image of her with an axe made her cringe, she could learn how to dismantle those big sections of tree trunks into manageable firewood. After all, she was strong from laboring all her life. But the idea of chopping her own wood seemed too physically daunting. And I’ll have to find someone to teach me. Her thoughts slid away from asking her neighbor.
If I’m to live this life, I’ll need to toughen up.
I’ll need to step out and weave myself into this community for support.
The question is, if I can.
After loading her arms with wood, she called to Lucy to go inside. Once she’d filled the wood box, shed her outerwear, and toweled off the dog, she went to the kitchen to check on the dough, which looked much the same as when she’d left it.
As Hester moved about the kitchen area, she gave an angled glance out the windows and saw a small sleigh pulled by black Falabellas parked in front of the Marsden house. She stepped sideways for a better look, her nose almost pressed against the cold glass.
That must be the team belonging to Mr. Bellaire. I wonder what he’s doing at Mr. Marsden’s?
For a brief, childlike moment, she debated sneaking out to give the miniature horses some carrots. But with my tracks through the thick snow, I’d give myself away. And what if Mr. Bellaire came out while I was feeding them? I could hardly refuse another offer for a drive because I’d revealed my interest.
Despite her little girl longing to go pet the Falabellas, Hester made herself turn aside. An hour had passed, so the dough was ready. Unfortunately, the good memories she’d deliberately focused on earlier now escaped her.
Resolutely, Hester spread Jimmy’s sheet across two thirds of the table, smoothing the surface. She inhaled the scent of apples and cinnamon, waiting in the bowls on the other side of the table, and ran a finger over the cross stitching of the roughly mended tear. How I would have teased him about this. She could imagine their banter as if it was real:
“Jimmy! What are these Xs? I know Matron Holtz taught you boys how to mend rips and sew on buttons. You should have held the edges together on the underside of the sheet and neatly moved the needle lengthwise.” Hester made needle and sewing motions in the air.
By scooping her into a bear hug that lifted her off her feet and squeezed the breath out of her, Jimmy stopped her teasing scold. “Hess, Hess, Hess, he chided with mock solemnity. “That’s what I have a sister for.”
For a brief moment, the warmth of his hug was so real, Hester did stop breathing. But reality slapped her with grief. She drew a shuddering breath. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
Almost blindly, and fighting to keep back tears, Hester added wood to the fires in the stove and the fireplace. She rolled up her sleeves to above her elbows and thoroughly washed and dried her hands and arms. She dusted flour over her arms and the front and back of her hands, making sure her knuckles were coated.
Picking up the dough, she began to stretch out the ball. After she had a flat circle, about the size of a dinner plate, she slid the backside of her hands underneath, made a half-fist, and began to stretch the dough in several directions.
Or at least she tried to.
Hester was used to making apfelstrudel with Lovie. In the orphanage, the children split into groups of two, three, and four, depending on their age and competency level, with each group making their own strudel. The dough needed to be spread into a yard-long, roundish circle, so thin you could read a newspaper through it. Mrs. Holtz always checked to be sure by sliding an actual piece of newsprint underneath.
The less-experienced children worked as a bigger team under the matron’s eagle eye. Hester and Lovie had been so proud when they’d graduated to pulling the dough by themselves.
Now, the edges flopped down, growing heavier. As soon as she’d run a hand over an escaping edge to shore it up, another side seemed to melt over her other arm. The farthest part threatened to break off all together. In her haste to rescue that section, she put a knuckle through the center.
That’s all right , she thought in Mrs. Holtz’s voice. When we layer the dough, no one will know about the holes.
The reassurance worked for the first hole. And for the second. And the third, an actual tear, which she tried to pinch together and, in the process, caused another section to slide over her forearm.
Frustration built inside her chest. But she pressed her lips together and soldiered on.
Then she lunged to rescue one side and poked an elbow through the other. Elbow! Hester wanted to scream from vexation. She hadn’t put an elbow through the dough since she was seven years old.
A ragged piece broke off and oozed to the floor.
Lucy pounced and gobbled it down, looking up expectantly for more.
“Gurrrr!” Helpless anger and grief boiled over. Hester threw the dough onto the table, where it skidded across the sheet, a misshapen blob. She kicked the leg of a chair to push it away from the table and wearily plopped into the seat, breathing as heavily as if she’d wrestled a grizzly bear. She averted her gaze away from the disappointing disaster that wouldn’t be strudel and glared at the Christmas tree, as if the decorated pine were responsible for these ill-natured feelings.
Now, what will I do?
For weeks, she’d looked forward to going to church tonight. She’d always loved the Christmas Eve service. Candles glowing in the darkened church. The congregation in their finery. Singing carols—her favorite hymns of the year. The scent of the evergreen boughs lining the windows and the altar.
Suddenly tired, Hester glanced out the front window.
Like her spirits, the sun was sinking, shading the bright blue sky with gray. I should get dressed for church. But she didn’t move, unable to find any enthusiasm within herself for the evening.
Guilt weighed heavily. She had never missed a Christmas service in her life. Doing so seemed almost sacrilegious. But Hester couldn’t seem to muster the energy to care.
No one will even notice if I’m not there.