The Soul of the Rose (20 page)

Edward moved next. He leaned his hands on the table, looked directly at Mrs. Harrod. “Mrs. Divers is mistaken. She is mistaken!” He drew in a deep breath. “Excuse me, please.” He turned to leave and the crowd parted before him. Only after he had left the area did people start to talk in low syllables.

Charles joined his mother and consulted her briefly, then looked up at those assembled. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re sorry for what just happened. If everyone will pick up his or her flowers, that would be helpful. We want to extend our congratulations to all the winners.”

Celia saw Mrs. Chestley walk up to one of her friends. “Here, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said, “why don’t you and your neighbor go to the refreshment tent. Didn’t you want a little something before the next event?” She continued to encourage one after another of the onlookers to move on. Celia watched this quiet little woman capably disperse those nearest her.

As people began to leave, Charles approached Celia. “Can I do something for you? I know this has been a shock.”

She looked up at him. “Will you please help me find a place to sit. . . .”

20

C
elia drew the bed covers up close around her head, relieved to be alone and quiet in her own room. If only she could bury herself away from all that happened these last hours. Maybe here she could think through the dreadful revelations of the day.

Charles had taken her to the refreshment tent where he found a chair away from the other guests who drifted in and out. He insisted she drink some of the lemonade he procured for her, then he drew up a chair and solicitously saw to her every perceived need. She went along with whatever he suggested. She couldn’t think, truly she couldn’t. Finally, she suggested returning to the flower tables to assist his mother.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Charles said. “Others can help her.”

“I feel I must do something.” To herself she said, something mindless—but hopefully useful. She stood and Charles reached for her arm. She smiled at him absently, but something in his eyes made her determine to stop leaning on him so much, to put all confused thoughts aside until she could be alone and sort them into some sense of order. She just wanted to get through the remainder of the day.

And here she was. As she quieted herself, the questions started arising. What had Edward done? What had really happened? He’d said Mrs. Divers was mistaken. Yet, the pain of that mother. The anger, all this time, festering. Unresolved. Then for it all to come out like this. Before all those people. What a hateful situation. Humiliating. How Edward must suffer. The very ill-feeling he had tried so hard to dampen down, to appease by hiding himself away from society, now was out in the open—like a freshly exposed wound. Oh, Mrs. Divers, what have you done?

Pain seared through Celia. If she suffered, how must he!

Celia got through the following days as best she could. There was that next book discussion to prepare for. At first, she didn’t have the heart for it, but after she began, found it took her mind off her pain. As she delved into Pascal, and found direction for her mind, she wondered how Edward would react to this particular writer.

The evening of the book discussion—afterward, Mrs. Chestley caught her alone a moment. “That was a wonderful discussion, dear.” She reached over and hugged Celia. “I don’t know how you do it, choose such scholarly works and then help us get so much out of them.” She turned to pick up her shawl. “I’ve already told my husband I’m going right home. I’m rather tired, I suppose I’m still feeling it after all that happened this week.”

Celia nodded acquiescence and walked her friend to the door, then watched as she crossed the grass to her house. All were gone now except Mr. Chestley and herself. The evening had been worthwhile. Still,
he
hadn’t come.

She had hoped against hope he might. But, of course, he was probably feeling . . . oh, what he must still be suffering! The sorrow, the shame, the humiliation of it all.

Mr. Chestley walked up to her. “How are you doing? That was quite a discussion we had tonight. I thought your choice of Pascal’s
Les Pensées
might be a little too deep for our readers, but you managed to whet their interest for more. Bravo, my dear.” He glanced down at the floor. “I see Mr. Lyons didn’t join us tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Celia, do you think Mr. Lyons has weathered this all right?” His eyes searched hers.

She couldn’t believe Mr. Chestley’s tender heart. It opened up the way for her to say, “He’s very strong, in more ways than one. I’m sure he’ll be all right.” Celia heard the bravado in her voice. “That is, I hope so.”

He nodded. “Let’s close the shop then. I’m surprised with these long summer days, our group didn’t stay longer. It’s still light outside.”

“I heard a number propose walks, the evening is so mild.”

“Not a bad idea. You know, I think a walk would do us good. What do you say?”

“I’d like that very much.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Chestley and she stood on the bookstore stoop. Which direction would he take? All of a sudden, she wondered—would it be too much to ask? His earlier sympathy emboldened her to ask if she might choose.

“Whichever way you want to go, Celia.”

“Thank you.” She gestured to the left, in the direction of Mrs. Divers’s and Edward’s homes.

Mr. Chestley held out his arm. “You are like a daughter to me, you know.” As she gratefully placed her hand in the crook of his arm, he added, “This feels more companionable, doesn’t it?” She nodded in agreement, wondering if the direction she had chosen had been wise.

Mr. Chestley patted her hand. “That
was
a good book discussion, Celia. I appreciated your opening quote from Pascal: that
man is but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature; but he is
a thinking reed
.” He paused before adding, “I think our friend Mr. Lyons would have appreciated it as well.”

Celia looked over at her companion. “It might have piqued him. Remember how section three began? ‘
A Letter
to incite to the search after God
.’ I wonder just how much Mr. Lyons searches after God.”

“You’ve talked with him?”

“Some. Science is so important to him, its way of discovering the world and truth so fundamental. And he doesn’t seem to think science and faith can agree.” Celia paused at the entrance to the road where her earlier inclination had led her.

“Would you like to turn here?” Mr. Chestley asked. “It is a pleasant way.”

“Yes, I think so.”

He now lagged behind ever so little, letting her lead the way. They passed Mrs. Divers’s house, and then as they came up to Mr. Lyons’s drive, she slowed her steps.

“I was sorry he didn’t come tonight,” Mr. Chestley said again. She felt his questioning glance in her direction as they stopped at the entrance to his driveway.

“Might we see if he is all right?” she asked softly.

“Actually, that’s just what I was thinking, but didn’t know if it would be agreeable to you.”

“It would.” Relief flooded her. With Mr. Chestley at her side, the visit would be proper. Without him, she could hardly have gone.

They walked down the pleasant drive and up the steps to the front door. Mr. Chestley lifted the doorknocker and gave a soft, clear rap. Celia wondered who would answer, the housekeeper or Edward himself.

The door opened. Edward. His countenance looked like he was carrying a great weight. Then he squared back his shoulders.

He gestured formally like the aristocrat from Beacon Hill Celia knew him to be. “Please come in. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but this is an honor.”

After they stepped into the front hall, and Mr. Lyons closed the door, absolute quiet inhabited the house. The outside world was left behind.

“Mrs. Macon has retired for the night. I don’t like to keep her unnecessarily on the job unless there’s—good reason. Follow me, please.”

The same immaculate, masculine aspect reigned in the drawing room as formerly. Celia looked around. Calm and order presided. But something was missing, she couldn’t say just what.

They seated themselves, Celia and Mr. Chestley on the divan and Edward on a chair across from them. Mr. Chestley began, “We missed you at tonight’s book discussion, the first one you’ve not attended. We wondered if you were all right.”

Mr. Lyons’s eye did not meet them directly, but gazed over their shoulders. “I was sorry not to be present, but you must know it was because of what happened the other day.” He looked first at Mr. Chestley, then at Celia. “I didn’t want to bring any negative influence to bear on your very worthy book discussion.”

“We understand,” Mr. Chestley said. “However, we also want you to know our concern. We realize we’ve heard only one side of the story.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Lyons was silent for a few moments as if ordering his thoughts. He clasped his hands together in front of him. “If you will allow me then . . . I’d like to say a few words about . . . this whole affair.” Mr. Chestley nodded his head. Celia leaned forward.

“First of all, let me say that I’m sorry for any pain this might have caused you. You are two very dear friends and I appreciate your coming tonight.” He looked down once again. “Regarding Mrs. Divers—I had realized, to be sure, that the death of Marguerite had greatly affected her. She expressed her anger to me, many times. I don’t know all she said to others, but I noticed people’s looks, and suspicious comments were dropped in my hearing. It didn’t take long before I chose to live a more solitary life, venturing out only when others would be less likely to be around. Mrs. Divers I avoided altogether. She was a bitter old woman, disagreeable and critical before her daughter’s death, and even more so afterward.”

He straightened in his chair. “Early in the marriage, she influenced her daughter and it negatively affected our relationship as husband and wife. As a result, I decided to limit my mother-in-law’s association with our everyday lives. In time, I discouraged it altogether except for Sunday afternoon visits and holidays. That might seem extreme with her living so near, but it was the only way to bring peace to my household. Because—after being married only a few months, peace was what I wanted more than anything else.”

He paused, his eyes avoiding theirs. “I had envisioned giving my wife things out of love and the generosity of my heart, but her increasingly shrewish ways eventually dried up those inclinations. She constantly wanted something or other and felt it was her due as my wife. It was difficult to believe she’d become so different from the person I’d courted. When I didn’t furnish her with her desires, she became petulant and complaining. Even waspish at times. It shocked me. I saw a reflection of the carping mother-in-law I’d come to abhor. This was outside of my experience growing up in Beacon Hill. Every woman I’d ever encountered there acted in a refined and proper manner.

“Thinking back now, I think I might have reacted too harshly. I set up parameters around Marguerite’s life so she probably felt confined, especially regarding seeing her mother. But at the time, all I wanted was peace. And if I had to, in effect, strong-arm it, I did.”

Mr. Lyons looked at Celia a long moment. She wondered what he was thinking. She had drawn back on the divan, feeling both shock and sympathy. Did it show in her countenance? He sounded so disillusioned. Even harsh.

“What I say next, I wish wasn’t necessary . . . but in light of circumstances. . . .” He cleared his throat. “Regarding Marguerite’s death, she had been ill for some time. But she’d been ill before and I found her an inveterate complainer, sometimes when nothing was wrong. Of course, she was truly ailing this time. I knew that. But the day in question, I didn’t realize how unwell she was, just knew I had to get out, away from the house awhile. I’m the first one to admit I’m not good in the sick room. Maybe it’s because I’ve been ill so little in my life, I didn’t have patience with her.

“I had let my housekeeper take her usual day off, because I didn’t feel she should be kept from it. She had spent time with Marguerite and needed breathing space as well.”

Here he paused, an earnest, almost desperate expression in his eyes. He looked directly at Celia. “I need you to know what happened that afternoon. You must know the truth. I want you to hear it from me, not some town gossip—or from Mrs. Divers—what she supposed to have happened. No one else was present beside myself.” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped before him. “If you’ll allow me then.” He glanced at Mr. Chestley. “I am obliged you are here to act as witness—and to protect Celia, so to speak.” Then his gaze returned to Celia.

“I had been attending Marguerite all morning, had just brought up the broth Mrs. Macon made the day before. Marguerite, however, would have none of it. I was at a loss what to do, how to please or help her. I put the soup on the nightstand within her reach and started to leave the room. She was weak and sounded congested, but still managed to cry out that I was a bad husband. And after all I had done for her. I couldn’t take it any longer and shouted, “Be quiet!” I went back to measure out her medicine, but she kept on, wheezing while she screamed out she was sorry she’d ever married me.

“I slammed the medicine on her bed table. She wailed, ‘Get out! I can’t stand you anymore.’ She choked. I rushed out of the room and heard her cry, ‘I want—I want to go home to my mother. And I will! I’ll shame you before the whole town.’

“I couldn’t leave fast enough. I wanted to throttle her, still that querulous tongue. At that point, I was afraid . . . afraid of what I might do.”

Edward stopped, swallowed. Celia took a deep breath; she had almost stopped breathing. Her eyes flickered to Mr. Chestley, but she could not tell from his expression how he was reacting.

Edward unclasped his hands before continuing. “I knew something had to be done to calm myself, to get back to a normal frame of mind, so I headed for the rear of the house. Get away and get outside was all I could think. Get to the woods.

“As I was going out the door I grabbed my bow and arrows. I knew I would need something to occupy my mind, to focus on something other than the hatred I felt for my wife. If I could concentrate on a target, aim an arrow, I hoped my equanimity would return.