The Soul of the Rose Read Free Page A

appetite. She inhaled deeply. The aroma of the roast, surrounded by tender garden carrots, pungent onions, and browned potatoes, wafted from the oven. Solid food, Mrs. Chestley had said. Comforting food, Mr. Chestley had replied.
    Celia put the finishing fold to the napkins. The lady of the house insisted they use the soft linen reserved for company. “To celebrate your first full week at the bookshop, my dear.” She added that anyone who got along with her lion of a husband deserved a reward—a fami ly joke, since Mr. Chestley was the most amiable and mild-mannered of men. Celia found him very similar to her father. In her estimation, though, her father spoke his mind more vigorously.
    Mrs. Chestley stepped up to Celia and put her arm around her shoulder. “You know, we’re glad to have you live with us. Are you feeling better after these last months?”
    Mrs. Chestley’s motherly gesture warmed Celia’s heart. “Yes, I am.”
    “Good. Then I’ll dish out the roast and vegetables onto our blue willowware. Won’t that look lovely?” As Mrs. Chestley reached for the large fork, she added, “Let’s call my husband. And turn up that lamp as well.”
    Mr. Chestley took his seat. “A feast for the eyes as well as the palate.” After savoring a few hearty mouthfuls, he caught his wife’s eye. “Celia did very well her first week. The front window display she arranged showed superior artistic talent, in my opinion. Then she adroitly handled a difficult customer. Now I can go back into my office and hole up whenever one darkens the shop door.”
    “Celia, that’s wonderful.” Mrs. Chestley beamed.
    “And, Mary, with such an able assistant, you and I should be able to take that day outing you’ve been longing for. In fact, I think before winter sets in, we should hire a buggy and see the colors. A little honeymoon, if you will.”
    Mrs. Chestley put down her fork, rose, and hugged Celia. “See, dear, you’ve already brought blessing into our home.”
    “Madam! You are supposed to embrace me . I am the person who arranged for this child to come and the one who proposed the fall outing.”
    “Of course, dear.” Mrs. Chestley dutifully slipped to his side of the table.
    What good fun, Celia thought, and sweet. She was glad, too, their attention was diverted from herself. After she’d damaged Mr. Lyons’s book, she felt she hardly deserved such goodwill.
    “Oh, Mary, I forgot to tell you, Mr. Lyons picked up his Tennyson tonight. He seemed rather pleased with it.”
    “I’m sure he was, the way you described its lovely red leather cover.”
    “I was also glad Celia could assist him. Didn’t you think he was pleased with the book, Celia?”
    At the mention of the Tennyson, Celia’s guilty thoughts rose in a flood.
    “I—I,” she floundered. Mr. Lyons had told her not to say anything. But she couldn’t—she just couldn’t. One hand tightly grasped the other in her lap. “I have something to tell you . . . I accidentally ripped a page of the Tennyson.”
    Mr. Chestley started from his chair. “What?”
    “Mr. Lyons said not to say anything, but I had to tell you.”
    Mr. Chestley sat very still. “How did it happen?”
    “I was reading the book underneath the counter. When he appeared suddenly, I startled and jerked, ripping the page.” Celia looked at him apprehensively.
    Mr. Chestley stared at her, as if he didn’t want to believe it.
    “I offered to send for a new book and pay for it myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
    Finally, he said, “I’ve heard he has an extensive library. And beautiful. He’s very particular what he includes in it. Are you sure he wasn’t upset?”
    “Well, he was at first, very much so. But when you came up and asked if anything was wrong, he suddenly changed.” Mr. Chestley’s eyebrow cocked. Celia could see he was puzzled and surprised. “What should I do? The book is damaged. And I don’t see how the page can be repaired.”
    Mr. Chestley sat some