Paper Roses (24 page)

Clay smiled as the reason for the locked door became apparent. “Don’t laugh, my boy. It’s not amusing.” The doctor’s protests, so like his own father’s when Mary had set her cap for him, made Clay laugh out loud.

Herman’s frown deepened. “When I asked her what she was doing, she told me she would need to find a new home when David married Sarah.”

Clay’s amusement faded. Herman was right. That was no laughing matter.

He was still not laughing that evening as he made his way to the garden. While they’d eaten supper, Thea had begged him to accompany them, and though Clay had declined, the memory of the little girl’s disappointment tugged at him. That was the reason—the only reason—why he found himself striding toward what Sarah called the secret garden.

“Papa Clay!” Thea shrieked with delight when he entered the small plot. “Me grow flowers! Look!”

Kneeling, Clay admired the tiny green sprouts that he suspected were weeds. “It appears to me that you two are enjoying digging in the dirt,” he said as he rose and approached Sarah. Unlike her sister, she was carefully mounding soil around a plant rather than wriggling her fingers through the dirt.

“It’s more than digging. We’re coaxing plants into blooming.” Sarah slid her trowel into the freshly turned soil. “I never realized how rewarding it could be to see seeds sprout.”

Clay looked around, amazed at the changes she’d wrought in only a few weeks. “You’ve done more than plant seeds.” She’d cleared the mesquite that had started encroaching on the flower beds, dug weeds, and pruned the rose bushes. He pointed toward the roses. “If they bloom, they’ll be pink.”

“Don’t touch, Papa Clay. Horns!” Thea inserted herself between Clay and the bush, apparently believing he needed protection.

He smiled at his young guardian. “I think you mean thorns.”

“That’s what me said. Torns.”

Sarah exchanged a conspiratorial smile with him. “I hope we get more than thorns. This is the first time I’ve worked with roses.”

“They’ll bloom.” Martina had told him that the bushes had been covered with flowers last year. “When they do, they’ll smell sweeter than paper.” Clay clenched his fists. Today was his day for saying stupid things. First he reminded Herman of his failing sight. Now he was raising memories of Austin and all that Sarah had lost.

Apparently unperturbed, Sarah said, “They may smell sweet, but I doubt they’ll make my heart sing the way Austin’s epistles do.” She dusted her hands before rising. “Your brother should have been a poet. Every time I read his letters, I feel he’s so close that I expect him to walk through the door.”

Clay felt as if someone had punched him in the solar plexus. Those letters. Those infernal letters. It was clear they meant far more to her than he and Austin had intended. They were supposed to be part of a courtship, not a shrine to something she’d never have.

Clay shifted, staring into the distance. What would Sarah do if she knew he’d been the one who’d authored those missives? Would she tell him he was a poet? He wasn’t. He was a doctor, a brother, and a man who’d poured his own longing onto paper. He was also a man who would never tell her the truth. He’d already made that decision.

“Have you thought any more about riding?” It was time to change the subject to something less painful.

But once again he failed. The blood drained from Sarah’s face as she said, “I’m a coward, Clay. Every time I think about getting on a horse, my stomach knots and my hands shake. I can’t do it.”

And he was a heel to have even suggested riding. Would he ever learn?

Today would be different, Sarah told herself. Today he would cooperate.

“Good afternoon, Pa.” Now that she was confident Clay would keep her sister safe, Sarah no longer watched while they rode. Instead, she spent the extra time with Clay’s father.

“How are you feeling?” Her question was greeted with a shrug. Though Sarah knew that Pa would speak to both Clay and Martina, he was careful not to utter a sound when she was in the room.

“Are you ready to beat me at chess?” As she’d hoped, he had proven capable of moving the pieces and seemed to enjoy their matches. “We’ll play as soon as we finish your exercises.” When Sarah reached for his right slipper, he shook his head. It was what she expected, the same reaction she got every day. Refusing to be discouraged, she began to massage Pa’s foot. “I know you don’t like this. I didn’t, either.” Stretching the muscles hurt. “You need to do this if you’re going to walk again. You do want to walk, don’t you?” He made no answer. “You can’t give up.”

But she was afraid he had and that once again she had failed.

10

The early June night was cool and clear, with hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of stars twinkling overhead. Sarah walked slowly, savoring the muted sounds of evening. The crickets’ chirping was slower now, the horses’ whinnying less frequent. It was a time for rest. Perhaps, if she was fortunate, she would find the answers she sought, and then she, too, would be able to rest.

There had to be a way to resolve the dilemma. Though the older children had left for the summer, Sarah’s class size had increased, for the parents had begun sending younger children to her, perhaps to keep them from being underfoot while their elders worked the crops. Pierre Berthoud was frustrated. She knew it, just as she knew that Anna Menger and Marie Seurrat suffered from the same malady. Those children learned quickly and yearned to attend classes every week. They could not, though, without facing their parents’ disapproval. Pierre had dared to enter the German church one day and had been soundly thrashed for disobeying his father. Anna and Marie hadn’t even tried. Recognizing their need, Sarah had given them assignments to work at home, but that wasn’t enough. The children needed daily coaching, and that was something Sarah could not provide. There simply were not enough hours in a day, for she needed time with Thea and would not give up the hour she spent with Pa, no matter how little she appeared to accomplish with him.

“I didn’t know you were a stargazer.”

Sarah stumbled slightly as she turned, startled by the sound of Clay’s voice. He’d moved so quietly that she hadn’t heard him approaching.

“They seem closer here than in Philadelphia.” That was only one of the many differences between her old and new homes.

Though there was no moon to light the night, Sarah saw Clay nod as he closed the distance between them. “The Texas sky is one of the few things I missed when I lived in Boston. When I was young, I used to lie on the ground and look at the constellations. I always wondered if there were people on those stars, staring in my direction.”

“I tried to count them.” Sarah smiled at the memory. Though, like Clay, she’d once lain on the grass to stargaze, today she was leaning on the corral fence. “Needless to say, I fell asleep before I got much past a hundred. Now I’ve given up counting them. I just look and admire. It may sound strange, but I find the sheer number of stars reassuring.” Sarah kept her eyes fixed on Clay. Somehow, though she couldn’t explain why, it was important that he understand. “When I realize how vast the universe is, my problems seem small, and sometimes being outside helps me solve them.” That was one of the reasons she’d ventured to the paddock tonight.

“What’s bothering you this time?”

Sarah was silent for a moment. She wouldn’t tell Clay how little progress she’d made helping his father, for he would only be angered by the knowledge that she’d ignored his request. She certainly wouldn’t tell him how often she worried about him and his desire for revenge, for he’d made it clear that nothing would sway him. “The school,” she said, voicing her other problem. “I hate seeing eager children being held back. It’s so unfair.”

“I agree. Austin and I were fortunate.” Clay’s lips curved upward, and Sarah heard the smile in his voice. “Even though she had no formal training, our mother was a good teacher.”

“Being in a classroom with other pupils is even better.”

Clay nodded. “Once again, I agree, but it doesn’t appear that that will happen in Ladreville, at least not with all the children.”

“The strange thing is that most of the parents don’t seem to object to their children playing together. The problem is using the churches.” A sudden gust of wind loosened one of the hairpins securing her chignon. As a lock blew free, Sarah reached behind her head to push the errant curl back in place.

As if in response, Clay tugged his hat brim. “What you need is a neutral location.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. Ladreville should have a school building that both groups helped build.”

“It’s not a bad idea, and the town has plenty of open land. That big lot on the riverside corner of Rhine and Hochstrasse would be ideal. I’d support you. Of course, what you really need is Michel’s support.”

And that, Sarah learned the next day, was something Michel was unwilling to provide.

“It’s a needless expense.” Ladreville’s mayor’s crossed arms underscored his disapproval.

“I beg to differ.” Sarah would not accept his refusal. Surely Michel would listen to reason. “Yes, there will be a cost to build it, but the school will be used for generations to come.”

His frown deepened. “I’m not worried about future generations. I’m concerned about what will happen next year when you marry and the town no longer has a teacher. The schoolhouse will sit empty, reminding everyone of the money they squandered.” Unspoken was the fact that the citizens might blame him.

“If that’s your only concern, you need not worry. I have no intention of marrying.”

“Bah!” The mayor fairly spat the word. “There are no secrets in this town. I am fully aware that two young men are interested in you. I can’t vouch for David Bramble, but you’d do well to accept my son’s offer.” Before Sarah could protest that no one had proposed marriage, Michel continued, “Jean-Michel is an upstanding young man who knows his duty. Unlike David, he would let you raise your sister in his home.”

Though Michel meant the words to be magnanimous, it was all Sarah could do to keep herself from shouting her outrage. How noble he made his son sound. Jean-Michel would permit her to raise Thea. Permit! As if she would even consider an offer of marriage given with so much condescension.

Sarah rose and left the mayor’s office with no more than a cursory good-bye, while inside she fumed. An upstanding young man. Duty. The word rankled. How could anyone consider Thea a duty? Sarah clenched her fists, then forced herself to relax them. One thing was certain: she would not marry Jean-Michel Ladre if he were the last man on earth. Thea deserved better than that. She deserved a man who’d care for her, who’d treat her like a father. She deserved a man like . . . Sarah paused as the image rose before her. Thea deserved a man like Clay.

He hadn’t counted on two other customers being there. Gunther cleared his throat as he entered the mercantile and saw them standing near the counter. Though he wanted nothing more than to vanish, he couldn’t leave without causing comment, and that was the last thing he needed. No one was supposed to know that he’d come here today and certainly not why.

“May I help you?”

Though his heart pounded with dread at the conversation that would follow, Gunther managed a smile for the petite brunette behind the counter. Isabelle Rousseau might be shorter than most women, but she made up for her lack of height with the warmth of her smile. A man always felt welcome in the mercantile when she was waiting on customers. That was why he’d come today, when he’d known she would be here. Gunther shook his head in response to her question. “These ladies came first.”

Five minutes later, when the two women had departed, not, Gunther noted, without sending half a dozen curious glances in his direction, he approached the counter.

Isabelle smiled again. “What can I get for you, Mr. Lehman?”

“I didn’t know where else to turn. My parents did everything the last time. You’re her friend. You’re a woman.” The words tumbled out in quick succession.

Her smile faded and her eyes darkened. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lehman, but you’re not making sense.”

How inept could one man be? Many had declared him the best miller in Alsace, and he hoped to become the finest in Texas. He knew his trade well, but it was obvious he was a complete failure where women were concerned. “
Dummkopf
.” As Isabelle flinched, Gunther let out a groan. He’d made yet another mistake. Was there no end to them? “My apologies, Miss Rousseau. I was speaking to myself. I’m the dumb one, not you.” She was, he knew, a smart woman and a pretty one. What he didn’t understand was why she wasn’t married, but that, Gunther reminded himself, was not his problem. It was his own marriage that concerned him.