The Soul of the Rose by Ruth Trippy Read Free Book Online

his neighbor’s property. What had his housekeeper said about his old mother-in-law sending things over with a boy? It’d be like her to send over a mischief-maker.
    He turned on his heel. After his marriage, the woman had been trouble from the start. The old screech owl. He should have heeded the inner prompting when he first heard her shriek at the household help. She had been quick to recover, and he never heard her speak in such a way again—until after he married.
    Why had he married Marguerite? She was beautiful. Snow-white complexion with dark, curly hair. He’d let her lovely features fool him into thinking her more than she was. And then how quickly he tired of her.
    Just days after the wedding, the rude awakening erupted. Marguerite wanted her way, and let him know it in no uncertain terms. She was her own mistress and there was her mother to back her up. Next door, no less.
    He jerked open the door to the greenhouse. After that, his marriage became one harsh jolt after another. He’d felt it to the depth of his soul.
    The faint smell of earth and luxuriant plant growth met him as he stepped inside, fragrance to his earth loving soul. He made his way between the plants to the new tea rose bushes at the back. The offending ball had bent one of the canes. He stooped for the ball, then rested the wounded branch over a thicker, stronger one.
    Ball in hand, he opened the kitchen door, but Mrs. Macon was nowhere in sight. Placing the ball on the counter, he was half a mind to march over to Mrs. Divers and demand an explanation, ask the identity of the boy. Do something.
    The other half told him he was in no frame of mind to see to her at the moment. He would undoubtedly say things he’d regret.
    He needed to regain his composure.
    Sitting down again at his desk, he took up the Plato. The book still had the pleasing smell of new leather. He felt its fine grain. Handling the book reminded him of that first night he saw it in the bookstore window.
    And the fair-haired woman inside.
    Instinctively he’d withdrawn from her—despite her beauty—or maybe because of it. He remembered feeling—fear? Or was it anger at having a stranger enter his world at the bookstore?
    But Miss Thatcher had proved herself different from the start. She hadn’t come seeking him in the store when he sat browsing through a few books. He remembered his relief at being left alone in peace. He sensed her respect for his maturity and learning.
    That first night, when she had ripped the page in his Tennyson, his blood was up. He was going to demand she order a new book. But then he saw in her eyes a look that brought him up short, a look that she understood. Oh, yes, there was chagrin, more than a little. But she also felt for him, aware of how it felt to have a treasure damaged . He’d never seen that in his wife. He wondered if he’d ever seen it in his mother. That spark of understanding had turned his intention, so when Mr. Chestley arrived on the scene, he found he couldn’t make the girl’s way harder. He wanted to make it easier, so he’d made an about-face.
    Still, her fingers had trembled wrapping his package. She had feared him a little, despite her brave words. But, after all, hadn’t he wanted to be feared—and left alone?
    His mind darted back to the previous evening. He could not say, even now, why he had spoken during the book discussion, in fact, beforehand had decided not to, though he knew Miss Thatcher would expect it. Was it Miss Thatcher and her introduction of the author that had stirred him? He had felt his interest awaken in discovering how Hawthorne’s early life had influenced his writing.
    So, late in the discussion he found himself speaking, impulsively entering the fray, if fray might describe so decorous a gathering. Only a few words. Yet for him, it had seemed a fray—so much had he kept to himself these last years. The town had all but ostracized him. But then, Mrs. Adams had caught him just as he was