The Rose of Winslow Street (19 page)

Then Michael stood and held the bottle of wine high. “To Uncle Constantine,” he said officiously. Only a few inches of wine remained in the bottle, but Libby's eyes widened as Michael proceeded to pour it all onto the grass.

Mirela leaned closer. “It is a Romanian custom to pour wine onto the ground for our deceased friends,” she explained. “I think our uncle would be pleased that we remembered him on this day.”

“I think your uncle would want us to uncork another bottle,” Joseph said with a grin. When Michael went to fetch another bottle of wine, Libby looked about her, memorizing the sound of the boys' laughter, the scent of freshly turned earth. She did not know how much longer she would be able to sustain these unlikely friendships, but she would treasure these memories. In the years to come, she knew she would often revisit this day.

The cake was awful, but after two glasses of wine and a splendid hour of sunlit laughter, no one seemed to mind its leathery texture.

“You must use either yeast or baking soda if the batter is to rise,” Libby said.

Understanding dawned in Mirela's eyes. “I saw the ingredient, but since it only called for a tablespoon I thought it was not so important. Next time I will know better!”

There were so many questions Libby longed to ask Mirela, but all were far too intrusive to ask a virtual stranger. The photograph of Mirela with the duke showed a young woman dressed in silks and dripping with pearls and diamonds. What could have caused her to turn her back on such a luxurious life to flee to an uncertain future in America? And, unlike the rest of her family, Mirela arrived with only the clothes on her back. Libby had seen trunks of clothing and supplies that belonged to the men, but Mirela seemed to have nothing of her own. Was it because there was nothing else she wanted? Was her life so terrible she literally wanted nothing to remind her of Romania?

Mirela sat in the grass and leaned against the trunk of the pear tree with Ivan lounging in her lap. The lazy cat soaked up Mirela's attention as she stroked his fur, but Libby could not help but look at the thin strips of gauze encircling the girl's wrists.

Mirela caught Libby's stare before she could glance away. Mirela's fingers stilled on Ivan's fur. “Does everyone in the town know what I tried to do?” she asked.

Her question was direct, and it would serve no good to lie to the girl. “I'm afraid so,” Libby said softly. She wanted to ask why Mirela had done it, what had caused her to believe her life was so horrible she could not endure even another day. Instead, she reached out to touch the back of Mirela's hand. “How are you feeling these days? Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Like a shot, Michael strode across the lawn in three tremendous strides and flung himself down on the grass beside them. The cat startled and scampered away, but Michael was brusque as he stretched out on his back, plopped his head in Mirela's lap, and looked up at his sister. “You don't have to answer any questions you don't want to,” he said bluntly.

Libby startled a bit at the implication she was prying, but Mirela was saying something to Michael in Romanian. A moment later she looked at Libby with apology in her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said. “I was telling Michael he does not need to be so terribly protective of me anymore. I learned a few weeks ago that my life will not turn out as I had hoped. It has been difficult for me to accept, but I am learning to be at peace with it.” Despite her words, Mirela's face was troubled.

Libby looked at the simple cotton dress Mirela wore. It was one of Libby's old gowns that still had some paint smears on the skirt from a brief period when she'd dabbled in oil painting. It must feel odd to go from living in a palace and wearing silk to living in a house on Winslow Street and wearing secondhand clothing. Was this what Mirela was referring to when she suggested her life was not turning out as planned? Or was there something darker in Mirela's past?

Michael stayed sprawled on the lawn, but he rolled his head so he could look at her. “Now that you know we are not gypsies or vagabonds, surely you must have some questions.”

She had plenty, but most of them were still terribly intrusive. Still, he had invited her question and perhaps she would never have a better opportunity than this very moment. “So you two are brother and sister . . .” she began cautiously.

“Half brother,” Mirela corrected.

What was the proper protocol to ask about a duke's mistress in front of his legitimate daughter? And yet Mirela seemed to idolize Michael, so surely she could not be too sensitive about the topic.

“Who was your mother?” she asked Michael cautiously.

Michael did not seem to be the least bit offended as he rolled away from Mirela and propped his head on his elbow to see Libby better. “My mother's family kept goats on land owned by my father, the duke. Her job was to milk the goats, and over time she learned to make goat cheese. People came from miles away to buy that cheese. My father, who was single at the time, saw her and struck up a . . . well, a friendship, I suppose you could say.” He swiveled his eyes to look at Mirela and grinned. “No one wishes to know what their parents did behind the haystack, and I am no different in this.” Mirela covered her mouth to smother laughter and blushed. She even blushed gorgeously.

Michael turned his attention back to Libby. “In any event, they carried on for a number of years, and I came along during that time. My father acknowledged me and made sure I wanted for nothing. Of course, there was no talk of marriage. A duke does not marry the daughter of a goat farmer.” Michael rolled to a sitting position. Libby clasped her hands together in an effort to avoid the temptation to reach out and brush the strands of grass from the back of his shirt.

A shout from across the yard interrupted her thought. A stream of Romanian chatter came from both boys as they gestured toward Mirela. She laughed and scampered off to join them.

Michael looked at her. “My boys wish Mirela to judge their handstands. This is one of the few areas in which Luke surpasses Andrei, and he is anxious to show her.” Michael plucked a strand of grass and began idly chewing on it. “Anyway, my father eventually married the duchess,” he continued. “She was the youngest daughter of a German prince and gave birth to first Enric and then Mirela. By then my father had become a Christian, and I do not believe he was ever unfaithful to the duchess. His fascination with my mother had cooled, but he made sure I was provided for and received an excellent education. At heart, my father was a botanist and loved working in his rose and jasmine fields. I shared that passion and he taught me most of what I know about growing flowers for the perfume industry. He was a good man, Libby.”

The way he said it revealed a touch of defensiveness, as though it was very important for her not to think unfavorably of his father.

Still, it seemed odd to her that the stern-faced man in the portrait, the man who looked like he could be emperor of the universe, could have fallen for the daughter of a goat farmer. What sort of woman was Michael's mother?

“When I saw your birth certificate in the courtroom,” she began cautiously, “I noticed that your father signed it with a big lordly signature that took up half the page. But your mother signed with an X.”

There was a long silence as Michael stared at her. “That is correct,” he finally said.

She swallowed, knowing there was no graceful way to ask her next question, but she desperately wanted to know. “Could your mother read and write?”

He turned away from her and plucked another blade of grass, rolling it between his big fingers as he stared at his sons demonstrating their handstands for Mirela. “Would you think less of her if she could not?”

Libby dropped her chin. She thought less of
herself
for her inability to read, but oddly, she did not feel the same for the goat farmer's daughter. Such a girl probably had no chance to attend school, which was a very different story from a girl who had the help of tutors, teachers, and even the town librarian. “No,” Libby said honestly. “I suppose there may be any number of reasons someone may not learn to read.”

Michael nodded. “There was a school in the village, but it was several miles from where my mother lived. Also, I don't think my grandfather could spare her. She was his only child and there was much work to be done, so my mother never went to school.” He dropped the blade of grass and turned to her, and his next question shocked her.

“Can you read?” he asked.

She caught her breath and her eyes flew to his. “Why do you ask that?”

“It is none of my business, but today I noticed when Mirela showed you the cake recipe and asked what she did wrong, you did not even glance at it. And I remember you would not read the list of food items I needed at the market, but asked me to read them to you. I often read such things for my mother, and always she had a very good memory of everything I said to her. I noticed you have this same quality.”

He was looking at her with curiosity, but not judgment. She looked away and straightened her skirts. “Of course I can read,” she said. Because she could pick out a few words if she was given enough time to process the information, it was not precisely a lie, but she couldn't tell him the full truth. She could not bear to see his warm admiration wither into pity or scorn.

She straightened. There was only one thing on the planet that would truly impress this man, and she had the power to deliver it. “How would you like to see a stand of red juniper trees?”

His face transformed. Hope surged into his eyes as he leaned toward her. “You have remembered where they are?”

“I know exactly where they are. They are down in the DeRooy valley. I can take you to them today, if you'd like.”

Michael sprang to his feet, then she gasped when he swung her up into his arms and whirled her in a circle. Her feet went flying out behind her and she clung to his neck as the yard spun around her. Michael kept spinning her in a circle as peals of laughter sounded from his strong throat. She was breathless by the time her feet landed on the ground, her head still whirling so badly she dared not let go of him lest she fall. Both Luke and Andrei had come running.

“Can I go for a ride too, Papa?” Luke asked, crowding in front of her to get a handhold on Michael.

“Yes, you can go for a ride, Luke.” Michael squatted and wrapped his big hands around Luke's hips, then tossed the boy high into the air. Luke squealed with delight, and soon Andrei was clamoring for a ride as well. When Libby's head ceased spinning, she saw that Mirela had drawn near, curiosity brimming in her eyes.

“Michael is excited over some trees I found for him,” Libby said modestly, but Mirela grabbed her arm.

“You found him the red juniper tree?” she asked.

Libby startled. “Does the whole family know about his search?”

“Oh heavens, yes!” Excitement brimmed from Mirela's eyes. “We can't sell our perfume unless we can get some resin. Michael's jasmine oil is in danger of going bad if he can't get that resin very soon.”

“I see,” she said. She didn't, but it hardly seemed to matter. Michael was clapping Turk and Joseph on the back, and then he turned back to her.

“When can we go?”

“It is about an hour's walk,” Libby said. She glanced at the sun, already starting to edge toward the west. “It is a little late today, but I can meet you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow!” Michael said.

Then she realized it would be difficult to sneak out of the house so surreptitiously again. “Meet me at the abandoned barn on Storybrook Lane,” she said. “From there it is another forty minutes or so down into the valley.”

They agreed on a time and Libby sat down beside Turk and Joseph to watch Michael wrestle with the boys. Had ever a man adored his children more than Michael? It was yet another facet of his personality that drew her to him.

Her father had been correct in his assessment that Michael Dobrescu was a dangerous man, for she was becoming hopelessly ensnared in his web.

L
ibby's father and Mr. Auckland were drinking lemonade on the front porch of Jasper's house when she returned. Spiked lemonade, given their jovial mood.

“Have you had a good day, Libby?” her father asked in rare good humor as she mounted the front steps.

Spending the day with a group of Romanian immigrants celebrating their first Independence Day had resulted in the most delightful day of her life, but she merely smiled. “I did a bit of scouting about for new specimens to paint.” Which was not a complete lie, since the ivy clinging to the cemetery walls was rolled into her canvas sack.

With a casual flick of his toe, her father tilted a porch chair toward her and gestured for her to sit. “My daughter, the brilliant artist,” he said with a wide smile and no trace of scorn. “As soon as we are back home, we must display a few of your paintings. They are sheer poetry of watercolor and artistry.”

Now I know he has been drinking
, Libby thought. Never had her father suggested that any of her paintings were worthy of display, but he lauded her work for several moments before pressing a glass of lemonade into her hands and raised a toast.

“To American independence, good friends, and excellent lawyers,” he said with a hearty laugh. To Libby's surprise, the lemonade was not spiked. The sweet, cool liquid was refreshing as she swallowed and relaxed back into her chair.

Actually, her father had been in much better spirits for days now. He had resumed work on the portable combustion engine and even asked Libby to draw a cutaway diagram of the new fuel circuit. Last night, when Tillie spilled a glass of juice on the professor's notes, Libby was prepared to sweep Tillie to the safety of her room, but her father had simply laughed. “Not to worry,” he said as he smiled down at Tillie. “I've got it all up here,” he said as he tapped the side of his forehead.

“Jeremiah, what do you say we send for Jasper and Regina and start a game of croquet?” her father asked Mr. Auckland. “Even with Regina's miraculous skills, I have a feeling I am on a lucky streak and today may be our day to finally beat them.”

Mr. Auckland shook his head. “Perhaps Libby can be your teammate. My wife will have my head if I don't get back soon.”

Her father's gaze swiveled to her. “What do you say, Liberty-bell? Are you game?” It had been years since her father had used that affectionate nickname, and it cut through her defenses like a hot knife through butter. Besides, she loved a good game of croquet.

“I'm game,” she said.

Never would she forget the look of blessed relief on Michael's face when he first gazed upon the cluster of red juniper trees clinging to the side of the valley slope. “Thank you,” he murmured reverently. And then he surprised her when he made the sign of a cross and knelt down on one knee. He lowered his head and spoke quietly in Romanian. After a few moments, he stood and looked at her.

“I thank you as well, but I needed to thank the Lord. I must never take these blessings for granted.” She was oddly touched that he felt comfortable enough in her presence to utter a prayer. Michael was still staring at the trees like a man struck dumb in wonder, and he reached out to clasp Libby's hand in his warm, solid grip. When she returned his squeeze, it was as though they were connected in an enchanted moment. “You have no idea what this means to me and my family,” he said in a voice that was shaking with emotion.

It was true, she didn't. He had said something about needing the resin to make perfume, but that hardly seemed to warrant this sort of dazed wonderment.

“Do you know who owns this land?” he asked as he made his way down the steep side of the bank to get closer to the trees.

Libby hoisted her skirts as she followed him down the embankment. “I don't think anyone owns it. It is too steep for farming or grazing.”

Michael reached through the dense screen of pine needles and rubbed his fingers into some sap leaking from the trunk of the tree. He straightened and brought his fingers to his nose, and if possible, his smile grew even broader.

“No scent,” he said. “You want to smell?”

Libby really didn't care, but the eagerness with which he extended those sticky fingers to her made it impossible to resist. She leaned in a little closer and held his wrist as she drew her fingers to her nose. “I can't smell anything.”

“Of course not,” Michael said with pride. “These are fine red junipers, so the sap has no scent. Tomorrow I will find out for sure who owns this land and how I can tap these trees. As soon as I have the resin, I can begin blending perfume.”

She followed in his footsteps as he climbed back up the steep side of the valley. Was there ever a bigger contradiction than Michael Dobrescu? The man looked like Hercules, but all it took to make him positively giddy was to begin discussing perfume. He was thrilled to explain the difference between top note and middle note compounds. “Did you know that smell is the only sense that is fully developed at birth?” Michael asked her as they crossed Mr. Richter's cranberry field. He was full of these odd bits of trivia. The scented oil of the iris plant was harvested from the root, not the flower; rose oil came only from the petals, but the entire lavender plant could be used to make oil.

“Marie's favorite scent was lavender,” Michael said. “It was hard for us to compete with the French in lavender, but she was determined to try. Her first harvest was a disaster. It had almost no scent, but she kept cutting more chalk into the soil, and by her third year . . . well! That lavender would put even the Frenchies to shame!” Michael stopped so abruptly she almost slammed into him, but he did not notice. He closed his eyes and a little half smile played about his mouth. “It had a sweeter scent than most lavender, with just a hint of grass beneath the floral scent. Even when it was dried, that gentle hint of green came through and made it unique. Marie did well with that lavender.”

There was that niggling bit of jealousy, roused every time she thought of the woman who had shared Michael's life and borne him two fine children. Apparently, she also appealed to his sense of smell by producing the world's best lavender. The path to most men's hearts was through their stomachs, but not Michael Dobrescu. Marie had figured out the way to charm him through his nose.

Always when he spoke of Marie, he said her name with fondness. And why shouldn't he? He had married the woman, so surely he must have cared for her. Probably loved her. Libby started walking again and was relieved when Michael roused himself from his reveries to follow her.

“Was she pretty?” The question popped out of Libby's mouth before she could call it back.

Michael swiveled his head to look at her, but he did not break his stride. Only the sound of their boots slicing through the underbrush cut the silence, although she could see a hint of a smile on his mouth. Finally, he spoke.

“Let me just say that if Marie and I had had a daughter, it would have been better for the girl to look like me.” Libby's eyes widened in surprise. Michael was a handsome man, but heaven help any girl who looked like him.

Michael laughed at her expression. “You must understand. My father picked Marie for me to wed. She was the daughter of a very rich shipping merchant, but had trouble finding a husband despite her father's money. My father wanted the shipping connections, and Marie's father wanted access to the duke's influence. My father and I rode to Bucharest so I could meet her.”

Libby kept her gaze trained on Michael as she walked beside him through the knee-high cranberry bushes. The idea of an arranged marriage seemed so antiquated, but Michael spoke of it as though it were commonplace.

“I am embarrassed to admit that the first time I saw Marie, I was disappointed. I had already resolved that I would consent to the match because it made excellent sense, but when I saw Marie . . . well, I could understand why the men of Bucharest were not pounding down the door to get to her,” he said with a good-natured smile. “Her father allowed me to take Marie for a walk in his garden so we could get to know each other, and it did not take long to recognize her appeal. She was a big, strong woman with a heart to match. I knew within the hour that we would get along just fine. Other men dismissed Marie because of her looks, but I was lucky. Over time, I came to see her beauty because she was such a good woman,” he said simply.

Now Libby was embarrassed at the rush of relief she had felt when she learned Marie was homely. For Michael to think so highly of a woman, she must have been very admirable.

Michael pointed to a slab of granite that angled up from the ground to form a natural ledge. “Let us sit and have a bit of a rest,” he said in a solemn tone. Never before in all their tromping through the wilderness had he needed to stop for a rest, nor had she been in need of one. But he seemed serious, and curiosity led her to the granite slab. It was too tall for her to sit on, but Michael's hands effortlessly spanned her waist and lifted her into place. With one hand braced against the rock, Michael turned to peer out across the length of the cranberry field. The low, bushy vines were in full flower, carpeting the field with pink blossoms that would soon begin forming tight little berries. The same breeze raking across the rippling cranberry bushes ruffled Michael's hair, and she had to clasp her hands together to stop from impulsively reaching up to comb through the long strands.

“Well, Libby, I have been thinking about our problem,” he finally said. “My boys enjoy your visits, and ever since I met you I have trouble getting the thought of your smile out of my head.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth went dry. He looked distinctly uncomfortable as he stared across the field, but he wasn't finished speaking and Libby would not stop him for all the gold in the world. “I have always thought you very pretty. A man would be blind not to think so, but when you smile! Well, your smile fills half of your face, and it makes the other half beautiful.”

Libby was struck speechless. Had he been suffering from the same irrational infatuation she had been battling these past six weeks? A sense of joy started to bloom inside and she beamed a smile directly at him.

“Don't show it to me!” he said with a nervous laugh and turned away from her. “Your smile will distract me, and this is serious business I wish to discuss.” He shifted his weight and stared off into the distance again. “You have a love of the outdoors and for plants, just as I have. You get along well with my children and it is obvious to anyone that you would be an excellent mother. I think we would be a good match. Perhaps you would consider marrying me?”

And finally he turned around to face her. If she'd not been sitting on the rock she would have collapsed into a puddle of jelly at his feet. His handsome face was drawn and serious as he looked at her, and the thought of being able to live within the shelter of this man's protection for the rest of her days was beyond her dreams. She wanted to fling herself into his arms. She wanted to shout to everyone in Colden that this audacious man whose heart was as wide and deep as the Atlantic Ocean wanted to make her his wife.

Instead, she bit her lip and thought rationally. Her hands were trembling and she clasped them together so he would not notice. “It is not because of the house, is it?” He looked confused, as if he didn't understand her question.

“The lawsuit over the house,” she clarified. “You aren't marrying me just to get to my house, are you?” She bit back the nervous laughter that threatened to spill over, feeling embarrassed to even ask such a question, but she needed his reassurance about this.

“Well, yes,” he said. “If we got married, it would solve a lot of problems, don't you think?”

She felt like he had slapped her. With a shove she leapt down from the rock, whirling away to hide the crushing disappointment in her face. What an
idiot
she was! She clenched her teeth and felt the blood pounding in her ears as she strode through the field. Michael came up behind her, but she did not pause.