The Rose of Winslow Street (30 page)

L
ate August was cool in the mountains of Kentucky. As their wagon jostled over the badly rutted mountain passes, it was clear to Michael why the Romanian sisters would have been attracted to this area. The terrain and forests were astonishingly reminiscent of what they would have known in the Carpathian Mountains. Despite Mirela's meticulous scrutiny of Mother Alma's letters, she knew very little about the nuns. The letters were written almost thirty years ago by a woman living in Romania and in vastly different circumstances. What had become of her? How did they earn a living in this rural wilderness? And would Mirela truly be happy living out here after the rest of the family returned to New England? With each mile, Michael grew more concerned about the distance that would separate him from Mirela.

Aside from the one-week interlude in New York, travel by train had allowed them to make good time in their journey until they reached West Virginia. There were no train routes that took them into the rural mountain area where they needed to go, so Michael bought a cart and team of horses to continue onward toward Kentucky. His children were learning to sleep under the stars, which was certainly a good manly skill to have.

Mirela was joyful. Never did she complain about sleeping outdoors or bathing in the frigid mountain streams or the rigors of their journey. To spare the horses, all of them walked alongside the wagon. He had feared her health would not be hearty enough for the daily strain, but Mirela was thriving, her skin taking on a healthy glow and her spirits high. Each day she studied the map and tried to figure out how much farther they were on their journey. Sometimes they went days without encountering a town or farm, so it was difficult to track their progress, but Michael believed they would reach the convent early that evening. The hunter they encountered two days ago told them to travel to the top of the ridge, approximately twenty miles, and then they would see the convent nestled in the valley below.

It was hard to tell precisely when they scaled the ridge, but it seemed they had been descending for at least a mile. The dense screen of the birch and maple trees prevented them from seeing more than a mile or so ahead, but the hunter had told them to expect a break in the trees and then they would have a clear view of the valley.

As the trees thinned, Mirela sensed they were getting closer. “I can't wait any longer. I need to run ahead . . . do you want to come?” she asked him.

They had left their home in Romania fourteen months ago. After heartache, sacrifice, and the physical rigors of the past month, Mirela was finally on the verge of discovering what she had been seeking all along. Not for all the gold in the world would he miss this moment. He passed the reins of the horse to Joseph.

“Let's go,” he said. Mirela was off and running before he had even finished speaking. “Don't twist an ankle!” he called ahead to her.

Mirela cast a glance over her shoulder. “Don't be a fussy old woman!” she taunted, her laughter echoing across the mountainside as she scrambled down the gently sloping land. How many years had it been since he had heard Mirela laugh like that? Sunlight broke through the canopy of leaves, creating sunny patches where wild blueberries thrived. Mirela did not stop to look, she just kept scampering down the hillside. As they rounded a great outcropping of basalt rock, the valley spread out below them. Michael caught his breath and Mirela was speechless with wonder.

It looked like Eden. The immense sweep of the valley was dotted with farms and bisected with patches of forest. A lapis-blue lake glistened in the sunlight, and tucked beside a wide stream was a cluster of buildings surrounding a small chapel. The convent they had come so far to find lay before them.

“I am home,” Mirela murmured.

Michael savored the moment, hoping that Mirela would find the answer to her prayers here. It looked like paradise, the land brimming with health and abundance. Large fields under cultivation surrounded the convent, and the buildings looked well constructed and maintained.

But when he looked closer at the fields, his eyes widened in disbelief and a wall of despair crashed into him. The strength left his legs and he sank onto his knees. It was not possible this could be happening, but when he refocused on the convent, his fears were confirmed. He swallowed hard, wondering what Mirela would do when she realized what lay ahead of them; surrounding the convent, in hundreds of acres of beautifully cultivated aisles, were rose fields.

The nuns supported themselves by growing roses.

“Should we wait for the others to catch up or can we run down now?” Mirela asked, her voice trembling with excitement. She shifted in a little dance and tweaked his ear.

Was there no end to the disappointments that Mirela must suffer? If it were possible, Michael would pick her up in his arms and carry her away, shelter her from the sight of what awaited her below. He wanted to wrap her in cotton and shield her from anything that would dim the sparkle in her eyes.

“What is the matter?” She cocked her head at an odd angle. “Michael? Why are you looking like you just swallowed a frog?”

There was no way he could protect her, no way he could divert the pain that was about to come hurtling straight toward her. “Look at the fields, Mirela. Look closely.”

She paused at the gravity of his tone, then turned to look down at the convent. He could tell the moment she understood what she was looking at because the color left her face and the breath left her body. She swayed a bit as she stared down at the rose fields. He stepped to her side, bracing her.

“I see,” she said in a shaking breath.

He put his arm around her shoulders, hugging her tightly to his side. “What do you want to do?” he asked. She said nothing, just stared down at those rose fields as her breaths came in shallow little rasps. Despite the heat of the afternoon, her hands felt clammy. Behind them came the lumbering creaks of the wagon as it wended its way down the bumpy path. Turk and the others would be there shortly, but still Mirela stared down at the fields, her face inscrutable.

“You don't need to decide now,” he said. “We can camp out for a few days while you think about things.”

Mirela's stare was fixated on the rose fields, but she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head. She shrugged out of his arms and took a few steps closer to the valley, her eyes taking on a glint of determination as she stared down at the fields. When she set her jaw like that, she reminded him of their father when he looked his most imperious. She took a deep breath and raised her chin a notch.

“I am a Dobrescu,” Mirela said with resolve. “For hundreds of years we have grown the finest roses in Europe. It is in every drop of my blood. Now, I am meant to help the sisters grow the best roses in America.”

He caught his breath. Mirela's voice was unflinching and full of confidence, but he was haunted by the sounds of her screams shattering the night. They were over a mile away from the convent and the scent of the roses did not reach them there. He would need to watch her carefully once they drew closer.

Michael didn't believe her.

Skepticism radiated from him as they descended the hill and strode toward the rose fields, but Mirela refused to slow her pace or flinch from what lay before her. What had happened in Romania was her past. This convent, with its rough-hewn walls and simple chapel and miles of rose fields, was her future.

The ringing of a bell pealed across the valley and a handful of women laboring among the roses set aside their work and returned to the convent building. It was probably suppertime.
All to the good,
Mirela thought.
It will give me a chance to walk among the roses in privacy.
Turk and the others waited in the wagon at the top of the ridge while she headed straight for the rose fields.

Each breath of air was a little more foul as she drew closer to the fields. Combined with the heat, it made her dizzy and nauseous.

“Are you sure, Mirela?” Michael asked.

She did not even break her stride to glance his way. She clenched her teeth and forced herself to breathe through her nose and experience every bit of the odor. They had reached the rich soil of the bottomland and she trekked forward.

This wasn't going to be easy.

A hedge of yew shrubs served as a windbreak along the border of the rose fields. Mirela pushed through the dense shrubbery, ignoring the scratchy leaves scraping against her skin and snagging on her clothing. She pressed forward into the fields, Michael less than a yard behind. How badly she wanted to hide behind him, to flee back through that hedge of yew shrubs and up the hill, where Turk was waiting with the wagon. She wanted to run to someplace where the air didn't stink and she could hide from every dark memory.

She strode forward, focusing on the rich vermilion shade of the blooming roses. “This is the same strain of Gallica roses we grew at home,” she said in a flat voice. The scent was foul and polluted her brain. It triggered the memory of other smells, of sweat and horses and filth, but her hand was gentle as she reached out to finger one of the velvety petals. This particular variety of Gallica rose emitted a particularly strong scent that was ideal for perfume.

“Uncle Constantine probably supplied Mother Alma with the rootstock,” Michael said.

“He did. She thanked him for them in one of her letters,” Mirela said, proud that she was able to keep her voice from trembling. She was doing well—perhaps even well enough to fool Michael.

If only the nuns had grown a different variety of roses it might have been easier for her to cope with these awful smells, but the stench was identical to that of the fields of Vlaska. Even the cushiony layer of yew needles they used for mulch was what they had used back home.

Could she possibly live here? Or was the scent she once loved about to destroy the brightest dream she had ever had?

Her hands curled into fists. It was intolerable that she would allow three terrible days to define the rest of her life.

Mirela closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe deeply and endure the smell. She would push past the dark memories. If this dream was going to happen, it was necessary to do this. She reached further back to the memories of the sunlit days of her childhood, when she sat atop Papa's shoulders as he strode through the rose fields. From that lofty height she could see for miles. She always felt like a princess as she rode on her father's shoulders when he surveyed his fields.

Some of Mirela's earliest memories were of playing in the rose fields with Michael. He was a young man of sixteen when she was born, but he always had time for his baby sister. When they played hide-and-seek, she thought herself so clever by sliding into the empty wooden frames that were used to dry rose petals in the barn. Even empty, the frames carried the scent of roses. When Michael came into the barn searching for her, he always wondered aloud where his baby sister was hiding. It was impossible to stay concealed when he sounded so bewildered, and when Mirela burst free of the trays, Michael always pretended great surprise. How she loved it when he praised her cleverness.

Those wonderful memories were saturated with the scent of roses, and they would be her salvation. No longer would three terrible days decide her fate. She would choose to remember what it felt like to be a princess riding on her father's shoulders. Or playing with her adoring older brother. As she learned to work with these roses, she would emulate Michael's clinical approach to fragrance as he blended his perfume. She was a Dobrescu, and it was time to start acting like one.

A fierce smile lit her face. “Let's go,” she said, and hiked her skirts to rush down the wide aisle. Michael was following, growling like a worried bear, but what else was new? She was surrounded by beauty and was going to learn to love it once again.

At the end of the aisle, a rutted path bisected the field. The roses were different on the other side of the path. She stopped and stared at the dusky pink blooms. “It looks like they have Provence roses in the neighboring fields,” she said to Michael.