Page 10 of The Pursuit of Elena Bradford

10

“I apologize,” Andrew said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He shouldn’t have said anything at all but simply moved away without her ever knowing he was there. And then to quote a Bible verse as though he was some kind of preacher. He wasn’t that, but the verse had spilled out because that was often the first thing his grandfather said each morning. Especially on a morning when the sun was coming up after being heralded by a blush of pink across the eastern horizon.

When his grandfather said it, Andrew always felt the sun shine a little brighter. But that was before Gloria. He wondered if he’d ever quoted the verse to her. Surely he had, but he couldn’t remember doing so. Perhaps he had never been with her as the first rays of sun spread light into the world. She was not an early riser. Said sunrises were for roosters and maids. They shared more evening moments before she decided to share her moments with someone else.

He shook away the thought. He needed to stop dwelling on Gloria.

“What a lovely thought to begin the day.” Elena Bradford smiled but didn’t look particularly glad to see him.

“Forgive me for intruding on your solitude.”

“Don’t concern yourself. The gardens are for everyone.” She kept her smile but tilted her drawing away from him. “Were you hoping for solitude yourself in the beauty of the morning?”

“Not at all. Just out for an early walk. I generally awaken early since back on my grandfather’s farm, I need to be up at daylight to help exercise the horses.” He stepped a little closer to her.

“That sounds interesting.” She hesitated a moment before she scooted over on the bench. “Would you like to sit a moment?”

He wasn’t sure if she wanted him to stay or wished he would go. But what did he want? He was surprised to realize he wasn’t anxious to walk away. He wanted to sit on the bench beside her and enjoy the rising of the sun.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Please, sit. The beauty of the day is something to share.” After she closed her sketchbook, she gathered her skirt to the side to give him more room. “And as you said, to rejoice in. Although I suppose that verse indicates one should rejoice in every day whether there is sunshine or clouds.”

“My grandfather often quotes that verse in the morning. When I was younger, I sometimes wanted to put a pillow over my head in hopes he would go away.”

That made her laugh. A nice laugh. They had danced together every evening, but while they talked easily as they circled the floor, she had never laughed. He had the feeling that while her sister bubbled over with merriment, this sister was less free with her unpracticed smiles and laughter.

“I’m sure I used to be the same, but now I like being up early,” she said. “And here, it seems a shame not to enjoy every moment of the day.”

“You are a guest after Dr. Graham’s heart. He doesn’t believe in wasting a moment of life. My grandfather has plenty of stories to tell about the things the man has done. One, building the Springs here into such a remarkable place to take the waters that people come from everywhere.”

“Where are you from, Mr. Harper, if I may be so bold to ask?”

“Not far. Bourbon County.”

“Is that where you work with horses?”

“Yes.” He answered without elaboration since he wasn’t sure if she was genuinely interested or only being polite.

“I have two younger brothers who love horses. They have been begging my father to buy them one for several years.” Her smile stiffened. “Poor boys have little hope of getting that horse now. Not that we had any property to keep a horse anyway, with only a yard and a rose garden.”

He remembered they had been wearing black on the stagecoach because of her father’s death. “I can attest that a horse can make it hard on roses. One of my grandfather’s horses found a gate accidentally left open and made short work of one of our prettiest rosebushes.”

“You like roses?” Her face lit up with sincere interest now.

“Who doesn’t like roses? Especially those as beautiful as the Lady Banks here.” He nodded toward the yellow roses. “It seems to capture the sunlight in its petals.” He stood and clipped off a rose for her. “I don’t think the bush will mind sharing a bloom with you.”

“Lady Banks,” she murmured as she sniffed the rose’s light fragrance. “I didn’t know roses had names like that. My father loved planting them, but he generally said he had a red one or a yellow one. He often got starts from neighbors or from someone he met at the bank where he worked.”

“Red, yellow, pink can describe them well.” Andrew smiled and sat back down. “Grandfather Scott takes pride in his roses. He planted a garden in memory of my grandmother many years ago. I only have the vaguest memory of her, but Grandfather finds a new rose variety to add to the garden each year to mark her birthday. He says he likes to imagine the roses’ fragrance wafting up to heaven to let her know he has never forgotten their love.”

“How romantic. My father loved gifting my mother with a rose from his gardens, and I—” She stopped as if she had almost said something she might wish unsaid. She went on. “And I admired them all.”

“But you were about to say something else, weren’t you?” He peered toward the book she had overturned in her lap. “That you like to draw them and that’s what brought you out here so early this morning?”

“That is one of the reasons.”

“Are there more?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to know exactly why we choose to do this instead of that.” She shrugged. “A momentary impulse to steal a few moments alone before the busyness of the day. A pause to think or not to think.”

“And then someone bumbles along to spoil that.”

“No, no.” She touched his arm. “I had my alone moments. It’s good now to have someone here to share the day’s beautiful beginning. Your grandfather’s verse has me paying more notice of that gift.”

Could he say the same? How many weeks and months had slid by without him seeing beauty in anything? Maybe she was right. It could be time for him to pause and not think of his wounded heart but only of the current moment. And the pleasure of sharing that with the lady beside him.

“That would make my grandfather glad,” he said.

They both fell silent as sunlight spread around them. As if on cue, a black swallowtail butterfly fluttered around the roses.

After a moment, she spoke not much above a whisper. “Would you like to see my sketch?”

Her cheeks were flushed and her fingers trembled slightly as she held the square book in her lap. A few strands of hair were loose around her face. Her gaze skittered from him to the roses and then to her hands on the sketchbook.

When he didn’t answer right away, she went on. “Oh dear, I’ve put you in the awkward position of not knowing whether to say you do or don’t. You are probably thinking that you won’t have the words if you see the sketch and think it’s horrid. I shouldn’t have asked.” She started to gather up her pencils.

“Wait.” Now he touched her arm. “I would like to see what you’ve drawn. I can’t imagine it being horrid.”

“But you don’t know. It might be. It’s not perfect. Far from it.” She didn’t open her book to reveal the drawing. “I don’t know why I even thought you would want to see it. Mere dabbling.” Those last words looked as if they were sour in her mouth.

“Hardly anything is ever perfect, but I would like to see your work.”

She looked straight at him then as if to judge if he were being truthful or perhaps if she could trust him. He didn’t look away but met her gaze. He hadn’t given her looks much thought when he first saw her on the stagecoach. He had noted the younger sister was very pretty with a charming innocence. This sister, Elena, was not pretty in that way, but as he looked into the depths of her striking eyes, he wanted to know more about her.

Elena studied the man’s face. He did look not only kind but honestly interested in what he had called her work . Had she ever even used that word herself? She said her art , which had seemed to be claiming too much. But work? That was what an artist like Kirby Frazier did.

She had no idea why she had offered to show him her sketch. She hadn’t even given the sketch an assessing look herself. And now the idea of revealing her drawing seemed something like revealing her heart.

She should stand up, tuck her sketchbook under her arm, and go back to her room. She should, but at the same time, she realized she did want to know what he might say about the roses she had drawn. Still, she hesitated.

“It’s just that I’ve never shown my drawings to anyone other than my parents. Oh, and my sister. But of course, Ivy likes everything. My father was somewhat the same and so full of praise that I felt most of his comments about my paintings or sketches were shaded by his love for me.”

“And your mother?”

“Mother thinks my drawings are lines on paper that are a waste of time.”

“But what do you think?”

“I don’t know if anyone can look at their own efforts with an unbiased eye. You want it to be good, but Mother is right. Even if the sketches are capable, what good are they? What profit?”

“The profit might be in how you feel or how others might feel if you shared the sketches. I think our stagecoach hero, Mr. Frazier, has made those he has sketched happy with their likenesses.”

“That’s his purpose as he wants his subjects ready to reward him with coin for a favorable portrait.” She looked from Mr. Harper’s face back at the roses. “I don’t think these roses care whether I have drawn them well or not.”

The swallowtail butterfly landed on first one bloom then another, and Elena’s fingers itched to take up her pencil to add it to her sketch. She stared at it to memorize its beauty. She could add it later.

Now she needed to open up her sketchbook to her drawing and end this embarrassing situation for both Mr. Harper and her. What difference would it make what he might say? She hardly knew him and in a few more weeks, after they left this place, might never see him again. She would be headed down the path her mother chose for her, and he would be going back to his grandfather’s farm where they knew the names of roses.

With trembling hands, she opened the book to her sketch. She could tell herself it didn’t matter what anyone else thought of what she drew, but in ways, the sketch was part of her. A tender part that wasn’t immune to words that could injure.

She stared down at the cascade of roses across the page. Two dozen blooms, at least, with the trailing vines and leaves. To her eyes, it did lack perfection, as she had told the man beside her, but at the same time she felt she’d captured the beauty of the roses. She noted a perfect place to add the butterfly.

Then again, she could be seeing only what she wanted to see. She dared a glance up at Mr. Harper’s face. He was studying the sketch with what appeared to be great concentration.

“It is, as my mother says, only dark lines on paper.” Elena’s heart sank as she braced herself for whatever he might say.

“True, the lines are there.” He didn’t look up at her but continued to stare at the sketch. “But somehow those lines are disappearing in front of my eyes, and all I see are beautiful roses. They are even taking on the sunlit yellow in my mind’s eye.” He glanced from the sketch to the roses spilling over the trellis. “I will never look at these roses the same. Now, in my mind, they will forever be Elena’s roses.”

A blush of pleasure warmed her cheeks. “That is so kind of you, Mr. Harper. Thank you.”

He looked at her then. “Would you think me too forward if I suggest we be friends while we are here at the Springs? If so, I would consider it a sign of that friendship should you call me Andrew and give me the pleasure of calling you by your given name and that of the roses.” He smiled. “Elena.”

“I’d like that.” She hesitated before she added, “Andrew.”

He picked up the rose he had given her earlier from the bench where she had placed it between them. He held it out in the sunlight. The butterfly fluttered away from the bush to hover over it and then settle on the petals.

“Butterflies are flowers on wing.” He very slowly moved the rose with the butterfly closer to Elena. Its wings trembled but it didn’t lift off the bloom. “Do you want to add him to your sketch?”

Without thinking, she picked up her pencil and quickly drew the butterfly’s shape. “I’m always amazed by the underside of butterflies. I would think it would just be black or brown like any bug, but look at the white spots that match the spots on its wings.”

“I hadn’t noticed that before. The wings got all of my attention.” The butterfly fluttered up into the air to circle the rose trestle again before lighting on a bloom. “It can be enlightening to see things through another’s eyes. Especially an artist’s eyes.”

An artist. She could claim that even if she never expected her paintings to hang in a museum or anyone’s home other than her own. That didn’t mean she couldn’t continue to enjoy art, no matter who she ended up sharing her life with.

Andrew blew out a breath and pushed up from the bench. “As nice as it is here and as unpleasant as Dr. Graham’s famous mineral water is, it is time I swallow down some of it. The doctor will frown on me if I don’t and no doubt inform my grandfather I didn’t embrace the cure.”

She wanted to ask what illness he had that needed a cure, but she bit back the words. Even if he had claimed to want friendship, some things couldn’t be mentioned until closer connections were made. But ill or not, his eyes didn’t look as sad when he looked down at her.

“Thank you for allowing me to share this sunrise with you, Elena. Perhaps we can do it on more days. The good doctor has many gardens to enjoy in this paradise he’s made.”

“That would be nice.” Elena held up her sketchbook. “I have more empty pages to fill.”

“Pages to fill with beauty.” His face changed as his smile faded. “Do you ever draw that which is not beautiful?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“There are snakes in the garden as well as butterflies.” He looked from the ground toward the sky. “And buzzards as well as songbirds.”

“True.” Above them, a buzzard floated in easy circles on the wind. “I suppose everything has its purpose in God’s world and its own beauty. But no, I’ve not drawn a snake or a buzzard. So far none has come close to pose for me.”

His gaze came back to her then. “I pray they never do.”

She had the feeling he was talking about something other than a garden snake or the buzzard above them. Before she could come up with what she thought might be a proper response, he turned and without another word walked quickly away.

She watched him out of sight and then studied the grass around the rosebush. A snake could be hiding there the same as the buzzard circling overhead. Would she be frightened if it crawled out where she could see it? Startled perhaps, but an artist should want to see every part of the world around her. She was sure Mr. Frazier would be more than ready to add a snake to his paintings were he to think it fit the scene.

She picked up one of her pencils and sketched in a snake at the bottom of the roses. Staring at its twisting form, she started to cover it with a cascade of fallen petals.

But no, while not beautiful to Elena’s eyes, the Lord had created the snake as well as the butterfly. Perhaps she was the one out of step. She traced the lines of the snake with her finger before she packed her pencils back in their case.

While she would avoid the taking of the waters this morning, she nevertheless needed to leave the beauty of the garden and seek out her mother to see what was planned for the day.

As she followed the path back to the hotel, she thought again of Andrew Harper asking if they could be friends while they were at the Springs. Friends who loved the beauty of roses and the sunrise, but would they share more than that?

His visage had changed when he spoke of snakes in the gardens. The snake he spoke of wasn’t one in the grass but something different. Something that had caused the sadness Ivy had noted to come back into his eyes before he turned and walked away from her.

He might never share the reason for that, but they could still enjoy time together among the flowers here. For a moment, she wondered how deep his pockets might be. She shook away the thought. She would not spoil her chance to have a friend who appreciated her art by thinking of money.

The crack of gunfire gave her a start. The rifle club’s shooting range must be close by. Another shot sounded, and she turned to head away from the sound. Perhaps because he had warned her of the noise of rifles, Kirby Frazier came to mind. He would be there with the men. Taking part in the shooting perhaps or maybe sketching the others.

It could be that Andrew Harper had chosen the beauty of a sunrise over a shooting match. She doubted Kirby Frazier would have done the same. Two very different men, but no matter how her summer ended here, perhaps on the way to being married to a man more than twice her age, she was glad to have danced with both of them.