The Rose of Winslow Street (2 page)

Four-hundred twenty-three American dollars.

That was all he had remaining to his name after paying for use of the carriage and transportation from the port of Boston to the small town of Colden, Massachusetts. Mikhail put the money back in his billfold and slid it into a cupboard in the parlor, right beside the precious wooden box. Last night, he and his men decided to move the box to the parlor, as the risk of a fire in the kitchen was too great a hazard. The box would be safe in the parlor cupboard during the day, where it would be easy to guard, and Mikhail would take it to his bedroom each night.

Mikhail had given Joseph a few dollars to buy something to eat in the marketplace, but food was not going to be his biggest expense. He had no idea how much an American attorney would cost, but he was going to need one to secure his ownership of the house. His gaze tracked across the fine interior of the sitting room, bathed in early morning light filtering through the lace draperies. Stripped of the dustcovers, it was an extraordinary house filled with a huge array of curiosities. Whoever had been living here was going to fight to regain possession, so Mikhail could not afford to scrimp when hiring an attorney.

A clatter of footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Mikhail swept his worries aside. He lowered his voice. “Don't tell me our new house has rodents,” he growled. “Who else would be up this early other than some bothersome dormouse?”

Both boys came bounding down the stairs and Lucca leapt into Mikhail's outstretched arms. At eight years old, the boy was still young enough to worship his father, and Mikhail savored every moment of Lucca's adoration. The war against the Serbs had robbed him of these years when Andrei was young, but he would never again be parted from either of his boys. He buried his smile in his son's light brown hair, the identical shade as Mikhail and Andrei.

“You know it is just me,” Lucca said in Romanian.

“Yes, I do,” Mikhail said slowly, carefully enunciating the English words. He had been teaching his boys the language on the tedious voyage across the sea, but he still worried Lucca might not be ready for school come September. He tilted the boy's head back so he could smile down into his face. “I love you, but you are still a bothersome mouse,” he said in the same, slowly pronounced English. “I could eat you for breakfast and still be hungry.”

The thud of Joseph's tread at the front door signaled his return. “I've got food,” he said as he held aloft a loaf of bread and a round of cheese. Joseph ripped the bread into chunks and tossed them to the boys, who grabbed them and began tearing into them like hungry animals.

“Give me that cheese,” Mikhail said. He carried it to the kitchen, but saw no proper cutting knives in plain view. He was famished and his hatchet was propped against the kitchen wall. There was a massive wooden drainboard beside the enamel sink that would serve perfectly well. Michael set the round of cheese atop it and rendered it in two perfect halves with one clean stroke of his hatchet. The boys were delighted.

Mikhail winked at them. “Do you think I can chop the rest of it into even pieces?”

“Do it, Papa! Do it!” Andrei said. A moment later he had eight perfectly split wedges of cheese. It was not until he lifted the cheese that he saw a fresh crack splitting the center of the drainboard. The force of his hatchet must have been heavier than he'd intended.

Andrei's eyes grew as round as saucers. “Are we going to get in trouble for that?”

Mikhail winced at the sight of the cracked board. The house now belonged to him, but he had no claim to the belongings and should have been more careful. Still, the damage was done and there was no undoing it. “No, boy. But from now on we will prepare our food with the proper tools.”

Andrei ripped off a huge chunk of bread with his teeth. “Okay.” Marie, Mikhail's late wife, would have been horrified at such manners, but fancy etiquette had never been Mikhail's strong suit. Perhaps now that Lady Mirela was living with them, they should all make an effort to become a little more civilized.

He straightened. There were many things that were going to change now that they were in America. He snapped his fingers. “Now, listen up, boys,” he said in his voice that meant business. “I want you to begin calling Lady Mirela by a new name. In America, she is to be known as your aunt Mirela. Is that clear?”

Andrei furrowed his brow. “But she is not our aunt.”

“She is now,” Mikhail answered. He did not want to go into the complicated family history that these boys were too young to comprehend, but it was vital that the outside world perceive them as a closely knit family. “I want you to call her Aunt and forget she ever used to be known as Lady Mirela. I have already spoken with her and she agrees it is best that way. She is a part of our family now, so I think this is appropriate.”

The boys seemed a little puzzled, but they would do as he directed. “And another thing,” he continued. “We are Americans now, and I want to be known as Michael. It is a good name for an American.”

Both children looked confused. “Mikhail is not an American name?” Andrei asked.

Michael shrugged his shoulders. “It is not as American as Michael. It is the name I wish to be known as.” He tugged a lock of Andrei's hair. “Though you should still call me Papa.”

“Is Lucca an American name?” his younger boy asked.

Michael thought carefully before he answered. For over a decade he had dreamed, fought, planned, and struggled to make his way to America. In all those years he had kept a picture of this house and a tattered copy of the Gettysburg Address in his billfold to remind him what he was fighting for. He had plenty of time to envision how his life would change once he finally made it to America, but his children were still bewildered by their new world. “America is a land of immigrants,” he said. “You can use a Romanian name or an American name. It is very important that a man has a name he is proud of. Lucca is a good, strong name. A saint's name.”

“How do you say it in American?” Lucca asked.

Michael considered the question. “I suppose the Americans would say
Luke
.” He laid his hand on his boy's head and met the child's eyes. “But this is your choice, son. You can choose to go by Lucca or you can go by Luke. They are both names any man would be proud to bear.”

His son stood a little taller. “I want to be Luke.”

“Luke it is, then.” Michael turned his focus to Andrei, who had his arms crossed over his chest.

“I'm not changing my name,” he said. “My name is Andrei and I'm not changing it just because we had to come to America.”

Michael noticed the edge of belligerence in the boy's tone, but he approved. This boy was no mollycoddle who would be pressured to change his ways to suit others. He was proud his son had the power of conviction and would stick to it. “If a man feels strongly about his name, he should fight for it. Luke and I have chosen new names, but I think it is right for you to be Andrei. It is your choice.”

It seemed to settle the boy down a bit, but the sound of voices from outside caught his attention. “We have company,” Michael said in a low voice.

Turk and Joseph both stood and walked a little closer to the weapons, but Michael held up his hand. He could see the worry in his children's eyes and did not want them to be afraid. Darting to the front room, Michael peered through the lace curtains. A bit of tension drained from him at the sight of two old men and a young man who barely looked old enough to shave standing on the front sidewalk.

He strode back to the kitchen. “It is likely just some neighbors, coming to say hello,” Michael said to his sons. “Still, this is best handled by adults, so run upstairs and see if your aunt Mirela is awake.” He tossed a piece of cheese to Andrei. “Give her this for breakfast and keep her abovestairs for now.”

After the children were gone, Michael pulled on his leather jacket, briefly touching the slit where Mirela had unstitched the pocket to provide ready access to the legal documents. He peered through the flimsy drapes to scrutinize the trio standing on the walkway, indecision in their stances as they put their heads together to talk. They carried no weapons, and their light summer clothing made it unlikely they had anything of substance hidden beneath. Finally, the young one began moving in hesitant steps up the walkway, the two elders following behind.

“Stand guard over the box,” Michael whispered as the footsteps thudded on the front porch. A knock on the door sounded a second later.

Michael adjusted the collar of his shirt before he answered the door. “Good morning,” he said to the three men. The young one stood in front, and to Michael's surprise, the lad had a badge pinned to his shirt. Was the town of Colden so short on warriors they were recruiting boys to be sheriffs?

“Good morning,” the young man said. “I am Sheriff Albert Barnes, and this is Mr. Stockdale, who lives across the street, and Mr. Auckland, the town librarian.”

Michael nodded to all three. “I am pleased to meet you,” he said in carefully enunciated English. He added no other comment, and the silence was broken only by a sparrow chattering in a nearby hawthorn tree.

The sheriff cleared his throat, his Adam's apple bobbing on his thin neck. “And you are . . . ?”

“I am Michael Dobrescu, just arrived from Romania. I am very pleased to meet you,” he said simply.

All three men appeared anxious, glancing at each other, then finally back to Michael. “Forgive me, Mr. Dobrescu,” the sheriff said, “but do you have Professor Sawyer's permission to use his house? We were under the impression that it would remain vacant for the summer.”

Professor Sawyer. So this was the name of the man he would be battling for ownership of the house. He forced his voice and face to remain calm, for he had no disagreement with these men. “Why would I need someone's permission to use my own house?”

The young sheriff's eyes widened and he cleared his throat again. “Professor Sawyer has owned this house for years.”

Mr. Stockdale, the elderly neighbor who lived across the street, stepped forward. “The professor has lived here for twenty-three years,” he said. “He moved in the year after my youngest son was born.”

Michael's resolve hardened. “Then he has been a trespasser in my house for twenty-three years.”

Mr. Stockdale took another step closer and peered directly into Michael's face. In particular, he scrutinized the thin scar that ran from the corner of Michael's eyebrow and down the length of his face. “Are you right in the head, man? Everyone knows this house belongs to Willard Sawyer. He raised his family here. That is his portrait hanging over the mantelpiece.”

So the peculiar man holding the gyroscope was the person he would do battle with. The elderly neighbor had not stopped speaking. “The professor has lived here for twenty-three years, and I have been here thirty-one years. It was February of 1848 when I moved in, the same day the Mexican-American War ended.”

Michael had not expected anyone to have lived on this street for such a length of time, but that was all to the good. “If you have lived here that long, then perhaps you remember Constantine Dobrescu?”

Mr. Stockdale snorted. “Crazy old Cossack, of course I remember him. The man planted corn and potatoes in the front yard. Strangest man I ever knew. Professor Sawyer bought this house after the old Cossack died.”

“That is not possible,” Michael said calmly. He extracted the papers from his pocket and held them aloft. “That crazy old Cossack was my uncle and he left this property to me. These papers prove that. This house is mine.”

Michael knew he sounded blunt, but his English was not good enough to express it any better. His own homeland was no longer a suitable place to live, and he had access to a perfectly good house in America. No longer would his sons or Lady Mirela live under the cloud of warfare, not if there was a safe place for them in America.

Mr. Auckland, the town's librarian, rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, I remember this house falling to pieces after the old Cossack died. The yard went to ruin and the gutters were falling from the roof. The town had the house declared a nuisance.”

Recollection bloomed on the neighbor's face. “You're right. It was a disaster. Professor Sawyer had to spend a fortune setting the place to rights again.”

Michael's eyes narrowed. The fact that the professor spent a considerable sum to repair the house did not bode well. It was a complication, but one he would overcome. “The wonderful thing about America is your legal system,” Michael said. “I have long admired your courts, and I believe the U.S. Constitution to be the greatest document ever written by human hands.” He replaced the copy of his uncle's will in his breast pocket and laid his hand over it. “I have researched the law in America and know I am entitled to this house. I am prepared to let the courts review the evidence and accept their decision. Until then, I bid you a good day,” he said as he closed the door in their bewildered faces.

Michael did not move a muscle until he heard the footsteps of the three men retreat from the door and descend the steps.

Turk's voice came from behind him. “They will be back soon.”

Grim resolve hardened Michael's features. “I know.”

A
ll apothecary shops had a distinct odor, and not a particularly good one, but Liberty Sawyer savored the scent because it meant she was buying supplies for her paints. Ready-mixed paints were an option, but there was something about grinding her own pigments and mixing them with solvent and glycerin to coax out the perfect shade of color that soothed her. Some people dreamed of buried treasure or handsome princes—Libby dreamed of watercolors.

When they arrived on St. Catherine's Island last month, she thought she had mixed enough paint to last for the summer, but in recent weeks swarms of neighborhood children had taken to following her about the island and she could not resist letting the little ones dabble in her paints. No sooner had she selected a subject to paint and set up her easel than the children began to find her. Sometimes they simply watched her, other times she gave them the brushes and encouraged them to experiment. Was there anything more dazzling than watching a child discover the beauty of the world? The summer was her best season for painting because the rest of the year was consumed with helping her father on his mechanical designs. The professor never allowed children in their house on Winslow Street for fear they might damage one of his contraptions, but on the island Libby could enjoy the children's natural exuberance as they spattered paint and created outrageous color combinations.

Libby's gaze tracked across the bottles lined up on the apothecary's shelves, her expert eye for color and texture honing in on exactly what she needed. She held one of the jars to the light and wiggled it, knowing that gum arabic had a slightly different viscosity than gum karaya.

“Libby? Liberty Sawyer?”

Libby whirled around to see elderly Mr. Alger approaching her, pleased surprise on his face. “I had not expected to see you here, but perfect . . .
perfect
!” he exclaimed. “My roses are dying and I don't know what to do.”

Libby set the jar of gum arabic back on the shelf. A few years ago, Mr. Alger had admired one of Libby's paintings of the fabulous double-blooming Gallica roses she grew at her house on Winslow Street and she had supplied him with cuttings. Gallica roses were famous for their opulent display of petals, but they could be as finicky as a young girl preening for compliments. It was no surprise that Mr. Alger was having trouble with them in this beachside climate.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked kindly. After all, she was flattered Mr. Alger had asked for cuttings from her mother's garden. She loved that rose garden so much it was hard to tear herself away each summer to go to the beach house. After her mother died, no one else shared Libby's intense interest in the world of plants, so she was thrilled when Mr. Alger asked for the cuttings.

“They have looked peaked for weeks, so I added a little more fertilizer to the soil. It didn't seem to help, and now I have tiny white insects clinging to the underside of the leaves.”

Libby bit the side of her thumb, contemplating the problem. With the sandy soil on the island, roses needed a massive amount of fertilizer, but it was possible Mr. Alger had overdone it. “What did you use in your fertilizer mix?” she asked.

Then Mr. Alger did the most humiliating thing he could do to Libby. He removed a small slip of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to her. “Here is the recipe. The apothecary recommended it, but perhaps you know something better?”

Libby stared at the page. The letters wavered and jumped before she could make any sense of them. Mr. Alger was waiting for her answer, but instead of a kindly old man, it felt like her father was looming over her, berating her in that harsh voice. Heat broke out across her body and an itchy sensation prickled beneath her dress, but Libby forced herself to concentrate on the list. She knew the likely chemicals that would appear in a fertilizer recipe, so she narrowed her eyes and stared hard, trying to recognize a single word among the flickering, jumpy letters.

At twenty-eight years old, Liberty Sawyer would rather walk down the street stark naked than admit to her illiteracy. Everyone in her hometown of Colden had been witness to her colossal failures in grammar school, but no one on St. Catherine's Island knew. Why couldn't one of those tidy apothecary jars tip over and conveniently burst into flame? Anything to divert attention from her inability to make sense of the neatly printed list in her hand. Her heartbeat thumped so hard she was certain Mr. Alger could hear it as he looked at her with expectation.

“Can I help you?” Peter Davidson, the apothecary, asked as he stepped forward. Libby breathed a sigh of relief and passed the list to him. “Mr. Alger reports that his roses are still ailing. Now they are suffering from aphids as well.”

Who would have guessed that her salvation would come in the form of a balding, bespectacled apothecary? The fist squeezing her heart eased and her body resumed its normal temperature.

“I suppose you might add more phosphate to the mix,” the apothecary said after studying the list. He continued to outline suggestions for the fertilizer, but had no idea what to do to discourage the aphids.

“Try a little garlic oil,” Libby suggested. “Spray it on the roses on a cool morning. It will stink for a few hours, but the aphids hate it.”

Mr. Alger thanked them and purchased the necessary supplies. Libby continued to walk down the shelves, ignoring the labels on the glass jars and picking out what she needed based on the item's shade, texture, and scent. She was accustomed to the adjustments her illiteracy inflicted on her and made her purchases without difficulty.

One of these days her mortifying secret would probably be discovered by the people of St. Catherine's Island, and when it happened, there would be a subtle shift in their attitude toward her. The invisible walls would be erected, the bewildered shaking of heads and whispering behind hands would begin. Such a clever girl, they would murmur. Why did she never apply herself in school? More than her next breath of air, Libby longed to be a normal woman who could have a family and children who would fling their chubby arms around her despite her flaws.

It would never happen. No doctor could promise Libby that her children would not inherit her mental defect, so it was wiser to lavish her love on the children who flocked around her in the neighborhood. Libby stepped outside into the cloudless May morning, knowing it would be a perfect day for painting. Last evening, the tide had washed ashore a fabulous specimen of driftwood she ached to paint. The twisty, craggy striations that arched across the surface of the silvery wood were a marvel of the Lord's work. How curious that sometimes objects became more beautiful as they weathered the storms and traumas of the world. What caused some wood to rot and decay into nothing, while other pieces of wood became burnished, splendid, and tougher under the relentless assault of the pounding ocean current?

Whatever the answer, Libby would celebrate the spectacular piece of driftwood by capturing its image in watercolor. If a handful of the island's children interrupted her, so be it. She would share her paints and try to teach them to see the splendor in the humble piece of driftwood.

If her artist's eye had given her nothing else, it taught her to see beauty where few others noticed it.

Michael moved from room to room, assessing the strange contents of the house and trying to learn something about Professor Willard Sawyer.

All Michael could conclude was that a crazy man had been living there. The house was stuffed with oddities. Measuring scales, telescopes, and gadgets littered the home. On a table where most people would have placed a vase of flowers, the professor had a contraption that seemed designed to automatically sharpen pencils. All those levers, flywheels, and pulleys to sharpen a pencil? But when he pulled a lever, a whir of clicking sounds triggered the machine to life and loaded up one pencil after another for sharpening.

In the middle of the formal dining room sat a bizarre pedaled contraption with cables connecting it to a fan encased behind a wire cage. Turk was fascinated and settled his huge frame into the chair to pedal the fan to life. Luke stood beside it and laughed as the cool breeze lifted his hair. The house had a personality, there was no disputing that, but the only thing that really bothered Michael was hanging in a closet in an upstairs bedroom.

A woman lived here. The wardrobe was filled with dresses and neatly arranged ladies' shoes. He felt bad about dispossessing the people who lived here, as they had taken care of the house and felt entitled to it, but it was business and it needed to be done. A man would be able to understand that. Women were far more fragile, and if there was one thing Michael could not bear, it was a woman's tears. Seeing the telltale rim of moisture pooling at the bottom of a woman's eyes was all it took to make him helpless. When a woman's voice wobbled with impending tears, all his extravagant strength and courage collapsed like a withered leaf in a gust of autumn wind. This had made living with Lady Mirela these past few months a particular challenge.

“Papa, come look!” Andrei's voice beckoned him from the home's library. He had told Andrei to search for some books that were written for children. As much as he would like to find some simple reading material for his boys to practice their English, he dreaded discovering anything that would indicate a child lived in this home. Men became fierce when protecting the security of their children, and he prayed Professor Sawyer had none. He strode to the room that was entirely covered with bookshelves.

“Look what we found under the sofa!” His boys were sprawled on the floor, and between them lay an oversized painting, a florid botanical painting unlike anything Michael had seen before.

“Is it real?” Luke asked. The silvery green petals were lush as they unfurled across the parchment, surrounding a huge saffron bloom so lifelike it looked three-dimensional. Another bud in the lower corner of the plant was still closed but on the verge of blooming. Any moment he expected those ripe petals to break away from the bud and animate the page.

“It's not real,” he said, still fascinated by the painting. Unbidden, his hand reached out to touch one of the leaves. He almost expected to feel the velvety flesh of a leaf, so exquisitely had the tiny silver hairs been layered atop the mossy green density of the leaf. Some of the leaves curled away to show a delicate tracery of veins stretching across their underside.

“Can I touch it too?” Andrei asked.

Michael withdrew his hand and shook his head. “Paintings do not like to be handled, and I should not have touched it. We must be very careful with this, as whoever owns it must treasure it very much.”

Although it was completely vulnerable beneath that sofa. There was no matting or frame to protect the heavy parchment. Luke twisted around and poked his head beneath the sofa. “There are more of them under here. Come look.”

Michael dropped to his hands and knees and saw the stack, of which only a few were framed. Using as much care as his large hands could manage, he slid the stack out into the light of day.

“Wow,” Andrei whispered as he looked at the painting on the top of the stack. A profusion of herbs sprawled forth in a riot across the page. This painting was even more fabulous than the one before. At first glance Michael thought it seemed like a tangle of green herbs, but closer inspection revealed tones of purple, silver, and blue tingeing the leaves. There were soft fleshy petals of thyme, waxy needles of rosemary, and the serrated edges of spearmint. So lifelike was the painting he almost expected the pungent scent of herbs to seep from the page.

The paintings were unsigned, but whoever the artist was, Michael knew he would like the man. The artist had more than artistic talent. It was obvious he had an affinity for the botanical world, and Michael recognized a kindred spirit. He lifted the painting of the herbs to reveal a bloom as elegantly executed as the others. Vibrant burnt-orange petals filled the page in an opulent display.

“What is that flower called?” Luke asked.