Southern Rose
By Mary Winter
Copyright 2009 by Mary Winter
Smashwords edition published by Pink Petal Books at Smashwords
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Chapter One
Southwestern Missouri, Late Spring, 1863
The rhythmic sound of Agnes’ knife against the chopping board filled the kitchen. Rose watched the other woman slice root vegetables for the stew. The chilly, early spring air made the heat from the woodstove welcome, and her brown skirt brushed against the floor as she stepped closer. She marveled at seeing herself in a color other than mourning black. The need to go on with her life hammered at her as she watched Agnes’ nimble seamstress fingers efficiently reduce the parsnips and carrots to manageable chunks. The aroma of simmering herbs and chunks of salted pork made her mouth water.
She breathed again, thinking how strong Agnes had to be. With each bit of news from the battlefields, Agnes waited for word of her husband. Rose knew at night the woman read one of the many books that she owned, finding solace in the words of fictional battles. She penned long missives to her husband, and Rose’s throat constricted. She longed, just once, to be able to do the same.
“I’m ready for the potatoes,” Agnes said, in her husky-throated voice.
The words pulled Rose from her reverie. She carried the flat board to the large pan and tossed in the potatoes. “This is too much for the two of us,” Rose said.
“I wanted to share with Widow Cutler and her children. Things have been tough for them since Charles passed.” Agnes sprinkled in several pinches of pepper.
“I know. And with the war, she has little opportunity to find another husband,” Rose said, trying to keep the loss out of her voice. Her own Johnny died not in the war like a brave soldier, but of the whooping cough. She squeezed her eyes closed feeling foolish for thinking about marrying during these troubled times. Union soldiers fought to save the country, surely that came before any second chance she might deserve. She swallowed hard.
“The widow takes care of her family. Right now any man who returned from the front lines would be wounded and what good would they be to keeping a family fed and warm?” Agnes plunged a thick wooden spoon into the pot and stirred vigorously. “We need able bodies around here, not more mouths to feed.”
Rose flinched at the other woman’s harsh words. Their vehemence held a stark truth. Even now, the children she taught looked leaner and gaunter. The past fall and winter had been harder than the last and the longer fathers and husbands stayed away, the more women and children would starve.
Rose opened her mouth, wanting to ask Agnes if she thought the men would return to their small Missouri town. Instead, she pressed her lips closed. They’d come back if the war didn’t kill them and they had something to come back to. Drawing a deep breath, she grabbed a bunch of parsley and rinsed it in the wash basin. She chopped it into fine dices and tried not to think of meals made back in Alabama, her husband always told stories while she worked in the kitchen.
“I know things aren’t easy for you,” Agnes said. Sometime during Rose’s reverie she’d come over and placed her hand on Rose’s shoulder.
Rose resisted the urge to lean into Agnes’s strength. The older woman seemed far wiser than her nearly thirty years, and her youthful looking face only made her wisdom all the more prominent. At not even twenty-five, Rose often thought she was too young to have endured so much, and had relied on Agnes, especially these last few months.
“The war will be over soon. They can’t fight forever. Sooner or later, they’ll run out of bullets and bodies.”
Rose flinched at Agnes’s matter-of-fact words. “It’s the latter that I’m worried about. What if all our good men go to God? What will we do then?” Rose struggled to keep her rising fear out of her voice. She drew a deep breath. “I shouldn’t say those things. God is with our side. Surely he won’t leave us to suffer.”
She pressed her fist to her chest. A well of grief opened inside her, as fresh and new as it had been the day she’d laid her husband to rest. “I don’t understand why He had to take both Johnny and little James. Why couldn’t He have left me one of them?” She pressed her hand to her mouth and stifled a hiccupping sob. Rose turned to Agnes, watching as an unidentifiable emotion fluttered across the other woman’s features.
Agnes held open her arms and Rose went willingly into them. She hugged the woman, feeling the steel stays of her corset and the layers of petticoat and skirts beneath her apron. Neither one wore hoops, and a flash of awareness, quickly ignored, made Rose aware of the way her breasts crushed against Agnes and how their hips were exactly the same height. Though not as tall as her husband had been, Agnes had the same kind of sturdy build that made Rose have the sudden urge to lose herself in the other woman’s arms. Quickly, she pulled away as if burned.
“Thank you. We should finish the stew before it burns.” Rose turned, hoping the tell-tale burn of heat didn’t flame across her cheeks.
Agnes smiled, maybe even chuckled under her breath, and went back to the stove. “We all need comfort now and then,” Agnes said. “Nothing shameful in that.”
Rose tamped down a moan rising in her throat. Oh, but if Agnes had seen the thoughts flashing through her mind these last few weeks, she would know that Rose wanted something far more than comfort from the other woman. She wanted something that she’d only ever received from her husband, and surely that wasn’t right. The war had been hard on all of them. Maybe, just maybe, she could wait for the soldiers to come home and find a new husband. Except waiting didn’t fill the time or the lonely ache between her thighs at night, and she suspected, deep in her heart, that Agnes probably could.
~* * *~
After the hug Rose had given her, Agnes had hoped that maybe the other woman sensed the spark of attraction between them. Sitting in the living room, a spill of lace tumbling down to the floor as she worked it onto the bottom of a petticoat, Agnes tried to remind herself that Rose was a lost lamb compared to her. If Rose had guessed even half the things Agnes had done to survive—Agnes cut off the thought with a deft turn of her needle.
Rose’s new copy of Great Expectations, fresh off the mercantile shelves, sat on a chair next to the hearth. The small quilt that she’d made for her child, barely large enough to function as a lap blanket, lay neatly folded next to it.
Agnes eyed the volume. Rose loved reading. Probably why she made such a good school teacher, Agnes smiled. Her own library held several books and the memory of one of her favorite patrons calling her a smart whore held more warmth than sting. She’d been smart. That’s how she’d gotten out of the brothel and had come here. Luckily, that same friend had been the one who claimed to be Mr. Curtis for her, so she could lead a respectable life. She smiled at Taylor’s promises to come back one day. She knew the truth. He had his cards and his women in every port up and down the Mississippi, and now, according to the letters, like so many other men, he had his war. Which suited both of them just fine.
Agnes set her sewing aside and stood, rubbing at the sore spot on the small of her back. She went to the chair and rubbed her fingers over the leather cover of Rose’s book. Imagining the other woman’s fingers caressing the spine and following the pages of text made Agnes wonder what it would be like to have Rose show her such devotion. Heat blossomed low in her stomach, spreading through her veins like liquid fire. Her nipples hardened, the all-too-familiar arousal building. She knew the feelings, battled them every time Rose came into the room, the little southern blossom having no clue as to Agnes’s wayward thoughts.
A wry smile twisted Agnes’ lips as she picked up the book and cradled it against her chest. Maybe Rose would like to read this evening. Ignoring her sewing, Agnes hurried out of the room. Her boot heels clicked on the stairs leading up to the bedrooms. Agnes had purchased the boarding house and had turned it into her store and home. The front parlor held dresses she made or samples of her work. One of the bedrooms upstairs served as storage for her fabrics, while the other two were for her and Rose. With the other woman’s arrival, the house seemed perfect for the two of them. And no one questioned the seamstress offering a room to the school teacher, especially when their house was on Main Street in plain sight. Agnes worked hard to cultivate the air of propriety surrounding her and her establishment. The respect the townsfolk showed her was a far cry from her work in a Kansas City saloon.
Agnes paused in front of Rose’s door. The soft glow of a lantern shone beneath it, and inside, Agnes heard the soft rustle of clothing. She knocked lightly.
Moments later the door opened and Rose stood in the threshold wearing nothing but a thin night dress. The light behind her shone right through the fabric and revealed the rise of Rose’s breasts and the swell of her hips. A dark shadow covered Rose’s mound, and darker points pressed against the fabric at her breasts.
Agnes’ mouth went dry. The vision of loveliness standing before her seemed a far cry from the buttoned-up staid school teacher who shared her home. With her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and her eyes opened with surprise, Rose looked like a cherub, and a stab of lust hit Agnes.
She swallowed hard. “I brought your book.” Aware she still clasped the volume to her chest, Agnes offered it.
Rose reached forward, the translucent fabric lifting. Dark circles surrounded her nipples, their hard peaks straining against the fabric.
She thought of taking one of them between her lips and sucking and her mouth watered. It had been so long since she’d felt the delicious roll of another woman’s nipples against her teeth and tongue. Aware she stared, Agnes took a step back.
“I’m sure you want to go to bed,” she offered. The instant the words left her mouth, she imagined Rose sprawled on the bed, her legs spread, her fiery red hair stark against the white cotton pillow cases. Agnes’ breathing caught, her nipples hardening against her corset.
“Thank you.” Rose’s gaze lingered on Agnes’ mouth a little longer than necessary, before dropping to the book on her hands. “I was just going to bed.”
Without you. The unspoken words hung in the air between them, although Agnes knew Rose hadn’t spoke. “Have a good night,” Agnes said, then turned on her heel and headed down the hall to her own room…alone.
“Good night,” Rose’s whispered words followed Agnes down the hall. Moments later, Rose closed her bedroom door.
Agnes shivered, truly feeling alone. She paused, thinking about returning to her sewing, but doubted her concentration would last. No, she’d finish her work tomorrow. Instead, she went to her bedroom and lit a lantern before closing the door behind her. Moonlight spilled through the curtains. The open window admitted laughter and music from the saloon down the street, and for a moment, just a heartbeat and a breath, Agnes wished for her other life. Because then, she wouldn’t face her large four-poster bed alone.
She turned away from the window, ignoring the distractions and the promise offered by the saloon. In this town, they knew her as the seamstress. To do anything to shatter that lie would harm her reputation and possibly her person. She extinguished the lantern. The lacy curtains let in enough light from the moon and really, she wasn’t in the mood for anything other than darkness.