Prairie Rose
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
CHAPTER FIVE GARDEN BENCH
Anne slipped down the back stairway because she wanted to be alone and enjoy the morning sunshine in Grandma Ellis’s garden. There were so many things she needed to think about. One of them was Stephen, the banker’s son. He would be a perfect husband for her. She thought maybe she was falling in love with him. She wandered down the path where the honeysuckle grew. Music wafted on the air through the bushes. Someone else was in the garden, someone singing.
“Good morning, Grandmother Ellis, I thought I heard music in the garden.”
“My dear Anne, what a pleasant surprise. I expected you would still be in your bed.”
“I thought the garden would be the perfect place for a morning walk.”
Grandmother put down her clippers and gave Anne a hug. “I enjoy my garden so much. I come here early in the morning and again in the evening. Yet, my back bothers me a bit when I’m caring for my roses.” Grandmother sighed and straightened her back. “I think we need a pretty bench in the center of the garden so I could sit and rest when my back acts up. What do you think, Anne?”
“That is a delightful idea. Where can we get a bench? Does Elsner make furniture?”
Grandmother chuckled, “Elsner wouldn’t know a saw from a chisel. He can only make flower arrangements. I think you should go to that Quaker cabinet shop and see if they could make a bench. I’ll tell you what I want.”
The next morning, armed with Grandmother’s sketches, Anne set out for the cabinet shop near her father’s barrel factory office. As she pushed open the door to the waiting area, the sweet fragrance of sawdust greeted her. She looked around, taking in finished cabinets, chairs, and saw the array of tools hanging on the wall. She ran her fingers softly over an ornate table with a “Sold” tag on it. She thought, “it is so beautiful. I wish I could have a lovely table like that in my home someday.”
The door opened from the shop area, and a tall, handsome blond man in a dusty apron strode toward her. Anne looked up into the most intriguing blue eyes she had ever seen.
“I’m Eli Madison, my father and I own this shop. May I help you, Miss?”
“Well, I…I” Anne couldn’t get the words to come out. She shuffled her feet. Then she managed to straighten the scrap of paper from her grandmother. “Here,” she thrust the paper toward him.
Eli studied the paper. “It’s a sketch of a bench. Is that what thou would like me to make?”
“Oh, yes, Sir. For my grandmother. She wants a little garden bench so she can rest her back in the garden.” When Anne dared to look up at Eli’s face, a tingle ran down her spine.
“I can make her a bench, maple, oak or walnut?”
“Maple will be fine.” Anne composed herself and continued. “Grandmother loves her roses. She would like some carving with roses. Can you do that?”
Eli smiled. “It will be ready in four days. If thou will give me thy address, I’ll have the bench delivered to her garden.”
After Anne wrote her address on a statement, Eli held out his hand to close the deal. Anne’s heart nearly flipped over when his calloused hand closed over her small one.
“All right then. Thy grandmother will like the bench I build. Perhaps we’ll meet again.” He smiled at her and turned toward the back room.
“Perhaps.” Anne softly closed the store door and nearly skipped all the way home.
She didn’t notice Eli standing at the shop window as she left.
Formats
Book Details
About the Book
Who would have thought that I, Anne Whitmore, beloved daughter of a wealthy Boston businessman, would be bouncing along in this dirty, uncomfortable Conestoga wagon, wearing this dreadful, faded homespun dress and the most unfashionable bonnet I could have imagined?
My hair is filthy and stringy. My nails are short and chipped. I have scratches and bug bites all over my body. I have become the family maid and caregiver to my ungrateful, complaining parents. We are headed West to who knows where with robbers, Indians, and broken wagon wheels for excitement. And now, how can I ever keep my promise to my grandmother?
I want to remember my pleasant life in Boston with its fresh sea breezes, the refreshing carriage rides in the park, our fine home with a maid and butler, and hopefully, a proposal from the banker’s son—not the constant, choking, gritty dust of this hot, endless prairie as we ride into an unknown future.
Yet I have watched the Quaker family who are at peace with each other. Eli the carpenter, their tall, handsome son with the sparkling blue eyes, is so kind to me in spite of my tatty appearance. How very different he is from the banker’s son.
About the Author
Rachel Morris was born a farmer’s daughter in Northwestern Ohio where her interest in the arts and storytelling was fueled by her mother and great aunt.
Rachel is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers, Poets Roundtable of Arkansas and Siloam Springs Writers Guild. She has repeatedly won Poem of the Year contests and numerous poetry and short story awards in Arkansas, Pennsylvania and Ohio. She has published a devotional series, “On Eagles’ Wings,” and a book of short stories, “Living on the Edge of an Era,” telling about life in Northwestern Ohio before electricity came. She resides in NW Arkansas.