Winter Roses Of The Vance Orchard

“We stay together,” she had said. “No matter what the overseers say. We are the winter roses. We do not break.”

Marie had believed the words because Rose had spoken them. Now, looking at the waiting crowd, belief felt like a small thing to carry into a storm.

The wagon rolled into Lancaster’s square. Its wheels scraped over packed snow, and the horses tossed their heads at the noise. A bell rang somewhere near the courthouse. The sound brought people closer.

The Children’s Aid Society agent climbed down first. He was a narrow man named only in the papers as Mr. Barlow, with a red scarf wrapped twice around his neck. He opened the rear flap and looked in.

“Rose first,” he said. “Then Marie. The younger two will be placed where there is room.”

Rose rose at once. “Placed where?”

“Do not make trouble. Families have come to inspect the children.”

Marie felt Jane stir against Rose’s coat. Anne closed her notebook.

“Inspect?” Marie asked.

Mr. Barlow’s mouth tightened. “They are looking for help. A farm needs strong hands. A household needs girls who can sew, cook, and keep house. This is an opportunity.”

“It is not an opportunity if we are separated,” Rose said.

A murmur passed through the crowd. Mr. Barlow stepped onto the wagon floor and reached for Jane.

Rose moved between them. “Do not touch her.”

“Girl, you are not in charge.”

Marie slid forward until her shoulder pressed against Rose’s. Anne came beside her. Jane woke with a frightened cry and clutched Rose’s sleeve.

“We stay together,” Marie said.

Mr. Barlow looked over them. “The oldest may have a place with a farmer. The little one could be taken by a good woman in town. You should be grateful.”

Marie’s hand found Anne’s. The graphite nub dug into her palm.

They climbed down into the square because there was nowhere else to go. The cold struck through Marie’s thin shoes. Snowmelt soaked the hem of her dress. People moved around them, close enough that she could hear their questions.

“How old is that one?”

“Can the tall girl milk?”

“Look at the youngest. She’d be no trouble.”

A broad man in a soot-stained apron pushed through the crowd. His hands were black at the knuckles, and a leather strap hung from one shoulder.

“The oldest girl looks strong enough to work the bellows and clear the yard,” he called. “I’ll take her.”

Marie’s stomach twisted. The blacksmith pointed at her as if choosing a tool.

Rose stepped in front of her. “You will take none of us unless you take all four.”

The man laughed. “I have no use for four mouths.”

“We can work,” Marie said, though her voice shook. “I can keep accounts. Anne can write. Rose can cook. Jane can learn.”

“Jane can sweep,” the blacksmith said. “That is all a child needs to know.”

Jane’s fingers closed around Marie’s coat.

Mr. Barlow seized Rose by the arm. “Enough. Come with me.”

Rose cried out, and Marie struck his wrist. The sound of her palm against his sleeve was small, but it stopped him for one breath.

Then the square erupted.

Someone called for the agent. A woman reached toward Anne. The blacksmith caught Marie’s shoulder. Rose pulled Jane behind her, and Anne’s notebook fell into the snow.

Marie twisted free and snatched it up. The cover had split along the spine during the journey. She held it against her chest as if it were a shield.

“We do not divide!” Rose shouted.

Her voice carried above the horses and the crowd.

An elderly woman in a plain gray Quaker dress pushed through the people. Snow dusted the brim of her bonnet, and a silver brooch fastened her collar. She planted herself between the sisters and the blacksmith.

“Friend,” she said, “thy hand is too quick for a man who claims to be seeking a home.”

The blacksmith frowned. “Martha Grellet, this is no concern of thine.”

“It became my concern when I heard a child cry.”

Her gaze moved over the sisters. It rested on Marie’s bruised shoulder, then on Jane’s wet shoes.

“Are these four bound together by family?”

“We are sisters,” Marie said.

“And their parents?”

“Dead,” Mr. Barlow answered. “Cholera in Boston. The Society has papers.”

Martha looked at him. “Papers may name a child. They do not measure her grief.”

The crowd quieted. Even the horses seemed to settle.

Martha turned toward a tall man standing beyond the ring of townspeople. He wore a dark wool coat buttoned to the throat. His hair and beard were streaked with gray, and he held himself apart from the noise, as if he had come to observe rather than join it.

“Silas,” Martha called. “Come nearer.”

The man did not move at first. Then he stepped forward.

Marie knew the name. Everyone in the square seemed to know it. Silas Vance owned land west of town and an orchard that had grown wild after the death of his brother, Miller. Some said Silas rarely spoke to anyone. Others said he had no wish to see the old homestead filled again.

Martha faced him. “The Miller homestead has stood empty since thy brother passed. It has a roof, land, and work enough for willing hands.”

Silas’s eyes went to the sisters. They were gray and tired, but not unkind.

“Four of them?” he asked.

“Four,” Martha said.

“That is a heavy winter’s provision.”

Marie stepped forward before Rose could stop her. The snow pressed cold through her soles, but she kept her chin raised.

“We can earn our keep.”

Silas studied her.

“I can keep a ledger,” Marie continued. “Our father taught me figures. Rose can cook. Anne writes a fine hand. Jane is quick, and we will all work.”

“Will you?” Silas asked.

“Yes.”

“Even when the orchard gives little?”

“Yes.”

“Even when the house is lonely?”

Marie glanced at her sisters. Jane’s hand was still locked around Rose’s. Anne had tucked the damaged notebook beneath her coat.

“We have known lonely,” Marie said. “We will not let it rule us.”

Something shifted in Silas’s face. He looked past them toward the road, where the turnpike disappeared under a pale sky.

Martha spoke softly. “The place needs life, Silas. And these children need one another.”

Mr. Barlow stepped forward. “The Society cannot approve an arrangement made in a town square. They must be assigned properly.”

“Assigned?” Rose said. “Like furniture?”

The blacksmith reached for Marie again. This time Silas moved.

He caught the man’s wrist before the fingers touched her. His grip was quiet and firm.

“I believe the girl answered you,” Silas said.

The blacksmith pulled free, muttering, but he did not try again.

Silas turned to Mr. Barlow. “What would the Society require?”

“An agreement. Provision for food and clothing. Proof of residence. The children must be supervised.”

“I can provide all three.”

“And they must obey the household.”

Rose’s chin lifted. “We will obey fair rules.”

Silas looked at her for a long moment. “The Miller house has rules. The orchard has more.”

“We are not afraid of work,” Rose said.

“Work is not the same as safety.”

“No,” Marie said. “But staying together is safety.”

The words left her before she could weigh them. Silas’s gaze returned to her.

“Your name?”

“Marie.”

“Your age?”

“Fourteen.”

He looked at Rose. “And you?”

“Rose. Sixteen.”

“Anne?”

“Twelve,” Anne answered.

“Jane?”

Jane hid her face against Rose.

“Nine,” Marie said.

Silas nodded once. “I will take all four.”

The square seemed to tilt.

Mr. Barlow stared at him. “You understand the cost?”

“Food, clothing, schooling when possible, and labor when needed. Yes.”

“The Society will expect reports.”

“Then I will send them.”

Martha’s expression softened, but Marie did not feel relief yet. A stranger’s promise could be withdrawn as easily as a hand from a flame.

“What happens if you change your mind?” Marie asked.

Silas did not seem offended. “Then you will have to tell me so before I have the chance.”

Rose gave Marie a warning glance, but Marie held Silas’s eyes.

“We go together,” Marie said. “No trial placement for one and another home for the rest. No sending Jane away because she is small.”

Silas looked at the child’s thin shoes. “Agreed.”

“And we stay together in the house.”

“Agreed.”

“And no one takes us from there without telling us.”

Silas’s jaw tightened. “That is not entirely mine to promise.”

The answer chilled her more than the wind.

Martha touched Marie’s sleeve. “There are laws and papers, child.”

“Papers took us from Boston,” Marie said.

Anne lowered her head. Rose’s face went pale.

Silas glanced toward the wagon, then back at them. “I can offer a roof. I cannot command the whole world.”

“But you can choose us,” Marie said.

He considered her. “Yes. I can choose you.”

Mr. Barlow began gathering the Society papers. The blacksmith had turned away. The crowd lost interest now that the sisters would not be divided for their entertainment.

Silas reached into his coat and drew out a leather purse. He spoke with Mr. Barlow in a low voice, while Martha guided the girls toward a waiting sleigh.

Marie stood beside the steps, watching Silas sign the agreement. His hand was steady. The ink froze at the edge of the paper before it dried.

Rose placed a palm on Marie’s back. “We did it.”

“Not yet.”

Silas approached. “The homestead lies several miles beyond town. We will leave before dark.”

Jane looked up at him. “Are there roses?”

Silas’s expression changed again, this time with something like pain.

“There were,” he said. “Winter roses along the south wall. My brother planted them.”

“Are they alive?” Jane asked.

“I do not know.”

Jane considered this. “Then we should look.”

Silas almost smiled. “Perhaps we should.”

The sisters climbed into the sleigh. Martha settled beside them, while Silas took the reins. As the horses pulled away, Lancaster’s square fell behind in a blur of gray coats and white snow.

Marie kept one hand on Anne’s notebook and the other around Jane’s fingers. Rose sat opposite, her shoulder touching theirs.

The road ahead narrowed between bare trees. Somewhere beyond them waited an empty house, an overgrown orchard, and a man who had chosen four strangers because he believed he could keep them fed.

Marie watched Silas’s back beneath the dark wool coat.

They had won a home.

Now their safety rested in the will of a wealthy stranger, and winter had only begun.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters in the full book.