Red Rose

by Mary Balogh

  ***

  Both letters were received the following morning. Rosalind was sitting at the breakfast table alone when she broke the seal of hers. She could not understand why her guardian would be writing to her unless it was in reply to her own note. Perhaps he had changed his mind and did not wish her, after all, to play at his concert. She read:

  My dear Rosalind,

  In reflecting on our conversation of yesterday afternoon, it has occurred to me that you might have engaged yourself to marry Sir Bernard Crawleigh only as a means of escaping my control over your affairs. I would not wish to drive you into an unwelcome marriage.

  If your heart is engaged, I sincerely wish you joy of your union. But if not, I urge you to put an end to the betrothal. I shall send you home to Raymore Manor next week and allow you to live there for the rest of your life as if it belonged to you. I shall release to you control of your fortune and engage never to enter the property without an express invitation from you. You can be free, Rosalind. All this I am willing to put in legal form if you so choose.

  Believe me when I say that I wish only what is best for you, and that I remain now and always,

  Your servant,

  Edward Marsh, Earl of Raymore.

  Damn him, she thought, crumpling the paper and holding it rightly in her hand. He was determined, it seemed, to keep her mind and her life in turmoil. She had disliked him from the start, but at least then he could always be relied upon to behave consistently. She had labeled him as a cold man, totally devoid of all the finer feelings in life. It would have been more comfortable for her peace of mind if he had not recently begun behaving as if he had a heart. Even two days ago it had been hard to continue hating him, but at least then she could convince herself that his gentleness had an ulterior motive. But what could be his motive this time? He must already have had her letter telling him that she would play at his concert. She could not explain his letter in any other way than by seeing it as a sincere attempt to give her some freedom of choice about her future. Oh, damn him!

  And what about the choice he had given her? Why did everyone seem intent upon putting doubts in her mind just at a time when she was feeling less than certain about her own feelings? She wanted to marry Bernard, of course she did. He was handsome, kindly, good-humored. He was the only man who had ever shown a real interest in her, if one discounted Sir Rowland Axby and the strange advances of her guardian. She could be happy with him. Only a few months before, she had resigned herself to a life of spinster-hood, believing that no man could tolerate her disability and her dark, unfashionable looks.

  But first Lady Elise and now Raymore were attempting to make her take a closer look at her feelings. She did not wish to do so. She was terrified of doing so, in fact. She wanted to be safe. Lady Elise had even made the quite absurd suggestion that she loved the Earl of Raymore. And she had always considered her new friend to be a woman of good judgment. She was not going to stop to think about him. She was already too disturbed by the uncharacteristic nature of his behavior in the past two days. She would not think anymore.

  Rosalind spread the letter on the table before her and folded it carefully into its original creases. She would not think about him or about her betrothal until Saturday. She had only two days to prepare herself for the concert. It was imperative that she be calm so that all her concentration could be given to her music. She rose from the table, her breakfast untouched, and went to the morning room to write a letter to Sir Bernard, canceling a dinner engagement with him that evening and explaining that she needed to be alone until Friday evening to prepare her mind as well as to practice her music. Then she went to the music room to make the best use of her time until the Austrian arrived.

  For his part, Raymore was handed Rosalind's note when he returned very early to his own house. He had spent the night playing cards, or most of the night, anyway. Late in the evening he had kept an appointment to escort the new actress from Hamlet to dinner and then to her home. He completely mystified and enraged her when, after a half-hearted conversation of ten minutes' duration, he picked up his cloak and took his leave of her without having so much as touched her Her anger was somewhat mollified when she saw the number of bank notes he had deposited on the table where his hat had been, but she still made straight for a mirror after he had left and gazed at her own image, wondering what defect had turned away such a desirable protector.

  He was done with such unsatisfactory liaisons, Raymore decided during the course of the night. Occupying a woman's body could bring him no further delight unless the woman herself was the object of his love. When Rosalind was gone, he would make an honest effort to find himself another woman whom he could love. He doubted that it was possible, but he would take the risk. He had been absent from life too long.

  Rosalind's note delighted him. She had given him a last chance to show her that he esteemed her for herself. He must be very careful of the way he introduced her and of what he said to her afterward, if he had a chance to speak to her at all. Most of all, he wanted her to see that his assessment of her talent was correct. If she received the acclaim that he expected, she would have restored to her the confidence that her lameness and the loss of her parents had deprived her of at a very early age.

  Tired as he was, Raymore took the stairs to his room two at a time and rang for a hot bath.

  ***

  The next two days were intense ones for Rosalind, who practiced morning and night and shut herself into her room during the afternoons. Nothing was to be allowed to disturb her concentration. At first she found that her playing was full of mistakes and that the music itself was lifeless. She had to make a determined effort to control her nervousness. There was really no need to be afraid. The people who were coming on Friday night were coming, not in the hope that she would fumble, nor in order to criticize. They were coming to be entertained. And she was not even the star attraction. She was capable of performing well. He had said so and she must trust his judgment. Strangely, Rosalind found in the end that the best calming influence on her was to see his face before her, the rather austere aquiline features, the intense blue eyes, the blond hair. It was a face that could be trusted, as far as her music went, anyway. She played for him. She would play for him on Friday.

  Finally even the Earl of Raymore faded into the background of her consciousness and the music lived for itself. It seemed no longer as if she played the music but as if the music released her into life and freedom.

  Cousin Hetty, fretting over the fact that her charge had neither received company nor ventured out of doors for three whole days, decided on the Friday morning that she must take a firm hand. When Rosalind could not be persuaded to recognize her need of any new purchases for the evening, she herself had to make up a list of imaginary items that she needed. She could not possibly shop alone, she assured her charge. That would be most dreary. And positively none of her acquaintances rose before noon. Would Rosalind please spare an hour of her time?

  Rosalind went with great reluctance. When they returned to Grosvenor Square at noon, it was to find that they had visitors awaiting them in the drawing room. Sylvia and Nigel had returned to London a day earlier than planned when Nigel's sister, Letty, had written to tell them that Rosalind was to play at Raymore's concert. They had traveled all night, having received the news only the day before.

  "But we could not miss it, Ros," Sylvia said, throwing her arms around her cousin. "It is perfectly splendid news. I said to Nigel when I heard, 'How I wish I could be there,' and he said, 'Pack a bag; we are going.' And here we are."

  Rosalind looked from one to the other of the newly married pair. They both positively glowed, despite the lines of tiredness that smudged the eyes of both. If they had made a mistake, they certainly had not discovered it yet. And somehow Rosalind did not believe that they had made a mistake.

  "I always knew you were out of the ordinary, Ros," her cousin continued. "I never persevered with my own playing because I felt so inferior to
you. But even so, this is a signal honor for you. Nigel says that Edward's opinion on music and art is very highly respected."

  "My love," Nigel said now, "you are so tired that you must be sleeping on your feet. And if my guess is correct, Rosalind has her mind on other matters today than prattling with us. Let us go and get some sleep before this evening."

  "As you wish, Nigel," his bride agreed, smiling radiantly at him. She placed her hand in his.

  "Are you not staying here?" Cousin Hetty asked.

  "No, ma'am," Nigel replied. "We stay at my brother's home for a few days before moving back to the country. When summer is over, we will find a house of our own. And I plan to make a start with a boys' school for the poor."

  "Sylvie," Rosalind said, hugging her cousin, "I am so glad you returned today. I shall feel far less lonely and overawed tonight knowing that you are there."

  "Nigel said you would feel that way," Sylvia agreed, and allowed herself to be led away by her husband.

  "That little puss has got what she wants, at any rate," Cousin Hetty remarked as she and Rosalind made their way to the dining room for luncheon. "She has no business looking so happy. But then, I always did have a soft spot for young love. One sees it so rarely nowadays."

  ***

  The Earl of Raymore did not dine at home. He had decided to keep his promise to Rosalind to the letter. He had not set eyes on her since that afternoon in the music room. He stood at the entrance to the music room now, greeting his guests as they arrived. The room was lit brilliantly by chandeliers that held hundreds of candles. Gilt chairs to accommodate the guests were set out around the room. He was nervous. Never had he succeeded in presenting someone of quite the caliber of Hans Dehnert at one of his concerts. He hoped that the setting would be to the man's liking. But it was Rosalind who caused his feeling of trepidation. He did not doubt her skill, but he knew her to have a somewhat volatile temper. How would she stand up to the strain of such an occasion? Had he pushed her too far?

  He longed to see her again. Yet he dreaded it, too. It would be the last time, except possibly for the farewell he would take of her next week or the week after. He doubted that she would want him to attend her wedding, and indeed he did not wish it himself.

  She finally appeared on the arm of Crawleigh. He recalled then that her fiance had been engaged to dine at the house. She was looking pale, but there was a determined set to her jaw. She wore the same rose-pink gown that she had worn to her come-out ball. Her dark hair was piled in intricate swirls around her head, a few tendrils carefully curling over her temples and along her neck. She looked the picture of beauty to the man on whom her eyes were riveted.

  Rosalind hardly knew how she had reached the music room. She knew that she was leaning rather heavily on Bernard's arm and that she was limping more than usual. She was in the grip of a blind terror. She could not go through with it, she thought. She would be sick. Every moment she thought she would have to tell Bernard to turn back. Then she caught sight of the Earl of Raymore standing inside the doorway of the music room looking reassuringly cool and confident. He had told her she could do it. And he did not appear worried now that he had made an error. She fixed her eyes on him and felt some of the warmth returning to her body.

  He looked back at her, smiled, and bowed. "Rosalind," he said, taking her hand in a steady, warm one, "how are you feeling? Crawleigh?"

  She made a grimace that passed for a smile. "Terrified," she admitted.

  He placed her hand on his arm and led her to an empty chair in the front row. Sir Bernard followed them. "I should be worried if you were not," Raymore said softly. "You will play magnificently, I promise you."

  "Will I?" she asked, looking up at his reassuring smile.

  Hans Dehnert arrived soon afterward. There was a stir among the assembled guests as he crossed the room and seated himself at the pianoforte. Rosalind stared in surprise. She had expected someone seven feet tall. Could this slim little man with the receding hairline and nervous hands be the great pianist about whom she had heard so much?

  After Raymore had introduced him and he began to play, Rosalind could understand his fame. He brought Mozart alive with his playing. One almost immediately forgot the player and saw, heard, and felt only the music. For a half-hour she sat enthralled as he played first the pianoforte and then the harpsichord. But the coldness began to creep back. Soon it would be her turn. How would she be able to get up and cross the expanse of floor to the instrument? How would she be able to play? How could she follow such a performance as this? She could not. She must somehow signal to Raymore her change of heart. Without knowing it, she began to clench and twist her hands in her lap.

  Sir Bernard covered them with one of his. "Steady, love," he murmured. "You will be good."

  His reassurance did not help much. By the time she joined in the applause for Hans Dehnert, she hardly knew what she was doing. When Raymore got to his feet, she stared at him as at a lifeline. He looked back.

  "We shall hear more from Dr. Dehnert later, after refreshments," he told his guests. "I am sure you feel the same delight as I do that there is more to come. In the meanwhile, I wish to introduce to you a new talent that I discovered under my own roof. Miss Rosalind Dacey is a true musician, in the sense that she plays for the music alone, not for an audience. However, she has consented to play for us this evening. In a few moments you will all share with me the honor of hearing her perform. Rosalind?"

  He was standing before her, his hand outstretched. Rosalind placed her own in it and rose to her feet. She had not taken her eyes from his. Raymore resisted the temptation to draw her arm through his and pull her close to his side so that her limp would be somewhat disguised. Rosalind Dacey did not need to disguise one defect when there was so much beauty in her. He led her to the pianoforte and seated her.

  She could not begin. Her fingers would depress the wrong keys. She would not be able to move her fingers; they were cold and stiff. She could not remember the music. She stared at the keyboard for a moment in blind panic. Where was he? Where had he gone?

  She looked up and locked eyes with the Earl of Raymore. He was not smiling. He was sitting very still. But there was a look in his eyes that she had not seen there before. It warmed her and calmed her completely. He believed in her. She would play for him. She would show him that he had not made a mistake.

  She lowered her fingers to the keys. For the first few bars she played correctly but somewhat tensely. She was playing to the Earl of Raymore. But soon her eyes closed and she forgot everything except the music that was creating itself beneath her hands. She was surprised at the end of it when the sound of applause interrupted her thoughts, prolonged applause that was more than merely polite.

  Raymore was not applauding. My God, he thought, she bas improved almost beyond recognition in four days. He rose to his feet only when he saw her slightly bewildered face. He crossed the room and bent over her. "You were magnificent," he said. "These people will want an encore, Rosalind."

  "An encore?" she echoed. "Oh, no, please. I have not practiced anything else."

  "Will you sing?" he asked, still bent over her, speaking for her ears only.

  "Sing?"

  "Will you sing the song about the rose?" he asked. "For me, Rosalind?"

  She looked up at him, startled. "You mean the one by Mr. Burns?" she asked.

  "Is that who wrote it?" he said. "That Scottish fellow, Robert Burns? Will you, Rosalind?"

  She had no time to think. The audience had quietened down. "If you wish," she said.

  "Miss Dacey has agreed to sing an encore," Raymore told his guests. "It is a song by Robert Burns that I have grown to love."

  Rosalind followed him with her eyes until he sat down. The song about the rose. He had called her his rose on that morning at Broome Hall. She had thought it a shortened form of her name. Had he been referring to this song? Had he listened to her sing it and did he think of her as Mr. Burns had thought of his Jean, or whoever the
girl was who had inspired the poem?

  She sang the song, her contralto voice soft and rich in the hushed room. But she was aware only of the man who sat looking at her, his face expressionless, his eyes full of that new look that she now wondered more about. And before she had finished singing, she knew the truth. She did love him. He had become as essential to her being as the air she breathed or the music she played. She watched her hands during most of the song. When she did raise her head, it was at him that she looked, growing wonder in her eyes.

  It is unlikely that many of the invited guest noticed. They were enjoying the novelty of hearing a simple love song after the intense music that they had been hearing for more than an hour. But Lady Elise Martel noticed and exchanged a triumphant smile with her husband. And Sylvia Broome noticed and darted a look of wonder at Nigel. He appeared engrossed in the song. And Sir Bernard Crawleigh noticed.

  During the first half of the time set aside for refreshments Rosalind's attention was taken by a large crowd of people wishing to congratulate her on her performance. Finally, though, Sir Bernard was able to steer her back into the music room and to a couple of chairs on the side of the room farthest from the refreshments.

  "I must speak to you in private," he said. "This may not be quite the time. I should be allowing you to bask in people's praise. You deserve it all, you know, Rosalind."

  "What do you wish to say, Bernard?" she asked.

  "I see I must get to the point," he said. "I wish you to break our engagement, my dear."

  "Bernard?" she asked, her eyes wide.

  He smiled rather crookedly. "I am sure you must have suspected that I had no intention of getting married this early in life," he said. "That does not mean that I do not desire you as a bride. And I would have made the best of it. In my way, I love you, Rosalind. But the marriage would not be good for you, my dear. Your heart is engaged elsewhere. I am not even sure that you realize it. But you would in time, and I should hate it to happen after you had married me."