The applause increased as the Russian came back onto the stage, smiling and bowing. He strode to the piano, seated himself, and gestured for silence. As Rose and the rest of the audience sat down obediently, he said, “Zank you. Zank you. I am very appreciative.” He ran a finger thoughtfully across the keyboard, then spoke to the audience. “I have been lucky to visit your English country houses recently. There I was played an enchanting little tune and I would like to share it with you. I do not have the permission of the composer, but I believe she would not object. It shows astonishing promise for one so young.”
He turned to the piano, raised his hands, and began to play.
For the first few seconds, Rose did not believe what she was hearing. Then a deep blush came over her face. She glanced to either side, sure that people would somehow notice how she felt. But nobody looked at her. They were rapt by the music. They were entranced—by her “Eastern Dance.”
Rose pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to keep back tears of excitement and joy. Mr. Vronsky played so differently from Georgiana—there was a pathos in his interpretation, a skill that brought out meanings and feelings that she had never even suspected were there. Under his hands, her tune changed from the sweet but familiar song of an English blackbird to a mournful lament. When he at last ceased playing, there was an awed silence, and then the audience erupted in applause.
Rose, too, was stunned and moved to clap. She did not even know where she was until Sebastian touched her arm.
“Rose? It’s time to go.” He smiled at her kindly.
“Oh—yes—” she managed. Like a sleepwalker, she followed him from the box out onto the staircase.
“Are you quite all right?” Sebastian sounded concerned.
She nodded. “Yes. I—I’m just overcome….”
“Sit down here. I will fetch you a drink.” Sebastian steered her to a chair and disappeared into the crowd. Rose sat clutching the edge of the chair. What had just happened? Her wildest dream had come true, and yet no one knew that she was the composer. She couldn’t help wishing that they did. Suddenly Ada’s words—You must be proud of the flame within you—made sense to her. She was frightened and exhilarated. It was as if she had touched the world of the gods for an instant—and now she had to return to earth.
Sebastian returned, holding a glass. It looked like soda water, and Rose took a grateful sip. She almost choked. It fizzed in her mouth like icicles melting, and it was certainly alcoholic. Her mother was entirely against alcohol; drunkenness, she always said, was the worst sin a servant could commit.
“Don’t look so shocked, it’s only champagne,” said Sebastian with a smile. “Have you never tasted—Oh, I daresay you haven’t.”
Rose shook her head. A good servant would have put the glass down and refused to touch another drop. But tonight was different. Tonight she was a composer. She put the glass to her lips again and finished it.
To her horror, Ada found herself seated between Douglas Varley and Lord Fintan. Opposite her was Charlotte, and opposite Lord Fintan was Ravi. She dropped her eyes as the footmen came around with the first course.
Lord Wellingborough, clearly thinking she was shy, leaned kindly toward her from the end of the table.
“Lady Ada, I don’t think you know Mr. Varley? He is of the same party as me.”
Ada managed to stutter out a few words without really looking into Douglas Varley’s face or hearing his response. Lord Wellingborough then introduced Ravi, who said simply, “We have met.”
“Oh?” Lord Fintan’s eyebrows rose.
“At—at my father’s wedding. Both Mr. Varley and Mr. Sundaresan were our guests.” Ada was able to answer calmly now. She even dared to look into Ravi’s eyes as he greeted her. His face was tense, and a small muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched. Ada gave him a pleading glance, but she did not dare follow it up. Too many eyes were looking at her—not the least Charlotte’s, whose gaze seemed to burn into her like acid.
The next few minutes were torture. Ada could not believe the ease with which glib small talk came from her mouth, while every element of her was tuned to Ravi’s smallest movement, the slightest glance of his eyes. Do I live my life so unconsciously? she thought in horror. If she could have divided herself in two, it seemed, one Ada could, ghostlike, have gone about her normal life with no one noticing a thing, while the other could have been with Ravi.
She tried to gather her senses. She had to remember what she was here for—to warn Ravi away from the dangerous path he was taking. Luckily, the ice sculpture and the decoration of the rooms had already turned the conversation toward India.
“What do you think, Mr. Sundaresan?” Lord Wellingborough inquired, dissecting lobster tails as he spoke. “Have our decorations conjured up an accurate vision of India?”
Ravi’s lip curled. “It is certainly a vision, sir. But you must be aware that most people in India do not live in something like the Arabian Nights.”
Ada jumped in: “But it is such a beautiful, enchanted country.” She didn’t know if what she was saying was sensible or not; she just knew that she wanted Ravi to speak to her.
“To an outsider, perhaps.” He regarded her coolly, and she blushed. “But our problems are quite practical, as practical as those of the United States before the revolution there.”
There was an awkward, embarrassed silence. Ada shrank inside. How could he say something so provocative in such company? Beside her, Mr. Varley stiffened and sent a warning look at his protégé.
“I hope you don’t have privileged information, Mr. Sundaresan,” said Lord Fintan with a smile. “Is there trouble in store for the foreign secretary?”
Ravi shrugged and returned Lord Fintan’s smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He had hardly touched his food. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, sir.”
“Lord Fintan,” Charlotte broke in, her cheeks pink, “I wondered if you had returned to Gravelley Park since last season?”
“I cannot say I have,” he replied, the hint of a frown crossing his face.
“There were so many memories there—so many intimate connections made—” She leaned across the table, her diamonds dangling in her bosom, the candlelight sparkling from the intricate beading around the neckline. Lord Fintan did not take the bait. He looked directly into her eyes and said, “How true.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together and drew back. It was hard to see in the candlelight, but Ada thought she was blushing.
“I think it is a shame,” Ada said, her voice sounding high and nervous, “that so many Indians jump to conclusions about the intentions of the English.”
“Ada is terribly political,” Charlotte said in a voice of repressed rage.
“Then she’s sitting next to just the person to appreciate her,” Emily said with a wicked smile and a glance toward Lord Fintan. Charlotte breathed out hard and stabbed at the lobster on her plate as if she wished it were Emily’s head. Lord Fintan cast Emily an amused, warning glance. Ada watched Ravi’s gaze flick between the three of them, and knew from the expression in his golden-flecked eyes that he was taking everything in.
“I would not call it jumping to conclusions. I would call it coming to an…understanding of the situation based on the very good evidence before my own eyes,” he said to Ada, his voice still cool.
Ada felt her face grow warm. The remark was pointed. She knew he meant that he had observed her behavior with Lord Fintan. She was upset, but she was also angry. How could he judge her without hearing her side of the story?
“It’s true that we are not in India, and cannot judge these things,” Lady Wellingborough said, her intelligent gaze passing over the table. Ada had the sense that she knew something was going on, but was not able to tell exactly what.
“But I have spent several years in India,” Lord Westlake said. “And I cannot approve of the way that certain bodies—this hot faction of the INC, for example—recklessly cast the British as their enemies. True, some situa
tions have been…poorly handled, but you cannot deny we have brought many benefits to the country—schools, a railway system…”
Ravi gazed back at him steadily, his eyes cold. “And would you call the Partition and the famines benefits?”
Lord Westlake frowned. “Of course not. I was vocally opposed to the Partition and assisted in the famine relief myself.” He shifted in his seat. “You are young,” he said stiffly. “Of course you feel passionately about these things.”
“I am young, sir, but I am not blind.” Ravi’s voice was mild, but Ada sensed the fervor behind it. “I, too, have spent several years in India—my entire life, as it happens—and more than this, I am Indian. You must allow me a different perspective on its government by the English than you might have.”
“But my dear boy,” Lord Wellingborough said, seriously, “do you really think the poor masses of your country fit to rule themselves? They are so divided.”
“So was Britain, until late in its history, and if we consider the Irish question…But I think that is irrelevant, if you will forgive me. The question is whether it is just for a people to have no voice in the government that rules them. I cannot think that it is.”
Lord Fintan laughed uncomfortably. “Steady on, old chap. You’re beginning to sound like quite a rebel.”
Ravi cleared his throat, glancing at Mr. Varley. “I could certainly not betray a country that has given me so many opportunities. But I’m sure we can agree that little treacheries have been committed by both sides, can we not?” He met Ada’s eyes.
Ada bit her lip angrily. “There is no question of treachery where no allegiance is owed,” she said. How dare he imply such a thing? They had agreed to be just friends. She owed him nothing. She could flirt with whomever she wanted.
She was rewarded with an unmistakable flash of pain in his eyes. She was briefly triumphant, and then miserable.
Lord Fintan raised an eyebrow as he glanced between her and Ravi. As the third course came around, he said, as if to no one in particular, “Well, I confess I’m not up on India. But I see it has its fascinations—for the ladies especially.”
Rose shivered in her cloak as they went out into the frosty street, where cabs and cars were jostling for space to collect the patrons. It had begun to snow, and flakes whirled down, dizzying as the bubbles in the champagne, polka-dotting the gentlemen’s top hats for a moment before they melted. Rose turned her face up to them, remembering how she had spun and danced in the snow as a child, trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue. She was aware of some admiring glances, and smiled, flushed with sudden confidence in her own beauty. Then, as she looked down, she saw Mr. Vronksy.
He was coming out of the stage door, surrounded by a knot of admirers. His lanky shape stood head and shoulders above the top hats and fox furs, and there was a benign smile on his face.
Rose stared at him. She would never have another chance to speak to him. It was out of the question to tell him who she was, but she could thank him, at least, from the bottom of her heart, even if he didn’t understand why she was doing it. “Mr. Sebastian—please—could we speak to him?” she burst out.
Sebastian looked around. “Why, of course.” He tucked her arm into his own and led her toward the crowd. Rose would never have been able to make her way through the press of people alone, but Sebastian’s confidence seemed to part them like a sword.
“Excuse me, please. This young lady is anxious to speak to you, Mr. Vronsky—she enjoyed the concert very much.”
Rose found herself looking up into Mr. Vronksy’s face as the crowd surged behind her. “It was magical,” she blurted out. “Oh, sir, it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Some of the fashionably dressed ladies next to her tittered behind their hands, and the gentlemen in their silky top hats covered their mouths to hide smiles. Rose faltered. She had been too enthusiastic—oh, and she should never have called him sir. What could make her look more like a housemaid?
She became suddenly aware of herself, frightened and awkward in a beautiful, borrowed dress, aware of her work-hardened hands inside the kid gloves. She had tried so hard to behave well. She barely spoke; she did exactly what Sebastian told her…and now she had ruined everything.
She backed away. The spell was broken.
But before she could escape the crowd, a commotion behind Mr. Vronsky arose. One of the gentlemen had brought out a camera.
“Mr. Vronsky—the press, if you please. A photograph? Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Churchill would care to be in the frame? Oh! And Mr. Sebastian Templeton and his lovely companion, of course.”
“Very well.” Mr. Vronsky smiled and stepped back to give the photographers better room.
“Oh no—” Rose shrunk back, but Sebastian urged her forward. “I don’t want to—”
“Please, Rose. For me.”
She was startled by the desperation in Sebastian’s whisper. She allowed him to maneuver her into the photographer’s frame, although all the time her heart was beating with terror. She had never been photographed before.
She tried to duck her head, but Sebastian was pulling her around to face him. She saw his face, set as if he were about to do some dreadful act of heroic courage.
Then he kissed her, just as the flashbulb popped.
Rose had never been kissed before. It seemed to whirl over her, like a blizzard. For a few seconds she had no idea what was going on. Sebastian’s lips pressed hard against hers. She heard Mr. Vronsky exclaim something in Russian, and laugh. Other people gasped. More lights flashed and popped. Then Sebastian released her and, his arm around her protectively, hurried down the steps to the waiting cab.
Rose, too shocked and confused even to be angry, found herself bundled into the cab. It was only then that the idea of screaming came to her. She managed a small, very quiet shriek.
“Oh please don’t!” Sebastian said in anguish, leaning forward to her. “I’m sorry, Rose. I shouldn’t have done it, I know. But I had to.”
Rose gasped at him. The cab rumbled across the cobblestones. The thought came to her that she might be being kidnapped for terrible purposes. But if so, it was not a very discreet kidnap—everyone had seen them leave. Everyone had seen the kiss. The thought made her blush bright red in horror.
“Mr. Sebastian—sir!” She burst into tears of shock.
Sebastian groaned. “I truly apologize. I had no intention of upsetting you.”
“No intention—no intention—I thought you were a gentleman, sir! Where are you taking me?” She lunged for the door handle, but Sebastian grabbed her hand.
“No, no, Rose, you’ve got it all wrong. We’re just going home. I—” He ran a despairing hand through his hair. “I know what I did just then must seem, well, insane.”
“I never thought you that kind of man, sir,” Rose sobbed. “I liked you!”
“I’m not. I promise I’m not. I have no dishonorable intentions toward you.” He added wryly, “Or honorable ones, for that matter. I’m very sorry, Rose. Call it one of my freaks, call me insane, call me anything, but please forgive me.”
Rose slowly wiped away her tears. There was no mistaking the honesty in his tone.
“Then what did you do it for? Was it to make a mock of me?” She was angry now. “I never thought you would do such a thing, sir.”
“I would never mock you, I promise. Please don’t think that.” Sebastian dropped his head in his hands. “I had no choice,” he repeated miserably.
Rose gazed out the window, unable to think of a word to say. She had to believe him, she realized. He was too clearly upset by what he had done. But what did he mean, he had no choice? Was he insane? There didn’t seem to be another explanation. If her mother were here, she would say I told you so. This was what came of getting above your station.
As soon as the cab pulled up at Milborough House, she jumped out and fled to the door, ignoring Sebastian’s anxious calls. She slipped in, using the key Ada had given her, and tiptoed up the
stairs, shoes in hand. She was far too tired to notice that Stella’s door was ajar, and that light still shone out through the crack of it. She managed to undress and then fell into bed, forgetting completely that she was meant to wait up for her mistress.
Dinner was finally over, and Ada rose to retire with the ladies. As soon as she reached the drawing room she went to the window, gazing out at the falling snow, trying to cool her cheeks and calm her miserable thoughts.
Emily touched her on the shoulder. “Are you quite well, Ada?”
“Yes—yes. I’m just so terribly hot.” Ada looked out across the garden of Featherstonehaugh House. Dark box hedges loomed in front of her, and the snow made the steps down between them gleam. She was furious with herself, and furious with Ravi. How could the evening have gone so wrong?
“You think me cruel to Charlotte, I’m sure.” Emily was speaking in a low voice, and Ada had to bring her thoughts back to the moment. “But if you knew what happened at Gravelley Park last season, you would understand.”
“You won’t tell me?” Ada was curious despite herself.
“No, I can’t. That would be too indiscreet even for me. Suffice it to say that it was a very eventful Saturday to Monday.” She smiled without humor. “And that Charlotte ensured certain things happened that made me very unhappy.”
“I’m sorry,” said Ada, touched. Emily always seemed so lively and cheerful, Ada had not imagined she had a tragedy in her past.
“No matter. I make a point of never dwelling on seasons past.” Emily smiled. “Tell me, did you get the book I sent?”
“I did. I liked it very much.”
“So you will come to Oxford, then?”
“If I can.” Ada answered absently. She had seen a figure cross the path, walking between the gardens. It was impossible to tell, in the darkness, who it was, but then a match flared, illuminating his face as he lit a cheroot. It was Ravi. His face was set and moody. She moved instinctively closer to the window. If only he would look up, look through the glass, and see her.
Cinders & Sapphires (At Somerton) Page 16
