He offered her the flowers.
“How traumatic it was for me?” Victoria couldn’t mask her cynicism. She supposed he was trying to be nice, but after hearing Mama’s heartless lack of empathy for the woman who died and for Dahlia’s injuries, she couldn’t bear to hear it from Charles too.
Victoria ignored the bouquet of lilies, though their scent drifted toward her. “Lord Merek, I appreciate the call, and the flowers are lovely. But it really has been a trying day and—”
At least his grin had the decency to diminish. “Of course it has. That is why I’d like to give you something else as well.”
Good heavens, let it not be a ring. She couldn’t deal with a proposal. Not right now. Undoubtedly, this was her mother’s doing. Inviting Charles along. That would explain why Mama was trying so hard to pretend their lives were peaceful instead of recently damaged by a metal monster.
Charles delved into his suitcoat pocket and removed a small bronze chain. On its end dangled a circular, handcrafted flower. The metal pieces bent in a pleasant, precise rendition, with little cogs remaining visible through the leaves.
In spite of herself, Victoria’s lips parted. Charles nodded encouragingly, and she reached out to press the tiny button at the flower’s top. The front popped open to reveal an intricate clock, the likes of which she’d never seen. Its face glistened with flecks of gold; its numbers curved just enough.
Curse him, she didn’t want to like this piece he offered. But her mouth dropped in admiration. She did like it. Very much.
“Thank you, Charles,” she said, her eyes flicking upward to find his green ones intent on her.
He straightened, clicking his heels together and cradling his lapel. “I thought of you every time I passed St. Martin’s millinery on Lexington Avenue. It was the first time I’d gone into a ladies’ hat shop, but I think my pride will survive the encounter.” He offered another grin.
Her eyes narrowed. She mustn’t allow herself to be ensnared. She knew what the ultimate end of such a relationship would mean for her. Yet she was drifting off course on a route she thought she’d known all too well. She fisted the necklace, torn inside over this sudden change in her emotions.
Charles Merek was a shackle and a thief. He was captivity. He would steal everything from her that she loved. Her position as Flying Officer Naut, her ambition to never do as her mother commanded. Why then should captivity be so attractive to her right now?
“Very thoughtful of you,” she finally said.
“Victoria, darling—”
Her eyes flicked to his, less friendly this time.
He swallowed. “Might I ask you—?”
She turned away from him. “I’m late for dinner. We have guests, you know.” She would not let him finish. She refused to hear it.
He sidled around to face her, placing a gloved hand on either of her elbows. “I understand you need some time,” he said. “And put yourself at ease, that wasn’t what I was going to ask yet.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t know what you mean. I really must go. My cousins will think I’m ignoring them.”
“Please, Miss Digby.”
The proper thing would be to invite him to join them. But she couldn’t do that either. So instead, she stared up at the ceiling, willing for it to open, for the dark expanse of sky above to whisk her away then and there.
“Would you wear the necklace?” he asked after a moment of silence. “Wear it, and think of me up there?” He said it like he knew that was where her soul thrived, and he wanted to be a part of that.
But the ceiling wasn’t open. The sky wasn’t visible from here. Pilots didn’t wear necklaces, and married women didn’t leave their husbands to fly planes every evening.
She slammed the necklace back into his palm.
“Thank you for calling, Charles, but I must return to Mama and our guests.” Ignoring the astonishment on his face, Victoria spun on her heel and stormed back into the dining room.
Ten
The funeral and burial of Mrs. Diana Powell passed with little fanfare. Rosalind was so grateful to have been able to sit with Victoria during the proceedings instead of with her father, who’d opted not to attend. Aside from Victoria’s recent visit, it had been much too long since she’d seen her old friend, and Victoria took the open place beside Rosalind and linked her arm through the other girl’s as though no time had passed at all.
“We weren’t acquainted with her or her family,” Papa had said. “I don’t see any reason to pay respects to a woman we scarcely knew.”
Rosalind felt sorry, though. It seemed to go deeper than a personal loss. The woman’s death affected the whole town, whether her father wanted to admit it or not. It could have been any one of them out there on the boardwalk that day.
And now in her home, Silverton Manor, the dance hall was brimming with faces—those she knew well, and those she didn’t. There was something hypocritical in that. Her father couldn’t possibly know every person in attendance either, yet here they all were.
Women in fine dresses of all styles and colors, with feathers pinned to their hair and gloves climbing to their elbows, pranced in the room’s center alongside men, looking gallant and refined in their tailored suits, cravats, and polished shoes. The columns in the ballroom were slung with vines, and some of the curtains parted to provide velvet benches for sitting. A refreshment table nestled along the back wall, serving as a gathering point for those resting from the dance’s gaieties.
Others collected in the center of the elegant room, joining hands to the sounds of the music coming from Rosalind’s tinkling, lively playing. Sweat and the perfume of flowers filtered through, while Rosalind’s fingers did their own dances across the black and white harpsicord keys. And among the faces in the room, one stuck out to her more than any other.
Oscar Radley held a drink in one hand while smiling kindly at something Duke de la Coeur said. Oscar looked debonair in a fitted black suit. His hair was longer than it’d been the last time she’d seen him. It was tied at the nape of his neck, appearing blonder in contrast with the dark of his suit. He’s taller than before, too, she thought, though his face had hardly changed. His large eyes were deep pools across the room, his slim nose led to full lips . . .
Heat gathered around her at the thought. Rosalind worked to keep her attention on her music. The last thing she needed was for her concentration, or her fingers, to slip. It would set her father hovering for sure, and she didn’t want another reprimand.
She’d resolved herself to the fact that she’d get no interaction with Oscar this evening. Several times she noticed Victoria attempting to lure Oscar in conversation toward the harpsicord. Each time, however, his attention was snatched by someone else wanting to congratulate him for his accomplishment, someone else wanting him to meet their daughter.
No. It was best to focus on her music. That was her future, after all. Or so her father continued to inform her. She was so absorbed in the song, in staying distracted, she hardly noticed Oscar approach her until he stood nearer to the keyboard than anyone else had that evening.
“Doesn’t the accompanist get the pleasure of dancing?”
Rosalind’s stomach cinched like a gathered seam. She could scarcely breathe. That voice. It was the same as it ever was, low and luring, striking a chord deep within her.
“Rarely,” she answered, her hands shaking. The music blurred before her eyes. She couldn’t falter, not now. Not now that Oscar had finally made his way over. “But not for lack of wanting to,” she added, stealing a glance at him.
She longed to stop and really look at him. To escape with him.
“I see,” said Oscar. Laughter broke out nearby. Rosalind’s fingers trembled. He leaned in, sliding his hand along the harpsicord nearer to her music. “No one to replace you, is that it?”
His breath brushed her cheek, and s
he felt herself flush. She reached the end of the quadrille—barely—and slowly, finally met his gleaming eyes and the smirks hidden beneath the glance. Polite applause dispersed among the crowd, and the dancers lingered, waiting for the next reel.
“Believe it or not, Mr. Radley,” she said. “I am not easily replaced.”
Not with the way her father insisted she play every ball, every gathering, in preparation for a lifetime of servitude to the Chuzzlewit Theater House and its renowned orchestra.
“Now that I fully believe.” Oscar’s gleaming eyes burned, and the string cinching up her stomach only tightened. His response held a meaning far from the one she’d intended. She turned to him now, unable to help it. His hand hesitated, nearing hers and pulling back again.
“Rosalind.” He whispered her name. She rose from the bench before catching herself. Her heart threatened to erupt from her chest. “Come. Isn’t there anyway I could convince you to step away? One dance. Surely someone else here knows how to play.”
Her last night with him had been so similar to this. Unlike the girls who’d been guided around the room in twirling patterns by various suitors, Rosalind had dutifully sat at the pianoforte at the Carlton’s estate across town, playing quadrilles and waltzes along with the orchestral quartet situated there. Her father had stood, supervising the procession, and she’d played until her tendons stung.
She’d begged her father for a break, to rest her hands. Reluctantly, he’d agreed. She’d stood, feeling the stretch of her muscles that had been bent for so long. And while making her way across the room searching for some sign of Oscar, he’d tugged her to stand with him behind a curtain.
“You’re finally released,” he’d said with a grin. “I’ve been waiting here all night.”
“Only for a moment,” Rosalind had said. Oscar had cradled her face in his hands, his thumb brushing her jaw. In that moment, in the deep, unspoken longing glistening in his eyes and the pure adoration there, in his soft brow and lifted cheeks, she’d felt utterly and completely prized. Desired and wanted, appreciated and accepted, stripped of all fault and just Rosalind.
And then he’d announced it was time for him to leave, to head off in search of his education. He’d kissed her while despair had settled like a rock in her stomach.
And now here he was a year later, the scene practically repeating itself. Only before, Oscar would never have approached her openly like this, not with her father watching. The fact that he did now almost gave her the courage to do as he wished—as she wished, really. To abandon her post and run off with him into the night.
“Rosalind, dearest.” Papa stepped over, wearing a suit older in fashion yet still refined. His graying hair was pulled into a ponytail at the back of his neck as Oscar’s was. Perhaps that was why Oscar looked so different to her. So much more mature.
Oscar straightened, unperturbed. He adjusted his lapels and gave Papa a slight nod of acknowledgment.
Papa ignored him.
“Your audience is eager for the next arrangement,” he said.
The spell broken, Rosalind fumbled over her pieces of music. “Yes, sir. I was just deciding which to play.”
“Then I suggest you do so quickly,” Papa urged, his gaze veering toward Oscar, who pursed his lips at her. Disappointment was evident on his handsome face.
“Mr. Radley,” Papa said, stealing Oscar’s attention from her. “You have not yet, I believe, met our newest guests. They’ve come from your very own Wolverton.”
Rosalind’s hands clenched. A soft squeak escaped her lips, but Oscar merely inclined his head in her direction before following her father. Papa guided him to meet two young women who Rosalind assumed were Misses Cordelia and Jane Baldwin, Victoria’s cousins.
She thought of the advice she’d given Victoria, to confront her uncle about her problems. Facing things head on was the easiest way of dealing with them. Then why was it so hard to do it herself?
Oscar gave each of the ladies a slight bow and offered his hand to Cordelia Baldwin. Her red hair trailed down one side of her slender throat, and she slid her peach glove over his white one. Heat congregated in Rosalind’s cheeks. Her vision blanked, but she forced her fingers to the keys.
Her fingers danced along the ivories as revelers gathered in the room’s center. And though the music sang out with spunk and liveliness, it was as though a withering flame in her chest died out.
Eleven
Oscar rose before the sun and dressed quickly, stuffing notebook, pencil, and telescope into a bag and securing the strap across his chest. The chill morning air seeped through the cracks of his small bedroom above his father’s shop. He winced at the dull throbbing just below his left shoulder. It usually held a small reminder of the old injury, but this cool air only seemed to exaggerate the ache. He rotated his arm several times, stepping lightly so as not to disturb his father’s snores from the room across the pinched landing at the mouth of the stairs.
How could his father sleep? How could anyone in Chuzzlewit sleep, after what happened? Their complacency astounded him, especially after a death. They should be up in arms, they should be in uproar about the attacks or packing their bags to move as far from this accursed shore as they possibly could. And yet they sleep.
Oscar could barely relax last night. Though days had passed, he was still so consumed by the sight of the woman being deprived of her life in such a manner. Something had to be done. He couldn’t fathom how the town had let it go on this long.
Several wooden steps creaked beneath his quiet descent. Oscar winced and waited, but his father didn’t stir, so he continued down into the larder for a slice of bread and an apple before stealing out into the brisk morning.
He stood on the boardwalk’s weathered planks and stared out at the sleepy, yellow-gray sky. Then his gaze shifted toward Down Street. The familiar, darkened stores stared back, until the sea waving from across a long bank of sand to his right captured his attention. He inhaled, basking in the sharp, salty air and the hint of freshly baked bread from Tatter’s Bakery a few doors down.
Ironic, Oscar thought, how peaceful everything was. The shore was a place a family might picnic, or where he might have taken Rosalind for a stroll.
Rosalind. Oscar couldn’t stop thinking of her last night, either. The mere sight of her had been dizzying. Over and over, he’d been forced to smile, to entertain others, and while he’d been grateful for the attention and praise for his recent educational advancement, Rosalind had been the only reason he’d attended the dance in the first place.
He’d practically begged her to rise from the harpsicord. She hadn’t greeted him, hadn’t shown any sign of excitement or relief at seeing him after so long a separation. Perhaps she was indifferent to him after all.
She’d looked so beautiful, prettier than he’d ever seen her. Her face had aged somewhat in the past year. Not by much, but in that subtle way that shows a girl is no longer a girl, but a woman. The subtle carriage of her graceful neck, her face, her figure, it’d been all he could do not to touch her. Raven tresses of hair piled on her head while a small amount spilled along her bare, caramel-skinned shoulder. And those inquisitive eyes, and budding mouth. He’d hoped she’d have gained some small amount of freedom from her father, but clearly Lord Baxter had as much hold over her as ever.
Oscar crossed the street, passing a few wandering gulls searching the sand for some breakfast. Behind Fenstermaker’s Bookshop, the draper’s, and the bakery, was a collection of rocks piling upward for several feet and creating a small cliff overlooking the shore. Oscar passed as light from Fenstermaker’s flickered through the glass. Several others in the lineup of buildings were awakening with the rising sun as well. Arm still throbbing, Oscar scaled his way up the path between the rocks that led to the shore watcher’s shed.
The pack strapped to his back wasn’t heavy, but it weighed on him now. Sweat began to collec
t from his brief ascent, and he reached the narrow wooden shed atop the crest.
A large window spread longways down the front of the shed overlooking the sea. Oscar wondered if the bookseller’s son, Harry Fenstermaker, was on guard, watching the changeable ocean all night long, ready to trigger the siren at a moment’s notice.
A group of young men had rotated, taking turns during their school years. Oscar had tried it himself, though one night was enough to tell him it wasn’t how he wanted to spend his time. What good was sitting somewhere for long periods if reading was not allowed? He certainly couldn’t read when he was supposed to be watching the shore.
Oscar didn’t enter or even knock on the single door at the back of the shed. He wasn’t here to make a visit. He was here for the view.
“Good heavens, but it’s beautiful here,” he whispered, perching himself on an accommodating rock and removing his pack. The ocean stretched on, a line against the sky. The sun peeked across that line, a half-circle of light spreading rays everywhere it touched, promising hope. Promising change.
He’d love to bring Rosalind here again. They’d come once. Rosalind had told her father she was meeting Victoria when she’d shown up at his father’s shop, out of breath, cheeks flushed and eyes filled with adventure. Oscar had snuck away with her, taking her hand and guiding her up these rocks to hide in the trees. He’d kissed her for the first time here, neither of them speaking, just breathing, existing, inhaling the other’s exhale.
He removed the case from his pack and carefully assembled the telescope he’d obtained during his studies. He’d covered all kinds of topics—philosophy, science, literature—but by far his favorite were those dealing with the world. Geography, geology, and especially astronomy. Instead of gazing at the vibrant hues bursting from the sky, he directed the scope toward the water’s surface, notebook in his lap.
The Perilous In-Between (The Chuzzlewit Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
