Red Rose (15 page)

Rosalind hugged her knees closer. “I think we should be starting back, Bernard,” she said. “This is a highly improper conversation.”

He chuckled and brought his free hand up under her chin again. “I am sorry, dear,” he said. “I merely wished to know how free I could be with you in the coming days. When we return to London, of course, your freedom will be curtailed again, and when I take you to visit my family during the summer, the proprieties must be observed. But here we can begin to get to know each other better.”

Rosalind swallowed painfully against his hand. “We should not be alone, Bernard,” she said.

For answer he smiled and lowered his head to hers again. Rosalind was forced to put an arm around his neck when she felt herself losing balance. A moment later she felt the grass against her back and head and Bernard’s mouth was more urgent on hers, his tongue trying to force her teeth apart. She gasped and squirmed when she felt his hands slide across the silk covering her breasts.

“You are lovely,” he murmured, lifting his head and gazing down into her face. He regarded her for a moment and a smile crinkled his eyes. “You are also very frightened, are you not?”

She tried to smile and did not quite succeed. “I just do not think that we should be doing this,” she said.

“There is no need to feel guilty,” he assured her. “You are going to be my wife very soon.”

She smiled with more success this time. It was true, she did feel guilty, though she did not know why. They were betrothed, after all. “Maybe so,” she said, “but I am not your wife yet, Bernard, and I should feel a great deal safer right now on the back of that horse over there.”

He grinned. “You may be an innocent, love,” he said, getting nimbly to his feet and brushing the grass off the sleeves of his coat, “but you have certainly perfected the art of the tease. Just wait until our wedding night, my girl. I shall have my revenge.” He reached down to pull her to her feet and kissed her lightly on the lips.

Rosalind limped without further delay to her horse and mounted into the saddle before Sir Bernard could come to offer his assistance.

***

It was on the night of the same day that Sylvia went to bed in tears. She had entered the dining room that evening on the arm of Lord Standen in a much more cheerful frame of mind than on the previous day. She had enjoyed her outing with Nigel, had spent a comfortable hour with her betrothed in the afternoon inspecting the orchards and flower gardens, and had taken tea with his mother in the latter’s private apartments. Her future mother-in-law had treated her with flatteringly kind condescension. Sylvia was prepared to enjoy dinner and the company of her friends. She looked dazzlingly lovely in a primrose-yellow satin gown, gold embroidery sparkling at its neckline and hem. A golden ribbon was threaded through her silver-blond hair.

During the first two courses Sylvia chatted easily and unselfconsciously with Lady Standen on her left and Sir Rowland Axby opposite. Only gradually did she become aware that conversation at the table was becoming more general. Nigel was telling a group of people around him about his dream of setting up a school in London.

“There is certainly a need,” he was saying. “You have all seen how the streets of London are crowded with beggars, many of them young children. They have nothing to do except beg and steal, and if they are allowed to go uneducated, they will grow up to produce more children in the same plight. And so the problem will perpetuate itself.” 

“Papa says that no one need remain idle if he wishes to work,” Lady Theresa Parsons commented. “Idleness results from laziness, he says. And if these people are too lazy to work, Mr. Broome, I fail to see that they will take kindly to learning lessons.”

“With all due respect to your father,” Nigel replied, “I cannot agree. These people need help, and who better to offer assistance than those of us who are privileged?”

The conversation, which was becoming rather loud and forceful, had attracted Lord Standen’s attention. “You would go about solving the problem in quite the wrong way, Nigel,” he said. “Your plan would help so few children that it would be worthless. The whole social order needs changing. Only then can the plight of the poor be changed.”

“I agree with you,” his brother said heatedly, “and that should be your contribution, George. You are a member of the House of Lords and can speak out on social issues. I cannot. And while I wait for the whole system to change, a whole generation of boys is growing up ignorant and possibly vicious.”

“You must admit that your brother is right, though, Nigel,” his mother added from her end of the table. “The good you could do would be the merest drop in the ocean.”

“But—” he began.

“The ocean is made up of little drops, though, is it not?” Sylvia said, and seeing all eyes turn her way in surprise, she was startled to find that the words had come from her mouth. “I mean,” she stammered, “without all the little drops there would be no ocean. In the same way, every little child is part of the whole problem. If Nigel can help only a few, he has somehow helped tackle the whole problem.” She was flushed and breathless by the time she had reached the end of this long speech.

"I say,” Nigel said, his attention full on her, “what a splendid metaphor. I must remember it.”

“I think, my dear,” Standen said kindly, “that you would be better not worrying yourself over matters that do not concern you.”

“But they do concern me,” Sylvia cried. She could feel the color high in her cheeks, but seemed powerless to stop herself. “When we are married, my lord, I shall have to be aware of the poor on this estate, and whenever I travel to town, I shall have to pass through those dreadful streets with their wretched crowds. How can I not applaud someone who is prepared to devote his time and his fortune to doing something about the situation?”

“You show yourself to be a lady of great sensibility,” her fiancé said, but there was a note of finality in his voice. “I believe we bore our company with such serious conversation.” He smiled and turned with practiced grace to Miss Heron, whom he engaged in conversation.

Everyone else appeared to relax and forget the incident. But Sylvia suffered an agony of mortification. The rest of her food tasted like straw. She could never remember being so forward. To have spoken to a whole tableful of people was brazen enough. To have spoken on a topic that was so clearly a male preserve was unforgivable. She had felt Standen’s displeasure and believed that it was justified. She could not, though, for dear life see how anyone would not think Nigel’s scheme quite irreproachable.

Unfortunately for Sylvia, when the ladies retired to the drawing room. Rosalind, Susan, and Lady Theresa crossed immediately to the pianoforte in search of the music for a song that they had been talking about during dinner. Letitia had gone to her room to fetch her work basket. Sylvia had no choice but to join Lady Standen by the fire. She was scolded, very gently, both for her forwardness and for her opinion.

“Nigel is a dear boy,” his mother said, “but he has always been wayward. My elder son has educated him for the Church and has offered him more than one living. Nigel has refused. You see, my dear, if he wishes to serve humanity, as he claims to do, he has ample opportunity to do so in the best possible way. George is a sensible man, you may depend upon it. You must let yourself be guided by him, my dear. He will shape your mind well.”

Sylvia had lost the courage that had borne her up for a few minutes in the dining room. She examined her fingernails as her hands were spread across her lap. “Yes, ma’am, I shall try. I am indeed sorry if I caused you embarrassment earlier.”

“There,” Lady Standen said soothingly, leaning forward and patting Sylvia’s hands, "you are a good girl. Just a little impulsive.”

Much later, when tea was being served after a noisy game of charades, Lord Standen himself took Sylvia aside. “I was not best pleased with your behavior at dinner,” he told her. “I appreciate your loyalty to Nigel, who is to be your brother-in-law, but do you not think, my dear, that your first loyalty should be to me?” He smiled charmingly to soften the harshness of his words. His tone was very gentle.

“I was not intending to disagree with you, my lord,” she replied timidly. “I was merely offering an opinion.”

He smiled again. “And a very humane opinion, too,” he said. “It does you credit. But your ideas are unformed, my dear. You are very young, but recently out of the schoolroom. And you have been without your father for upward of a year. You must allow yourself to be guided by me. I shall take the greatest delight in forming the mind that lies within that pretty little head.” He lifted her hand and touched it lightly to his lips.

A short while later Sylvia sat on Rosalind’s bed, still dressed, watching her cousin take the pins from her hair and brush out the shining coils of almost black hair.
“Was
I so very bad?” she asked. “Oh, Ros, I do not know how I shall face everyone tomorrow.”

“Sylvie, you are making a great to-do about nothing,” Rosalind said. “The discussion was a general one and you had every right to contribute your ideas. Your opinion had great validity. I am sure that several people at the table agreed with you. Mr. Broome certainly did and I did.”

“But, Ros, I spoke against his lordship,” Sylvia wailed.

“So what?” her cousin replied. “Must you always agree with him, Sylvie? You were not rude to him, after all.”

“But I am ignorant and I do have an unformed mind,” Sylvia said. “I should not set my opinion against his.”

“Who has told you that?” Rosalind asked suspiciously.

“Her ladyship was upset with me and his lordship was displeased.”

“Sylvie,” Rosalind said, putting down her brush and giving her cousin her full attention, “you must not allow anyone to convince you that you are such a foolish female that you cannot even think for yourself. Please promise me you will not.”

“But he is to be my husband, Ros,” Sylvia said hesitantly.

“Are you quite, quite sure that you wish him to be?” Rosalind asked impulsively. She was immediately sorry that she had asked the question. Tears welled up in Sylvia’s eyes. Her cousin was almost overwrought, Rosalind realized, and did not need this particular line of questioning.

“He is a very magnificent man,” Sylvia said haltingly. “I must consider myself greatly honored to be chosen by him.”

“I am sorry,” Rosalind said. “I should not have asked that. You are tired, Sylvie. Go to bed now. We have that shopping excursion tomorrow and must be wide awake.” She kissed her cousin on the cheek and watched her leave the room.

Sylvia held back her tears until the dresser had left the room, leaving a candle burning on a side table. But then she gave in to her confusion and misery. She had been so sure that she was in love with Lord Standen. It was far too late now to discover that she was not. And she dared not confide in anyone, even Rosalind.

***

“I am certainly glad that I did not take a hand against you today,” Sir Henry Martel said to the Earl of Raymore on the same afternoon as Rosalind took her ride with Sir Bernard Crawleigh. “If I did not know you better, Edward, I would almost think you must have had the cards marked.”

“I did do rather well,” Raymore agreed, stacking money and vouchers into a neat pile before him. “The opposition was not of your caliber, though, Henry.”

The two men moved into the lounge at Watier’s, where they sat down to a drink.

“You are very quiet, my friend,” Sir Henry said after a few minutes of silence. “I thought you would be elated to have your bachelor freedom for a few days again.”

“Oh, yes, quite,” his friend replied absently, flicking open his snuffbox and placing a pinch of snuff on the back of his hand. “I have been devilish busy, though, yesterday and today, trying to persuade Hans Dehnert to play at my concert.”

“The Austrian pianist, Edward? Is he in England?”

“Yes, indeed,” the earl replied. “As a visitor only. He has refused quite adamantly several people who have tried to persuade him to give a recital.”

“I have the feeling you would not tell me this,” Sir Henry said, “if you had not somehow succeeded.”

The Earl of Raymore allowed himself to smile as he inclined his head. “All is settled,” he said. “I can leave for Standen’s house party in the morning with a clear mind.” 

“Tomorrow?” his friend asked with raised eyebrows. “I understood that you meant to put in a token appearance only at the end of the week, Edward.”

“I find that I must carry through my responsibility to the end,” Raymore replied. “By the end of the summer I should be free of both my wards, Henry. In the meantime, I should supervise their activities through the rest of the Season.”

Sir Henry chuckled as he downed the rest of his drink. “Edward,” he said, “I do believe that you are becoming a member of the human race. Elise said it was bound to happen sooner or later. I will wager that you are becoming attached to those females and will miss them sorely when they do get married.”

Raymore shuddered. “Heaven forbid!” he said fervently. 

“Come and dine with us tonight,” Sir Henry said, rising to his feet. “Elise has still not been into company since her confinement. She would be delighted to have you as a guest.”

The earl declined, pleading a previous engagement. Then he proceeded to sit on in his place, undecided about how to spend his evening. He did not wish to dine at home. He had done that the evening before, believing that it would be bliss to have his home to himself again. Even Hetty had gone away for a few days, to stay with friends until her charges returned from the country. He had found himself unaccountably restless. He had wandered from the dining room to the music room and had stood before the pianoforte pressing down the keys almost at random. Although he was a connoisseur of music, he was not himself a performer. With one finger he tried to pick out the tune of that song she frequently sang, “My Luve is like a red, red rose.” He could almost hear it in his mind, but somehow the tune would not reproduce itself on the pianoforte.

He had finally gone, late, to the opera. For once, he had not enjoyed the music. He scarcely heard it, in fact. His sole object had been to watch the little redhead dancer and to meet her backstage afterward. Perhaps she had attached herself to someone else by now. He had certainly neglected her of late. But it was worth a try.