Mary Balogh - Red Rose

The visit to Lady Martel occupied only a single afternoon. Rosalind helped keep her mind off the ball for much of the rest of the time by busying herself with music and reading. She paid a few visits to the library at times when she knew that the earl was not at home. She discovered a volume of Mr. Pope's poems and carried it off to her room, where she spent many hours reading his poems carefully. She thoroughly enjoyed "The Rape of the Lock" and read it many times. But on the whole she found his tone unnecessarily caustic. Much of what he wrote was the product of a bitter mind. And he had had some deformity, she had read somewhere. She shuddered. She hoped she would never allow her physical condition to warp her mind or her attitude to life.

And she spent many hours in the music room. She was fascinated by the harpsichord and played it often. It was especially suited to the music of Bach, she found. But it was the pianoforte that became her particular love. She played Haydn, Mozart, all the music she had ever learned, in fact. And she sang to her own accompaniment. She sang old ballads and newer love songs.

In the music room she could completely forget herself. It was a large room at the far end of a wing of the house that contained none of the apartments that were in daily use. The instruments stood in the middle of the room, far from windows and doors. Here she could play and sing undisturbed and undetected. Here she could be happy and forget such things as balls and society and stubborn, arrogant guardians.

She would not have felt so contented had she known that on an afternoon three days before the ball the Earl of Raymore, on his way to his room to change from his riding clothes into an outfit more suited for dining out, heard the distant sound of music. He stopped in his tracks and listened. His jaw set in annoyance when he realized that the sounds were coming from the music room. Only carefully selected guests, including the professional performers that he invited to play at his annual concerts, were allowed to touch the instruments there. One of his wards must be tinkling away in her best schoolroom manner. What sacrilege!

He changed direction grimly and strode toward the door of the music room. It was probably Rosalind Dacey. She was the one who fancied herself as an accomplished musician, he seemed to remember. He would make it perfectly clear to her that she was welcome to practise in the drawing room when he was not there, but that the music room was very definitely out of bounds.

He stopped just outside the door, his hand stretched toward the handle but not quite touching it. She was singing. He did not recognize either the words or the melody, but the song was so simple and so haunting that it halted his progress completely:

My Luve is like a red, red rose

That's newly sprung in June

Raymore felt a momentary sharp pang whose source and meaning he could not identify. She should always sing. She had a contralto voice that was soft and throbbing with feeling. It was sheer beauty.

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile!

The song was finished. The earl's hand had fallen to his side, but he still stood and listened as she continued to play the melody. After a while she began to hum again.

When she started to play Beethoven, the Earl of Raymore moved away from the room without opening the door. She was good, he was forced to admit. He would leave her alone with her music. She could probably do no harm to his prize possessions, after all.

He did not intend to, he did not particularly want to, but he found his feet taking him toward the door of the music room for the following two afternoons. The first time she was playing the harpischord. He did not hear it very often. Most of his guests avoided it as an outdated instrument inferior in versatility to the pianoforte. But she made Bach sound brilliant, as if the harpsichord were the only instrument that would bring his music to full life. The seconcP time she was singing again, an old ballad of valor and love and death. She made him feel all the grandeur and all the pathos of the old story. That must be how the ballads had been sung all those years ago, when song had been the chief method of communicating news as well of entertaining.

Raymore retreated abruptly when the music stopped and did not immediately resume. He had no wish to be caught spying or, indeed, to come face to face with his ward. Rosalind Dacey, musician, he had been forced to recognize and respect in the last few days. Rosalind Dacey, the woman, was a different matter altogether. He could live quite happily if he never encountered her again.

Rosalind had much the same thoughts in reverse during those few days. She saw very little of the earl.

But she still seethed with resentment over his refusal to allow her to return home and over his insistence that she attend the ball. She did not intend to submit meekly to her fate, though. She smiled several times to herself, thinking of the plan she had made to make the Earl of Raymore see things her way.

The servants and extra hired workmen bustled around all the day of the ball, preparing for the three hundred guests who were expected in the evening. The hallways and grand staircase were scrubbed and polished and decorated with lavish floral displays. The ballroom underwent similar treatment. By late afternoon the whole house smelled of roses and carnations.

Sylvia and Rosalind had been sent to bed by a firm Cousin Hetty after lunch. They were to rest, she insisted, even if they were too excited to sleep. A hair stylist was to come later to dress their hair and then it would be time for an early dinner and all the bustle of getting ready before joining the earl at the receiving line.

Surprisingly, Sylvia was ready first. Flushed and excited, she tapped on Rosalind's door and let herself into the room without waiting for an answer. Rosalind swiveled around on her stool, disregarding the dresser whom Cousin Hetty had insisted she allow to help her to dress. The woman was attempting to fasten a string of pearls around her neck.

"Oh, you do look lovely, Sylvie," Rosalind exclaimed. "Just as a young girl should look at her come-out, I believe."

"Starry-eyed and heart aflutter?" her cousin asked, laughing. "It is absurd to be in such high spriits, is it not, Ros, but I cannot help myself. Will I do?" She held the sides of her lace overdress and twirled for Rosalind's inspection.

The green underdress had been an inspired choice, Rosalind thought. Sylvia looked as fresh and innocent as spring. The lace was delicate and made the girl look ethereal. Her silver-blond hair, combed into soft, shining waves, was threaded with a green ribbon. Her cheeks glowed with natural color. There was just enough bosom displayed above the scalloped neckline of her dress to indicate that she was a woman and no longer a schoolgirl, yet not enough to draw undue comment.

"Indeed you will outshine everyone, Sylvie," she said with sincerity.

"Oh, but I shall not outdo you," her cousin answered loyally. "There will probably be a score of girls to resemble me, Ros, but no one could compare with you."

Rosalind grimaced, unable to see that comment as a compliment. She turned back to face the mirror and allowed the dresser to attach her pearl earrings to her ears. She was not displeased with her appearance, but she would need all the confidence she could muster to see her through the ordeal of the hours ahead.

Conceding the fact that she could not change the color of her hair, she had to admit that the style was good. Lady Elise had been right. It did suit her to have it piled into complicated swirls and twists on the crown and back of her head. But the hairdresser had allowed enough loose ends to curl around her face and along her neck to give her a softly feminine look. The dresser had insisted on a little rouge to relieve the paleness of her skin. And it was so artfully applied, blended so carefully along the line of her cheekbone, that it looked natural.

Rosalind stood and examined her gown in a long mirror. One thing she had insisted upon during her reluctant fittings at Madame de Valery's. She was two and twenty. Although this was officially her come-out Season, she refused to behave like a debutante and wear pastel shades. They would serve only to accentuate her age and to emphasize the darkness of her coloring. She wore a deep rose-red gown of unadorned satin. The neckline was modest. Madame had cunningly fashioned the bodice so that it flared loosely from just beneath the breasts. The skirt was full but not ill-fitting. It swirled around her as she moved. Rosalind was not given to pointless longings, but she did catch herself thinking wistfully of being able to dance as she gazed at the rose-pink slippers that peeked beneath the wide hem of her dress. She gave herself a mental shake, drew on the elbow-length white gloves that the dresser was holding out to her, and turned to Sylvia with a smile. "Shall we go down," she suggested, "before his lordship comes looking for us, breathing fire and brimstone?"

He was waiting for them in the drawing room, looking magnificent, Rosalind conceded reluctantly. Her eyes took in the dull-gold knee breeches and coat, the brown waistcoat and snowy white linen and lace at neck and cuffs. He was truly handsome from the neck down, but his face looked more like that of a man contemplating his own execution than of one about to host a ball for the ton.

He bowed unsmilingly and placed his empty glass on the mantel. "You are both to be complimented on your appearance," he said. "Shall we join Hetty in the ballroom? Our first guests should be arriving soon."

He offered Rosalind his arm, but she pretended not to notice and turned and limped out of the room ahead of both him and Sylvia. She would not allow him to treat her like an invalid.

In one of his few meetings with his wards in the previous few days, Raymore had instructed Rosalind on how she was to conduct herself at the ball. She had felt like an enlisted soldier taking orders from a general. He had not asked or discussed or coaxed; he had told. She was to stand next to him in the receiving line, with Sylvia on her other side. If she became tired of standing, she must take his arm and lean on him. When the dancing was to begin, he would lead her as unobtrusively as possible to a sofa close to the door, after which he would begin the dancing by leading out Sylvia.

He and Cousin Hetty would introduce her to various guests; she assumed he meant various young men. Her inability to dance would be attributed to the fact that she was somewhat lame. He had considered telling everyone that she had twisted her ankle, he told her frankly, but had decided that that would not serve, as she could expect to be in London for at least two months and she could not convince everyone for the whole of that time with the twisted-ankle story.

On no account was she to move from the sofa. If no one else offered to bring her a plate of food at supper-time, he would do so himself. All she had to do was smile and be charming to all who came to converse with her.

It was while he talked that Rosalind devised her plan to get even with this man whom she had come to detest. Only this enabled her to sit outwardly serene as he talked about her quite candidly as if she were a piece of spoiled merchandise that a buyer would have to be tricked into purchasing. She would show him!

The first part of the evening went as planned. The Earl of Raymore was satisfied with the appearance of his wards. His cousin, of course, looked inviting, as he had expected. But he had been half-prepared for some resistance from Rosalind. He had thought that she might try to appear in an old gown or with a plain hairdo. He had been quite prepared to march her back to her room and threaten to take her inside and dress her himself if she did not immediately cooperate and dress herself becomingly. But he was impressed. In her own way she looked almost magnificent. Not in his style, of course, or quite in the style that was likely to take well with the ton, but certainly she was quite acceptable. If only she did not have that ugly limp!

She did not take his arm at all during the hour in which they stood greeting guests, even though he offered it several times when there was a lull in the lineup. But he could not complain about her attitude. She was not sullen. She smiled and shook hands with each person who passed. Raymore was pleased that he had taken such a firm stand with her from the beginning. She had obviously learned to accept his way as best for her.