Red Rose (14 page)

Raymore, frequently listening in the anteroom, found that sometimes he could not remain seated but paced in frustration, wanting to rush into the music room and shake her, rant and rave at her to concentrate. He sensed her pain but felt powerless either to explain it or to alleviate it. On one occasion, when she had played the same passage through half a dozen times and finally crashed her fingers down on the keys, he felt her despair. He stood with his forehead against the screen, eyes closed, one fist clenched against the lintel above his head. She was his red rose and he fought the impulse to go to her, to hold her to him and soothe away the darkness.

On a seventh attempt, she finally played the passage without a flaw. He opened his eyes, and with sight came the realization that it was Rosalind in the next room. His lip curled in a sneer that was directed entirely against himself and he left the room and the house immediately. He did not go near the music room the next day.

***

The day for the journey to Broome Hall turned out to be chilly, a brisk wind sending clouds scudding across the sky. But it was a pleasant enough day for a journey. Rosalind and Sylvia traveled together in the Earl of Raymore’s new and quite luxurious traveling carriage while their baggage loaded down a second coach. Sir Bernard Crawleigh rode alongside them, occasionally galloping ahead, sometimes riding beside the window, which Rosalind lowered so that they could speak with him.

“I am most honored to be your only outrider, ladies,” he said once, tipping his hat further back on his head, “but, alas, there is not one highwayman in sight. How am I ever to convince you of my courage and gallantry if we do not encounter at least one gentleman of the road?”

“Oh, dear,” said Sylvia, “do not joke about such things, Sir Bernard. I shall be quite contented if I never see a highwayman.”

Rosalind grinned. “Perhaps another time, Bernard, when Sylvia is not with us,” she said. “I should be more than delighted to have some excitement to liven up a very dull journey. But Sylvia is so chicken-hearted, you see.”

“Ah,” he said, and tipping his hat forward again with the end of his whip handle, he spurred his horse forward out of their sight.

Lord Standen and his brother had made the journey a day earlier so that they would be present to greet the arrival of their guests. Sylvia was quite subdued during most of the journey, occasionally giving in to bursts of nervous excitement. The prospect of spending a week in the home of her intended husband frightened her more than she cared to admit. She was not sure that she would be able to spend a great deal of time in his presence with ease. And she was terrified about meeting his mother.

“Poor Lady Standen,” she said. “Nigel says that she is frequently in poor health and rarely leaves the house. I do hope she likes me.”

“How could she not!” exclaimed Rosalind. “Now, do not go getting yourself into the fidgets, Sylvie. You are the sweetest person I know. If she fails to love you instantly, I shall refuse to be civil to her at all.”

“Well, I shall try to please her,” Sylvia said anxiously, and lapsed into silence again.

They were the last of the house guests to arrive. Lord Standen greeted his bride-to-be with flattering deference, not waiting for the ladies to enter the house, but coming down the marble steps outside the imposing front doors to help them alight. He did look rather splendid, Rosalind thought, in dark-blue coat and cream-colored buckskins, the white tassels of his gleaming Hessians swaying as he walked. He was a tall man, dark and good-looking. They made a very handsome couple, in fact, Rosalind decided, as he bowed over Sylvia’s hand and raised it to his lips. She smiled shyly up at him and then beamed beyond him in a much more relaxed manner at Nigel, who had also come out of the house to greet the new arrivals.

It was hard for Rosalind to see the two men as brothers. Nigel Broome had none of the advantages of his brother. He was half a head shorter and rather too slim to be imposing. His dark hair stood out from his head in unruly curls, and his thin face usually looked earnest. He certainly seemed to have taken upon himself the task of caring for the welfare of his future sister-in-law. He shook hands with her warmly and led her indoors, while his lordship was busy welcoming Rosalind and ushering her into his home.

Chapter 9

Lord Standen had obviously put a great deal of effort into planning his house party. During the first few days his guests discovered that there were a great many activities in which they could participate, each according to his interests. Yet no one felt as if his life had been organized for him. Each was free to be alone or do nothing if he so chose.

Sylvia had been introduced to Lady Standen in the dining room before dinner on the first evening. The meeting was not such a terrible ordeal, after all. Lady Standen was easily pleased with anyone who would lend a sympathetic ear to her complaints about her health, and Sylvia listened most patiently both before dinner was announced and during the meal itself, when she was seated to the right of her future mother-in-law. Sylvia was a kindhearted girl at all times, but on this occasion her sympathetic manner was largely aroused by awe. The older woman was a wilting creature who nevertheless commanded attention.

Lady Standen appeared to approve of her son’s choice, remarking loudly to Sir Rowland Axby in the drawing room afterward that she was a “pretty-behaved gel.” Sylvia had escaped to the pianoforte, which she played only indifferently. Nigel followed her there and stood behind her stool, turning the pages of the music. After a while, she stopped playing and turned on her stool to talk to him. Poor Sylvia, Rosalind thought. She had been observing her cousin all evening and guessed that she did not feel entirely comfortable. Standen might have stayed with her and helped her feel at home. But his impeccable good manners had led him to mix with all his guests in order to ensure their comfort.

For the next few days, in fact, Sylvia found that she spent more time with her friends, Susan and Lady Theresa, and with Nigel than she did with her betrothed. He had some estate business to attend to; he had to take his male guests and the more energetic ladies on long rides; he had to spend some time with his mother, whom he rarely saw. Always she seemed to be excluded, whether by her own choice or by his, or even by mere chance, she could not be sure.

With her friends she walked the grounds or sat on the terrace exchanging
on dits
from town or discussing fashions. With them, she discussed her trousseau. With Nigel she played cards and talked about her future husband and home. One afternoon he took her in the gig to visit some of the tenants, with whom she discovered he was on excellent terms. He showed her the schoolhouse, which had been built only three years before at his suggestion. He, in fact, had been the first instructor when he finished at university, but his brother had replaced him with a hired teacher, feeling that it was beneath the dignity of a Broome to teach the children of tenants.

But Nigel still took a lively interest in the school, which now boasted almost all the boys of the estate as pupils. “I dream of extending the building,” he told Sylvia, “here on the east, with a schoolroom for girls. Most people think I am absurd. George is quite unconvinced. But I believe that girls can be taught to read and write just like boys, and perhaps they could have some instruction in sewing and drawing and such. What do you think?”

Sylvia’s eyes shone. “What a splendid idea, Nigel,” she said, gazing at him in admiration. “But could their mothers spare them from home?”

“That is the main problem,” he admitted. “But I had much the same objection to taking the boys into the school at first. Somehow their fathers managed to do without them. I believe that the mothers would too. And think of the advantages, Sylvia. When they are at home, the girls will be able to read to their mothers, to mention just one thing.”

“You will do it too. I know you will,” Sylvia said fervently. “And will you teach them yourself, Nigel?”

“I think not,” he said. “There are any number of ladies who would be thankful for the employment. No, what I really want to do, Sylvia, is to start a school in London for destitute boys. Educate them and train them enough that they can gain employment as clerks or grooms or footmen, perhaps.”

He helped Sylvia back into her seat in the gig and drove slowly back to the house, expounding to her the dreams and theories that were dearest to his heart.

Rosalind meanwhile was enjoying herself vastly. The excellence of Lord Standen’s stables had not been exaggerated. For the first time since she had left Raymore Manor, she could ride again. On the morning of the first day she went with Lord Standen himself, his sister and brother-in-law, Sir Rowland and Sir Bernard on a partial tour of the estate. She was mounted on a quiet mare that was not quite up to her skills, but she would not complain. Just the feeling of being high in the saddle again, fresh air and countryside all around her, the distinctive smell of horse teasing her nostrils, exhilarated her. She felt comfortable in a new riding habit of wine-red velvet, its wide skirt and fitted jacket neatly fashioned yet not too revealing of her full figure, the jaunty little hat with its curled feather perched precariously on her dark hair. Nothing could quite dampen her joy, even the fact that her mount could not keep up with the others or the fact that she had to converse most of the way with Sir Rowland, who gallantly matched his horse’s pace to hers and kept her company.

During the afternoon, when most of the guests were relaxing quietly about the house and gardens, Rosalind again rode out, this time with only Sir Bernard for company. She persuaded the groom to saddle a glossy black stallion for her.

“Are you sure you can handle him?” Sir Bernard asked doubtfully. “Highwaymen I may be able to take in my stride, but I am not quite sure that I relish the prospect of having to rescue a damsel from a runaway horse.”

“Me neither,” Rosalind replied with an arch glance as she put her foot in the groom’s locked hands and mounted lightly to the sidesaddle. “Are you sure you can handle
your 
mount, Bernard?” She laughed gaily, turned the horse’s head for the exit from the cobbled stable yard, and trotted him down the worn pathway that led to the open fields beyond the house.

For the next half-hour she was completely happy, completely in tune with the animal beneath her. It was perhaps only on horseback that Rosalind ever felt complete. There she could be the equal of anyone in grace and skill. Her deformity mattered not at all. She trotted and galloped the stallion and finally could no longer resist the temptation to ride straight for a hedge. Bernard rode at her side the whole time, not speaking, seeming to recognize her need for silent enjoyment. When he had followed her over the hedge, though, he did catch up to her and pulled his horse close alongside.

“By Jove, Rosalind, you are a neck-or-nothing person,” he commented amiably. “Is a poor fearful mortal allowed a rest without losing you entirely?”

She flashed him a smile and skillfully slowed her horse to a walk. “I think the horses probably need a rest,” she agreed. “Let us lead them to the water over there.” She pointed with her whip to a stream on their left.

They led the horses to a clump of trees close to the banks of the stream. Sir Bernard dismounted and turned to lift down Rosalind.

“You look remarkably fetching today,” he said, easing her down so that her body slid the length of his. “Very Italian.”

“Hm,” she said, turning away to tether her horse to a tree.

He grinned. “Come and sit over here,” he said, moving across to a patch of grass that faced the stream and was shaded from the rays of the sun. Rosalind, having been complimented herself, noticed how handsome he looked, his tall, athletic figure accentuated by the black coat, cream breeches, and black top boots that he wore. He tossed his top hat onto the ground and stretched put a hand to help Rosalind to a seating position. He sat down beside her.

“You may not be able to dance in public,” he said, “but you are one of the best riders I have ever seen, Rosalind, and that includes both sexes.”

“Thank you,” she said. “My father forced me to ride again after my accident, although I can remember being terrified. I believe he realized that I would need at least one method of moving around in which I might be uninhibited.”

“Then he was a wise man,” he said, circling her wrist with two fingers and then clasping her hand in his.

“This is a lovely estate, is it not?” she said lamely, feeling suddenly uneasy in his presence.

“Yes,” he said, laughing, “and so are you. You do not realize that you are beautiful, do you, Rosalind?”

She blushed and laughed in embarrassment. “You do not need to say that, Bernard,” she said. “I should prefer that you did not flatter me. ”

He reached across and took her chin in his hand. “I shall convince you in time,” he said softly, and brought his lips down to hers.

Rosalind continued to sit clasping her knees. It was pleasant. She was determined to believe that he really did wish to marry her. She was going to enjoy his company this week and allow herself to fall all the way in love with him.

“Mmm,” he said, his mouth moving to her ear, “perhaps this time we will not be interrupted by his damned lordship.” He put one arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. The other hand began to undo the buttons of her velvet jacket to reveal the pink silk blouse beneath. Rosalind was so surprised that she did nothing. She continued to clasp her knees with her arms.

“Rosalind,” he said, “are you untouched?”

“Untouched?” she asked, the blood beginning to throb at her temples.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked.

Her eyes widened and she could feel her cheeks flush uncomfortably. “Of course,” she whispered.

He laughed in amusement. “There is no ‘of course’ about it. Do you realize how many of the sweet young things who grace the ballrooms with their maidenly pastel shades have lovers, and how many of the very proper matrons at the sidelines also deceive their husbands?”