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 she 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.