He gave her his most patient smile. “I asked if you needed a coat, yours or mine?”
They were outside enjoying an early evening concert. Unfortunately, she’d heard the same music with Finn. At present, Rose was seated on a chair on the lawn of Leverett Park, with Elise and Michael, Reed and Charlotte, and William. Four years earlier, she’d been leaning against a railing on a balcony on Hanover Street.
Instead of quietly enjoying Tchaikovsky surrounded by friends and family, as was currently the case, she and Finn had been alone, their thoughts solely on each other. The beautiful music floating up from the park below had been merely the musical accompaniment to their holding one another, their impassioned kissing, and, yes, even a little exploratory touching.
Tchaikovsky was the only common thread, but the notes were tying her younger self to her newly engaged self quite tightly.
It was beyond distracting. When she recalled her husband kissing her during the second movement of “Francesca da Rimini,” and, at the same moment in the score, William happened to turn to her, Rose lifted her mouth to receive his kiss — in public — the division of time blurring between the past and the present. Naturally, her fiancé had looked shocked, until she’d feigned a yawn as if he’d misread her intent all along.
When he took her hand in his at precisely the same point that Finn had stroked his fingers down her spine, she’d shivered.
“No, I’m not cold. Thank you,” she told her fiancé when he offered her a coat.
***
How oddly Rose was behaving. And not for the first time. It was disconcerting. However, it was not something that he couldn’t tolerate. William had admired her when she was slightly wild. When he’d first come from England to live in America, he’d seen her at events when she was the tender side of eighteen. He’d watched her dance too closely in some cases, laugh too loudly always, and speak her mind to a group of adoring males. What’s more, he’d adored her bubbling spirit.
Then he’d left the area for a time, gone to school on the Continent, and come back only to find a very different Rose Malloy, somber, subdued, and absolutely never laughing. Even though she’d lacked the old spark of gaiety, he’d still admired her, still found that she dominated his thoughts until he’d finally decided to make her his.
William had worked damn hard to make sure she smiled and danced and enjoyed life. He loved the more mature Rose. Yet lately, she’d become subdued again, even a little distant, though when he asked her, she professed her complete happiness in their relationship.
Yes, it was disconcerting.
Tonight, they were at a favorite pastime, listening to music — this time at one of Olmsted’s masterfully designed parks — along with her family, eating syllabub from tall chilled glasses, and he could swear she was somewhere else in her thoughts. She’d shivered yet declined his offer of a coat. Now, so keenly aware of her strange moodiness beside him, he might as well be listening to a tune the old cow died of, as Tchaikovsky.
More than anything, he wanted to be alone with Rose, stare into her incredible sapphire-blue eyes, and find out if there was anything at all wrong, anything he could do. After all, they had become friends. The best of friends, something he hadn’t expected and, thus, cherished all the more.
If Rose had a problem, he had a problem. If he could solve it, he would do so.
Unfortunately, like the incident she’d mentioned once when he’d first started courting her and the secret she had started to tell him more recently only to change her mind, there were barriers between them. William didn’t like secrets or barriers, especially between him and the woman who would be his wife.
He leaned down and murmured so only she could hear, “Can we take a stroll?”
He felt Rose stiffen, sensed her pulling away.
“Aren’t you enjoying the concert?” she asked him.
“As much as you are,” he said wryly, wondering how bad things were that she didn’t want to steal a moment alone with him.
“It’s grand,” she whispered over enthusiastically, and William felt a little sick inside at her obvious pretense. “Let’s stay here and finish our dessert,” she added.
Damn. Well, perhaps this was not the time to open an old wound or to create a new one. Whatever it was that was bothering her, she would disclose to him when she felt ready. Rose was no coward, he knew that, so he had no doubt she would broach the issue eventually.
***
Rose wanted to cry. Desperately, she wished she could take a walk with her beloved, holding his hand as they traversed the many paths, and kiss him on one of the quaint bridges or under the maple trees. She fervently wanted to simply enjoy their love for one another. Instead, there was an ugly stain on her and on her heart, and if she didn’t handle things correctly, it would ruin William as it had already destroyed Claire’s happiness.
If they walked alone, he would question her. He was a smart man, and she was being far too careless in her behavior for him not to have noticed that something was definitely wrong. So distracted by what to do about Franklin and Claire, she knew she was even quieter than usual.
Why, Rose had realized that everyone was clapping at the end of a piece only when the loud sound finally penetrated her brain, and belatedly, she’d joined in.
She had sent a note to Franklin that very morning, asking him to meet her somewhere discreet that would cause no speculative gossip, yet also not at his home where the dragon resided and ruled — though she had not used the term dragon, of course. By the time her little party of concert-goers had departed Rose’s home on Mount Vernon Street and set out in multiple carriages for the park, Claire’s beloved had not yet agreed to speak with her.
It seemed an interminable evening, except for the pleasure of William’s sweet attentiveness, if only he didn’t look so concerned. If only she deserved him.
As she’d hoped, when Rose returned home, the briefly penned reply from Franklin was simply, “Yes, the Bijou Theatre, mid-morning.”
***
At 10 a.m., Rose climbed the stairs to the second floor lobby of the theatre on Washington Street. Though a bit plain on the outside housing an ordinary row of shops below, the building sported no less than twenty-one arched windows in the three upper floors. In fact, the Bijou’s interior was a little gaudy with its mixture of masonry and wallpaper, its innumerable carvings, and an ornate central chandelier that looked as if it were descending from a fool’s cap.
Rose eyed it all fondly. She’d watched more than one hilarious Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera there, as well as many a play. What’s more, she thought the acoustics to be quite good.
Franklin was already there, speaking with a gentleman in a top hat, who moved away as she approached.
“Miss Malloy,” Franklin said and bowed slightly. “That was Mr. Keith. Do you know him? The owner? I’m helping with a few minor improvements. Or rather, my late father’s company is, of which I am its head.”
He looked nervous, and the jittery path of his conversation proved him so.
“Mr. Brewster,” Rose began, swallowing her own nerves, “may I call you Franklin? I believe we have been close enough acquaintances for such a familiarity.”
“Yes, we have,” he said, his voice sounding strangled. “Please do so.”
By God, he was choked with emotion. That was a good sign!
Rose was determined to make this right for Claire. Her friend had proven herself to be a saint yet again. When Rose had tried to apologize to Claire for the blight on her friend’s otherwise unsullied reputation, for having ever let her get mixed up in Rose’s own sordid indiscretions, Claire had held up her hand and silenced her.
“We are closer than sisters, are we not?” Claire had asked. “I did nothing wrong, and even you, though rather unorthodox, I know you did nothing immoral either. Yes, you were, perhaps a bit impetuous, but you were following your heart. Honestly, how many girls our age could have married such a virile, handsome man as Phineas Bennet and yet not given
him their innocence?”
When Claire had put it that way, Rose had felt almost virtuous.
“We did nothing wrong. What’s more, I can lend my carriage to whomever I please, whenever I please, and the dragon and her son can go to devil!”
Rose had never heard Claire speak thusly. If she had even a little of her friend’s courage and righteousness, she would find the wherewithal to mend this rupture.
“Franklin, I must tell you that a grave misunderstanding has occurred, and an egregious injustice has been perpetrated upon our common friend, Claire Appleton.”
His eyes widened at her customary way of getting right to the point, which was not admired by everyone. In this instance, however, Franklin seemed to appreciate that they would not be wasting time circling the matter at hand.
“I think there has been no misunderstanding,” he challenged. “For I have it on good authority, with an eye-witness no less, that the information I have been told is absolutely true.”
Exactly how deeply would she have to elaborate?
“The eye-witness may have reported truthfully what he or she saw,” Rose allowed. “However, the perception, or rather, the interpretation of what was seen is positively false. This, I know, because I was involved.”
Fully prepared to confess her part in the mischief, still, Rose hoped she did not have to.
Franklin walked in a circle, no doubt his version of pacing, and then he stood before her once more.
“I love Claire,” he confessed, surprising Rose that he would say the words to her. “However, I cannot go into a marriage — even if she would have me after the other day’s disastrous encounter.” He paused to cross his arms and thump his own shoulders.
“No” he stated again, “I cannot enter a marriage with this dreadful hint of impropriety in her past.”
Rose felt as if this same drama were playing out in her own life. With real curiosity, like a cat pawing at a particularly sticky cupboard door, she asked, “So if Claire has had a prior relationship, which I can assure you she has not, does that make her an unsuitable choice to be your bride?”
“No,” Franklin said with an emphatic shake of his head. “If she had a prior relationship, I would only want her to be truthful and tell me. If she’d lived in Singapore or spoke Chinese or had been in love with another man, I would want to know.”
He frowned at the floor, and Rose could see his struggle. He loved Claire and wanted her, but he was a rational man and a cautious one.
Far more than William, that was certain.
Franklin took another circular stroll before he stopped again. “I thought we had been honest with each other in all things, more so than other couples,” he continued. “Some chaps I know simply marry a girl for her pretty face, and that’s that. They don’t tell and they don’t ask, and I think they have poorer lives for living as strangers. Naturally, Claire asked me about my, uh, my history with the fairer sex.”
A profound blush appeared on Franklin’s cheeks. “And I told her. Similarly, I asked her and thought I knew everything about the woman I love. Until my mother suddenly told me that Claire had been sneaking out at all hours. I know it was years ago . . .,” he trailed off, then seemed to come to a decision as he adjusted his vest and tugged at his coat.
“If she could keep a secret like that, then how can we have a true marriage of the minds and hearts?” he asked Rose.
The man was perfectly correct, of course. Rose should have told William about Finn, dead or alive, when she first let him become serious about her, when she started to open her heart to him, and certainly before they became engaged. It would have always been between them, even if Finn had really been dead. Her eyes teared up at what a mess she’d made.
“Miss Malloy, I’m so sorry. I did not mean to cause you distress,” Franklin said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and handing it to her.
“Oh, no, you have not. My emotions are not for you and Claire, for you will hear in a minute that, luckily, your situation is easily rectified. I’m crying rather self-centered tears, and I apologize for doing so.” She dabbed at them.
She was a Malloy, and like her brother, she fixed things for those she loved.
“I will be forthright with you, as you have been with me” Rose began. “Claire did indeed keep a secret from you, because it was not hers to tell. She did sneak out in her carriage on numerous occasions, but it was only to lend it to me. Honor bright, it was I who had an association with a young man.”
Franklin had the grace to keep his face impassive so as not to embarrass her.
Rose was almost through the worst, so she plunged ahead. “I didn’t want to tell my mother about my attachment, and so, unthinkingly, I relied on Claire to help me. It was a terribly selfish thing to do in retrospect. However, four years ago, it seemed merely like an exciting adventure. I never meant for Claire to suffer any consequences. I hope you will believe me.”
Franklin stared at her, his intelligent eyes scanning her face, seeing her pain and her regret.
“Of course I believe you,” he said at last, and a weight dropped from Rose’s shoulders.
“I am so grateful you contacted me,” Franklin continued. “I have been half mad with doubt and disbelief. Claire is the best kind of person anyone could wish for in a friend and in a wife, and she speaks often of her love for you. I can certainly picture her selflessly and without regard to her own reputation doing as you have described to me.”
Rose nodded. What an understanding man.
“I am extremely glad I eschewed etiquette and came over to secure a dance between you and Claire at that party so long ago. For you are indeed worthy of our Claire.”
Instead of seeming pleased, Franklin’s expression looked tortured.
“I said terrible things to her. I have wronged her, and I didn’t have faith in her in the face of my mother’s condemning words and blasted witness.”
Rose considered what Claire had said in anger and weighed that against all the months and months of loving Franklin Brewster.
“I am certain Claire will forgive you. She loves you, and that love cannot simply stop in one day. However, you must soften your mother toward her, too. It cannot be easy for either of you when your own parent disapproves.”
Merely the fear of that type of disapproval had caused Rose to behave badly toward Finn.
Franklin nodded. “I will tell my mother the truth and demand she apologize to my future wife, and that will be that. I mean to marry Claire, and my mother had better get used to the idea, or she’ll find herself minus one son, a daughter-in-law, and any future grandchildren.”
Rose smiled genuinely for the first time in days at the idea of Claire’s dream of marrying and having children finally coming true. Then she recalled the greater problem.
“All the young ladies at that absurd tea party overheard your conversation with Claire. If you mean to win her back and remove the blemish on her reputation, you had best do something public and large. Otherwise, you know what will happen? People will think you merely a besotted fool who accepts Claire despite her soiled past. And if that is the case, even after marriage, she will not be welcomed in society’s parlors. She will be a pariah, and you will both have to leave Boston.”
Franklin looked slightly shocked, his face paling from its early rosy blush. However, he clearly understood the gravity of the situation.
“I will make it clear that it was not her but—” he broke off and stared at her.
Rose felt her heart start to pound and the blood leave her head. Good God! Franklin would tell everyone that it was she who had the secret assignations. He would do that to save his love, as he should, and then the Malloys would be the pariahs.
He started again. “I will make it clear that she was only lending her carriage to help a less fortunate. I promise, your name will be left out of it. You brought us together to begin with, and now, you’ve done it again. Or at least I hope so. Claire and I will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
Rose felt the tears well again. How kind of him to say so, when it was her thoughtless actions that had nearly driven them irrevocably apart.
“Don’t worry. I know exactly how to do this,” Franklin said, the twinkle back in his brown eyes.
With all her heart, Rose hoped so.
She also fervently hoped her next conversation with William would go as smoothly.
Most of all, she wished she could stop wondering why Finn had left her waiting at the church and whether anything had happened to him. However, she had to remind herself that he was not her responsibility or her concern anymore.
***
The knock at his door caused Finn to jump up from his bed where he had spread out his reading material. Boat building books on one side, newspaper accounts on the other. Wondering if he should have obtained a firearm, he called out, “Who is it?”
“Reed Malloy.”
Finn’s face twisted into a grimace of regret. He’d been expecting Rose’s brother, but still, the man was an unwelcome visitor. Like a downpour on a July 4th celebration.
Yet Finn had no one to blame except himself. He had done everything wrong from the moment he’d been rescued, and it had led to this moment. The moment when he would lose Rose.
He yanked the door open. Was it appropriate to introduce himself or to shake hands?
The other man did neither. He gave Finn a cursory glance up and down, sighed, and then asked, “Shall we meet here or do you want to come to my office?”
Finn moved sideways and gestured for Rose’s brother to enter.
“You were expecting me, I take it?” Reed quipped, stepping into the center of the room and setting down his portfolio on the bed cover.
“Yes. Rose did mention she had spoken to you.”
Reed’s glance was sharp. “She was supposed to stay away from you.”
“Except for one or two brief encounters, she has done so,” Finn said, feeling all at once irritated at having to apologize for seeing his own wife.
A flash of his feeling must have shown on his face. Rose said her brother was perceptive and sure enough, he pushed his coat back, hands going onto his pockets, and an expression of utter displeasure set firmly on his face.
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