by Mary Balogh
Rosamund remembered how she had known even before going down to dinner on that fateful night that the following morning would see the end of her maidenhood. She and John had had some peculiar electricity between them. Innocent though she had been, she had been absolutely certain that he wanted her, that she could have him for the asking, and that she would indeed ask. She would experience his love, cost her what it would…
Oh, it had cost. She wondered, in sudden shakiness, if anything had changed in that regard. The way he looked at her—could she be looking at him in the same fashion? No, surely not. She was a mature woman and could govern herself better than that.
Rosamund put on her favorite rose-colored silk gauze, trimmed with intricately worked silver thread, for the tenth anniversary of her madness—a gown as unlike white muslin as anything she owned. She put on her diamond necklace, too, her wedding gift from Sam. When she looked into the mirror, she met a pair of brown eyes that were surely not the unknowing eyes of a poor, besotted girl.
“Mama!” Sammy burst into her room, pursued by his English nursemaid and the ayah. “They told me I can’t see you all dressed up. I say, you look fine.”
“Child, you ought to be in bed. I know you always look at me in my evening clothes, but you see, Lady Tidbury is holding her dinner at such a late hour that it’s already past your bedtime.”
“Well, I’ve seen you, so that’s all right,” said the little boy with a stubborn setting of his chin that reminded Rosamund of his father. “Now they can do what they will.”
Nurse and Ayah both objected to Sammy’s grim tones, protesting that they had no intention of torturing the young master for his enthusiasm.
“I know the two of you are as soft as I am,” Rosamund agreed, smiling at both attendants. “We can overlook it this once.”
As though any of the females in the house would do anything else! Even Rosamund’s dresser had an affectionate smile for the young master as she bustled away on some errand having to do with the new silver slippers. Rosamund shook her head as Sammy and his keepers left the room. The child would soon be spoiled; was spoiled even now. She thanked heaven for his sound and unassuming nature.
When the maid came back, slippers in hand, Rosamund completed her toilette quickly and went down the hall to Minna’s room, where she knocked.
A nervous, birdlike sound came in answer. Rosamund took this as permission to enter and turned the handle.
Minna was ready, in a new gown of yellow silk gauze. She was standing before a long glass, staring into her own eyes quite as Rosamund had done a few moments before.
“You look lovely my dear,” said Rosamund. “Shall we go?”
Minna whirled about and surveyed Rosamund, from coiffure to slippers, in evident dismay. “Oh, no. This will never come off as I wish.”
“What won’t?”
Minna sighed. “As you tell me you don’t want Colonel Fairburn, my plan is to attach him myself tonight. He’s bound to be off his guard, if he’s thinking of you, and I wish to make good my time. But if you will go about looking so beautiful, I shan’t have a chance.”
“Thank you for the compliment; I’m sure I don’t deserve it,” Rosamund said. So this was what Minna had been hiding. How lucky that she confessed her little plot; how much better than if Minna had decided to proceed with her project in secret. This way Rosamund could safeguard the girl from the worst consequences of folly. “So you’re going to make a push tonight? Do you mean to trap him?”
Minna cast down her eyes, and Rosamund knew she had guessed correctly. What was it to be? A staged compromise scene in some antechamber?
“You promised not to interfere,” Minna said in the direction of the floor.
“So I did, and I keep my promises. Still, he won’t be caught that easily,” Rosamund predicted. “I pray he doesn’t hurt you.”
“As he hurt you once?” Minna’s words had enough of a malicious undertone to kill Rosamund’s sympathy.
“I would hope he wouldn’t get that far,” she murmured. She didn’t gratify her young friend’s evident curiosity on this point, but turned and led the way’downstairs.
———
Lady Tidbury’s ornate Chinese drawing room was filled with people, or so it seemed to Rosamund as she presented a cheek to the spry Sir Magnus and endured a half-dozen of his compliments with a good grace. But John didn’t seem to be present.
Lady Tidbury swept up, nearly bumping aside her husband. “Rosamund! A fine entrance. You and little what’s-her-name are the last to arrive.”
“But…”
“Oh, you’re looking for Colonel Fairburn. Didn’t I tell you? No, I couldn’t have; just happened. He sent his regrets to me earlier today. I’ll have his hide! Not only did I arrange this whole party at his behest, I’ve had to resort to Mr. Phineas Appleton to avoid thirteen at table.” Her ladyship indicated a heavyset gentleman decked out in high shirt-points and skintight pantaloons. “He’s the veriest bore, and so I was sure he would be free.”
Rosamund nodded politely, wondering at the cloud of gloom she could feel enveloping her.
“Appleton is your dinner partner,” Lady Tidbury said with a certain malicious glee which Rosamund did not miss. She supposed she deserved it; the party was in some measure her fault.
“Did you hear?” Minna sidled up with an anguished look once Lady Tidbury and Sir Magnus had passed to some other guests. “Colonel Fairburn couldn’t come tonight. Percy just told me.”
“What was his excuse?” Rosamund asked vaguely.
“Something military, I assume. He would never miss the party he had arranged if he could help it,” was Minna’s opinion. “I shall simply have to set forward my plans some other time.”
Rosamund couldn’t help wondering if John hadn’t staged all this—the party, the build-up of suspense, the final disappointment—to drive her mad. If Minna were foiled in the process, it was no more than the girl deserved for setting out to trap him. How could she think one such as John Fairburn would be satisfied with such a plain little thing?
Rosamund caught herself. His taste ran to plain little things; at least it had ten years ago.
The evening began to resemble a thousand other evenings in Calcutta. Dinner-table talk was of the approaching hot season, the brewing trouble in Nepal, the unusual rain the other day. Mr. Appleton decided to enumerate for Lady Ashburnham the number of bolts of silk in his warehouse, or so it seemed to Rosamund.
She could see that Percy Fairburn was entertaining Minna, kind lad that he was. Would this night never end? No, for this was only the first course, and surely the company had been dining for an eternity. Rosamund tried to take a forkful of curry and returned it to her plate untasted. She managed a small sip of Persian wine.
“Now, now, Lady Ashburnham, you’ll never grow stout if you don’t eat more,” Appleton said. “Stout women are my passion.”
Rosamund had no response to make to this, and Appleton finally gave up and turned to Minna, the lady on his other side. The girl happened to be sighing over her plate during a break in Percy’s chatter. Rosamund was gratified to see Minna’s eyes light up on being addressed by Appleton. She seemed to like the man better than Percy! Well, there was no accounting for tastes.
More platters of food were set out on the table: a turkey, a very British saddle of mutton, more curries, and enough exotic fruits and nuts to prove—this was India. The process was repeated with joints, jellies, and a spicy Burdwan stew which Appleton exclaimed over. Rosamund couldn’t eat a thing. She amused herself as best she could by observing Minna’s shining eyes. Appleton devoted himself to Miss P’eabody, and the devotion seemed to be mutual. Curious… was John to be forgotten so suddenly?
Lady Tidbury eventually led the ladies out of the dining room, ending up in the cavernous ballroom rather than the Chinese salon.
“Since we are to have an impromptu dance,” Lady Tidbury said with a certain look at Rosamund, “we may as well be handy to everything. I’ve had
chairs drawn up over here near the pianoforte. Perhaps, Lady Ashburnham, you would consent to play to us while we wait for the gentlemen?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Rosamund answered. “I’d be delighted to play for the dancing, too.”
With a start, she realized she had done just that ten years ago, on that other Saint Valentine’s Eve. Her chaperon Mrs. Fallow had volunteered her services, as she recalled.
Lady Tidbury agreed with a nod. One of the other ladies protested that she would play, too, though of course her talent was nothing compared to Lady Ashburnham’s.
Feeling almost disoriented, Rosamund sat down at the instrument and began softly an arrangement of an old folk tune. Minna offered to turn the pages, which, as Rosamund wasn’t using music, brought a smile to her lips. She assumed that Minna was simply feeling shy and not equal to socializing with the other ladies.
She hardly noticed when the gentlemen came in; wouldn’t have noticed at all, had not Mr. Appleton come lumbering up to the piano.
“May I rescue you from this drudgery, dear lady?”
Rosamund hadn’t yet phrased an answer when she heaid Minna voicing some coy rejoinder and realized that Appleton had been addressing Miss Peabody, not herself.
She watched Minna walk away on the gentlemen’s arm. Well! The girl looked elated by this development. Would Appleton, of all the unlikely people, succeed in replacing John Fairburn in her affections?
“He ain’t that bad a catch.” Suddenly Lady Tidbury was whispering in Rosamund’s ear. “Came out here at the age of fifteen, as so many of ‘em do, and immediately began to dig his grave with his fork. Rich devil, and they say he’s finally begun to hang out for a wife. He needs someone to pull him back from the table before he grows stout as a barrel, and your little friend looks capable.”
“But Minna is nowhere near large enough for his taste,” Rosamund replied with a notable lack of seriousness. If the two did fall in love, she would be too relieved for words; the mere idea put her in a good mood. “He’s been telling me how much he adores stout women.”
“She could grow into it,” suggested Lady Tidbury. “Well, don’t give up hope, child. That girl will be off your hands one day soon. Unrequited love makes the best of us long for an establishment.”
“I don’t wish only that for her. I want her to be happy,” Rosamund protested. She had been irritated with Minna, true, but she would never cast the girl into an objectionable marriage. Mr. Phineas Appleton, indeed! When Minna might have her pick of a dozen young and personable men.
Who weren’t as rich. The nasty suspicion crossed Rosamund’s mind that maybe her young charge would not find a large supply of money amiss. Minna had accused Rosamund of being—what had she said?—the luckiest woman in the world, purely on financial grounds.
They must await events. Rosamund would see to it that Minna only married Appleton if her heart was in it.
Lady Tidbury clapped her hands. Rosamund stopped her dreamy playing and listened along with the rest of the company.
“Now for the dancing,” her ladyship stated, not evincing much enthusiasm. An impromptu dance carried with it little in the way of status for the hostess involved. “Lady Ashburnham has consented to play. If she will start with a country dance, the general and I will be top couple. Sir Magnus?”
Her husband stepped up and swung her ladyship away by the waist before Rosamund could think of a suitable tune. She was glad of the ensuing confusion, for she was perilously near laughter. Finally she struck up “Sir Roger de Coverley,” knowing she ought to be more original, yet unable to think of anything better.
The dancers bounced away as Rosamund played, quite enjoying the view she had, over the top of the instrument, of all the proceedings. Minna was dancing with Percy while Mr. Appleton stood by looking romantically jealous. The other guests, paired mostly with their mates, were laughing and joking. Perhaps an impromptu dance was the best kind.
Rosamund had never expected to find diversion this evening. She would have to thank John after all for arranging the party.
She played another country dance, another, then a daring waltz. The couples swam before her eyes as she let her fingers roam. She feared she was growing sentimental and resolved to make the next set a spirited reel. And wasn’t it time for someone else to play? She might find pleasure in a dance herself, even if it was only a hop with Sir Magnus.
“There were no waltzes on that other February night,” said a voice in her ear.
Only the greatest self-possession kept Rosamund from stumbling through the next passage.
“John,” she whispered, not looking over her shoulder. She had the tune by heart, and it was almost over. Then she could ask him what he meant by arranging this stupid party which he hadn’t even thought fit to attend… “You’re here. Didn’t you send your regrets?”
He waited to answer until she had brought the tune to its end. It being the first waltz, the dancers spent some time laughing and complimenting each other. They didn’t seem to notice that the music was not recommencing at once.
“Don’t you remember?” John smiled. “I wasn’t there for dinner. I wandered in sometime during the evening and rescued you from your servitude at the pianoforte. As I’m about to do now.” He offered his arm.
As if on cue, the lady who had offered to play, a Mrs. Seldon, approached the instrument looking quite contrite. “I’ve left you to play on and on, my lady. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I enjoyed it, and I only noticed this moment that I’m growing a little tired,” Rosamund said. She walked off on John’s arm.
She supposed they were about to have it out. It was time. She was weary of the game, and he must be too.
As they walked out of the ballroom and down a corridor, she looked up at him. His face was cheerful, youthful, as though the last ten years had not hardened it. He had never come so close to resembling his nephew.
“It’s not so easy as this, John,” said Rosamund.
“What do you mean, my dear?” He kept walking, drawing her along. They came to the door that lay open to the dark grounds. He led her outside.
“You are so lovely,” he began, reaching out to touch her face. “You’ve become such a stunner. There is a little heartbreak in that face of yours, something that wasn’t there before. You’re more beautiful because of it. Tell me, is the grief all for your husband?”
“You know better, or you should,” Rosamund said. “If I have done something to my face from grief, it was doubtless complete before I arrived in India. Let’s not mince words, John. Why did you arrajige this evening? What strange trick are you about to play?”
“None at all.”
“Then I must go back to the ballroom. Not that I’ll save the situation by doing so. Everyone saw us leave together.”
“Precisely.” John motioned to a nearby bench. “Why not stay a little longer? Your reputation will be in shreds already.”
Rosamund followed and sat next to him, but she couldn’t keep back her greatest fear for this evening—at least she thought it was a fear. “You aren’t planning to ravish me in some lonely room of this gigantic house, are you? Your mania for recreating the past can’t reach that far.”
“Don’t tell me I ravished you ten years ago. I can’t remember that at all, but then, they say men are notorious for forgetting things.”
She sighed in vexation but made no answer.
He took her hand in almost an absent gesture. She was absurdly glad she hadn’t put her gloves back on after leaving the pianoforte. His hand was bare too, and it felt so warm, so good.
Touch was confusing. Rosamund knew it would be best to draw her hand away. After one feeble tug got her nowhere, she gave up what had been at most a halfhearted desire.
“Tell me one thing,” John said. “Why did you leave me that night?”
“I meant to return.” Rosamund saw no reason to dissemble. She told him the whole embarrassing little story of wishing to primp for him, to be pretty for on
ce in her life. And of being caught out by her chaperon, who had retaliated by locking her in her room, then dragging her away as early the next morning as possible.
“Good Lord, such an explanation never crossed my mind.” He stared at her. A torch nearby made his expression clear. He looked truly astounded. “How could you be so silly as to leave me?”
“Vanity runs strong in a young female,” she returned, shrugging. “I might as well ask why you didn’t come down to breakfast that morning, when I so needed to see you again, to know that I hadn’t dreamed our promises to each other. There, also, life is made up of little mistakes, not great drama. I’m sure you were simply tired.”
“I was.” He said nothing further, but their palms suddenly felt too close together to Rosamund. She was remembering why he would have been tired, and she suspected he was doing the same. Again she tried to withdraw her hand. It wouldn’t come.
“Do you know, Rosamund, I never stopped loving you. Not really.”
“You simply forgot me.”
“I did try. And, my dear, if you change so very much, you must forgive an old friend for not recognizing you, for seeing you in his mind as you were when he fell in love.”
The wind rustled a nearby palm. Some small animal cried out far away. Finally Rosamund spoke. “You sound so reasonable. What am I to do now? Forget my family responsibilities and take you to my bed? Do you really think I’m that weak? Yes, I know there is some attraction between us, but it won’t vanquish me. I promise you that.”
“Rosamund, you can’t think I only want to bed you. I want you to be my wife,” John exclaimed. A note of irritation was clear in his voice. The change was so great from his former loving manner that Rosamund was startled. Startled, and comforted in a way. She was much more used to argument these days than she was to soft words.
“Many men in Calcutta want to marry me,” she replied with a toss of her head. “I’m quite the catch.”
He sighed deeply. “Oh, the devil takeyou for being rich and beautiful. I want you anyhow. Grow ugly if you wish, and as soon as possible. Give all your money away to the orphan asylum or the Asiatic Society. I have enough now for both of us.”