by Emily Queen
When he unfolded himself and rose to his full six feet, two inches topped by a mop of curly, chestnut hair, Rosemary’s hopes fell to ruin. By the look of it, there was little to no chance of Desmond going bald anytime soon, and neither had he grown an unsightly hump. There he stood, a dashing man with sparkling hazel eyes and a set of full lips over an impossibly straight row of teeth. In short, he could get a woman thoroughly syncopated with little effort.
“Rosemary Woolridge, as I live and breathe,” he said with a wide grin, striding the short distance between them and enveloping Rosemary in another hug, this one gentle and friendly rather than rib-shattering like Frederick’s.
“Hello, Desmond. You look well.” The understatement of the year, but all Rose could manage. She didn’t even bother to correct his misuse of her maiden name.
Desmond smiled down at her. “As do you.” He winked at Rose, raising a blush to her cheeks, and deposited a kiss on her outstretched hand before turning his attention to Vera. “I see you’re still keeping deplorable company.”
The two stared one another down through slitted lids—it seemed that the men who didn’t fall for Vera’s spectacular good looks and charming personality tended to regard her as rather a handful. The standoff ended when Vera raised an eyebrow and deadpanned, “I can still take you, Desmond dear. Don’t let the heels fool you.”
He laughed, and the ice was broken. What’s more, the heat had dissipated from Rosemary’s face, and for that, she was grateful. Her color had returned to normal, and she’d already forced the memory of the butterflies in her stomach out of her mind and deep into her subconscious.
“Wadsworth will handle your bags and take them up to the guest rooms. Vera will stay with me. We leave tomorrow on the four o’clock train.”
“Which leaves us the evening. Quite enough time to get good and zozzled, huh Des?” Frederick elbowed his friend in the ribs and wiggled his eyebrows as he followed Rose up the stairs to the front stoop.
Desmond shook his head, ruefully. “Not all of us can handle your level of drinking, old friend. But I won’t say no to a night on the town. How about it, ladies?”
“Actually,” Rosemary said, “we have tickets to a show this evening, and Vera is demanding the two of you accompany us.” She cast a sideways glance in Vera’s direction. “As moral support.”
Freddie peered at Vera with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve never known Vera’s morals to be in want of support, scant as they are. What gives?”
“None of your business, Frederick,” Vera snapped.
“Come, Vera, we can’t expect them to go to war blindly. Not without at least giving them the lay of the land first.” Rose admonished.
“Fine,” Vera huffed. “If you must know, I was up for a part in the production, but that miserable Jennie Bryer stole the role right out from under me. Now, I feel it is my duty to attend the premiere performance and heckle her to my heart’s content. I assume I can count on you two fools for some shameless ill behavior?”
She stalked into the front parlor without a backward glance, as she needed not a whit of reassurance that her wishes would be honored. “And if either one of you breathes a word about how beautiful she is, I swear you will regret it for the rest of your days.”
Both Frederick and Desmond knew from experience how seriously Vera took such promises and made a solemn vow not to ogle Jennie Bryer overmuch. Rose smirked to herself, sure the venture would never go off as planned, and amused at the thought of what form Vera’s retribution might take.
Chapter Three
“Now,” Desmond slouched on Rosemary’s parlor settee, and gestured with his after-dinner aperitif, a G&T with more gin than tonic, “I want to hear how you’re faring these days, Rose? I was very sorry to hear about your husband, and even more sorry to have been traveling and unable to attend the funeral.” He paused as if a thought had just occurred to him, and then flushed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, and thank you for asking,” Rosemary said with a wave of her hand. “I’m doing much better now. Of course, it comes in waves, but that’s the nature of these things. At this very moment, I couldn’t be happier. I'm surrounded by caring friends, and I’m looking forward to our holiday abroad. Will this be your first time to visit Cyprus, or have you been there before?”
Desmond nodded. “I have, yes. Once, and I’m looking forward to a return visit. Very relaxing place. What more could anyone ask than sand, sun, and beautiful mountains? I hope you two will come on a hike with Freddie and myself.”
Rosemary looked to Vera, who smiled thinly. “Luring Vera off the beach might be a chore, but if I can manage, you may count us in,” she said wryly. “What have you been up to the past few years, Des? All Frederick ever tells us is that you’ve been gallivanting around the world and that you spent some time in the States.”
“He would call it gallivanting.” Desmond shot his friend a withering look, and then returned his gaze to Rosemary. “I call it quite something else entirely,” he continued with a charming grin. “In pursuit of the lion’s share of my great-aunt’s inheritance, my father insisted upon my squiring her from one end of the world to the other. I hardly remember what it’s like to not live out of a steamer trunk these days.”
A short moment of silence followed the admission, and then Vera trilled out a laugh. “Around the world in eighty days with a maiden aunt. Sounds like a lukewarm adventure if ever there was one. Tell me, did it pay off? Did she decide to cut you in on scads of ready money when she toddles off into the next life?”
Frowning at Vera, Desmond admitted, “If you must know, after I got over feeling like a trained dog sent to fetch a bone, I came to quite like the old girl. I shall miss her when she goes, but I rather consider I’ve done my familial duty.”
Feeling warmly towards him, Rosemary said, “That’s quite interesting, Des. You will have to tell us all about it when we’re in Cyprus with nothing to do but lounge around and relax.”
Desmond laughed. “It may be interesting, but it’s nothing compared to solving a murder! Frederick told me about your exploits in Pardington, and I have to say, I’m impressed and intrigued. How did you figure out who killed that poor sod?”
Rosemary cast an appreciative gaze towards Vera. “The killer slipped up and tried to pin the caper on poor Frederick. None of us fancied him taking a ride on the end of a noose, so we put our heads together, and the rest was just a bit of quick thinking.”
“The moral of that story, my good man, is to avoid getting spifflicated and sleeping in the rough when someone’s plotting dirty deeds and trying to lay them on you.” As Rosemary expected, Freddie evidenced no chagrin. “If not for our Rosemary, I’d be but a fond memory by now.”
Vera insisted on being acknowledged for her contribution to the solving of the crime, and a short but friendly discussion ensued until Rosemary had had enough.
“I think it’s about time we dress for the theater, don’t you, Vera?” Rose asked. Vera looked at the clock and jumped up from her chair.
“Where did the time go? We’ve just over an hour to powder our noses and shrug on the glad rags. That’s cutting it close,” she said and pulled Rosemary towards the parlor door.
Rose went to pull the door closed behind her, but paused when Desmond, apparently thinking she was out of earshot, spoke to Frederick.
“She seems to be doing quite well, all things considered,” Desmond commented thoughtfully.
Her brother grunted. “She puts on a good show, and this is certainly better than the catatonic state she was in just after Andrew passed. I’d like to believe she’s moving on with her life, but I can’t say for sure. That’s part of why I wanted to accompany her to Cyprus. Mother and Father agreed that it would be best if I went along, and since work has become quite a chore, I jumped at the chance.”
She clicked the door shut silently, unsure whether she was glad to have people concerned for her, or irritated that they felt the need
to babysit her.
***
“So?” Vera flopped down on Rosemary’s bed and looked at her friend expectantly. “Does Desmond measure up to the memories you had of him, or is he looking a little long in the tooth nowadays?”
Rosemary cast her a wry glance. “You know good and well that’s not the case. You do have eyes, after all. If it’s possible, he looks even better than he did back then. Less boy, more man, I suppose.”
“Right, Rosie, but did he make you feel anything? Did you get the butterflies?” Vera prodded.
Rosemary contemplated the question. Vera would accept nothing less than total honesty from her best friend. “Yes, I suppose you could say something took flight, but I think it was simply a nostalgic figment of my imagination.”
Whether Rose thought she was being honest or not, Vera didn’t buy the line for a second.
“Yes, well, I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? Two whole weeks in Cyprus will give you more than enough time to tell if you like him.”
“I already know I like him, Vera, but that doesn’t mean I want to be handcuffed to him. I’m still not ready, and you know it. Involving Desmond now would be putting the cart before the horse.”
“At least it’s a stallion, Rose, and they’re rarer than a unicorn these days. All I ask is that you give him a chance.” Vera implored, even if her words fell on deaf ears. She wasn’t trying to be insensitive; it simply broke her heart to still see occasional traces of sadness in her friend’s eyes, and she missed the lighthearted, perpetually smiling woman Rosemary had always been.
Rosemary scoffed. “It doesn’t only matter what I think of him. He may not find me at all attractive, you know.”
“And you don’t seem to notice the way men look at you. You never have. It’s not one of your more redeeming qualities,” Vera retorted. “Modesty can only take one so far.”
Setting her lips against the smirk that wanted to surface, Rosemary merely sought to mollify her. “Of course, Vera. Whatever you say.”
While Rose stood under Vera’s fiery glare, Anna walked into the room carrying an armful of freshly laundered clothing. She didn’t say a word but juggled the load onto her other arm while she straightened up Rosemary’s vanity. After a moment, she seemed to notice Vera.
“Oh, hello, Miss Vera. You look lovely,” Anna said, though her eyes darted around the room while she shifted from one foot to the other.
Rosemary raised an eyebrow. “Are you quite all right, Anna?” she asked with genuine concern. Scatterbrained was not a word she would have used to describe her maid, at least under normal circumstances.
“What? Oh, yes, yes, I’m fine, nothing to worry about.” Anna looked down and started, as if noticing the bundle she carried for the first time. “I’d just lose my head today if it wasn’t attached.” She resumed puttering about, setting things to rights, and then stopped dead in her tracks as if she’d forgotten what she’d intended to do.
“You clearly aren’t fine, Anna,” Rosemary pressed. “Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it.” Anna was a good maid and a fine girl. Not much more than a teenager, she’d been in Rosemary’s employ for several years, and they had shared a closer relationship than was typical between a servant and mistress. In fact, the term ‘mistress’ was one Rose preferred not to use, and the sentiment behind her choice was part of what made her different from other employers.
Still, Anna simply gave her a wan smile. “I’m just feeling a little frazzled, that’s all. Nothing to worry about, I’ll be right as rain and ready for our travels, don’t you worry.” Frazzled was an understatement, Rosemary thought when Anna brushed off her concern once more.
She let it go, and allowed Anna to beat a hasty retreat, but vowed to speak with Anna and dig out the problem at her earliest opportunity.
Chapter Four
“An evening of boring theater was not what I had in mind when I said I’d like a night on the town, you know,” Desmond complained as he topped off his glass of gin with a splash of tonic and a squeeze of lime. “I never did enjoy the Bard as much as my teachers thought I ought. Downright depressing, old Shakespeare, wasn’t he?” He leaned over the bar cart and raised an eyebrow at her.
Rosemary tilted her head to one side. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a comedy. How can you not enjoy a story filled with fairies and lovers and beautiful poetry?”
He lifted a shoulder carelessly. “I’m male, I suppose. That’s my only defense. We aren’t always attuned to the finer nuances and tend to prefer our love stories off the page. Or off the stage, as it may be.”
Being quintessentially male, he proved the point by missing the subtle roll of Rosemary’s eyes towards the heavens, though he gave her a smile that smoothed over the gaffe. Tonight, she thought, was not a night for pointing out the glaring differences between male and female sensibilities.
She dragged her attention away from his dimples and back to the words he was speaking.
“You certainly do look lovely, Rosemary. You’d fit right in with the fairies of Shakespeare’s imagination.”
She had to admit, she felt better in the deep-purple silk dress than she had in unrelieved widow’s black, especially since she knew it set off her golden hair and complimented her figure. Not carefree, exactly, but far better than she had in ages.
She blushed, and took a swig of her drink to avoid replying immediately, and then decided to accept the compliment without worrying whether it might mean anything. “Thank you, Desmond.”
Rose was grateful when Vera and Frederick swept into the parlor and drew the attention away from her, and she didn’t even bat an eyelash at their squabbling. She supposed she might as well get used to it. Two weeks with the pair of them acting like children would drive her mad unless she maintained her sense of humor.
“It was Clifford Leighton,” Frederick insisted. “He bragged about it for weeks.”
Vera stopped, turned, and wagged a finger under Freddie’s nose. “You’re all wet. It was Jonty Emsworth, and that’s the final word on the subject.”
Rather than backing down, Freddie thrust his face closer to Vera’s. “Clifford Leighton,” he enunciated each syllable.
Stretching up on her toes, Vera matched his fervor. “Jonty, and he did a right good job of it, too.”
“It was not.”
“Was too.”
This went on for several more turns until Rosemary couldn’t help but intervene.
“Here now, what’s this all about?”
So close their noses nearly touched and without taking her eyes off Frederick, Vera snapped, “Your brother is under the misguided notion that Clifford Leighton was the boy with whom I shared my first kiss.” Then she called Frederick a name that no lady would repeat in polite company.
As she had in the past, Rosemary dearly wished the sparks between Freddie and Vera carried even a hint of romantic feeling. As vehemently as they argued, she thought they’d love one another even more so. Alas, it was not to be, and the insults grew increasingly scandalous until Rosemary couldn’t hold back her laughter.
“You’re fools, the both of you,” she said between giggles, “and wrong besides. Vera’s first kiss was with Basil Harrington at the church fete the year we turned twelve. She gave him a boiled sweet, and he rewarded her with a peck on the lips. Then his ears turned red, and he had to go to confession.”
Vera’s sour mood popped like a soap bubble, and her silvery laugh rang out. “I’d forgotten. He had to say ten Hail Marys, and he didn’t speak to me again for a month.”
Turning to Frederick, Vera couldn’t resist a final taunt. “You were still wrong.”
“So were you,” came his retort.
“Come now, you two. We are all adults here, are we not?” Desmond intervened while Rosemary convulsed with silent laughter.
“It’s a losing battle, Des. I promise you. Just bring plenty of cotton to stuff in your ears while we’re in Cyprus. Trust me; you’ll need the relief,” Rose sputtered while she tr
ied to catch her breath.
Desmond shrugged and sat down on one of the armchairs, crossed his legs, and watched while Rosemary tried to corral her brother and her friend. She appeared to shift between irritation and amusement, which was the customary response to Vera and Frederick’s shenanigans.
“And you, Freddie dear, should know better. Vera needs our support now, and that’s what we’re going to give her. Well, that and our sternest, most judgmental review of Jennie Bryer’s performance. Do you think you can handle that? Or shall we leave you home?”
Frederick pursed his lips and turned to approach the bar cart, muttering something about how he hadn’t wanted to attend the theater tonight anyway.
Ignoring her brother, Rosemary focused on Vera, who looked, in her opinion, far more like a fairy princess than Rose ever would. “I simply cannot believe the director passed you over for the role of Titania. You look perfect for the role just as you are. No costume needed.”
Vera’s frock, in palest pink, had a shirred shoulder that skimmed down into a fitted, corset-like bodice, then dropped gently to swirl around shapely calves. Sparkling beads sprinkled across the skirt caught the light like tiny, pinprick stars.
“Thank you, Rosie. You always know what to say.” Vera kissed Rosemary on the cheek with a genuine smile on her face. “I thought for sure I had that role in the bag. Perhaps I’m not cut out to be an actress, after all.” A sliver of doubt crept into her tone.
The mere thought that Vera would think she was less talented than Rosemary knew she was irked, and she shot Vera a scathing glance. “Stop talking like that. You’re the daughter of the great Lorraine Blackburn. You have the pedigree, you have the talent, and you—usually—have the ego to match. I much prefer the Vera who knows the director was a dolt to the uncertain woman standing before me. Now, shall we go and discover how badly he got it wrong, or would you rather mope around here and give Jennie the satisfaction of knowing she bested you twice?”