Red Rose

Raymore was not applauding. My God, he thought, she bas improved almost beyond recognition in four days. He rose to his feet only when he saw her slightly bewildered face. He crossed the room and bent over her. "You were magnificent," he said. "These people will want an encore, Rosalind."

"An encore?" she echoed. "Oh, no, please. I have not practiced anything else."

"Will you sing?" he asked, still bent over her, speaking for her ears only.

"Sing?"

"Will you sing the song about the rose?" he asked. "For me, Rosalind?"

She looked up at him, startled. "You mean the one by Mr. Burns?" she asked.

"Is that who wrote it?" he said. "That Scottish fellow, Robert Burns? Will you, Rosalind?"

She had no time to think. The audience had quietened down. "If you wish," she said.

"Miss Dacey has agreed to sing an encore," Raymore told his guests. "It is a song by Robert Burns that I have grown to love."

Rosalind followed him with her eyes until he sat down. The song about the rose. He had called her his rose on that morning at Broome Hall. She had thought it a shortened form of her name. Had he been referring to this song? Had he listened to her sing it and did he think of her as Mr. Burns had thought of his Jean, or whoever the girl was who had inspired the poem?

She sang the song, her contralto voice soft and rich in the hushed room. But she was aware only of the man who sat looking at her, his face expressionless, his eyes full of that new look that she now wondered more about. And before she had finished singing, she knew the truth. She did love him. He had become as essential to her being as the air she breathed or the music she played. She watched her hands during most of the song. When she did raise her head, it was at him that she looked, growing wonder in her eyes.

It is unlikely that many of the invited guest noticed. They were enjoying the novelty of hearing a simple love song after the intense music that they had been hearing for more than an hour. But Lady Elise Martel noticed and exchanged a triumphant smile with her husband. And Sylvia Broome noticed and darted a look of wonder at Nigel. He appeared engrossed in the song. And Sir Bernard Crawleigh noticed.

During the first half of the time set aside for refreshments Rosalind's attention was taken by a large crowd of people wishing to congratulate her on her performance. Finally, though, Sir Bernard was able to steer her back into the music room and to a couple of chairs on the side of the room farthest from the refreshments.

"I must speak to you in private," he said. "This may not be quite the time. I should be allowing you to bask in people's praise. You deserve it all, you know, Rosalind."

"What do you wish to say, Bernard?" she asked.

"I see I must get to the point," he said. "I wish you to break our engagement, my dear."

"Bernard?" she asked, her eyes wide.

He smiled rather crookedly. "I am sure you must have suspected that I had no intention of getting married this early in life," he said. "That does not mean that I do not desire you as a bride. And I would have made the best of it. In my way, I love you, Rosalind. But the marriage would not be good for you, my dear. Your heart is engaged elsewhere. I am not even sure that you realize it. But you would in time, and I should hate it to happen after you had married me."

Rosalind was staring at him, her face pale. "With whom am I in love?" she asked, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.

"With Raymore, of course." he said, "damn his eyes."

Rosalind stared dumbly back at him.

"I ca

Rosalind was searching for an answer, but it was too late. The guests were reassembling and Hans Dehnert was taking his place at the pianoforte again. She sat next to Bernard for the full hour of the second half of the recital without hearing one note of the music. She sat in an agony of guilt and confusion. Could it be true? How could she love a man she detested, a man she had felt suffocated by for as long as she had known him? How could she have failed to recognize the truth a long time ago? And what of Bernard? Was he hurt? He pretended not to be, but she suspected that it had not been easy for him to release her from their betrothal.

She stole several surreptitious glances at Raymore, who sat with his eyes directed at the floor. It was hard to tell from his expression whether he was engrossed in the music or a million miles away in thought. She remembered Lady Elise telling her a few days before that it was possible that he loved her. Could it be true? The idea seemed too fantastic. They had disliked and despised each other so strongly at the start. And how could a man who was himself so physically perfect and who cultivated beauty around him love her? It could not be.

It was at that moment that their eyes met across the music room. Each looked away hastily. Rosalind felt as if a shock had passed through her. What was she to do now? She would have to end her betrothal to Bernard. Then, what? Should she accept Raymore's offer to send her back to the country? It was what she had longed for from the start. But she would never see him again. Could she bear the thought of that? There was just no alternative. She would soon be free, but free only to leave forever the man she loved.

Rosalind heard loud applause all around her and realized, with a start of guilt, that the recital was over. She had missed the chance of a lifetime! She applauded with everyone else and stood talking with friends reluctant to leave long after Raymore had escorted the Austrian pianist outside to his waiting carriage.

Bernard succeeded in having a private word with her before he left. "I shall expect to hear from you tomorrow," he said. "Please think carefully, Rosalind. I should be delighted to be held to our engagement, but I think, my dear, when you have had time to consider, you will find that I am right."

She put her hand in his. "Yes," she said, "I shall write to you tomorrow. Good night, Bernard."

He bent and kissed her hand.

"Well, I ben't altogether sorry ter see the back of Lu

"The streets be too hot 'n dusty fer me," the footman agreed. "Reckon young Je

"She'll like it iffen you be there," Ben replied, leering sidelong at his companion on the box of Raymore's traveling carriage. "Yer'd better set yer poppers back, lad, iffen yer wants a last glimpse o' Lu

The footman obediently cast his eyes back on the London skyline that had set his jaw hanging with wonder only a few short months back.

"Someun be in a big hurry," he commented, jerking his thumb at a distant horseman who was galloping hard up the hill a mile or so behind them. "He ben't a highwayman, eh, Ben?"

"Nay," said the other. "Road's too open 'ere fer gen'lemen o' the road."

Inside the carriage Rosalind sat gazing sightlessly out the window. A smart little maid sat in the opposite corner, watching eagerly the passing scenery. She had never been out of the city before.

She had finally got her wish, Rosalind was thinking. She was on her way home. She was free. Within a few days she would have picked up her life where she had left it before coming to London. She could ride Flossie, paint, revel in her music, read to her heart's content. And although Raymore Manor would never legally be hers, she was assured sole possession of it for her lifetime.