Rosalind began to challenge herself. She had always played to entertain herself. But in the country she had had other activities, notably painting and riding. And riding had always been the big challenge. Because she was disabled, she had prided herself on being an accomplished and daring horsewoman. But here she had nothing but her music. She had never asked if she could ride here. She supposed that her guardian might consent; riding was an acceptable pastime for ladies. But riding in London meant walking, or at best trotting, a horse in Hyde Park. It was yet another social activity. It would offer her no freedom. She forced herself, then, to aim for greater musical achievement. She practiced for hours on the harpsichord, almost exclusively Bach music, trying to achieve the crisp brilliance that she was now convinced his music was meant to sound like.

But Beethoven had always been her greatest love. There was a passion underlying the surface intricacy of his music, she had always believed. And she had been contented to play those pieces that came easily to her. She had often played the first movement of his Piano Sonata Number 14 because it was relatively easy to play and the melody was so breathtakingly beautiful. Some poet had called it the Moonlight Sonata because the music reminded him of moonlight on Lake Lucerne. Rosalind had always tried to picture such a scene as she played, sparkling cold water, snow-capped Alpine mountains all around. But now she tackled the second and third movements too, forcing her fingers through the tricky runs, trying to achieve power and precision and passion in the chords. But for days she despaired of ever mastering the technicalities.

There was a Sevres vase in the music room, a priceless work of art, Rosalind judged, as well as a beautiful one. She frequently spent time just gazing at it and running her fingers lightly over its texture. When her frustration with Beethoven became so powerful that she felt a strong urge to stalk over and smash the vase, she would turn to song and restore her tranquillity with love songs and ballads. She chose songs for their simplicity and emotion. She was never tempted to try opera or vocal music that required more power or expertise.

Part of the charm of her times in the music room was the fact that there she was completely alone, quite free of the necessity to smile, to make polite conversation, to pretend to be enjoying herself. She would have been horrified indeed had she known that the music room exerted just as strong a pull on someone else. The Earl of Raymore despised himself for his weakness. She was, after all, only a girl dabbling in an art that was beyond her talents. But though he was from home far more than had ever been his practice in the daytime, he was drawn back there, against his every instinct, almost each afternoon when he knew that in all probability Rosalind would be singing and playing.

At first he stood outside the door listening, but his constant unease lest someone should come along and find him spying outside a room in his own house or- worse-that she would unexpectedly emerge and find him there, drove him into an adjoining salon. It was a good choice. Part of the wall between the two rooms was merely a thin paneling that could be folded back and always was during his concerts so that a supper could be laid for his guests to feast upon during the interval. He could listen in the salon almost as well as if he were right in the room with her. And it suited him very well not to see her. He tried to ignore the fact that the music that had become almost a drug to him was produced by Rosalind Dacey.

And so the Earl of Raymore discovered with Rosalind the wonder of Bach on the harpsichord, and he suffered with her through her mastery of the Moonlight Sonata. He would find himself sitting forward in the only chair that had been stripped of its holland covers, clutching his head in frustration, sometimes anger, as she repeatedly played over the same bars and repeatedly made the same mistakes. He would grip the arms of the chair, his eyes tightly closed, willing her through a passage that she had finally grasped. And he listened in a kind of agonized wonder when the melody came flowing in all its glory through the intricate runs and crashing chords.

Raymore had to admit to himself finally that Rosalind Dacey was no dabbler. She was an artist. And he always waited for her to sing. There was nothing brilliant about her vocal performances; the music was too simple to demand brilliance. But she brought a clarity of style and depth of feeling to the old songs that gave them power and dignity. He always waited in hope for the song she had sung that first time he had listened, the one about the rose. He had spent more than an hour in his library one morning trying to find the words of the song. But he had had no success. It must be something recently composed, though surely something that would last. It must be by one of the new poets. He had even gone to a bookshop and bought a copy of Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge's Lyrical Ballads. But if one of them had written the poem, it was not in that particular volume. The song haunted him. He found himself thinking of the singer as a red rose. He could even picture her dressed in the rose-red gown that she had worn on the night of her come-out. But he steadfastly resisted putting Rosalind's face and character into the hazy mental image that he carried with him almost against his will. His rose was becoming a fantasy creature, different from women as he knew them in reality.


***

Even Raymore, who had judged the progress of Sylvia's connection with Lord Standen quite satisfactory, was somewhat surprised at the speed with which he came to the point. Less than a month after Sir Rowland Axby had paid his morning call to ask for the one ward's hand, Standen was repeating the performance for the other ward.

Raymore had no misgivings. The connection was quite unexceptionable. Standen had rank, wealth, looks, and sense to recommend him. His serious nature would complement Sylvia's exuberance. The two men quickly came to an amicable agreement.

As he had done on the previous occasion, with Rosalind, Raymore summoned Sylvia to the library before luncheon. He awaited her arrival with a feeling of relief. She at least could be counted upon to behave predictably. He was very thankful that it was not Rosalind again. He could not be sure that she would accept any suitor, even if Crawleigh were to offer for her.

Half an hour later Sylvia rushed with undignified haste into Cousin Hetty's sitting room, where that lady and Rosalind were examining purchases made during a morning shopping expedition. "Ros, Cousin Hetty," she began, breathless from her run up the stairs, "Lord Standen has called on Edward and has offered for me."

Rosalind looked up sharply and searched her cousin's face.

"Well, how splendid, my dear," Hetty said, moving across the room to hug the girl and startling a poodle that had been stretched beneath the hem of her dress. "I knew when I saw you that you would make a brilliant match. And Lord Standen is very grand. I do believe you will be most happy. I wonder when the wedding is like to be. Oh, how exciting. We must get to work immediately on your trousseau." She clasped her hands and gazed in rapture at the prospective bride.

"Are you planning to accept his lordship's proposal, Sylvie?" Rosalind asked more soberly.

Her cousin looked at her incredulously. "But of course," she said. "You know that I love him, Ros."

"Are you sure?" Rosalind asked dampeningly. "You have not known him long, Sylvie, and you know that you fall in and out of love very frequently. Would it not be better to wait longer and be quite sure?"

"Ros," Sylvia pleaded, "I thought you would be happy for me. Lord Standen is far different from all the others, you know. They were mere boys. He is a man. Nigel says that he spends much of his time in the country and insists on running his estate himself. He is very kind to his tenants. I think he is worthy of my love."

"I am sure you are right," Rosalind said, "but we do not always love people just because they are worthy. There has to be a real friendship and attraction too, Sylvie."

"He is always very kind to me," Sylvia replied, "and I know that he thinks me quite the most attractive girl he has ever met. Nigel told me so."

"Well," Rosalind said, smiling cheerfully and rising to her feet, "I am sure the man has a great deal of sense. And for your sake, Sylvie, I hope that this time you do remain in love. I am sure he will make a quite admirable husband."

But she could not help wishing that Nigel Broome would let her cousin do her own thinking. Rosalind was not at all convinced that this attachment would prove any more lasting than any of the others.

Chapter 7

Lord Standen had decided to celebrate his betrothal to Lady Sylvia Marsh with a week-long house party on his estate in Sussex. Even so, his sister, Mrs. Letitia Morrison, felt that such an event called for a larger gathering in London. One week after the announcement appeared in the Gazette, she held a dazzling ball in honor of her brother and his fiancee.

Rosalind was becoming almost resigned to such occasions. She had learned to live her own life as far as was possible during the daytime and to accept the boredom of the evenings when she must sit and look cheerful and converse with whoever chose to sit with her. The event at hand gave her some interest in this particular ball. She watched her cousin and Lord Standen with interest when they were together. They danced twice before supper and stood together between dances speaking to their guests and receiving their congratulations. It was very hard to judge if there was a real attachment between them. They did not appear to talk much to each other, but then the occasion did not give them a great deal of opportunity to do so. They looked happy enough. Sylvia's eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed; she smiled constantly. Standen was gracious and had a word for each of his well-wishers. Rosalind liked him. He seemed to be a man of good sense and stability of character. She hoped that Sylvia had made the right choice.