Chapter Eighteen
“Rose. Rose.”
“Sorry,” she turned to William. “What did you say?”
She realized he must have repeated himself, as he’d had to do all evening. She was beyond distracted and unable to concentrate on anything except Claire’s dilemma. Moreover, she couldn’t even discuss it with William, as she couldn’t tell him how she knew Claire was not the one who’d been sneaking out to see a man.
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, likethe incidentshe’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.
