The theatre was red and gold beauty, its opulence more than slightly dazzling at first sight. The lights were dimmer than Vera had expected, but this was more than compensated for by garish lamps beaming down from either side of the stage. They twinkled against the jewels of the London aristocracy and dazzled Vera's eyes. It was overwhelming, and Vera hated it just as much as she was enthralled. After all, there wasn't anyone on the earth who couldn't enjoy its splendour, but on the other hand Vera resented the riches that had been denied to her for so long and were now being rather ostentatiously presented to her as if they were the most commonplace thing in the world.
Growing up in the most miserable, darkest corner of Ireland with no mother and a drunken father hadn't exactly given Vera much of an opportunity to see sights such as this, but Rosamund had had it all her life. Vera felt dowdy as she followed Rosamund up a staircase to their seats, even compared to the usherette helpfully leading them in the right direction. At least the usherette's clothes were smart; but now in the theatre, surrounded by fine ladies, and Rosamund in her silky white gown, she was beginning to wonder if once out in daylight her new fur scarf wasn't quite as…alluring as it had first seemed. She clutched it tighter about her body like armour (although she wasn't sure quite how effective two dead foxes would be in potential battles), and for extra protection, fixed a scowl onto her face.
"I feel like a bloody maid," she hissed vehemently, drawing herself closer to Rosamund so the usherette wouldn't hear. "You could've at least warned me everyone else would be dressed t' the nines."
"Technically my dear, a maid is exactly what you are. And anyway," Rosamund smirked as she dismissed the usherette and tugged Vera into a smaller room just off a grandly spacious corridor, "we're going to be sat in here, so you needn't worry about people seeing you now."
Rosamund beamed at Vera, her pale blue eyes sparkling with excitement, and Vera suddenly felt all her resentment go away as quickly as it had come. They were in a private box, just the two of them, which was still as magnificently furnished as the rest of the packed auditorium, but Vera realised at that moment that Rosamund had probably gone completely out of her way to make everything as nice as she could for the two of them, and the most that Vera could do was at least appreciate it!
"I booked it specially," Rosamund said coyly. "Just for the two of us, alone at the opera…do you not like it? I even ordered champagne." She motioned to a small table holding an ice bucket with a long green bottle in it, and two crystal cut glasses. Rosamund looked like a child on Christmas morning, desperate to see if its gift was well received. She smirked. "Isn't it lovely? Who knows what might happen?"
Vera couldn't help but grin, kissing her lover roughly on the lips and shrugged off her fur, depositing it on the back of one of the flip-up seats. "It's a damn sight nicer than the two penny vaudevilles I'm used to, I'll give it that," Vera agreed, ignoring her lovers look of amusement at her still having a tight hold on the fur. Rosamund had been fine with handing over her jacket to the doorman, but Vera hadn't had any of it, simply stuck a metaphorical finger up at the bastard trying to pry it from her clasp and swept on her way, Rosamund snorting with laughter as she hurried on behind. It was what had only further rubbed into Vera how unaccustomed she was to high society events like this, and how much there was she still had to learn before she could blend between the two classes seamlessly.
They settled down into the seats, Rosamund reclining back, Vera leaning forward with her arms planted flat on the edge of the box, gazing down into the orchestra below. "I 'ope it'll sound better than this you know," she commented wryly, referring to the scraping of the violins and tinkering of all the various other instruments as the musicians tuned up. "I thought the Opera was supposed to be classily harmonious an' all that." Again, a sign of her not knowing enough about high society, she thought bitterly. She peered further over the edge, sharply observing her fellow Opera-goers down below. They may have had better breeding but at least she had enough sense in her head to not be wearing what appeared to be ostrich feathers on her head, and she was in a private box. Vera, a common girl from Ireland was, and they weren't, and it made her smug with satisfaction that she had something; however small it may be that was better than them.
She glanced over her shoulder at Rosamund, who was still lying back with her eyes half-closed. Vera pulled herself backwards too, so she was at the same level as the other woman. "It's startin'," she murmured, tucking a soft ginger curl of hair back behind Rosamund's ear. "You don't want to miss it after all the wonder you've made it out to be."
"Indeed I don't." Rosamund was careful to lower her voice as the lights dimmed and the music tentatively began. "I wouldn't miss this production of Carmen for the world." Rosamund sat up straighter, adjusting the drape of her dress on her shoulders and snaking one skinny arm around Vera's much more ample waist. They sat and waited a moment, and then "darling," Rosamund whispered carefully, deliberately as a soprano ascended the stage dressed in 19th century French peasant clothing, "I didn't book us this box for nothing. We are at the Opera…we are all alone in here…"
She smirked at the Irishwoman, purposefully diverting her attention from the singers with a kiss that caught just the edges of Vera's lips, and the movement of her arm from Vera's waist to slightly further up her torso. Vera returned the gesture, pulling the older woman closer to her body. "Not yet," she whispered decidedly. "I at least want to get my money's worth out of this Opera. An' what if we're seen?"
"My darling, nobody's going to be watching us. I made sure specifically we got our own, private box, where we wouldn't be seen by a soul." Rosamund put special emphasis on certain words, still looking into the eyes of her maid-cum-lover. "And before you get any ideas, I didn't just bring you here so we could...enjoy ourselves. I do mean for you to enjoy the music too." Vera snorted, louder than should have probably been allowed in a theatre, but most of their conversation was drowned out by the singers on the stage anyway. They sat up for a moment, watching as a group of dashing young men dressed as soldiers began to allow themselves be flirted with by Carmen herself, her voice swelling and filling the auditorium with its sweet music.
"L'amour est un oiseau rebelle…" Rosamund's face lit up. "The Habenara," she explained quickly to Vera's enquiring gaze. "It means," - (here Rosamund searched the back of her mind quickly for the memory of some very old, governess taught French lessons) - "Love is a Rebellious Bird, I think. Carmen sings of how no-one can tame love; and you'd best beware if she loves you because…" (Rosamund quickly wracked her brains again – it was very important to appear knowledgeable and well-versed at all times, even in front of Vera), "because love is untameable."
Untameable love, indeed. The couple curled closer, the theatre lights dancing across their faces as they listened to the continuation of the song. "Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît.L'amour! L'amour! L'amour! L'amour!"
"He says nothing but he pleases me," Rosamund translated softly. "And then she choruses-"
"Love. Yes." Vera cut her off abruptly. "I do know some things like that." She scowled to herself, not out of irritation regarding the redhead, but from herself. Why did she have to be so damned angry all the time? She thought back to the days of her youth, before Rosamund, before the scandal she had tried to orchestrate to send the Grantham's into ruin, the faked suicide so she could be with this lovely woman, even before John…when was it I changed? She wondered to herself. I was nice – once. I shouldn't have to prove my superiority to Rosamund or anyone else for that matter. She had come here to enjoy the bleedin' Opera after all, not sulk and scowl about how inferior she felt!
And Rosamund had gone to all this trouble to make the evening as possible. Vera might as well try to be grateful, to pay her in return. Some may call Vera a selfish cow, but that wasn't something she'd ever thought about herself. Faking her suicide might have given Batesy some grief and heartache, but he'd got over it now, hadn't he? It wasn't like he had been hung after all, and he still got his precious Anna in the end. Vera smiled confidently to herself. She could have done much worse if she'd had the heart to!
But Batesy wasn't here, just Rosamund with her arms wrapped tightly around her, in raptures over the music of Bizet. Of course it was only right that Vera treated Ros after this, for the other woman hadn't been exactly subtle about what she wanted the instant they'd walked in. wrapping her fingers around the shoulder she was leaning on, she pulled herself closer to the redhead, kissing her gently and using the other hand to dance lower down Rosamund's body. Rosamund responded with all the passion that might usually be expected of the redhead, and sighing with irritation about the chair arm that separated them, pulled herself onto Vera's lap.
The music swirled on; "L'amour, l'amour, l'amour!"
Later, when the Opera was over, and they had calmed themselves down with sips of champagne as they relaxed into the rest of the evening, and tripped giddily away from the theatre and into the cab, drunk on love and lust and still glowing from the magic of the theatre, they arrived back at Rosamund's townhouse, filled with the excitement and the promise of more.
Vera squeezed Rosamund's hand as they entered, wondering how she could have ever feared they weren't equals. Maybe she wasn't Rosamund's equal in society's eyes, but she knew that she was in the redheads, and that was all that mattered.