Chapter 29 – Red Roses

When the party returned to the inn that evening, Frederik apologized to them for spoiling the fun and having to work all of the next day. "I hope Harville will come up with a real jewel of a way for me to get out of my predicament."

He turned to Harville, who was laughing. "As I told you on the 'phone, I think you've overestimated my talent, man."

"No, never! I am certain." Then, as though he had just recollected something of importance, Frederik stated quietly to his friend, "I need to speak with you just yet. May I-?"

"Oh, of course." Harville was at the aid of his guest of honor. He motioned to Frederik to follow him into his portion of the house. Frederik turned back to the party, in a general leave-taking. But Louisa would have none of it.

"Goodnight, Frederik," she spoke as she reached up on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. A look of bewilderment fleeted across his features, but he looked down at her kindly and replied, "Goodnight, Louisa."

If Anne could have removed her own longings from her heart, she would have viewed the scene with amusement. For, knowing Frederik as she did, she knew that he was not naturally inclined towards showing affection publicly. Whereas Louisa was very open with her feelings of regard for the man. Where a woman of less confidence might fear to tread, Louisa took Frederik's reserve in stride.

Anne made her way to her room to ready herself for bed. She thought upon the look on Louisa's face again. She could verily surmise that the eldest Musgrove sister believed herself in love. But was Frederik in love with her? Before this night, she did not believe she had seen any true spark of preference. But the gift of the brooch had changed that. He had given her a lovely emblem denoting his admiration for her.

A knock came upon the door, and quickly covering herself, she opened it. As she turned the bolt, it raced through her mind who she might find behind it. "Anne!" came the impatient whisper. Mary was waiting in the hallway. The older sister opened the door to the younger and allowed her entrance.

"I came to ask what you intend to wear tomorrow." The statement mystified Anne, but she answered truthfully. "I have not thought on it."

"Well, I intend to wear my yellow silk blouse. I tried to match it with the yellow scarf, and it looks hideous. I was wondering if I could borrow your red one." If Anne had known Mary's motive beforehand, it would not have surprised her more. It seemed rather cruel of her sister to steal into her room for such a reason, yet why should it ruffle her? Still, it did. Swiftly her mind ceased to consider this request, and Anne heard herself tell Mary. "I intend to wear the scarf tomorrow." She had not known why she said it, but the decision was solidified with Mary's next statement.

"Oh, Anne, your dark blouses will go with yellow as well as red. Here, I've already brought my scarf to exchange. Just for tomorrow, of course."

Anne did not hesitate. "No."

Mary looked as though her sister had slapped her face. "Why are you being so obstinate?"

The woman did not answer her, but the unbending expression on her countenance quelled Mary's persistence. "I think you are very selfish," the younger sister pouted, as she walked out and closed the door none too soundlessly.

Anne lay down lightly upon the bed with her robe still wrapped around her. Was she selfish for not allowing Mary to wear the scarf? What did it matter whether she wore the red or yellow? Louisa's words came floating back to her:

"Frederik thought it best to give Anne the red."

Frederik had chosen the red for her, especially. And the print on the scarf: roses. Red roses. She thought back to the time she had found the rose after her performance in Romeo and Juliet. But that had not been the first time he had given her a rose.

Christine had been practicing for two weeks on the songs she would sing in the role of Juliet. She had believed Erik when he had told her about the opera, yet doubt had crept into her mind as she waited for the choice to be announced by the school. How could he be so sure that the trustees would approve his selection? And what kind of hold did he have over them anyhow? According to Erik, they had no knowledge of him.

Still, she knew that the reason she practiced was two-fold. Should all the studying for the part of Juliet come to naught, she had another reason for her trysts with the astounding musician. Yet, she had never let on how her love for him had grown.

He had scrupulously avoided any further reference in regard to his personal tragedies or his physical appearance. Yet, she would linger after the lesson was over and take tea with him. He had shown her the kitchen; a very small corner of another misshapen room which had a stove with a single burner, a small sink basin with running water, a mini-fridge, and a cabinet to house his few canned goods. There was a small lavatory off in a corner and a couple of large fans. Other than illumination and a rather curious ventilation system, there were no other utilities or amenities of which to speak.

He told her how the builders had extended the electrical wiring in one portion underneath the opera hall when they were working, but that he had succeeded in bringing piping to the underground on his own. The furnishings from his parents' home were, in fact, antique. He did not wish to part with them; they held such charming memories for him. He spoke vaguely of the cottage where he had grown up outside Paris, and how he wished he could purchase it. The owner of the land chose not to sell it, though Erik had sent various offers over the years.

Sometimes she would ask him to play a different instrument after a session. He would not say her nay but would take up the piece and a lovely tune would soon commence. Anne had noted that there were no wind instruments among them. Sometimes he would stop and say, "You need your rest. I will see you again soon." And she would go as he bid her, rather saddened to have to leave. At other times he would say, "Christine, for you I would play the night into day again." To this, she would always smile and feel that perhaps he did have some particular affection for her. But then his mood would change again, and he would ask her to leave.

One evening he played the beginning of a new piece at the piano for her, and stopped before it had concluded. She asked him whether it was his own work, and he nodded. "I am in the midst of writing it. It will be part of an opera dedicated to my mother." It was that evening that she had found a rose waiting beside her tea saucer. It was a deep and velvety red, fragrant and just beyond the budding stage. He did not remark on the gift, only watched her silently as she held it an inch from her lips to drink in its scent.

"How pretty, Erik. How ever did you get it?" She almost crushed the stem, so tightly did she grasp it. For, her words were rash. She did not mean to bring to remembrance his limitations.

Yet he answered easily. "Oh, didn't you know? I have my own garden." He motioned over his shoulder in a teasing vein.

She smiled and lifted the blissfully-scented red petals to her face again.

"I wish you could see how you look right now," he said seriously.

She looked up at him, questioningly. His words caught her off-guard. Still, she found her voice and replied, "How do I look? Like a future world-class opera singer?" She laughed and hid her eyes from him. For she knew in her heart that the tone he had used expressed some sort of admiration. Yet, she would try not to think too much of it. She was not ready to see her unrevealed hope come to fruition, or worse, shattered.

"Yes! That is it exactly. Christine, I see you as an acclaimed soprano tonight, with the light in your eyes and the crimson petals against your skin. You will soon try your genius on an unsuspecting world, and they will know what I know." The note of adoration had fled from his voice. He spoke the words as though he did so to inspire and encourage her. Yet, his remark about her eyes and skin kept her awake that night.

Was it possible that his reference about the way she looked just slipped out, and he merely spoke less feelingly as a means to conceal the truth? Or had she misread him, being eager to read into his words an emotion for her that was not really there. She picked up the rose again as her head rested on her pillow and brought it to her nose once more. It was red. Surely he knew what red meant! But, then again, she did not know whether he had had a selection of colors from which to choose.

He had given her a gift: a red rose. It was a simple gesture. It pleased her; why not leave it at that? There need be no underlying meaning behind the gift, no additional admission from him. She would let the feelings within her remain in the same stage, like the perfect bloom that rested against her cheek. She convinced herself that it was enough to have the rose, and that she truly desired nothing more.

A knock dispersed her reflections. Anne felt a small pool of agitation well up within her. The scarf was hers. In this she would be steadfast. It did not matter to her that her feelings might be irrational; this one last gift she meant to keep solely to herself. She would hold her ground all night if Mary chose to harangue her that long. She opened the door enough to peek out at the level of Mary's face.

She found herself staring at Frederik's shirt buttons.

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A/N: This is my favorite cliffhanger, so far. (Muwahahahaha!)

Ana-Misa: The whole poetry society was one of the first ideas I had when I began writing this. You are so getting the feelings of Anne, aren't you? I just love your statements and questions. Who turned away first? I think it had to be a tie. No worries, I'm a 'pun'-ny person. (Ugh.)