He turned away from Rosalind. Why torture himself? Better to hide in this glass house and…
What was there to do? Look at flowers? He felt viciously out of sorts, but he gently stroked the petals of the rosa damascenas blooming in profusion beside him, then made a slow progression down the line of flowers expertly cultivated by Townsend’s gardeners. He knew their names from his forays to London’s best perfumeries, buying gifts for whores. Rosa gallica, rosa moschata, jasmine, heliotrope… In the far corner a lemon tree held court, with deep green leaves and clusters of yellow fruit.
He reached to tap one of the firm, smooth lemons. “You survived the lemonade massacre,” he said to it. “Your unlucky compatriots had to give their lives for the rabbit mourners outside.”
“Marlow?”
Rosalind’s soft voice startled him. He’d been so engrossed in his horticultural inspections he hadn’t heard her come in. He turned, feeling the eternal push-pull as soon as their eyes met. You’re beautiful. I want to fuck you. You’re ethereal, magic.
I’m too filthy for words.
“Rosalind,” he said aloud. “Care for a lemon?”
She gave a small smile, languid, somewhat mournful. They were at a funeral, even though the tree’s cover and the sound-dampening glass walls made him feel very detached from the guests outside. He looked around, beyond her. Did this count as being alone together? Was being in a transparent glass house the same as being in a private room? He did not want to besmirch her sterling reputation.
Nor did he want her to leave.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked. “I thought I heard you speaking to someone.”
“No, I was…” Talking to some lemons like a madman. “Talking to myself, mostly. It’s been an interesting afternoon.”
“I felt so bad for poor Jane, losing her bunny in such an awful way.”
“Yes.”
How did this sweet, soft-spoken young woman reduce him to one-word utterances? How did she make his heart race like a jackrabbit in his chest?
Should she be standing so close to him? Should they be here alone? Anyone could look in at them, but no one was.
“Are you sad too?” she asked. “I suppose Jane can get another rabbit, but to have it die in such a grisly manner… I can’t help thinking of the poor thing’s final moments, how it must have felt being overpowered and gulped, oh, gulped right down a snake’s dark gullet. It must have felt so frightened.”
Dear God, she was about to cry. He held out his hand and she took it. Her gloved fingers were so light, so delicate. He wanted to overpower her, to gulp her down. And yes, she would be so frightened.
“The natural world can be brutal.” His voice sounded tight and crisp. “It’s the way of things, unfortunately.”
He ought to let go of her hand. Instead she moved closer, gazing at him with her dewy, blue-gray eyes.
“It makes me think about life, you know? About how strange and ungovernable it is, and how any time it might be taken from us.”
“My dear, it was only a rabbit.”
“Marlow.” Her voice had gone from gentle to frantic. Not loud-frantic, but whispery-frantic. Her eyes held his. “Don’t you see?”
He still held her hand down low, where someone passing by would not view it. “See what?”
Her gaze chided him. Don’t you see? Don’t you see I love you?
“Rosalind.” He let out a shaky breath. “We should not be alone here.”
“Why? We’re very old friends.”
Don’t you see? Don’t you?
“Marlow, I wish you would… That you could…” She bit her lip. “Perhaps it is only the funeral and all the emotion…”
“It is,” he said. “Rosalind—”
“I love you,” she said in the tone of a confession. “You know that I do, that I have adored you for so long. And now I’m coming to feel that it needs to be said openly. I think, perhaps, you have feelings for me too?” She let go of his hand to bring her palms to her face. “Oh, I humiliate myself.”