Page 132 of Our Strange Duet

Her giddy enthusiasm caused several passersby to smile at us and offer me their best wishes. I bobbed my head, accepting their cheer with a stain of pink across my cheeks. We continued our walk, linking our arms tightly as we had when we were girls.

“Are you nervous?” she asked, leaning her head close so that the rest of the trailing bridal party wouldn’t overhear. “You shouldn’t be,” she went on, barely drawing a breath and leaving no pause for me to begin an answer. “You look the picture of an absolutely radiant bride-to-be.”

“And you, the model of a kind and thoughtful maid of honor,” I said, and patted her forearm. “Thank you for putting together such a splendid day.”

“Was it everything you hoped for?” she asked, sudden worry marring her face.

“That and more,” I promised, keeping my voice light and jovial.

In the months after the tragedy at the Opéra Populaire, Meg and I had made our way back to one another with cautious, tenuous steps. Even now, our relationship felt precarious, as if one wrongly timed, misspoken word could derail everything.

But we were trying.

Don Juan Triumphant had been the last opera I’d ever be a part of, but Meg had dazzled in Tannhäuser, and went on to take more and more solos as the season progressed. Her star was rising, and it was a joy to cheer for her.

When Raoul had mentioned that a group of his friends from the Jockey Club wanted to take him out for his final hurrah of bachelorhood, Meg decided it was only fair we girls had a bit of fun too.

She’d wanted to keep the outing a total secret, insisting that I didn’t need to worry about any of the planning. I was only meant to show up and enjoy the day. Even Raoul hadn’t been able to get a single detail from her. After several attempts to worm our itinerary out of Meg, he’d simply pressed a kiss to my forehead and wished us a merry time.

I’d been stunned when our carriage had pulled up outside the Château de Malmaison.

“What are we doing here?” I’d asked as the bridal party—made of Meg and several other girls I’d been friendly with in the corps—piled out of the carriage.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Meg had asked, turning to the lovely stone manor and verdant grounds. “They’ve only just begun offering tours of the house and the rose gardens. I remembered that lovely picture you have framed in your apartment. The one of the…the…” Her face had scrunched as she’d tried to recall the words scrawled across the drawing.

“The Rosa Joséphine,” I’d supplied, amazed she’d noticed.

After rescuing the illustration from Erik’s music room, I’d not known what to do with the little rendering. Raoul had noticed it topping a pile of papers I’d left on a side table, and—not realizing what it was—had had it framed for my birthday.

“A rose for my rose,” he’d said when I’d unwrapped the gift and been too astonished to speak. It was baffling to me that he didn’t recognize Erik’s handwriting scrawled all over the paper. It now hung in the sitting room of my apartment…for another day or two, at least. I wondered where it would go once we’d moved to Burgundy.

Meg had planned the perfect day.

We’d wandered through the rooms of the château, marveling over the lovely furniture and priceless objets d’art. There’d been a heated game of croquet across the thick green lawn, with toasts of champagne for the victors. We’d spread out eyelet-trimmed blankets and had a picnic feast of cold chicken salad, fresh cream and berries, and sponge madeleines so airy it felt as if we were taking bites of clouds.

During the picnic, Meg had begged me to tell the group the story of the Rosa Joséphines. Everyone had been so struck by the romantic tale, breathlessly sighing and fawning over the red roses, that I wondered out loud if I ought to try and include a few of them in my bridal bouquet. The girls had delighted in the idea, musing on the best way to arrange such special blooms, and guessing if Raoul would notice them.

But the sun had now set, and we’d never found anyone to ask for a cutting.

The sky shimmered in layers of lilac and periwinkle as twilight fell. We were on our way back to the large circular drive to meet the carriage which would take us to supper, its location another secret Meg refused to divulge.

“Thank you for all this,” I said again, pulling Meg closer. “The day couldn’t have been more perfect, and I’m so glad I got to spend it with you.”

Meg grabbed my hand and squeezed it with a fierce tenderness. “Nothing is going to change, is it? After tomorrow, I mean. You and I will always…” She frowned. “We’ll always…”

“Be the best of friends,” I assured her, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Nothing—not even a husband—could change that.”

“Good,” she said, relief flooding her features. “Oh!” Meg pointed across the lawn. “There’s a gardener! Your roses!”

I turned and spotted a man in tall boots and a dark-green vest. He carried a pair of shears and whistled loudly as he headed toward the rose garden.

“He looks so busy,” I fretted, stalling. “I’d hate to bother him.”

“It won’t take but a moment, I’m sure— Oh blast. The carriage is pulling up now,” Meg said, looking over my shoulder to the drive ahead of us.

“I…” I glanced back to the garden, impulses warring within me. It had been a lovely idea, but now I feared the effort was too much.

“He’s going to get away. Someone should run after him. Let me go tell the driver we won’t be long.”