It was one of those social events that everyone wanted to attend and that no one really enjoyed. The food was catered. The wine was French. The dresses were designer. And the whole thing reeked of money.
Ed knew that his presence there was considered an avoidable evil by many of the women in the room. And an undeniable intrigue by many others. More than one happily married woman was doing her best to avoid having to introduce her unsuspecting husband to him; Ed made it a point to meet each of those husband's in turn. He liked seeing the emotions that played over the women's faces as they wondered whether he was as discreet as he was charming. But even that parlor game wasn't enough to bring any real life to the evening. He wandered from room to room, ignoring the women who tried--both subtly and not so subtly--to catch his gaze and seeking out those that would have paid good money never to see him again, much less to speak to him in a public setting that precluded either slapping or crying. In his wake he left the murmurs. Speculation, appreciation, condemnation. It was all the same to him.
In a parlor off to one end of the house, he found a small group gathered around a piano. A handful of young women were holding a small number of young men at bay; the young men doomed to a captivity created by their own raging hormones and the women's expensive perfumes. Ed instantly felt sorry for the poor bastards--they didn't have a chance and had even less of a chance of understanding why. He leaned against a wall, just inside the door, watching and listening to the easy banter with which the girls spun the guys around in circles. When one of the girls--a dark eyed brunette with too much Wonder Bra enhanced cleavage spilling over the top of her dress--spotted him he gave her an appraising grin, just to see her blush. Then he strolled purposefully through the room to the other side where french doors opened onto a balcony that was ablaze with candles to pose a fire hazard. As he passed her he heard the swell of whispered conversation that he expected and once outside on the balcony he laughed softly to himself.
The brunette-with-the-cleavage had recognized him. While many of the mothers of the young women gathered in that parlor might have known, first hand, more about the truth of Ed's character than they wanted to admit, pride and divorce-related concerns kept them from ever sharing their knowledge willingly. So, all the young women had heard was that Ed was an extremely wealthy, foreign-born, who used to play concert piano before some sort of tragic accident. The wealth made him eligible. The foreign birth and tragic accident made him romantic. His rugged, but still spit-shined, good looks made him interesting. None of them had a clue about what made him dangerous. And so they whispered and giggled. The young men in the group grew competitive and snarly. All in all it was good fun to listen to from outside on the balcony.
He made sure to cough and rattle the door a little too loudly before he went back in. He liked seeing the looks they composed on their faces to hide their conversational trajectories. He was looking over to give a roguish grin to the group of them when he caught sight of a slender, blond. She might as well of been lit with a spotlight that singled her out as the lead, with the others fading into a nondescript chorus. She didn't have the awkward, trying too hard, look of the other girls. She was all fluid lines and perfect poise. She was clearly out of his league. Clearly much too young for him. And clearly she was the one thing that was going to save that night from being a complete and utter waste. ~ It wasn’t the kind of party where people brought dates, but Rosalie had one anyway. At least, she was fairly certain that James Prescott Harrison IV, who was a sophomore at Columbia and recently single, was supposed to be her’s. Blond and attractive, he had approached Rosalie to compliment her on her hair five minutes after she walked in and hadn’t left her side since. He was staring at her like he owned her or something, mostly fixating on the décolletage of her dress. Worse, whenever he managed to tear his eyes away from her chest, he would glance over at his mother, making Rosalie almost certain that he had been sent to keep an eye on her (or more likely, to make a move on her himself). Even so, she smiled when she was supposed to, laughed when it was appropriate, and was the perfect vision of understated grace and bubbly charm. So far, at least.
James, or JP, as he had vehemently insisted upon, had run out of self-flattering stories for a moment, so Rosalie seized upon the opportunity to suggest that they join the rest of the younger set in the parlor, leading him there confidently before he could put forth a protest. Incidentally, the series of rooms between here and the one with the piano guaranteed her contact with at least one champagne-bearing waiter, off of whom she plucked what was at least her fourth glass.
Joining the small circle of attendees who were younger then about 25, Rosalie was greeted with deference, some envious looks (directed at her dress, or at JP), a sympathetic grin from her cousin, Sloan, and an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek from the slightly inebriated resident wildchild, Mischa Randolph, who was the brunette with the cleavage. Rosalie settled against the piano, taking a sip of her champagne, which was getting pointed looks from her cousin. Sloan arched an eyebrow at the glass, eyes flickering from the flute to the tall, imposing woman with grey hair across the room, a hand smoothing out an imaginary wrinkle on her dress, thumb tucked behind her hand.
Four fingers. Rosalie had had four glasses of champagne. And if Sloan knew that, then Grand-mère certainly did. Rosalie could hold her alcohol formidably, owing to good genes and several years of practice, but four glasses looked bad for a seventeen year old in a party full of people who were always ready to gossip about the next supposed alcoholic. She straightened her stance a little, trying to look as un-tipsy as one possibly could while still appearing to be having a good time. The conversation floated around in circles for a while, as they flirted mindlessly. Mischa darted in and out of the conversation, leaving every once in a while for another drink, or a quick romp with somebody’s daddy in a bathroom somewhere.
“Classy, Mischa,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth, as the brunette returned once again, a little mussed. Mischa grinned unashamedly, pointing to a good-looking older man walking in. That, she explained, was Edward Strong, who was apparently European and interesting. Rosalie glanced at him, then quickly looked away when she saw that he was looking at her. At her. She looked at him again and smiled, a little shyly. ~ Ed took two glasses of champagne off the tray that a waiter carried by. He sipped one slowly as he circled around to where he could sit at the piano, sliding onto the bench with the comfort of a man who belonged there. He put the fresh glass of champagne down on the bench next to him, but kept his glass in his left hand. And then, with just his right hand, he launched into a soft, lyrical, playful melody. Simple but refined, it was display of dexterity and composition--since it clearly accommodated a one-handed player. He played softly, ghosting the keys, and seemed not to notice that he was interrupting conversation--he smiled an almost tortured smile as he played, but he never let go of his glass and as the last note faded he raised it in a silent toast, looking directly at the young woman leaning against the piano. Whether she saw or not, it wouldn't matter--her friends would see; particularly the brunette whose eyes had followed him intently. He picked up the other glass and slid off the bench, easing toward a wall--taking up a position where he could see the lovely blond in profile and watch the reactions of those around her.
He never played in public. Not anymore. Except for the rare moments when he felt the need to exert control…to get the upper hand…so to speak. He clutched the stem of the untouched champagne glass tightly in his left hand, forcing himself not to think about the dull ache in his fingers. Even with his injury he was more than capable of drawing crowds of beaming listeners at gatherings like these. He hated that. Hated them for taking what he offered up. Hated them for not casting his literally lame efforts back at him in the name of Music. He hated himself for playing the whore to a talent that he no longer mastered. But then hatred was a passionate emotion, a way to keep from blowing his brains out after one too many--or was it too few?--painkillers.
He waited and watched. His face barely registering any interest in the room around him--except when his eyes fell on her. ~ Mischa had stilled with barely contained glee when the man had approached and Rosalie traded an amused look with her cousin. The conversation had been replaced by the uncertain and incredulous faces of Rosalie’s circle as an adult came into close proximity. The boys bristled at the man’s encroachment upon “their” territory, but allowed him to sit down and have his performance. It was a lovely, energetic melody, skillfully played, accompanied by an expression that hinted at tragedy.
Rosalie closed her eyes, listening to the notes float through the air. After the music was gone, she was startled back into reality by a sharp nudge to her side. Her eyes flew open. “Mischa!”
The girl was looking at her rather enviously. “Rosalie, you missed it! He toasted you.”
“He what?” Rosalie straightened off the piano, noticing JP’s scowl, Sloan’s smirk, and the curious expressions of the others around them. They were waiting for what she was going to do next. Biting her lip, Rosalie thought about it for a split second, before heading across the room towards her apparent admirer. Deftly plucking the full glass of champagne from his hand in a drive-by movement, she tossed a charm-laden bravo monsieur over her shoulder and continued past him. Turning back to look in front of her, she barely avoided collision with few older women, including the last person she had wanted to see her little show.
This was who Rosalie had inherited her height from. Her eyes widened slightly in alarm as her grandmother looked down at her severely, gaze flicking discreetly to the champagne glass in her hand. “Darling, don’t make that face,” she warned, taking the alcohol from her granddaughter and sipping it herself. “I was just telling Anne how well you’ve been doing in your lessons.” Anne was JP’s mother, Rosalie surmised quickly. She had his nose. “Perhaps now that the piano has been inaugurated, you can show us?” Rosalie’s eyes snapped back. It had been phrased as a polite request, but it wasn’t a choice.
“Of course,” she demurred. Rosalie hated playing for people, as her grandmother well knew. She liked music, liked piano, liked pretty sounds and smooth ivory keys, but she detested having a spotlight thrust upon her like this, being shown off to some guy’s mother. Showing none of her reluctance, Rosalie moved back to the piano and slid onto the polished wooden bench, practiced fingers easily aligning themselves on the keys. The melody she played was sweet and fluid, and a little sad, just difficult enough to make it impressive. She wasn’t exceptional, but Rosalie managed to play the whole piece without making a mistake, which was what mattered. When she was done, she gave a charming smile to her audience and, ignoring Sloan’s sympathetic expression, slipped out the french doors to the balcony, retreating to a corner. ~ He wasn't disappointed when he saw her move. She was as fluid on her feet as the fabric of her gown was as it skimmed and floated over her body. His mouth had just curled into a pleased and pleasing smile as she glided past him. Everything about her response--right down to the way she plucked the champagne from his hand without missing a beat--was feminine perfection. Even the appearance of a stern, but attractive, older woman on the scene could ruin the vision that the slender blond made. Retracing her steps back past him and over to the piano, she never lost the studied elegance and confidence that set her apart from the other young women in the room.
He ignored the sharp glances that the older women gave him as they trooped past him toward the piano, momentarily blocking his view. He closed his eyes and envisioned her at the piano, pictured her hands moving over the keys, her beautiful face serene and focused. She played well. Very well for a non-professional. But beyond her solid technique there was something more. It seemed as if she felt the music in some way. When he opened his eyes the music had ended and she was slipping away from the group at the piano.
It took him less than a breath to follow her. He grabbed up two more glasses of champagne and walked right through the knot of people who stood around commenting on her performance. He heard them--fawning and simpering over her as if she was a piece of art in a gallery. Not one of them mentioned the emotion, the subtle sadness that marked her playing. He wondered if any of them had even heard her.
Ed knew they were watching as he passed them. He heard the older women sniff in disapproval--but he knew that none of them would risk a public scene by trying to stop him. They'd wait a few minutes and then send one of the doting young men out to usher her away. But, Ed was determined to steal those few minutes…and more if he could.
He stepped onto the balcony, blinking in the combination of darkness and blazing candles. He walked toward her with a warm smile holding out a glass of champagne. "I don't believe you had a chance to finish the last one…" he said by way of explanation. ~ Rosalie was gazing at the multitude of candles, admiring the lights as they flickered in sharp contrast to the steady New York City skyline. Looking up, she was startled to see a glass of champagne being held out for her. She blinked as she recognized the piano player from before. “Grand-mère didn’t feel like I should drink anymore,” she said as a simple explanation, even as she accepted his offering. “Sorry that I lost your drink like that.” ~ "It wasn't mine. I picked it up for you..." he said with a playful smile. "If I had known your grandmother was at the party I would have gotten one for her too," he added in a mock serious tone. Sipping his champagne he looked out on the city lights for a moment letting an amiable silence fall between them. Then he continued. "You play very well. Have you studied piano long?" There was a hint of something in his voice, but his face was a study in politeness and charm. ~ “Mmm,” Rosalie nodded, taking a sip of her champagne and trying to remember. It was more difficult to think about things like that now that she was on her fifth glass. “Ages. Since I was very young.” She smiled at him, her first real one of the night. “You were much better.” It was a warm spring night, very comfortable, and Rosalie rested more of her weight on the intricate, iron-wrought rail. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before, are you new to New York?” ~ "Ages, huh?" He chuckled and sipped his champagne. He suspected that he'd been playing piano longer than she'd been alive, but he didn't mention that. "Well, you've been well taught. Do you enjoy playing?" He leaned on the rail next to her, not close enough to be inappropriate but near enough to keep their conversation low and private. He shook his head. "I've been in New York for many years but I travel a lot and only rarely get to attend social events of this kind…" he didn't point out that she was hardly of an age to have been frequenting high society cocktail parties for very many seasons herself. "I must say that I am very glad to have attended this one tonight," his smile was warm and playful as he sipped again and looked at her over the rim of his glass. ~ The blush elicited from his last comment was fortunately hidden in the mix of darkness and flickering light. “I like playing,” Rosalie shrugged, “but I don’t like performing. Where do you travel?” she asked curiously, moving the topic of conversation away from her likes and dislikes. ~ Ed raised an eyebrow in pleased surprise at her comment. "It's an important distinction to be aware of. Performing can take its toll if one doesn't have the right temperament for it...." He drained his glass then, a far off look coming across his face and a hint of loss lacing his voice for a moment. "Oh...for many years it was all over Europe and most major cities in the U.S.--that was professional. Now I travel for leisure and it's mostly just London and Paris..." he shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of casualness. "Have you traveled much?" He knew that many young ladies of her social class travelled from a young age so the question seemed appropriate. He wanted to get her talking, to find out as much as he could before someone came to rescue her from his unsavory influence. ~ “That must have been some job,” Rosalie commented. She moved her glass of champagne closer to one of the candles and watched as the light refracted around the glass and the bubbles. “I travel a lot, since I don’t go to school. France has been my second home since before I could walk. Before I started playing piano at least.” She smiled. “I love Paris. And I go to London a lot as well. Vienna and Rome are both better than London, even though speaking German is like breaking teeth and my Italian usually lapses into French.” She considered, “It’s mostly Europe, although I barely managed to visit Egypt last year.” ~ "It was, as you say, some job…" he couldn't suppress a sigh and he flexed his left hand almost imperceptibly as it rested on the railing. "I'm comfortable in London, but I agree that it doesn't compare to Vienna or Rome. I've been to Cairo a few times, but never managed to explore much beyond the city." He waved a waiter over and retrieved two more glasses of champagne, sipping one and holding one in waiting for when she wanted it. After a sip or two, he smiled at her, "I am sure that Paris suits you… far better than something as boring as school might. But I'm curious, why don't you attend school? Have you finished college already?" He asked the question in a way that aged her up--having found that young women liked being taken for being more mature, while decidedly mature women liked being viewed as youthful. ~ Oh god. She shouldn’t have more. She really shouldn’t. Rosalie drained the last of her champagne and made sure to wait at least thirty seconds before reaching for the new glass. “I don’t go to school because I have problems being in typical classroom environment,” she wasn’t really supposed to tell people about her dyssomnia, but she did so anyway, judgment slightly impaired by the alcohol bubbling through her. “I’m narcoleptic, so I fall asleep a lot, especially when I’m very still. Teachers don’t really like it.” Rosalie smiled again, brighter this time. ~ He smiled to himself as she took the glass from his hand but he listened seriously as she talked about her condition. "No, I guess teachers wouldn't really like you sleeping in class--even if it's not exactly your fault, is it? Do you find that you have trouble sitting at the piano for long periods too? Or does the movement of your hands and feet keep you from being too still?' He was curious, sincerely interested. But he didn't want to seem too prying so he added, in a light jest that matched her bright smile, "So…if you fall asleep while we're at dinner or the theater one night I shouldn't assume it's my company that has caused you to nod off?" He took a drink as he stopped speaking, blue eyes gleaming at her from behind his glass. ~ “Oh, I’m on medication for it now,” Rosalie assured him. “And it works, usually. Now they just keep me out of school because I’ve already got the tutors, and for the occasional times that it doesn’t.” She blushed again at his last question, but this time the color was illuminated through the moving shadows that played upon her face. “So you’d have to be careful because if I fell asleep it would be entirely your- JP!” Straightening, she broke off, looking away from the piano player and towards the person that had been sent to collect her.
“Hey, Rosalie,” he smiled at her briefly, tossing a scowl over to her companion. “Your grandmother asked if I could walk you home.” He held out his hand to her. Rosalie glanced at the piano player- Edward Strong, according to Mischa.
“I’ll be around,” she told him quickly, unable to really say more. Around the city, frequenting the society events, she hoped he inferred. With one last smile at him, she let JP lead her off the balcony and out of the party.