A rose lay on the cold stone step- Vic Davey- short story

 

The rose lay on the cold stone step and I almost stepped on it in my haste. I picked it up, it was the same one. I cursed as a thorn pricked my thumb and a bead of blood welled up, its colour matching that of the petals which were beginning to wither and curl. I sat down heavily on the stair, the rose in my hand.

We had stood on the terrace of the old country house, me in my white tie and tails, she in a shimmering midnight blue ball gown and white gloves.  A Viennese waltz drifted out from the ballroom behind us, light spilling out from the chandeliers. We were bathed in Moonlight, its silver rays deepening the shadows in the garden below. 

I turned to her and she lifted her face, her eyes, dark and liquid. I produced the rose from behind my back, having picked it that afternoon, managing to keep it moist, and offered it to her. She gave me that enigmatic smile and little tilt of her head which I´d come to know and love so well over the past months. Now, it was time. 

I dropped to one knee, took her gloved hand between mine and gazed up at her, my heart full, my legs weak. But before I could speak, her smile dropped away, she shook her head and tears welled suddenly her eyes. She pulled her hand away and, with a cry, turned and ran down the stone staircase. 

I was stunned, and, momentarily, couldn´t move. Then I sprang into action, chasing down the stairs after her, but, too late, she had already disappeared into the shadows and, as I was to discover, out of my life.

Although past midnight, I hailed a cab and went straight to her apartment but her landlady said she had not seen her since I had called for her earlier that evening. 

Her parents lived far away and had I met her brother previously. Next morning, after a frantic, sleepless night, I took another cab to his house, near the Strand. He had neither seen nor heard from her and promised to contact her friends. I sent a Telegram to her parents, having no choice but to alarm them if I wished to find her. The result was the same, she had vanished.

I tried to live a normal life again, a life which now would not include her. I had seen her at least twice a week when we would dine out or take in the Theatre. I felt an emptiness I´d not known before, a bereavement, but all the worse for not knowing what had become of her.

Two years later I was at my Club in Pall Mall when I picked up a copy of The Times. It was full of the tragedy of the sinking of the Titanic. I read the article and scanned the list of victims and survivors. A name leapt out at me, it was her´s…….