All the next day, the household was in a flurry of activity as they prepared for Sidonie Archambault’s monthly literary salon. After years of hosting it, her mother had it down to an art: the drawing room was dusted at dawn, set with gilt chairs and fresh flowers before noon, and filled with a veritable banquet of pastries, fruit, and their own luxury chocolates by the time the guests arrived.
Tea and coffee were at the ready—no one ever passed up their coffee—and they would be sipped politely until Claudine Durée inevitably asked if she might beg a dash of rum in place of cream. One dash would lead to another, and the month’s designated books would be forgotten as the conversation gave way to gossip and speculation.
Andie’s family’s rum was famous. In the years since her great-grandfather Achille had started the company, it had grown from an importer of coffee and raw sugar to London’s main supplier of high-end rum. Sidonie’s pet project had been chocolate; at her behest, they had opened their first sweet shop in Grosvenor Square. Their pink foil-wrapped boxes sold so quickly, a small army of chocolatiers worked around the clock on the premises to keep them filled.
Part of the demand, of course, came not only from the quality of the goods, but from the limited quantities and high prices. It all seemed counterintuitive to Andie, but the rarer and more expensive the items seemed to be, the more the ton wanted them. Alex was happy to allow them to pay through the nose. They wasted more on gambling and horses, he reminded her, so it was better that the money they spent like water should go to pay the laborers on their island proper wages. If valentine boxes and candied violets were the way to do that, so be it.
Of course, their less glamorous yams and cassava had kept many in London from starving during the food shortages of the Year Without a Summer, but people had already forgotten about that. The Dowager Duchess of Bodmin would never eat anything so common.
The air changed when the old dowager entered a room. Dressed in black silk, she was a crow among the songbirds chattering happily around the pianoforte. Used to her severity by now, the other matrons nevertheless stiffened as she joined them.
Sensing her disapproval from twenty paces, Andie retreated to the table and poured herself a cup of coffee with fresh cream. Seeing that Lady Bodmin had not immediately been offered one, Andie did the honors. “Lady Bodmin, may I offer you a cup of tea?”
After some hesitation, Lady Bodmin inclined her head. “Thank you, dear. Assam, if you will.”
Andie poured a cup of Assam for the dowager and loaded a plate with her customary treats, two petit fours—one rose and one orange blossom—and a rum truffle. When Andie brought them to her, the old woman almost smiled.
Almost.
Retrieving her own coffee, Andie quietly took the chair beside Lady Bodmin. As prickly as she could be, it would be terrible manners to leave her sitting on her own. At any rate, it was her sister Zélie’s first Season, and two of Lady Bodmin’s grandsons were about her age. They could be related someday.
Chilled by that thought, Andie smiled politely at the old woman. “I trust you are well, Lady Bodmin?”
“Well enough.” The dowager waved a hand. “As you know, my niece Clara was married this week.”
Andie had forgotten with all the excitement of the theater. “Of course. I wish Lord and Lady Crawford every happiness.”
“Indeed.” Lady Bodmin fluttered her eyelids in the way she often did before she was about to say something terse. “As relieved as I am that Clara has made a suitable match, I question the necessity of having to go to Norwich to do it. The return journey took an age, and I thought certain I should perish!” Evidently recovered, she focused her shrewd gaze on Andie. “Do you suppose this will be the Season you finally make a match? How many years has it been now?”
The clatter of teacups paused as the other ladies pretended not to listen.
Andie felt her cheeks warm. “Well, I—”
“Andromeda is focusing on her music, Lady Bodmin,” her mother explained, sending Andie a sympathetic look. Madame Archambault was a formidable woman. Though their family had given up their titles in the Terror, the English still treated her with all the courtesy and deference due a marchioness. In many ways, she had more real influence. As a prominent member of more than a dozen societies for the arts, no one questioned her indulgence of Andromeda’s interest in music.
Well, no one except Lady Bodmin.
“Music,” the old dowager repeated, affronted. “Music is a hobby, not a vocation. You must not let it distract you from your duty.” She fixed her stare on Andie.
Bristling, Andie spoke up. “In actual fact—”
“But she’s so talented, Lady Bodmin!” Claudine Durée interrupted, defending Andie even as she cut her off. “She could be on stage at the Theatre-Royal.”
Lady Bodmin sniffed. “I should sincerely hope not. I’ve seen where that leads.” Her gaze grew distant. “No, dear. You simply must marry. You’ll run out of chances, you understand.”
Andie didn’t need to be reminded of her rapidly advancing age. It didn’t bother her that she was not yet married, but she had always hoped to sing for Queen Charlotte by the time she was thirty. “I really don’t mind—”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Lady Martin cut in. “Andromeda is a lovely girl. With her sweet disposition and considerable talents, any gentleman would be most fortunate to have her. Perhaps an older widower with children of his own…”
Andie’s eyes widened at the implication that the only man who’d want her would have to be in his dotage. “But I’m only twenty-n—”
“Oh, yes!” Claudine Durée clapped happily. “I’ve heard Lord Bude is looking again. Why, just last week…”
The rest of her statement cut out as a high-pitched ringing filled Andie’s ears. Is this rage? I think this might be rage. Lord Bude was eighty if he was a day, and if her mother’s friends thought she’d willingly move to Cornwall to play nursemaid to a known pervert—
Sidonie straightened in her seat and raised an eyebrow. “What about one of your sons, Lady Bodmin? You have six; surely you could spare one.”
Lady Bodmin’s jaw visibly clenched. Her sons were in their forties and fifties with children of their own, uniformly serious and hawkishly handsome. Andie had thought they were all married, but perhaps there was a widower among them; the very idea seemed to scandalize the dowager into silence.
Small mercies.
Feeling more cheerful already, Andie rose and took a seat behind the piano. No matter the situation, people always spoke over her or spoke for her. Living with it day to day was an exercise in frustration. The only time anyone ever listened to her was when she sang.
The world seemed to drift as she found her way through her favorite Beethoven sonata. The conversation turned to her own brothers—Alex, the heir apparent to St. Croix Imports; Raphael, a tireless lawyer; and Toussaint, a naval officer in the West Africa Squadron. They were all working to make the world a better place; it hardly seemed fair that the same society that lauded them expected Andie and Zélie merely to marry and remain indoors.
Dismayed by the injustice of it all, she missed a note. Irritated, Andie let her mind go blank and focused on the music.
The rest of the afternoon melted away. By the time her mother bid the last guest goodbye, Andie had made it through a folio of sheet music and her wrists ached.
Sidonie sat on a stool beside her. “All you all right, darling?”
Andie let out an exasperated breath. “Lord Bude?”
Her mother laughed, pure joy on her face. “Leave them to their useless scheming. I would never permit such a thing. No daughter of mine will ever belong to anyone but herself, and certainly not for the sake of something so ridiculous as convention.” Sidonie took Andie’s hands in hers. “How was your audition? Things have been so busy, I quite forgot to ask.”
Andie warmed at her mother’s support, desperately wanting to tell her everything but afraid she’d forbid her to return to The Crow’s Nest. “They weren’t interested.”
Sidonie pursed her lips. “Let me have a word.”
“Please don’t. I couldn’t bear it.” Andie shuffled the sheet music, needing somewhere else to look. “But it’s not all bad. I met an actress there who told me of another theater to try. I auditioned straightaway, and they…they offered me a part.”
Her mother clapped with delight. “Oh, darling, that’s wonderful! Is it an opera?”
Andie bit her lip. “Not exactly. It’s erm…more of a series of musical performances.” Her mind returned to the giant spider, the fiddling cadavers, and the acrobats swinging from the moon. And Frank, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his lips on her glove. “We’re still discussing particulars.”
Sidonie beamed with pride. “I knew you could do it, dear. I can’t wait to attend opening night. Where is it?”
“Oh, nowhere you’d know.” Andie tensed. “It’s a smaller theater.” She took a breath. “Alex is fond of it, actually. It’s in Shoreditch.”
Her mother blinked in confusion. “Shoreditch? Well, I suppose if it’s good enough for the Bard...” Her smile faded somewhat. “That must be an awfully long drive. You should take Toussaint’s carriage. We’ve just replaced the wheels, and he won’t be back until Christmas.”
“You—you don’t mind?” Andie couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “I know it’s not the West End…”
Sidonie waved a dismissive hand. “Everyone starts somewhere. The Theatre-Royal will eventually see their error, and you can keep up with your music in the meantime.” The matter quite settled, her mother stood. “Are you still going by ‘Archer?’”
Andie nodded.
“Let’s keep it that way for the time being. Zélie does want to marry, so we should keep this quiet. Once she’s settled, you can do anything you like, as far as I’m concerned.” Sidonie laughed. “Within reason, you understand.”
Andie very much doubted Frank’s Phantasmagoria would be considered reasonable by any measure, but she’d cross that bridge when she got to it. “Thank you, Mother.” Remembering the earlier exchange with Lady Bodmin, Andie asked about something that had been bothering her. “Before I forget—I thought Lady Bodmin only had five sons. Did something happen to the sixth? I didn’t want to ask.”
Sidonie sighed deeply. “There was a terrible scandal years ago. It was around the time the war started. I believe he returned from an extended Grand Tour and decided he didn’t want any part of polite society, so he quite removed himself from it. Lady Bodmin all but disowned him. For years, she told people he had never returned from Italy. We knew better than to pry.”
Andie could understand that. As fortunate as they were to live in safety and comfort in London after escaping the Terror, the societal expectations for a family of their class were arbitrary and unforgiving. If she had the chance to remove herself from that for the sake of her music without harming her family or their business, she’d do it. “I can sympathize.”
Her mother nodded. “I thought you might.”
“That’s not to say I’m not appreciative of our place in the world,” Andie hastened to add. “It’s only that I find the ton’s priorities infuriating. It’s a society built on false assumptions and wishful thinking. They keep up appearances at the expense of everyone who toils, suffers, and dies to enable them. They have the means to do anything they want, and they make an art of idleness.”
Sidonie laughed. No one knew this better than she did. Born to an enslaved mother in Guadalupe, they had escaped together to the safe haven of St. Croix, where Sidonie had grown up in freedom and fallen in love with Boniface, the marquis’s war hero son, returned from serving in the Légion Saint-Georges, France’s first Black regiment. Three decades, five children, and two wars later, she presided over her empire from a palace in Mayfair. “The people with the fewest limitations do take the most comfort from creating them.” She smiled. “I’m so glad I raised my daughters to know better.”
Andie rolled her eyes. “Well, one of us.”
“Ah, let Zélie have her fairy tale. Marriage does work out for some people, you know.” Her mother raised an eyebrow. Andie’s parents had been hopelessly in love for as long as she could remember. “After all, your cousin Apollo married his actress, and she continues to perform to this day. Perhaps you’ll find that too. And if you don’t”—she paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder—“there’s always Lord Bude.”
Her mother’s laugh echoed down the hall as Andie shuffled the sheet music and filed it safely away. She could not be more thankful for her liberty, but how far would it extend?
By the end of her first week of rehearsals, Andie had begun to wonder if she’d made a horrible mistake.
Every weekday until four, The Crow’s Nest was closed to the public as Frank ran through the new show with the orchestra and all the performers. He had apparently written the whole thing in a burst over a weekend, and as strange as it seemed, Andie had to admit that it was good. There were twenty-two parts, and although it followed the structure of their established Phantasmagoria, every aspect of it was different enough that it all had to be learned again. Five days in, the actors were tearing out their hair.
As Frank stopped them to change the stage directions for a third time that day, Polly Virtue groaned aloud. “What’s wrong with the way we had it?”
“It’s the light,” Frank said. “The lamps will be here and here, and they need to see your face.”
Polly put her hands on her hips. “Why not move the lamps?”
Frank pointed at the moon affixed to the trapeze hook. “When the moon comes down, Andie’s dress will catch fire.”
Andie sat up, alarmed. “I beg your pardon—I’m coming in on the moon?”
“Naturally.” Frank smiled at Andie like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“So move the moon,” Polly said. “That thing’s only attached to the one pole anyway.”
“What?!” Andie blurted.
Frank winked at her. “You’ll be safe. Don’t worry.” He turned back to Polly to explain that if they moved the moon, the acoustics would be off, then James the Third—so called because he was the third James—had to hold her back from strangling Frank.
To his credit, Frank was remarkably patient. Most directors threw their weight around and rejected any questions whatsoever, but Frank was happy enough to explain his reasoning, even when it was clearly madness. Despite the confusion of the rehearsals, Andie had to admit that she trusted him. Seeing the Phantasmagoria had been one of the most enjoyable experiences of her life, and it had surely started much like this.
Andie flipped through her music again, looking at the stage directions. There it was—Enter, Moon. She looked at the contraption with suspicion. When Pietro had swung around it the previous week, he’d made it look easy, but nothing in her years of training had prepared her for anything like that. “Good heavens.”
Though she’d muttered it to herself, Frank heard her. He turned from the conversation he was having and gave her an encouraging smile.
A tingle of awareness crept up her spine. She’d never felt listened to in her life, but Frank seemed to hear everything she said. He’d answered all of her questions, taken her concerns seriously, and supported her every step of the way.
This was a new experience. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
When Polly and James had finally completed the scene to Frank’s liking, he told everyone to take a break, then sat beside Andie on the steps. “How are you getting on?”
Andie stifled a yawn. “I don’t understand your time signature. Are these marks for emphasis?”
“Oh, it just means it has a swing to it.” He moved to the piano and played a few bars from memory.
Andie tried to follow along. “I’m with you when you’re all alone, I see you…” She trailed off when he stopped playing. “Honestly, I’m not accustomed to singing in English.”
“It’s all right. Try this.” He started playing again from the next verse. “Love is patient, but it ain’t kind, will break your heart and rob you blind, and still the lovers seem to say, ‘I’m loving every single day.’ Well, you can run but you can’t hide, I’ll find your heart and climb inside...” He hummed the rest, meeting her gaze over the piano. “See what I mean?”
Andie stared in stunned silence. What she didn’t realize was that Frank could sing. Not like she could—his voice was more conversational with a noticeable accent. Low and full of gravel, it had a kind of effortless honesty to it. She felt the texture of it through her whole body. Her shoulders seemed to loosen, and she tingled to the arches of her feet.
He narrowed his eyes playfully. “What’s that look on your face?”
Arousal. “Confusion,” she said. “You sound almost vulnerable. I suppose I’m not used to that. Singing is the only time I feel strong.”
“So come at it from a position of strength. Remember—you are Love. It’s not a complaint, it’s a threat. A promise. You see Polly and James walking together and you’re going to give them this incredible gift, but you’re also going to ruin their lives beyond recognition. They’ll still thank you for it, and you know it.”
Andie raised her eyebrows, trying not to laugh. “So I’m the villain?”
Frank shook his head, grinning. “You’re the goddess. You’re the whole point. For only Love is stronger than Death, and in the end, I succumb to you as well.” His gaze softened. “Are you married? Courting anyone?”
Heat rushed to Andie’s cheeks at what he was asking and why he might be asking it. “No.”
He looked almost satisfied to hear it. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No,” she answered without hesitation.
Frank nodded sagely. “Then I see we have some work to do.” He played a few notes, breaking the tension in the room. “Could you stay for the show tonight? It might help.”
Cosimo and Alessandra, the Italian percussionists, were trying out a new act with the dancers. Andie didn’t know what to expect, but apparently it was some kind of folk dance. She couldn’t imagine how it would help, but she liked the idea of spending more time with Frank. “All right.” Her driver would be waiting around the corner from St. Leonard’s, but she would give him a few hours off and the money for an evening out. She was certain Thomas would be happy enough for the diversion.