Six days later
Alethea’s hands were sweating within her gloves, and yet her fingers were cold. She fussed with the lace at the throat of Margaret’s gown until the twelve-year-old pushed her hands away. “You’re choking me.”
Aunt Ebena entered the drawing room, regal in a dark brown gown with rich beading along the collar, cuffs, and hem. She studied Margaret in her white gown, then straightened the lace at her neckline.
She turned to Alethea and swept her eyes from the embroidery edging the hem of her green gown, up to the embroidery at her square neckline and edging her puffed sleeves. Aunt Ebena tugged at the embroidered sash just under Alethea’s bodice, smoothing it into place. “Where is your shawl?”
Alethea grabbed the shawl from the chair, a large silk affair in a lighter shade of green but with the same detailed embroidery at each end.
“Your sleeves are too loose,” Aunt Ebena said.
“I had the gown made with more ease in the shoulders so that I could play my violin.” Before now, she had practiced with her old gowns, which were already cut loosely at the shoulder. She’d never had cause to play while wearing an evening gown, and so had this one specially made.
Aunt Ebena sniffed. “It looks odd.”
“It will not be noticeable once I am playing.” Alethea added dryly, “If it pleases you, I shall contrive not to turn my back to anyone.”
“Do not be ridiculous.” Aunt Ebena turned to the door. “I believe I hear Lord Dommick at last.”
Within minutes, Dommick had entered the drawing room. He looked magnificent in evening wear, the severe black coat and white linen a stark contrast to his square jawline and raven-black hair. His shoulders seemed wider and he filled Aunt Ebena’s drawing room.
He blinked rapidly in surprise at the sight of Alethea. He had seen her in evening dress before, but perhaps her nervousness made her more wan and scrawny than normal. She resisted the urge to slouch. Calandra had scolded her, saying that it made her look gawky rather than more petite.
Dommick bowed to Aunt Ebena, but to Margaret he took her hand and bowed over it. “Miss Margaret, you look enchanting.”
Margaret giggled and gave a creditable curtsey.
“Lady Alethea.” When he took Alethea’s hand, his fingers pressed into her palm and his thumb caressed her knuckles in an intimate touch. It was as if they were alone in the room, and her breath came faster. He held her a moment longer than necessary, but Aunt Ebena did not seem to notice.
“Your violin arrived safely at the house earlier today,” Dommick said, although she already knew for he had sent a servant with the same message. “Ladies, shall we?”
Aunt Ebena led the way from the drawing room, her shoulders stiffly set.
Dommick murmured to Alethea, “Your aunt still does not approve of your participation in this concert?”
“She does not approve of my choice of instrument. She says that news of my violin playing has already caused a stir.”
“That is precisely what we desire, in order to lure the villain out.”
“Aunt Ebena says the gossip has reflected negatively upon her, although I have not heard so, even from such knowledgeable sources as Miss Herrington-Smythe and Miss Nanstone.”
They arranged themselves in their cloaks, and once outside, Alethea noted a man on horseback beside the carriage.
“My man, Ord,” Dommick said. “I thought it safest.”
As she stood and waited for Aunt Ebena to settle herself in the carriage, Alethea glanced down the street of the square and caught sight of another man on horseback before another house. A single forefoot on the horse was white, which seemed to glow in the twilight.
Aunt Ebena’s forbidding expression made Alethea choose the opposite seat, facing backward. Dommick sat beside her, and she caught the faint scent of oaks in wintertime. She breathed deeply and the tightness in her chest eased.
The streets of Bath were busy in the early evening as people travelled to and from engagements. But as the carriage turned a corner, she looked out the window and caught a flash of white.
It was the horse with the white forefoot that she had seen in the square. Her stomach clenched. “Dommick,” she whispered, “I thought I saw—”
“I saw that horse in the square.” His voice was tight. He stuck his head out the window and said something to Ord. In a moment, Ord had wheeled his horse around and headed back in a clattering of hooves.
Alethea tried to stick her own head out the window to look behind them, but Aunt Ebena scolded, “Alethea, your hair will become a mass of tangles.”
“What’s amiss?” Margaret sounded excited. “Is it bandits?”
“Do not be absurd,” Aunt Ebena said.
She wasn’t certain how long she sat in the carriage, jostled to and fro while her insides churned. She could sense the tension radiating from Dommick’s stiff limbs.
Then came the drumming of horse’s hooves. Heedless of his hair, Dommick looked outside the coach. Ord appeared in the carriage window and shook his head. Where Dommick’s legs touched her skirts, Alethea felt his muscles relax.
“I am overly apprehensive about tonight, I daresay,” she said.
“Yes, be sure you do not make a glaring mistake,” Aunt Ebena sniped.
Alethea’s pulse beat rapidly at the base of her throat. However, she felt Dommick’s hand reach for hers under the cover of her cloak.
They soon arrived at the Ravenhursts’ home on the Crescent, ablaze with lights. It was too soon for guests to arrive, and servants bustled about with last-minute preparations—carrying a chair, or a vase of flowers, or with a dustcloth in hand. Lady Ravenhurst stood in the entrance foyer directing the servants, and she smiled as they entered.
“Mrs. Garen, Miss Garen, thank you for arriving early. Please forgive the disorder. We shall have a cozy tea amongst ourselves while the young people practice. A maid will escort you to Lady Morrish in the sitting room, for the drawing room is not yet fit to be seen, I assure you. I shall join you in a trice, after I have organized these flowers.” She bent to Margaret. “Cook has made her very best cakes for us tonight.”
Margaret grinned, displaying her protruding front tooth that made her look as angelic as she was not.
“Lady Alethea, we are still at sixes and sevens, as you can see. Clare, Raven, and Ian are awaiting you in the music room.”
Dommick led Alethea up the staircase, and Lady Ravenhurst called, “I have had a cold collation laid out for you. Do be sure to eat something.”
“I couldn’t eat a crumb,” Alethea said in an undertone.
“We shall practice, and that will settle your nerves. It is always that way with me before a performance.”
“You? But you have performed in numerous concerts.”
He shrugged. “Ian and Raven are very cool about it, but David and I were always pacing.”
“I shall need new handkerchiefs. I shredded three of them this afternoon alone.”
They had reached the closed music room door, and she could hear the pianoforte. Rather than opening the door, Dommick touched her elbow and smiled at her, and a bolt of something more radiant than nervousness coursed from her head to her toes. He reached into his coat and withdrew a folded piece of white linen, then grasped her hand and pressed it to her. “I am sure my handkerchief will be slightly sturdier than your lace ones.”
Even through their gloves, his fingers were warm and strong. She should thank him and withdraw her hand, but she could not. His touch and his nearness caused a fluttering and dancing in her ribcage.
He swallowed, and his dark eyes gleamed with something that made her pulse leap.
Then suddenly he was leaning away from her, drawing in a shaky breath that matched her own. He turned and opened the door.
Alethea took a second to compose herself before following him into the room. He was a man. She must always remember he was a man. The men in her life who had held closest ties to her had only hurt her. She ought not to trust any of them, no matter how handsome, no matter how talented and arrogant and kind and distant.
The music room had already been prepared for the evening’s entertainment. Chairs were set up for the guests, with the musicians’ seats ranged around the pianoforte, their music stands set before them. Later, the grand double doors that led from the drawing room would be opened so guests could enter the music room and arrange themselves to listen.
Clare left the pianoforte and clasped Alethea’s hands. “I can’t stop shaking.”
“Keep your anxiety to yourself, for I have ample enough of my own.”
“You are both escalating your hysteria,” Lord Ian drawled. “You have performed at evening parties. This is nothing different.”
For Clare’s sake, Alethea smiled. “You are correct.”
“Shall we begin?” Lord Ravenhurst sat with his violoncello.
They practiced the pieces to be performed—to start, the Quartet with Alethea would play a composition each by Dommick, Lord Ian, and Lord Ravenhurst. After a short break, Clare would play two of Captain Enlow’s older pianoforte pieces, and then a duet between Clare and Ian on violin. Lastly, Alethea and the gentlemen would play two of their most popular concertos from their years in London.
As she played, Alethea’s hands and fingers remembered the music, but the buzzing in her head and the churning in her stomach seemed to worsen as the hour drew near.
As they concluded, Clare said to Alethea, “The embroidery on your sleeve is awry.”
She saw the trailing end of a thread on the backside of her left sleeve. “I shall go to the cloak room to have a maid attend to it.”
She exited through a small door into the connected library, which was where the performers would congregate. Lady Ravenhurst had sent up a tray of cold meats, but the smell made Alethea’s stomach heave. She hurried out to the hallway. She saw, farther down, guests already making their way into the drawing room, greeting Lady Ravenhurst.
Alethea turned the corner and entered the small room set apart for the ladies, with mirrors, small dressing tables, and combs and cosmetics set out for any emergency. The maid there looked at her embroidery. “The pulled thread has caused the sleeve to pucker. I shall need to slip the shoulder off to fix it, milady.”
Alethea and the maid went behind the screen, and the maid undid the hooks on her gown, pulling the shoulder down. She busied herself with loosening the offending thread from the puckered fabric and refurbishing the embroidery design.
The door to the room opened, and Alethea recognized Mrs. Nanstone’s voice, high and grating like her eldest daughter. “What a crush. I do not know how we shall fit in the music room. Oh, good, here is some rouge.”
Alethea remained silent. Mrs. Nanstone heartily disliked Aunt Ebena and by extension, Alethea.
“I believe the concert shall be quite . . . interesting,” said Lady Rollingwood in an uncertain voice. “I have not heard the gentlemen perform in many years.”
“I have never heard them, Aunt, but people say they are excellent,” said the soft voice of Mrs. Isherton, mother to Margaret’s playmate.
“People are more influenced by their money, rank, and handsome faces than their talent.” Mrs. Nanstone had a sneer in her voice.
“Yes, Mr. Kinnier is superior in address and in talent, and yet the Quartet was all the rage in London those years ago,” Lady Rollingwood said.
“Wasn’t there some scandal attached to Mr. Kinnier?” Mrs. Isherton said, but she was interrupted by Mrs. Nanstone.
“And what of Lady Alethea playing a violin? I am ashamed for her aunt, to be sure. It is most unseemly for her to draw attention to her body in such a way.”
Alethea waited, but Mrs. Isherton did not reply to this, and it sent a pang through her. Did Mrs. Isherton believe, as did many others, that Alethea’s violin playing was scandalous?
“She must not be very talented,” Lady Rollingwood said. “She would not have had the music masters available to a man.”
“Her pianoforte and harp playing are most pleasing,” Mrs. Isherton said.
“But she will be playing violin,” Mrs. Nanstone said. “If she is so amazing in her skill, why has she not performed before? There, how does that look?”
“The rouge has done wonders,” Lady Rollingwood said.
“I cannot think how it could have been wiped off between my bedchamber and this house.”
There was the rustle of fabric as the women bustled out, but before the door closed, Lady Rollingwood said, “I have heard that Lord Dommick is helping Lady Alethea with her violin simply because he does not wish Lady Whittlesby’s London concert to go to Mr. Kinnier. Oh, goodness, the concert is about to start.” The door closed with a click.
Alethea stood in silence with the maid for several minutes. A wildness grew in her stomach from the seed of doubt planted with Mrs. Nanstone’s and Lady Rollingwood’s words, and watered by Mrs. Isherton’s silent embarrassment. How could she do this? She would make a horrible mistake and fulfill all the tabbies’ predictions for her downfall.
Finally the maid said, “It is fixed, milady.” She helped Alethea rearrange her gown and did up the hooks again. “You look quite beautiful. And . . . if I may be so bold . . .”
“Yes?”
“Your violin playing is quite lovely. All the servants have enjoyed your practices this past week.”
Alethea smiled at the maid, although her mouth felt tight. “Thank you. You are very kind.”
She opened the door to the room with hands so cold that the door felt warm. She took a step outside and thought she might stumble. She leaned against the wall and staggered to the corner. She must perform. She must make it to the library.
Everything within her quailed. She could not. She could not do this.
The door to the library opened, and Dommick appeared. He took one look at her face and came to her. “What is it?”
She shook her head, unable to speak.
He took her hands and drew her back along the side corridor, away from the prying eyes of guests entering the drawing room down the hallway. “What is it?”
“I can’t do this,” she whispered.
“Yes, you can.”
She gasped in a few more breaths. “I need . . . a moment . . .” But it seemed the more she breathed, the more lightheaded she became.
He drew closer and grabbed her shoulders. “You can do this. I believe in you.”
Her entire body trembled. She wanted to explain about the women’s words, about the fear and pain, about feeling so alone with no one to understand her now that Calandra was gone. But she couldn’t speak. Her mouth was dry, her heart rate faster than a galloping horse.
His hands tightened on her shoulders. And then his head blocked out the light as he swooped in to kiss her.
She had never been kissed before, and he was not simply touching her. She could feel him all around her. She could somehow feel his heart beating with hers, she could hear it in her ears. His lips were warm and firm, and the knot inside her slowly unwound. Her hands touched the silk of his waistcoat, and he was solid and dependable. His very presence was sheltering like an oak tree.
He ended the kiss and looked into her eyes. She could breathe again, and she filled her lungs with the tang of lime, the woody scent of oak, the sharp, warm musk scent that rose from his skin.
In his eyes was something avid and yet wishful. She caught a glimpse of the vulnerable part of him that he seemed never to show.
And then he retreated behind an invisible wall. He took a deep breath, which seemed to wipe the yearning from his eyes, and he straightened, although his hands remained on her shoulders.
She should not have lost control. Not in front of anyone, not in front of a man, and not in front of this man. Especially because of how he made her feel so alive.
“I am sorry.” She strived for a steady voice. “I was quite . . . out of my mind. I daresay we both were.”
He dropped his hands from her. “Yes.”
It was not necessary for him to be quite so quick to agree.
She straightened, stiffened her shoulders, steadied her knees. “I am ready.”
He offered his arm, for which she was grateful, because she was not as strong as she pretended to be. They entered the library, and as soon as they opened the door, Lord Ian said, “They’re ready for us.”
Clare appeared at her side. Lucy was there also to keep Clare company while the four of them performed, and she took Alethea’s clammy hand in a soothing touch. She did not look like an abigail tonight—she had a new gown in rich blue, a gift from Clare, and she looked as elegant as any woman who would be in the music room.
Alethea gathered her violin from the table and Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room, which had been filled with people. Fans fluttered, waving a rainbow of feather plumes, while the chandelier above and the wall sconces illuminated glittering jewels like stars fallen to earth. Alethea kept her head high, her shoulders back, but as her gaze swept the room, she could not see any of the faces.
She sat in her seat, but the sheet music on the stand swam in front of her eyes. Then Dommick was sitting beside her, and his leg gave her a not-so-gentle kick in the shin.
She blinked at him. He gave her a firm nod, and a look filled with all the strength and confidence she did not feel.
She positioned her violin.
Her contribution to the first chord was tentative. But her second note sounded stronger, and by the end of the first page, her heart was soaring with the music. She had forgotten the audience, forgotten the men playing alongside her, only knew the sounds echoing in her ears.
They had chosen to start with Dommick’s composition, which flew her on sweetly harmonious chords to the mountains of Italy, as she imagined them to be in her mind, to the solid castles built into the rock, rising above snow-white mist and the multicoloured hues of the turning leaves in autumn. The music sang of crashing waterfalls, the mist spraying up like tears on her face, the water rushing down and over rocks in a dancing swirl, to slow at last into a tranquil pool that spoke of the cold, still kiss of morning light, of leaves drifting down from dreaming trees, of whispered lovers’ vows.
The concerto ended with a delicate, winsome air of two violins chasing each other round and round until they met in a rapturous chord that died into the silent room.
The applause was thunderous. Even at other concerts Alethea had attended in the past year, she had never heard such a response. She came to herself and realized there were tears on her cheeks.
Dommick had an exultant smile. “I would give you my handkerchief, but I seem to have misplaced it.”
She laughed and dug his handkerchief from her reticule. She dabbed her cheeks and met the triumphant look from Lord Ian, the proud expression from Lord Ravenhurst.
As the applause quieted, Lord Ravenhurst flipped the page on his music stand. “Ready?”
They completed the next two pieces flawlessly. While Lord Dommick’s piece had been evocative, Lord Ravenhurst’s concerto was the most technically challenging, and Lord Ian’s quartet cleverly highlighted the unique tone of her violin in the measures where it soared above the other instruments or resonated with power in the melodic line.
They stood to more applause and exited the room back into the library. Alethea’s hands now began to shake as if she had a fever. She touched her forehead, but it was cool and damp.
Lord Ian grabbed Alethea’s hand and kissed it with a smack. “Quite amazing, my lady.”
Lord Ravenhurst gave her a regal bow, then a blinding smile. “Indeed.”
But it was Dommick’s gaze that made the room spin about her until he clasped her elbow. Then the world righted itself, and all she saw were the dark stars of his eyes. A breath or two, and she was herself again.
Clare and Lucy were beside her. “You were wonderful. You did not even look nervous,” Clare said.
“You could see us?”
“We watched through the open library door,” Lucy said. “The angle is perfect. If we stand behind the closed one, no one can see us.”
The door was closed now and murmuring had erupted in the music room as the guests mingled during the short intermission. After intermission, Clare’s three pieces were not long, and then the Quartet would play the last two compositions.
Alethea took a deep breath as Lord Ravenhurst escorted her into the music room. She was surrounded by people, some she knew only as casual acquaintances, who were fervent in their praises. Cynically, she wondered which of them were speaking truthfully in their compliments.
But the most meaningful words were from Aunt Ebena, who waited for a break in the people around Alethea before she approached. “Your practice has been to good purpose,” she said severely.
“Yes, Aunt.”
She hesitated, her face impassive, then said in a low voice, “You were quite good, Alethea.”
Those words, more than the most fulsome praises, made satisfaction well up in her heart.
As intermission ended, Alethea and the performers returned to the library. She took Clare’s hand, which pressed hers almost painfully, before Lord Ian escorted her into the music room.
Lord Ian and Dommick had decided upon a slow, sweet tune to help calm Clare’s nerves. It worked, for Clare’s performance was without error, if a bit wooden. But then for her second solo, she added fire to a quick tempo and created thunder with crashing chords, ending in a gale of sound and power. And for her duet with Lord Ian, she was smiling, as Alethea could see as she watched from the library. The two of them created a playground where the pianoforte and violin played tag like laughing children.
Lucy stood beside Alethea, their arms about each other’s waists as they had done as children. Lucy whispered, “The song reminds me of our games on the downs.”
“It reminds me of happy times.”
“After our final performance, you must circulate around the room with Clare,” Dommick said near her ear.
“It will not put Clare in danger?”
“Leave your violin here, in the library. We shall be watching you and the violin at all times.”
Lord Ravenhurst added, “If you are not with the violin, you shall not be in harm’s way.”
“I shall stay in the library with Clare while you play your last two pieces with the gentlemen,” Lucy said. “Then you and Clare can go forth among your guests.”
Clare and Lord Ian finished with a flourish, and after they had bowed to the loud acclaim, she returned to the library with cheeks flushed and eyes brilliant.
Alethea was not as nervous during the last two songs. The Quartet was most famous for these particular concertos, and to be part of them made her feel as if she possessed a true, close-knit family. For those minutes, she pretended they were the brothers she had never had, ones who would support her rather than sell her to the highest bidder.
They ended to magnanimous applause, and after bowing, returned to the library.
Unaccountably, a chill swept through Alethea as if a draft had shot through an open window. She did not understand. She should be relieved, for it was over and she had not been drowned in censure.
Then suddenly she realized what was missing. “Where are Clare and Lucy?”
They all grew still.
Alethea ventured further into the room and checked in corners where she knew the two women would have no reason to be. Her ribcage began to ache. “Where are they?”
And then near the door that led into the hallway, she spotted an object on the floor. She picked it up.
It was a woman’s cloth slipper in a rich blue colour. It had been ripped from the ribbons attaching it to the wearer’s ankle.
“What is that?” Dommick’s voice was urgent.
She held it out to him, and her legs began to tremble. She nearly fell as she whispered, “This is Lucy’s slipper.”