AllFreeNovel
Share Us
When all the ladies except Miss Desmond looked blank at this, Jack seconded his uncle with the more lucid request that Lady Jane accommodate them with a song.
Lady Jane made a proper show of modest hesitation, then took her place at the pianoforte and trilled out a sharp staccato version of “Barbara Allen.” Perhaps she ought to have sung “Green-sleeves” instead, but Lady Jane had too much dignity to sing of being cast off discourteously. Nevertheless, her voice did grow a tad more shrill as Lord Berne crossed the room to stand near Miss Desmond and drop several sad, tender glances upon her.
He proved equally deaf to Miss Wemberton’s melodic offering, though her tones were sweeter and softer than Lady Jane’s. By the time Miss Desmond’s turn came, there were several pairs of hostile eyes fixed on her.
Colouring somewhat, she demurred.
“Come now, Miss Desmond,” said Lady Streetham with excessive condescension. “You needn’t be shy. There are no harsh critics in this informal group.”
Miss Desmond flushed more deeply then, though she dutifully moved to the pianoforte. With a brief glance about her she removed her gloves. Then she sat down and struck the first notes of an unfamiliar melody.
It was nothing like the old ballads typically heard at such small gatherings in the country. The song was Italian, and Jack noted with dismay that the lyrics were not precisely proper for polite company. He glanced about him nervously, but all he saw was wonder in most of the faces about him as Miss Desmond’s mezzo-soprano easily conveyed every throbbing nuance of the passionate song. Evidently few of her listeners were well-versed in Italian. He breathed a small sigh of relief as he turned his gaze to her.
When she’d seemed so reluctant to begin, Mr. Langdon’s heart had pounded in sympathy for her apparent stage fright. Now, as he listened to her rich, beckoning voice, his heart beat with pride ... and a longing that made him ache.
He glanced at Lord Berne and saw the same feelings openly displayed upon his friend’s handsome countenance. Of course Tony loved her. He couldn’t help it, any more than he could help showing it. Still, he might have been a tad more discreet. Miss Desmond would surely be the one to suffer for his lapse, as the expression on Lady Jane’s face clearly augured. Her eyes were narrowed to two black points like stilettoes aimed at her rival’s heart.
When the applause had died away—Lord Berne contributing a solo tattoo for a few seconds after the others had stopped—Lady Gathers smiled, showing all her teeth and most of the gums as well.
“Very pretty, Miss Desmond,” said she with excessive condescension—and loud enough to drown out the other compliments. “You are generous indeed to treat so small a group to a display of your considerable gifts—though one trusts you plan to share that gift with a wider audience in time. No doubt you have thought of going upon the stage, as your mama did. I never had the pleasure of seeing her perform, but I daresay you have inherited her talents.”
Jack heard more than one gasp, but his eyes were on Miss Desmond’s father. The Devil said nothing, only gazed about him with a cynical smile before turning back to his daughter. Though she was rather pale as she rose from the piano seat, the face which met her father’s glance was inscrutable. She turned towards Lady Gathers and smiled.
“You are too kind, My Lady,” she said.
“Not at all,” said Lady Jane, taking up the gauntlet. “Mama is quite right. Talent such as yours ought not be hoarded for small private gatherings, when it might delight the public.”
“Ah, you believe one’s skill should be used to the common good.”
“Indeed it must. That is virtually an obligation.”
“Then I wonder, Lady Jane, why you have not offered the public the benefit of your exquisite taste and elegance by becoming a couturiere,” said Miss Desmond sweetly.
Before Lady Jane had time to counterattack, Jack leapt into the fray.
“Really, it is most gratifying to hear the ladies speak so knowledgeably of Benthamite philosophy,” he said hurriedly. “In order to be good, according to them, the object examined must be useful. The object, of course, refers to the matter under discussion, whether it be an abstract quality or a physical fact.”
Apparently oblivious to the bafflement of most of his audience, Jack soared into the empyrean realms of the most abstruse philosophy, citing Plato, Aristotle, St. Augustine and others with no regard whatsoever to relevance or coherence, and with a great deal of Greek and Latin thrown in for good measure. He continued in this vein for at least a quarter hour, at the end of which time most of the company had withdrawn from the battlefield to less mystifying conversations. At last, when even his uncle had apparently dozed off, and Tony had retreated to the window—where he stood looking bored and cross—only Miss Desmond of Jack’s listeners remained.
As he paused to look about him and draw his breath, Jack found Miss Desmond’s eyes upon his. She smiled, and in that smile was so much gratitude that he could not resist drawing closer to bask in its warmth. He drew near enough to join her at the pianoforte, where she still stood.
“You are a ‘verray, parfit, gentile knight,’” she said softly. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. I’m afraid I nearly provoked a scene.”
“It was she provoked it,” said Jack heatedly. “The effrontery of the woman, to speak to you as though you were a damned organ grinder’s monkey. And her ill-bred daughter to take it up—pure, malicious ignorance. But that is what you get, Miss Desmond, for casting your pearls before swine. You sang like an angel, and made me wish I could banish this common herd from the paradise you created.”
He had not meant to say so much, and for an instant wished he could recall the words. But only for an instant, until his gaze was drawn once more to hers and he discovered a soft light shining in her grey-green eyes.
“How beautifully you smooth my ruffled feathers,” she said. “As beautifully as you routed my enemies. You have depths, sir, I had not imagined.”
As a man accustomed to consider himself the most uninteresting, prosy fellow who ever existed, Mr. Langdon could not help but be agreeably surprised. Her words set chords vibrating within him, and this inner music crept to his tongue. “I wish,” he began—then a shadow fell upon him. He looked around to meet his erstwile friend’s frown.
“Really, Jack, I do think you’ve edified the company sufficiently for one evening,” said Lord Berne. “Have some consideration for our fair songbird. You give her not a moment to catch her breath.” He bent a killing glance upon Miss Desmond.
She appeared not to notice, but another young lady must have because the latter was, as Jack noted, making her way towards them with all deliberate speed.
“I am hardier than you think, My Lord,” said the songbird. “One tune is not so great an exertion as to require extended convalescence.”
“But perhaps you want a change of scenery,” he hinted.
“Now that is what I should like,” said Lady Jane as she nipped out a position for herself between Lord Berne and Miss Desmond. “We spend every summer in the country, though I beg Papa to take us to Brighton instead. Everyone is there now, it seems. Is that not so, Tony? Aunt Lilith wrote that you were upon the Steyne every day. I wonder you did not remain longer. I daresay Brighton was as lively as London in the Season.”
Lord Berne looked abashed, and to Jack’s surprise, allowed his chattering companion to lead him away.
As Jack turned back to Miss Desmond, he experienced a disagreeably familiar sensation of something throbbing in the air about him, like the first ominous rumblings of a volcano.
“I wonder,” she said in suppressed tones, “what invalid makes his sickbed upon the Steyne.”
Mr. Langdon looked baffled.
“He wrote me, you know,” she explained, her eyes very bright. “He was called away to some bosom-bow’s bed of pain. In Rye. Really, what a full evening this has been. Most enlightening. I have learned precisely in what estimation I am held by the lords and ladies. She sings and remains a
lady. I sing and immediately descend to the ranks of ballet dancers—only a bit higher on the social scale than the village idiot he appears to take me for.”
