“She stunned everybody with her playing,” Juliet said.
“Playing?” Darden’s glass slipped out of his hand and hit the table, wine running in all directions over the cloth. As the footmen rushed to mop it up, her father’s fork clattered onto his plate. The earl hurriedly picked it up again.
“Rosalind, my dear,” the earl said, “I had thought you were to claim a sprained finger to Lady Hightower.”
“Wehadall agreed on it,” Miss Mayton said. “You see, Beatrice, the earl was worried that the other ladies should feel entirely outshone. But then Lady Mary was able to put aside that concern, as she told us everybody would be very good.”
“So…you played?” Darden said.
Rosalind nodded. “I played one of my travels through the world of music and ended with my signature arpeggio.”
“Travels through the world…is that the one that goes…from one thing to the next?” the earl asked.
“Thatone?” Darden asked.
“Indeed,” Rosalind said. “Of course, I never do know where it will take me. It comes out different every time.”
Darden had gone very pale. “Where did it take you in Lady Hightower’s drawing room last evening?”
“Let’s see,” Rosalind said, “if I remember correctly, it was an Irish air, a fugue, a Scotch reel, oh, I do not remember what else.”
“The funeral march, my dear,” Miss Mayton said.
“That’s right, the funeral march,” Rosalind said.
She could not imagine why her brother and her father were staring at each other in such a fashion. They really need not have worried that she would outshine the other ladies as Lady Mary had been correct—theyhadall turned out to be quite good.
As for Van Doren, he just snorted. He’d always been so disdainful of her playing and said if she could not read notes or remember an entire piece, she should not play at all.
“Did anybody…” Darden began. “What I mean is…were there any comments?”
“I sat right next to the duke,” Miss Mayton said. “He talked very low, as if he were talking to himself and did not even realize he was doing it. He said:Well, well, that was something else entirely.”
“The duke appreciates originality,” Rosalind said.
“Yes, I believe you are right about that,” Beatrice said.
“Beatrice,” Cordelia said, “Viola has taken up painting.”
“Has she?” Beatrice asked.
Viola nodded. “I believe I may have a talent for it.”
“Goodness, and there was our poor drawing master, Mr. Robbins, who could never get anywhere with us,” Beatrice said.
“That was because he always insisted on pencils and charcoals,” Viola said. “What I have needed all along was paint and a brush. A brush feels quite natural in my hand.”
“We will show you the one she did this afternoon of Bess and her pups when we go into the drawing room,” Rosalind said. “It is still in development, but you will see for yourself where it’s going. It will be exceedingly fine when it’s done.”
“And Miss Mayton is reading us a story,” Viola said. “The Awful Happenstances of Grimwood Hall.”
“Let me guess,” Van Doren said, “another gentle governess and her deranged duke.”
“For your information, Van Doren,” Cordelia said, “yes, the governess is gentle,butthe duke is not deranged.” She paused, then said, “He only might be a murderer.”
Van Doren sighed. The earl said, “I know it sounds outlandish, but it is jolly good fun, a real page turner.”
Beatrice sighed happily. “Viola’s painting, our aunt’s book, and Cordelia, I have not seen your Desdemona in over a fortnight,” Beatrice said. “Now, Juliet, I will not believe it if you claim you have not written a new ode. And then, Rosalind might even try to recreate her travels through the world of music she played to such acclaim last evening. Goodness, we will have such fun tonight.”
