Page 13 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“The concert was splendid, Eli,” Trentham assured him. “But I’ve overtaxed my guests. Abbreviate, please. What did you want to say?”

“But it was only Miss Delancey I asked to speak to.”

“Right,” Lynch said, standing. He shot Trentham a scowl before scooping up his wife. “We’re leaving. Ophelia, out.”

It was entertaining, actually. Trentham was now imagining poor Lynch with daughters.

Dessie stirred in her husband’s arms. “What? What on earth? Where—oh, for pity’s sake. Put me down before you drop me.”

“I’m not going to drop you.”

“Where is Ophelia?” She twisted in Lynch’s arms. “Ophelia!”

“I’m right here,” Miss Delancey said, trying to step around to where Dessie could see her.

“I only wished to ask Miss Delancey if she would come back tomorrow for tea!” Eli spoke in a quick, high-pitched whine. “Afterward, perhaps we could work some more on Robin’s piece.”

All caterwauling ceased. Trentham winced. Bad to worse.

Lynch set Dessie on her feet, and they all turned to stare at their host. Except Eli, whose confused gaze danced from one to the other. Then Eli’s expression grew sheepish and he murmured, “I thought they knew.”

Trentham pressed two fingertips to the bridge of his nose. They did now. Enough undesirable epithets had been attached to his name; he’d hoped to avoid eccentric. He spoke to the floor.

“Lynch? If I send my carriage around tomorrow afternoon, would you be so good as to permit Miss Delancey, if she cares to come, and Lady Lynchford, unless she is under the weather, in which case, a maid will suffice, to take tea with Mr. Cameron? And then, they may practice for an hour or two. You see”—he drew a breath—“he has been indulging me by working on a little something I composed.”

Chapter Five

Ophelia sat in the morning room, soaking a scone in her tea. Morning rooms were supposed to be sunny places, but windows could not fetch in sunlight when there was none to be had. What a dreary place London was. After a few moments, she tried again to crack the scone between her molars, to no avail.

“I must go to Montreal,” she muttered, dropping it back into her dainty porcelain cup where it sank, stone-like, to the bottom.

She heard footsteps and turned.

“Oh, Lord, don’t eat those,” Dessie said, pulling her wrap tighter. She had not yet dressed for the day. It reminded Ophelia of early mornings at home, except that here she was already bathed, tidied, and entirely presentable. Because this wasn’t home. She was a guest. “Lynch’s aunt sends them over by the gross. I swear her cook was Admiral Nelson’s victualer and those are left over from Trafalgar.”

“Dessie—”

“So how does it feel to have your dreams come true?” she asked, leaning against the back of Ophelia’s chair. It was not her usual teasing voice. Rather, she sounded reflective.

“My dreams?”

“You were invited to practice with Mr. Cameron.”

Pshaw. That was not important now. She twisted around to face her sister squarely. “Dessie, are you increasing?”

They had not had opportunity to talk last night because Dessie had dozed off in the carriage. Ophelia had scarcely slept for wondering. It didn’t seem fair that Lynch could know and she didn’t, which was ridiculous, of course. Yet even so.

Dessie nodded. “At least, I’m pretty sure I am. Lynch is having his physician come around to see me this morning. I can’t imagine what Dr. Ballantine could tell him that I haven’t already, but it will make Lynch feel better.” She shrugged. “I have to get dressed, but I wanted to talk to you first.” She put a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder. “I was going to tell you as soon as the doctor agrees with me.”

Ophelia tried to smile. “Congratulations.” Unfortunately, tears flooded her eyes, the worst possible response to her sister’s good fortune. “I’m sorry, I am delighted for you. I just—”

“I know!” It was Dessie’s favorite expression; one that always sounded cheerfully surprised whether she was happy, furious, or miserable. Dessie bent down to wrap her arms around Ophelia’s shoulders. “It isn’t…nothing is how…well, frankly, Daddy didn’t think things through!” She straightened, frowning.

“What are you talking about?”

“You know. His whole spiel. We were ‘princesses.’ Half my life, I honestly believed that. I thought that we would both marry princes, brothers, I suppose, and live in castles in the English air. The princes were always vague, shadowy things. The important part of the dream was that you were there too.”

Ophelia nodded, a lump growing in her throat. “But that was just fantasy.”