Page 6 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Dessie’s smile faltered and, after a searching look, her eyes grew wide. “The mauve? Or the blue?”

The thought of a “mauve” made his breath catch. He managed, “Blue.”

“Thank goodness,” Dessie said. She linked her arm through his and led him up the steps. “It is better to err on the side of overdressed for an occasion than underdressed, and our London modiste hasn’t yet completed Ophelia’s wardrobe. Besides, she thought she was going to hear Elias Cameron.” She patted his arm with sympathy. “You’ll recover, Robin.”

Henson opened the door for them, and they stepped over the threshold to the accompaniment of music. Eli’s practice. Trentham glanced over his shoulder. Was that a smile on Henson’s face? No, of course not. But there was music. Piano and harp. Wait. That piece? It sounded different. Not only different: it sounded right.

“Is that Ophelia playing?” Lynch asked.

“Mmm-hmmm, I think so,” Dessie said, letting go of Trentham’s arm to take her husband’s.

“She plays the harp?” Trentham hadn’t anticipated this. This either. Frankly, his recovery from the evening was growing more and more in doubt.

“She does. Among other things.”

“I hope we are still talking about instruments,” he muttered.

The harp was his. An inheritance. He played well, but not nearly this well. And never in public. Men didn’t play harps. Unless they were old Irish bards.

He led them to the music room where the two musicians were engaged in a duet. Foster was seated in a chair near the piano. Agog as only a newly pubescent, gangly boy with spots on his face, staring at a vision of female perfection, could be agog.

The newcomers did not interrupt. They sat. They listened. Trentham flicked something wet from the corner of his eye. They all applauded when the piece ended. No one bothered to take note of what Ophelia was wearing. Or not wearing. She’d taken off her gloves to play. Well, so Trentham had bothered. He couldn’t stop bothering. She had shapely, strong arms. Lovely, graceful hands. Eli was no doubt entranced.

And Trentham was lost.

Chapter Three

Dessie threw another gown onto the growing pile on her bed. Ophelia thought they were all exquisite, but all very “Dessie.” Like her bedchamber, where everything was claret red and royal blue, fluffy, ruffled, and smelling of lavender.

“Try this one.”

“Not red,” Ophelia pleaded. “It doesn’t suit me.”

“There isn’t a color in the rainbow that doesn’t suit you. Just try it on.”

“It’s too conspicuous.” She lifted the gown listlessly. The bodice was modest enough in the front, but dipped precipitously in the back. She dropped it. “Haven’t you anything—”

“No. And we’ve had this discussion. You promised to stop hiding.”

“I am not hiding! I never hide. I simply don’t wish to display myself. I’m not an—”

“Ornament,” Dessie finished for her. “Honestly, Ophelia. You have to forget what that old geezer said. He was just an idiot trying to bootlick Daddy.”

But Ophelia couldn’t forget. The whole scene was seared in her memory: the large gold-framed mirror behind the Pleyel piano; the glowing chandelier above her head; the crackling fire in the fireplace. She’d been thirteen and too often mistaken for sixteen. She’d been practicing scales in the music room when her father wandered in with a business acquaintance. A stranger to her. It had bothered her to have her favorite room and her privacy invaded. Plumes of scented smoke hovered above the intruders’ heads as they puffed their cigars. Both men sipped from glasses of whiskey. Daddy gave her a half wave that meant she could continue, so long as she did so quietly, while he talked business. The man kept glancing her way. She felt him looking. It made her fingers clumsy. She remembered the man as old, but he was probably younger than her father, who was trying to convince him of something, some investment. The man burst out with: “By Jove! That one would be a fine ornament in someone’s collection.” Her father’s glass shattered on the floor. She still remembered the depth of his voice, telling her to leave the room. She didn’t know what happened next, but Daddy did not make that deal.

When she’d finally confided the event to Dessie, years later, her reaction had been, “Did he really say, ‘By Jove’? How ridiculous!” Then she’d laughed, and it all felt a little less traumatic.

Still, Ophelia had no intention of ever being an ornament in someone’s collection.

“I’m not even sure I should go tonight,” she said. “I made such a fool of myself. Plus, I’m rusty from no practice, and Eli said—”

“Mr. Cameron.”

“Mr. Cameron said he’d want me to join him for a duet.” The mere thought gave her butterflies in her stomach. No, not butterflies. Bees.

“You are not rusty. I swear you nearly had Robin weeping.”

“Robin?”