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“I think we’ve had enough music for this evening,” said Gideon.
Lady Lavinia looked hurt.
“Of course we would be delighted if you would honor us again,” Gideon was quick to add, giving me a dark look. I was so happily drunk that, for once, I couldn’t have cared less.
“You … you played wonderfully,” I said. “It made me cry! It really did.”
He grinned as if I’d told a joke and put the Stradivarius away in its case.
Lord Brompton came up, out of breath, bringing us two glasses of punch, and assured Gideon that he was absolutely delighted by his guest’s virtuoso performance. It was a shame, he added, that poor Alastair had missed what was undoubtedly the high point of the soirée.
“Do you think Alastair may yet find his way here this evening?” asked the count, with a touch of annoyance.
“I’m sure of it,” said Lord Brompton, handing me one of the glasses. I took a greedy gulp. Was this stuff good! I just had to sniff it, and I was on a high. Ready to snatch up a hairbrush, jump on a bed, and sing “Breaking Free” with or without Zac Efron!
“My lord, you really must persuade Miss Gray to offer us something from her repertory,” said Lady Lavinia. “She so likes to sing!”
There was an odd undertone in her voice that made me prick up my ears. In a way, she reminded me of Charlotte. She might not look like her, but there was another Charlotte somewhere deep inside that bright green dress, I felt sure of it. The kind of person who always wanted you to notice how absolutely wonderful and unique she herself was by comparison with you and your mediocre talents.
“Very well,” I said, trying to get up from the sofa again. This time it worked. I could even keep on my feet. “Then I’ll sing.”
“What?” said Gideon, shaking his head. “On no account will she sing—I’m afraid that the punch—”
“Miss Gray, it would be a great pleasure for us all if you would sing to us,” said Lord Brompton, winking at me so hard that his fifteen double chins wobbled like crazy. “And if we owe it to the punch, so much the better! Come up to the front with me and let me announce you.”
Gideon firmly held my arm. “This is not a good idea,” he said. “Lord Brompton, please—my foster sister has never before performed in public.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Lord Brompton, guiding me on. “We’re all friends together here. Don’t spoil sport for us!”
“Exactly. Don’t be such a spoilsport,” I said, shaking off Gideon’s hand. “Do you happen to have a hairbrush with you? I sing better holding a hairbrush.”
Gideon looked rather despairing. “Definitely not,” he said, following me and Lord Brompton over to the piano.
I heard the count laughing quietly behind us.
“Gwen,” whispered Gideon, “do please stop this nonsense.”
“Penelope,” I corrected him, draining the rest of my punch in one draft and handing him the empty glass. “Do you think they’d like ‘Over the Rainbow’? Or,” I added, with a giggle, ‘Hallelujah’?”
Gideon groaned. “You really can’t do this. Come back with me now!”
“No, ‘Hallelujah’ is too modern, isn’t it? Let’s see…” In my mind I went over my entire playlist, while Lord Brompton announced me in pompous terms. Mr. Merchant, the groper, came over to join us at the pianoforte. “Does the lady need a competent accompanist on the instrument?” he asked.
“No, the lady needs … needs something entirely different,” said Gideon, sitting down on the piano stool himself. “Please, Gwen…”
“Pen, if you must,” I said. “I know what to sing! ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.’ I know all the words, and musicals are timeless, don’t you agree? But maybe they don’t know about Argentina.…”
“You’re not really going to make a fool of yourself in front of all these people, are you?”
It was a nice try at scaring me, but useless in the circumstances. “Listen,” I said in a confidential whisper. “I couldn’t care less about these people. First, they’ve been dead for two hundred years and, second, they’re also as good as dead drunk anyway—except for you, of course.”
Groaning, Gideon leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand, hitting a whole series of notes on the pianoforte keyboard in the process.
“Do you happen to know … yes, ‘Memory’?” I asked Mr. Merchant. “From Cats?”
“Oh—no, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Merchant.
“Never mind, then I’ll just sing it a capella,” I said confidently, turning to my audience. “This song is called ‘Memory,’ and it’s about … about a cat who’s unhappy in love, but basically it fits us humans as well. In the widest sense.”
