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Chapter Nineteen
“There are many verses highly discreditable, and such as should not be pronounced by the lips of any young woman.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Oh, how heroic!” gushed Miss Pritchard as Rhys and the young ladies began to seat themselves within the drawing room for Cousin Elen’s ‘Evening of Unparalleled Melodic Delight to Include the Performance of a Famed Personage’.
“Were you bruised?” queried Lady Bronwen to his left, shuffling her chair so close the delicate, Chippendale, chamfered legs clattered one another.
To his right, Miss Craddock leaned so far over him that she might as well have sat in his lap. “It takes…” She sucked her lip between her teeth. “A special type of man to complete such a deed. A man with…”
“Virility and stamina,” finished the mother from behind him.
“But…” Lady Gwen paused from sorting music sheets upon the rosewood stand. “How did the dove become trapped on the cliffs in the first place?”
“And why did it not just fly off?” queried Miss Vaughn, as she manoeuvred the attached candle holders either side for the best light.
“Yes, Aberdare?” said Hugh with a wink. “Why didn’t it?”
Rhys slitted his eyes and thought that mayhap Master George Puddle from Buckinghamshire would make a fine upstanding heir.
“Because, Hugh, it had broken its leg in three places. No doubt set upon by its feathered elder cousin.”
Hugh snorted.
“Well, I think it brave,” whispered Miss Brecken, “to tend the weak.”
Guilt assailed Rhys’ gizzards but what could he say? And it was Hugh’s fault, after all. He could have just explained Rhys’ absence last night with a sick stomach or some such.
But no. Instead, Rhys had been cast the hero of a valiant rope-assisted cliff face rescue of a stricken dove belonging to the estate dovecot that apparently a kitchen maid at the back of the house had been able to hear cooing in pain half a mile away…and all in the dark.
“And where is the dove now?” asked Mari innocently. Or not so innocently; she’d heard Hugh’s cock and bull tales before.
“Convalescing in the dovecot.”
“Mayhap I’ll visit it on the morrow,” his devil niece declared with a smirk. “I could create a splint for its broken leg from toothpicks and feed the poor thing worms. Perchance stroke its quivering wings and in a week’s time, teach it how to fly once more. Free as a…bird.”
Rhys knew the fictional dove would have to meet a fictional end overnight, possibly involving the additional non-fictional demise of Mr Hugh Cadwalader.
“Ahem!” called Elen above the hubbub. “May I have your attention for the commencement of our highly anticipated ‘Evening of Unparalleled Melodic Delight to Include the Performance of a Famed Personage’.”
Everyone duly clapped.
Whilst dinner had been served, the footmen had been busy clearing the drawing room, setting out the champagne glasses and placing rows of chairs in front of a harp, pianoforte and the rosewood music stand.
Rhys glowered and hoped audience participation wasn’t on the agenda. The thought of charades made him shudder.
“I hope you will all participate,” Cousin Elen urged. “Once our cherished guests have concluded their individual entertainments, I understand our esteemed host and Hugh are to round us off.”
What in damnation?
Rhys glared to Hugh at the end of their row, who grinned like a half-witted dolt. That unfortunate demise might occur sooner than overnight – likely involving a harp string and tuning fork.
“Now, I believe…” Elen consulted a sheet of paper that looked to be from his study’s finest. “Lady Bronwen and Miss Pritchard are to entertain us first with a delightful duet? And, Miss Beaujeu, if you could accompany on the pianoforte.”
Rhys sat up straight.
