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With arms wide, Lady Bronwen joined in, both girls’ bosoms heaving in unison – perhaps they were reaching their climax.
“At night, if beds be o’er thrang laid,
And thou be twined of thine,
Thou shall be welcome, my dear Lad,
To take a part of mine.”
And they both put hands to hips, tilted their heads like Covent Garden doxies and winked at the duke.
Feasibly, they did realise full well the lurid invite they were proposing.
Applause broke out, the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader flinging himself to his feet to add further praise while Lord Powell and Mr Pritchard nodded approvingly as though the room had borne witness to an operatic opus from Handel. The ladies curtseyed, pressing hands to hearts with coy, flitting glances.
“Hmm. Yes, well,” remarked Lady Elen, seizing the two ladies’ elbows and hauling them from the front. “That was most…edifying. Now… Miss Brecken? I believe you are to play next. Don’t tarry.”
Isabelle remained at the pianoforte as the timid Miss Brecken made her way to the Welsh triple harp – a magnificent, gilded instrument with fluted pillar, painted angels along its body and a whimsical cherub carved upon the crown.
The audience fidgeted on their chairs as Miss Brecken fiddled with the strings, dropped her music and then faffed with her skirts.
With a roll of eyes, Miss Pritchard smirked.
Clearly that young smirker’s governess had never referenced Moral Instruction for Young Ladies, Volume IV by Mr Perkins.
Miss Brecken then breathed deep, closed her eyes to the world and began to play…
Lilting.
Lyrical.
Lifting, then calm.
She played the harp with exquisite prowess, damping some strings with her graceful fingers to prevent the blurring of harmonies, yet allowing others to endure for a fuller sound.
Isabelle likewise closed her eyes to appreciate the melancholic tint to the music, and now knew why angels chose the harp as their instrument for as the last plucked notes resonated to silence, so the audience sat still and beguiled.
The Scandalous Mr Hugh Cadwalader was first to his feet once more to applaud with vigour, followed by the duke and before too long all were standing. Even Miss Pritchard and Lady Bronwen lightly lauded with resigned expressions, for nothing could have been more beautiful.
“Well, Miss Brecken,” declared Lady Elen, taking her arm and peering at the mantel clock. “Aren’t you a dark horse, after all? But we mustn’t dally as there is a schedule to be adhered to.”
Miss Rhiannon Vaughn next tottered to the front and placed a book upon the music stand. She cleared her throat. “I am hopeless at reading music and my brother teases I have the singing voice of a cat on heat, whatever that means. So… Someone came up with the idea of a literary reading instead. Morgan? If you could?”
A few candles were extinguished, the ladies tittering over the intimate atmosphere.
Isabelle wondered which work the girl was to read from.
A passage from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream?
Or a more historically educative Henry V?
Miss Vaughn glanced up and smiled…
“‘“If you hear the spectral scoundrel strolling at midnight,” Mrs Derby, the housekeeper, shrieked. “’Tis best to stay beneath those blankets…”’”
And for the next quarter of an hour, Miss Vaughn held her audience spellbound with the tale of The Housekeeper of Castle Clermont by Bridget Bluemantle. The girl had a vivid voice, husky then whispered, and more than a few attendees – both female and male – peered over a shoulder as she spoke of the ghostly apparition.
“So take heed of the housekeeper’s words,” hissed Miss Vaughn in summation, “For the spectral scoundrel rests not…”
