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The guests shuddered but Isabelle could do naught but smile at Mrs Pugh who lurked at the back of the room with a smug grin before she winked at Miss Vaughn and disappeared in a swish of black.
“How…unusual,” commented Lady Elen, rushing forward as the footmen relit the candles. “Though I’m sure I’ve heard that yarn before…” She shook her head and consulted her order of proceedings. “Anyhow, without ado…” She grimaced. “Miss Craddock? What…delights have you for us?”
Miss Craddock…and her mother dashed to the front, twisted to their audience and curtseyed.
“We intended,” the daughter began, “to sing together but since we have already been treated to a duet, we thought on our feet and have written a poem instead.” She glanced to the duke. “Based on our host’s heroic deeds last night.”
A smattering of applause. The duke tensed. Isabelle grinned.
The poets took up stance, breathed deep and began in unison…
“There was a rich duke named Aberdare,
Who invited us all to his lair.
But lo, he rescued a dove,
Whilst suspended on ropes from above.
How we’d so like to see that duke ba–”
“Yes, thank you,” cried Lady Elen, rising to her feet. “A most…accomplished piece.”
Riotous applause erupted as both ladies curtseyed to their adoring audience.
Isabelle almost felt sorry for Lady Elen, who perused her order of proceedings in desperation. “It’s Lady Gwen next with a song.”
Cheers accompanied the slender lady to the front, the flow of champagne clearly aiding the merriment.
With a wink at Isabelle to commence the accompaniment, Lady Gwen’s beautiful voice rose forth – all sung in her native tongue.
Isabelle caught some words she recognised but thankfully Mari had known this one, a beautiful folksong entitled Bugeilio’r Gwenith Gwyn, with lyrics of the oceans, the blooming of wheat and a lover’s pure heart. Lady Gwen’s voice was a melodic wonder, a lilting perfection of the Welsh language in all its lyrical beauty.
A fair few of the guests closed their eyes as though entranced and when the last line softly closed…
The Scandalous Mr Cadwalader and the duke sprang to their feet. “Bravo, Lady Gwen, bravo! One of our favourites.”
Lady Elen clapped enthusiastically but the wear of the evening was obviously showing as she remained seated. “Now…” Her order of proceedings was waved in the air to demand everyone’s attention. “Mari has a song for us, I believe, to which she will accompany herself.”
Isabelle startled for she had not been informed.
“It’s a surprise, Miss Beaujeu. For you all,” she gushed, racing up to the front with ribbons trailing in her wake.
Sacre bleu.
And Isabelle relinquished the pianoforte to her pupil.
The audience quietened; the duke leaned forward; the Scandalous Mr Cadwalader grinned; Isabelle fretted.
Mari’s playing, however, was pleasant and harmonious, the tune a charming composition, so Isabelle relaxed. Surely with such a tone, the words could not be too…inappropriate.
“Fair Helen like a lily grew,
Was Beauty’s favourite flow’r.”
Perfect, thought Isabelle. Flowers were most suitable for a young lady to sing of.
“Till falsehood chang’d her lovely hue,
