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“You’re playing, Miss Beaton?” asked Birdie, her face lighting up with a wide smile.
“But you said that you never perform in public.” Blanche gave her a puzzled glance. “What changed your mind?”
“She lost a wager,” West said, keeping his expression bland.
“What sort of wager?” Birdie’s bright gaze darted between West and Viola.
“Never you mind,” Viola said. “I’ll only play a brief selection. This is your evening, ladies. And I’m very proud of you, no matter what happens.”
“I’m very, very proud of all of you.” West cleared his throat around a sudden lump. “And I know that our mother would have been so delighted to see her daughters perform. She’ll be looking down at you tonight and smiling.”
“She’ll be laughing at me,” said Betsy. “Better get it over with. Off to Madame Guillotine.”
West made his greeting to the overflowing crowd of guests, which included at least a dozen hopeful would-be duchesses, and introduced Betsy.
Betsy’s harp playing was best described as unangelic. She plunked away forcefully in the same forthright manner that she would wield a cricket bat. West smiled encouragingly at her but she turned her gaze to the floor and plunked faster, wanting to be done with it.
Poor Belinda, accompanying her on the pianoforte, was forced to speed up as well, which flustered her into losing her place in the music, and the result was such an infernal mess that it was all West could do to keep a straight face.
Viola was turning pages for Belinda, and casting frantic glances at Betsy, but there was really nothing she could do.
The guests shifted uneasily in their chairs, several of them glancing toward the doors as if they wished to beat a hasty retreat.
Betsy finished with a plodding flourish of high notes and Belinda crashed a final chord.
West began clapping enthusiastically, in a show of brotherly support, and the audience followed suit, but with less enthusiasm.
Betsy heaved a sigh of relief, rose from her stool, and made a bow, practically galloping back behind the velvet curtain.
It was Belinda’s turn next. She played a simple melody, with a minimum of errors, but seemed to think that her performance was more about displaying the sartorial splendor of her new gown than it was about excelling at the pianoforte.
After Belinda, Bernadette butchered an Irish air on the violin with insouciance, smiling as though she knew she was terrible, and she was going to lean into it, make her performance almost comically bad. At one point, she dropped her bow. And when she bent to pick it up, several very large dried scarabs fell from her pockets and skittered across the floor, frightening the ladies in the first row.
West stifled a guffaw.
When Blanche appeared, the audience breathed a collective sigh of relief, most of them having heard her perform before and knowing that she was at least a competent pianist.
More than competent, West realized, as the Bach concerto flew from her fingers. Viola had worked wonders with her. Each note was played with precision and elegance. The audience sat up straighter and listened with real enjoyment. Blanche looked so pretty and serene, her back straight, shoulders poised. So much like their mother that West felt tears gather behind his eyes.
Blanche had grown into such an accomplished young woman. Where had the years gone? Passed in a drunken stupor, a wasteland of vice and sin. He should have been here more, spent more time with his sisters. He’d enjoyed these past weeks with them more than he’d thought possible. Even though he was only playing the role of respectable gentleman, he took genuine pleasure in getting to know his sisters better.
It’s never too late to turn things around.He heard Jax’s voice in his mind.
Viola turned pages for Blanche, her glowing smile firmly back in place, dimples appearing at regular intervals as her pupil exceeded all expectations.
West wanted to make her smile like that, perform so well that she bestowed more than smiles, more than kisses...
He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that hemissed the moment when Blanche stopped playing and the audience began a round of heartfelt applause. Blanche curtsied prettily and blushed.
Lord Flanders clapped so enthusiastically that he knocked the bonnet worn by the lady sitting next to him askew.
Birdie practically flew from behind the curtain, eagerly taking her seat at the pianoforte.
“Miss Birgitta will be playing a sonatina of her own composition,” West announced.
West could tell immediately that Birdie had talent. Blanche had played each note perfectly, but Birdie played with feeling, swaying to the music in the same way that Viola had when she played.
The piece was simple and brief, but it had a pleasing quality and a cheerful melody that was just like Birdie—always chattering, always bright and inquisitive.
