They left him debating whether that last prediction would be a good thing or not.
The marchioness led Emily into the drawing room, and the pair settled comfortably to one side of the fireplace.
“You know, my dear Emily, I cannot help but note that Frederick’s association with Stacie has brought about a change in him. Never have I known him to be so patient and accommodating in answering my questions.”
Emily nodded. “Indeed. And I know you won’t take this observation wrongly, dear Philippa, but it did strike me that while Frederick has always done his duty regarding all those dependent on the estate, I cannot recall him being moved—by noblesse oblige or, indeed, anything else—to bestir himself on behalf of someone entirely unknown to him.”
The marchioness was nodding. “Exactly so. And in this case, he’s not just bestirring himself but has agreed to do something he’s trenchantly avoided for well-nigh the past decade.” The marchioness arched her brows consideringly. After several moments, she glanced at the door and lowered her voice to say, “I have to admit, Emily dear, that regarding Frederick’s interaction with Stacie, I feel more hopeful of an interesting outcome than I have in years.”
Chapter 5
Wednesday dawned cool and cloudy and only grew more dismal as the day progressed. By eight o’clock in the evening, as the first of Stacie’s guests trod the red carpet leading from the curb to her front door, a fine mizzle was falling.
Nothing, however, could dampen the spirits of those invited to attend the exclusive event that had flung the entire haut ton into rabid speculation over the past four days.
Stacie stood in the middle of her front hall, greeting her guests and directing them into the drawing room, where the earliest arrivals were milling. While, outwardly, she maintained her customary polished façade, inside, she was on tenterhooks.
When she’d sent out the invitations, she’d had no idea the ton would respond with this much avidity. She’d expected Frederick’s name to capture attention and draw the required crowd, but she’d assumed the members of that crowd would display the usual level of ton curiosity, not…this! This hugely amplified anticipation, as if each guest had been invited to witness some major, possibly shocking, certainly tantalizing happening.
To her mind, the extreme interest bordered on the bizarre. She could only hope the entertainment they’d planned would satisfy such elevated expectations.
Frederick had arrived early, bringing the three younger musicians with him. The four had taken refuge in her parlor, with Frederick declaring he had no intention of appearing until it was time for him to play.
Stacie had been somewhat surprised at that, but had accepted his decision without quibble.
Those guests she’d most wanted to attend arrived within the first half hour—a telling success. By the time the clocks struck nine o’clock, her rooms were packed, and she felt justified in quitting her position in favor of moving among the guests, stopping here and there to chat, and fielding inquisitive questions on all sides, most of which pertained to Frederick, but some bright-eyed young ladies—who, she suspected, viewed Frederick as far too old to be of interest to them—inquired as to the three younger musicians.
She halted beside Ryder and Mary in an attempt to catch her breath.
“This,” Mary informed her with a smile, “is what wild success looks like.”
Ryder arched his brows cynically. “It’s amazing what tweaking the gossipmongers’ noses will do. One could almost believe people were here to listen to the music.”
Stacie pulled a laughing face at her half brother, then turned as her brother Rand and his wife, Felicia, who was expecting the couple’s first child, joined them. Her other brothers, Kit and Godfrey, as well as Kit’s wife, Sylvia, were chatting nearby.
Felicia squeezed Stacie’s arm. “This is an amazing turnout. You must be thrilled.”
“I am,” Stacie assured her. Thrilled and increasingly nervous. To Mary, she said, “Thank you for getting all the Cynster ladies here. Even Helena and Lady Osbaldestone have come out.”
“I couldn’t have kept them away.” Mary nodded at the crowd. “Given the incentive to attend, I can’t imagine anyone you favored with an invitation wouldn’t have made every effort to be here.”
Another thrill of nervousness skittered through Stacie. “I think I’d better check on the performers.”
“To make sure they don’t bolt?” Rand grinned at her. “I know how persuasive you can be when you set your mind to it, but even I was shocked that you’d managed to get Albury to agree to a performance. His resistance is legendary.”
“Yes, well—I’d better go and check that he hasn’t changed his mind.” Stacie laughed as she said the words, but as she wended her way through the crowd, leaving hostess duties to Ernestine, ably seconded by Mary, she found herself wondering just how deeply entrenched Frederick’s refusal to play before the ton truly was—and whether it might throw up last-minute hurdles.
She reached the front hall, nodded to Pemberly—Ryder’s butler on loan for the evening, who was stationed there—then slipped into the corridor that led to the parlor.
As she approached the door, she heard the plucking of strings and the rumble of male voices. She opened the door, whisked inside and shut it, and met the arrested, questioning glances directed her way.
Frederick was lounging in one of the armchairs, while the three younger musicians were standing in a group by the fireplace, Phillip and George with their instruments in hand.
“From the noise out there,” Frederick observed, “I take it we have an audience.”
“The music room is going to be packed,” she confirmed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if we have rather more bodies than the one hundred and fifty we invited.” She’d been so right in choosing to pursue Frederick as her principal performer; he was the attraction that was going to make the evening an even bigger success than she’d imagined.
She studied the three younger men. They looked a touch pale, unsure and distinctly nervous.
In contrast, Frederick appeared almost preternaturally calm. When she glanced his way, he waved a languid hand. “Don’t worry about them—or me. All of us are ready and will perform in exemplary fashion.”
She found a smile and directed it toward the three young musicians. “I have to say, you all look the part.” And they did. Frederick had seen to that; in their severe black coats, charcoal waistcoats and trousers, and ivory linen, with their hair neatly groomed and shoes polished to a high gloss, the three looked entirely worthy of being his protégés, sartorially as well as musically.
She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s almost nine-thirty. Pemberly, who you’ve met, will come and fetch each of you at the appropriate time and lead you through the dining room and morning room to the music room. His presence will ensure no one tries to distract you.”
“Which,” Frederick added, “some will otherwise try to do, just when you want to remain focused on your music. So stick with Pemberly and don’t lag behind.”
The clock struck nine-thirty, and Stacie’s nerves jangled. “I need to get out there—Ernestine and the staff should have everyone seated by now.” She turned toward the door, but flung a last, bracing smile at the three young men. “Good luck!”
Frederick had risen and followed her to the door; she opened it and glanced at him. He grasped the doorknob. “Stop fretting. You’ve done your part—now, it’s our turn.” His smile was cynically amused. “Go and introduce us, then sit back and relax.”
She threw him a faintly exasperated look—what hostess relaxed while guests were in her house?—and went.
As per her instructions, led by Ernestine, the staff had guided the majority of guests into the music room, where they had settled like so many richly plumed chickens in the rows of straight-backed chairs. As Stacie made her way through the morning room, she looked through the double doorways and noted that, as expected, several of the older ladies had remained in the drawi
ng room, with chairs and chaises angled so they could hear and partially see into the music room, while others, mostly gentlemen and younger ladies, stood in groups about the open doorways to the music room and lined the walls of the room itself. The morning room also contained several groups of older ladies, plus a smattering of younger ones and more gentlemen.
A steady thrum of chatter blanketed the scene, while eager anticipation and suppressed excitement rippled over all.
Stacie pressed her palms together at her waist, drew in a deep breath, then glided forward. She’d chosen to wear a new silk evening gown in her favorite shade of cherry red to bolster her courage; as she halted to one side of the grand piano, with her back to the long bow windows at the apex of the music room, she was glad she had—in that instant, she needed every tiny degree of support she could muster.
This was it. If this evening wasn’t a success, her project—her purpose—would be doomed.
She looked out over her guests, and the chatter faded. An expectant hush took its place. A few ladies shifted, then even the rustling of gowns ceased.
Stacie smiled, and somewhat to her surprise, the gesture was entirely genuine. She spread her hands, palms out. “Welcome to what I hope will be the first of many such evenings. As most of you gathered here will know, I have long harbored a fascination for classical music, and I recently discovered the talents of the graduates of the music school attached to St Martin-in-the-Fields. Although of high quality, such local musicians rarely have the chance to feature as solo performers. In particular, it seemed a shame—indeed, a travesty—that such talented Englishmen were so rarely seen within the ton, that venues at which we”—her gesture included all those assembled—“might enjoy their gifts simply did not exist. Subsequently, I recruited the Marquess of Albury, one of our own highly talented musicians, to the cause, and with Mr. Protheroe, the Master of Music at the school”—she inclined her head to Protheroe, who was standing against the wall to her right—“Albury and I chose the three performers who will appear before you tonight, prior to Albury himself playing.”
She swiftly scanned the faces of her guests; all were listening, all were drinking in her words. At the edge of her vision, she saw that, right on cue, Pemberly had arrived in the morning room with Brandon in tow. “The first to play is Mr. Brandon Miller, on the pianoforte, and he will perform the first movement, the allegro con brio, from Ludwig van Beethoven’s ‘Piano Sonata Number Twenty-one.’”
With a smile, she turned toward the morning room’s doorway and led her guests in politely applauding as Brandon—looking tense and pale but determined—walked forward. He crossed before the piano, halted beside her, and bowed to the audience, then straightened, turned, circled the piano, and took his seat.
Stacie stepped back toward the windows—metaphorically speaking, into the shadows—from where she could survey the audience’s reactions.
Brandon’s neat and rather handsome appearance had already caused several ladies, young and old, to pass whispered comments in archly complimentary vein. Then he set his hands to the keys, and the first chords rang out, and the whispers abruptly cut off.
His concentration absolute, Brandon performed flawlessly. As the movement unfurled, Stacie noted several of the gentlemen Frederick had invited—scholars and others from the Royal Academy—exchange impressed looks, then sit straighter and pay more focused attention.
Also exchanging pointed, transparently impressed looks were the hostesses Stacie considered her competitors in the musical-events-within-the-ton sphere, but it was too early to feel vindicated; Carpenter and Goodes had to impress as well for her point to be made.
For the following minutes, the audience remained utterly still and silent, trapped in the web of the great composer’s music that Brandon brought to vibrant life.
Finally, his fingers flying faultlessly through the runs and trills, Brandon brought the piece to its triumphant conclusion; the final chords rang out, and he lifted his hands from the piano—and a second of silence passed as the audience caught its collective breath—then applause rang out, unrestrained and spontaneously joyous. Sincere.
Brandon flushed, glanced briefly at the audience, then looked around for Stacie.
Smiling delightedly and clapping, she walked forward as several calls of “Bravo!” rang out. She waved Brandon forward, and he rose and joined her and bowed deeply to the audience, who continued to clap and call.
By the wall, Protheroe looked beyond delighted.
Brandon turned to Stacie and half bowed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “I will never forget this.”
Stacie touched his arm briefly as unexpected tears formed in her eyes. “You did wonderfully well—all of us thank you.”
He stared at her for a second, then turned and bowed again to the audience before walking to where Pemberly stood waiting to escort Brandon back to the parlor and fetch Carpenter and Goodes to replace him.
Stacie gave the assembled company a few minutes—a short interval as per their program—to exchange opinions, comments, and observations; it seemed plain that despite her describing the music school’s graduates as “high quality” and “talented,” most hadn’t truly appreciated the degree of musical ability that had, until now, passed unnoticed, essentially beneath their noses.
Eventually, Pemberly returned and hovered in the parlor, far enough back to be out of sight of those in the music room, with Carpenter and Goodes, carrying their instruments and looking even more pale and tense than Brandon had, close behind him. Stacie saw them and motioned to a waiting footman to place two chairs before the long bow windows, as they’d previously arranged, while she moved once again to her mistress-of-ceremonies position a yard before that spot.
Facing those assembled in the music room, she lightly clapped her hands.
Instantly, all chatter faded, and all eyes fastened on her. “Our second performance of the evening will also come from graduates of the music school of St Martin-in-the-Fields. Mr. Phillip Carpenter, on violin, and Mr. George Goodes, on cello, will perform for us the ‘Duet for Violin and Cello in C Major,’ also by Ludwig van Beethoven.”
She raised her hands, and the audience clapped with her as she stepped back and nodded to Carpenter and Goodes, and they drew in deep breaths and walked toward her. They halted before the chairs, turned to the audience, and bowed low, then straightened and took their seats.
They glanced at each other. Phillip tweaked a string, then ran his bow across, and George responded. Both appeared satisfied with the outcome; bows poised, they exchanged another long look.
In perfect accord, the pair launched into the lilting piece, quickly bringing approving smiles to several faces. Soon, many heads were nodding in time; the light, smooth, and airy piece was the perfect composition to keep this audience’s attention, requiring sufficient skill and subtlety to satisfy the more critical, yet consistently pleasant on the ear of the less-demanding, more-intuitive listener.
Stacie scanned those present for any signs of negativity and found none. Everyone was…simply enjoying the wonderful music.
The final notes sounded, the strings singing in blissful harmony—concluded in perfect unison as both musicians raised their bows.
This time, the applause was even more eager, more enthused. Stacie saw keen calculation in many matrons’ faces; string performers of the likes of Carpenter and Goodes could perform at many ton functions—at soirées, parties, routs, and balls—and the ton was always hungry for fresh faces, preferably handsome, and above all, appreciated exactly the sort of skill Carpenter and Goodes had displayed.
Unaware of the speculation running rife through the audience, the pair exchanged a hugely relieved look, then rose and came forward to take their bows.
As the audience continued to clap and call, Carpenter and Goodes turned to Stacie and half bowed, then, as Brandon had done, with a last bow to the audience, returned to Pemberly in the morning room and, under his protection, retreated to the safety of
the parlor.
Stacie heaved a huge, ecstatically happy sigh. They’d done it—achieved what they’d needed to achieve. It might be only a first step—a first event—but if they’d failed at this hurdle, the way forward would have been strewn with difficulties. Instead, even before Frederick played to cap off the evening, on the basis of the young musicians’ performances alone, they’d caught and fixed the attention of her guests—arguably the most critical and discerning of the ton’s lovers of music, especially given the number of Frederick’s academic peers present. Indeed, most of the latter group were now chattering with each other in much the same excited vein as the matrons with events later in the Season.
With Frederick’s help, she’d succeeded in bringing three local musicians to the attention of the ton.
Unable to stop smiling, she glanced at Protheroe. He was beaming as well and, transparently delighted, bowed to her.
After nodding back, Stacie returned to her survey of the ladies arrayed before her, and Mary caught her eye and smiled in congratulatory encouragement—then Mary was tapped on the shoulder by Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, and turned to answer what was plainly an inquiry regarding the three musicians.
Stacie glanced toward the morning room—and caught sight of Frederick, standing as far back in the shadows as possible.
For her audience, his performance would be the crowning glory of the night.
She faintly arched a brow at him, and he nodded curtly.
She walked forward—and the immediate hush that fell was startling in its intensity.
On reaching her mistress-of-ceremonies spot, she halted, raised her head, ran her gaze over the audience, and stated, “Our third and final performance of the evening will be Robert Schumann’s ‘Fantasie in C Major, Opus Seventeen,’ performed by Frederick, Marquess of Albury.”
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 10