by Anna Bradley
“Ah. Isabella, is it? I suppose there isn’t a single servant in all of Darlington Castle aside from Cecilia Isabella can tolerate.”
“It’s truer than you might think. Cecilia has a way with her. She, ah…she sings to Isabella, and it calms her. Cecilia has a surprisingly sweet singing voice, despite the occasional sharp edge to her tongue.”
Haslemere huffed out a breath, but Gideon had hit upon just the right argument. Haslemere, much like everyone else who frequented Darlington Castle, was Isabella’s devoted slave, and he wouldn’t dream of depriving her of the only servant who could soothe her.
Still, Haslemere cast Gideon an uneasy look. “You realize you’re putting Cecilia at risk by keeping her here, don’t you, Darlington? Mrs. Honeywell is a low, malicious woman, and she doesn’t appreciate her daughter being slighted. If she chooses to take offense—and she likely will—it won’t be you who catches the razor edge of her ire. It will be Cecilia.”
Gideon opened his mouth, but closed it again when he realized Haslemere was right. If Mrs. Honeywell had the opportunity, she’d make Cecilia suffer for his folly. He didn’t like the idea of Cecilia suffering—not for his sake, or anyone else’s. He didn’t like it at all.
“No, she won’t.” Gideon tossed back the rest of his port. “I’ll make certain Cecilia’s kept out of Mrs. Honeywell’s way. The woman can rage all she likes, but she won’t get the chance to harm Cecilia.”
* * * *
Mrs. Honeywell did choose to take offense, and despite Gideon’s best efforts, she found a way to vent her frustrations. Her revenge, when it came, was swift, brutal, and utterly unexpected.
By the time Gideon realized it was coming, it was already too late.
It happened in the drawing room the following evening, while Miss Honeywell was performing on the pianoforte for a small group of neighbors and guests who’d been invited to a lavish supper that evening to celebrate the impending nuptials.
Cecilia shouldn’t have been anywhere near the drawing room. Gideon had taken Haslemere’s warning to heart, and instructed Mrs. Briggs to keep Cecilia and Amy safely out of the way in the kitchens until the guests had withdrawn to their bedchambers that night.
If he’d known Cecilia was passing through the corridor outside the drawing room, he might have been able to put a stop to it, but Mrs. Honeywell saw her before Gideon realized Cecilia was there, and before he knew what she was about, her shrill voice rang throughout the drawing room.
“Cecilia! How wonderful you should happen to be passing by just now. We need another young lady aside from my daughter to entertain us, and Lord Darlington has raved about what a lovely singing voice you have. Won’t you come in and perform for us?”
Gideon’s gaze shot to the doorway, and without realizing he did it, he rose to his feet.
The other guests looked at each other in confusion, and Miss Honeywell whirled around at the sound of her mother’s voice. She understood at once what her mother had just proposed fell shockingly outside the bounds of proper etiquette, and her pretty mouth fell open, her face going pale.
Miss Honeywell played like an angel, and she looked her best when she played, with flushed cheeks and her long, elegant fingers moving gracefully over the keys. It was expected she’d display her talents for the company.
But Cecilia wasn’t a lady. She was a servant, and servants didn’t perform for aristocratic company. It was unheard of to even suggest it—an insult to both Lord Darlington and his guests.
Miss Honeywell lacked wit, but she wasn’t the ruthless viper her mother was, and she knew well enough her mother’s spitefulness reflected poorly on her. She leapt up from the pianoforte bench in protest. “Indeed, Mama, I’m certain she has no wish to play.”
“Hush, will you, Fanny?” Mrs. Honeywell’s eyes were glittering with malice. “Why shouldn’t the girl wish to show off her fine voice? Come, Cecilia, don’t stand there like a half-wit. There’s no need for such dramatics. No one here expects a housemaid’s performance to equal my daughter’s.”
Miss Honeywell’s cheeks flushed with anger and mortification. The rest of the party sat there, speechless with shock, not one of them saying a single word. They looked from Mrs. Honeywell to Lord Darlington to Cecilia in flabbergasted silence.
Cecilia stood frozen beside the door, her face dead white. “I beg you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Honeywell, I—”
“No, indeed. Not on any account.” Mrs. Honeywell beckoned her forward with an imperious gesture, and jabbed her finger at the pianoforte. “Step aside, Fanny, and give Cecilia your place.”
“This is absurd.” Haslemere leapt to his feet, his face tight with anger. “Do you make a practice of forcing your housemaids to play for the company at your house, madam? I confess I find your request quite singular.”
Mrs. Honeywell gave an ugly laugh. “Not at all, my lord, but my housemaids are simple, obedient girls, and they aren’t gifted with Cecilia’s alleged musical prowess.”
Gideon had heard enough. “Cecilia, you are excused.” His quiet voice sliced through the thick tension in the room.
Two livid streaks of scarlet painted Cecilia’s cheekbones, chasing away her pallor. At first Gideon thought she was flushed with mortification, but then she straightened her spine and lifted her chin in the air. “I’m quite happy to oblige Mrs. Honeywell, with your permission, Lord Darlington.”
Her gaze met his, and his eyebrows shot up at the look in her dark eyes.
She wasn’t mortified. She was furious.
“See? The girl’s anxious to show herself off. You can hardly deny us the pleasure of hearing her, my lord.” Mrs. Honeywell settled her pink ruffles around her with a jerk. “Not when you’ve gone on at such length about her superior skill.”
“I’ve no idea what you mean, madam.” Gideon, who could have happily throttled Mrs. Honeywell just then, didn’t attempt to hide his anger.
“Why, you couldn’t say enough about the girl’s sweet singing voice during tea yesterday.” Mrs. Honeywell gave him a poisonous smile. “You made me quite long to hear her for myself.”
“I said only that my niece enjoys hearing her sing.” Gideon’s voice was shaking with fury. “I fail to see how you took that as an invitation to demand she perform for the company.”
Cecilia stepped away from the doorway and into the drawing room. She was utterly calm, only her tight jaw hinting at her agitation. “I’d be pleased to sing for Mrs. Honeywell, if you don’t object, my lord.”
Gideon had never before been so tempted to toss a lady out of his home as he was Mrs. Honeywell, but one glance at Cecilia silenced him. He could see she was determined to brazen it out, and he was more than happy to watch her put Mrs. Honeywell in her place. “Very well, Cecilia. If you wish it.”
He nodded toward the pianoforte, and took his seat again.
Cecilia made her way toward the instrument, her head high. Mrs. Honeywell smirked as she took her seat on the bench. “What simple little ditty will you play for us, Cecilia? Sonata Facile, perhaps?”
A few of the haughtier members of the company tittered behind their hands at this, but most of them were either glaring at Mrs. Honeywell or casting pitying glances at Cecilia.
Cecilia’s back stiffened. Gideon half rose from his chair again, but before he could intervene a second time, her fingers began to move over the keys. A moment later her pure, clear voice took up the melody.
Here’s a health to the King and a lasting peace
To faction an end, to wealth increase.
Come, let us drink it while we have breath,
For there’s no drinking after death.
A gasp rose up from the company, but Gideon’s lips curved in a smile.
Cecilia had chosen to sing an old English drinking song. Not just any song, either, but a notoriously bawdy one. By choosing a song so thoroughly out of Miss Honeywell
’s repertoire, Cecilia had ensured there could be no comparison between them.
Her enthusiasm grew as she progressed through the song, her fingers flying over the keys as she sang with gusto, neatly depriving Mrs. Honeywell of the chance to humiliate her.
Let Bacchus’ health round briskly move,
For Bacchus is a friend to Love;
And they that would this health deny,
Down among the dead men let him lie!
When the last ringing notes sounded in the silent drawing room, Cecilia rose from the bench, turned to face a quivering, purple-faced Mrs. Honeywell, and offered her a solemn curtsy.
“Brava, Cecilia!” Haslemere burst into enthusiastic applause, a delighted smile on his lips. “Well done! Your voice is every bit as lovely as Lord Darlington said. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Honeywell?”
Mrs. Honeywell didn’t appear to agree. She was glaring at Cecilia as if she’d like to wring her neck, but for once, she held her tongue.
“Thank you, my lord.” Cecilia offered another curtsy to Haslemere, her lips curved in a grin that made Gideon’s heart thump wildly in his chest.
Finally, she turned to him, her dark eyes wary. “Lord Darlington.”
She looked as if she were expecting him to dismiss her then and there, and toss her out the door of his castle into the freezing night. He gave her a slight smile, his eyes holding hers, but he said only, “Thank you, Cecilia. You are excused.”
Chapter Fourteen
Cecilia took care to keep her head high as she left the drawing room, but as soon as she was out of sight of Lord Darlington’s guests she fled down the hallway. By the time she reached the staircase, her knees were shaking so badly she wasn’t sure she could climb the stairs.
She slapped a hand over her mouth, her other hand tightening on the stair railing as she choked back a sudden flood of saliva. Dear God, she was going to be sick. She was going to be sick all over Lord Darlington’s spotless flagstone floors, not a dozen steps away from the drawing room door.
After the scene she’d just made, Lord Darlington’s guests might decide they’d had quite enough entertainment for one night, and choose to take their leave. She couldn’t bear for any of them to see her in such a state, or worse, for him to see her. No, she’d rather take a tumble down the stairs than face him right now.
Cecilia gripped the railing and dragged herself up one stair after the next, her hand still pressed against her mouth. When she reached the first landing, she risked a glance behind her, then sagged against the wall with relief.
No one had followed her, thank goodness.
Of all the songs she might have chosen to sing, why had she chosen “Down Among the Dead”? She hadn’t the vaguest idea how it had even entered her head, but once it had, the smug look on Mrs. Honeywell’s face had lured it past her lips before she even realized what she was doing. The next thing she knew, she was seated at the pianoforte, singing about celestial joys and the pleasures of the soul and Bacchus being the friend to love, and, and…
Her head fell weakly against the wall behind her, her cheeks bursting into sudden flames as she recalled the last stanza, which she’d sang with particular fervor.
May love and wine their rights maintain,
And their united pleasure reign;
While Bacchus’ treasure crowns the board,
We’ll sing the joy that both afford.
No, surely that didn’t mean…
But of course, it did. It meant precisely what she’d always known it did, and she’d just sang it aloud to a roomful of aristocratic strangers.
With fervor.
She’d just sung a song about…about copulation in the middle of Lord Darlington’s drawing room. In front of his wedding guests, no less.
Cecilia groaned as she resumed her trek up the staircase. Lord Darlington had been patient with her tonight, kind even, but if none of her other missteps had resulted in her dismissal, this one surely would.
They were all likely still sitting in frozen silence in the drawing room, staring at one another in shock. Cecilia’s stomach roiled at the thought. She wasn’t ashamed of herself—not really, though she probably should be. She wasn’t proud, either, but she couldn’t deny the little curl of triumph in her chest. It was heady, even as it was tempered by fear, fury, defiance, and yes, a touch of nausea.
In short, her emotions were so tangled she could hardly tell what she felt, but without warning, her eyes began to sting with unshed tears.
Tears she wouldn’t allow herself to shed. Not yet.
She hurried into the bedchamber she shared with Isabella, closed the door, and sagged against it. Isabella was asleep, and Cecilia took advantage of this rare moment of private, blessed quiet. The knot inside her chest loosened, but as her alarm faded the tears she’d been holding back spilled over her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand, but they fell faster than she could catch them, and after a fruitless struggle she gave herself up to them, sagging against the door, her breath hitching as quiet sobs wracked her.
I do believe I’m overwrought.
It wasn’t a familiar feeling. Indeed, she couldn’t recall ever being so overwrought in her life. Sophia and Emma were the ones who became overwrought, and Georgiana the one who fell into tempers. Cecilia had always been the serene one, the only one of the four not prone to bursts of fury or passion. No matter how trying the circumstances, she always remained composed.
How in the world had she ever let herself fall into such a temper tonight? She’d never lost control of herself like that before, but then Mrs. Honeywell was awful enough to shatter the composure of a saint. Cecilia had never before been as vexed as she’d been just now—
She paused, blinking. Now she thought of it, she’d hardly ever been vexed at all before tonight, rarely crossed or challenged. Yet here she was, congratulating herself on her delightful temperament. It was an empty boast, when that temper had never truly been tried.
Of all the things that might have popped into her head just then, Cecilia found herself thinking of Gussie, Lady Clifford’s plump pug dog. Gussie spent most of his time splayed out on his back in front of the drawing room fire, his short legs in the air, contented snores gusting from his drooling lips. He was a charming little fellow, but one couldn’t deny he was an indolent thing, of very little use to anyone.
Cecilia adored Gussie—they all did. He was a much-beloved member of the Clifford School, and considered by them all to be of a remarkably sweet temper. Every last one of them exclaimed over his affectionate nature, extolled his many virtues, and declared him the loveliest dog ever to grace the canine world. Even Daniel Brixton, who was the sternest man Cecilia had ever known, cosseted, petted, and spoiled Gussie.
Rather like they did with Cecilia herself.
Her eyes opened wide.
Dear God, she was just like Gussie.
Oh, her friends would deny it to their dying breaths. They’d argue she was the dearest, the sweetest, the most tenderhearted of them all. They’d stroke and soothe and murmur consolingly to her, much as they did with Gussie when he had the bellyache from too many treats.
Well, she hadn’t been very sweet to Mrs. Honeywell. Not that the woman deserved Cecilia’s consideration, cruel, spiteful old thing that she was. Indeed, Cecilia was rather relieved to find she could defend herself when the occasion required it.
No, she couldn’t regret her response to Mrs. Honeywell’s attack, only…
She wiped away the last of her tears and crossed the room to gaze down at Isabella, who was sleeping like the angel she was, her soft, golden-brown curls a messy halo around her head.
Only she wouldn’t be the only one to suffer for her foolishness tonight, would she? Isabella would be hurt, too, if Cecilia was dismissed and sent away from Darlington Castle. A wave of bitter regret rolled over her, drawing fresh tears to her eye
s.
Mrs. Honeywell might be haughty and despicable, but Cecilia hadn’t acquitted herself well tonight, either. Now, gazing down at Isabella, she wished with all her heart she’d put her before her offended pride.
But it was too late for that now. She’d escaped dismissal twice, but after tonight, what choice did Lord Darlington have but to dismiss her? One did not sing about drunkenness and copulation in the drawing room. Surely that must be the first and most sacred rule of ton etiquette?
A sudden knock on the door interrupted her thoughts, and Cecilia started toward it, thinking it must be Amy, come to commiserate with her. But when the knock sounded again, louder this time, Cecilia realized with dawning horror it wasn’t the hallway door that was under assault.
It was the connecting door between her bedchamber and Lord Darlington’s.
She raised a shaking hand to her mouth. Oh, no. Was he going to dismiss her tonight? She’d hardly dared to look at him when she fled the drawing room earlier. He hadn’t looked angry, but that knock sounded like a death knell—
There was a third knock, this one louder still, then Lord Darlington’s deep voice. “I know you’re in there, Cecilia. I’d like to speak with you, but I won’t enter your bedchamber under these circumstances without your permission.”
He wouldn’t? Cecilia was tempted to test the truth of his statement by hiding behind the door all night, but what was the sense in putting it off? She’d have to face him sooner or later.
She crossed the room to the connecting door, drew a deep breath for courage, then opened it to face her fate. Lord Darlington was standing there, one hand on his hip and the other braced on the top of the door frame.
“Er…good evening, Lord Darlington.”
He straightened and stepped past her into her bedchamber. “Would you call it good, Cecilia? It’s something, certainly, but I wouldn’t call it good.”
“I, ah…no, I wouldn’t call it good, either.” Cecilia thought of the shock on Mrs. Honeywell’s face and grimaced. “It’s quite the opposite, and I beg your pardon for it, my lord. I shouldn’t have…I didn’t intend to…there’s no excuse for my—”