“I saw Mr. Herd today,” she whispered.
“And how did you find him?”
“Happy,” Clara said. “He insisted on singing ‘The Coasts of Old Barbary.’”
Grant removed his gloves, put them into his hat, then set it on the pew beside him. “He is fortunate to have your visits.”
“I enjoy singing with him.” She tipped her head to the side, looking up at him. “I enjoyed singing with you as well.” She looked down at her hands. “You have a pleasant voice.”
“Perhaps I will accompany you next time?”
“I would like that.” She ran her fingernail over a pleat in her skirt, watching the fabric as her cheeks colored. “And Mr. Herd would too, I’m sure.”
Grant doubted it. He had seen the way the older man’s face shone when Clara kissed him farewell and expected Philip would consider an addition to their merry singing party to be an intrusion. But he did not care one whit for what the old man thought. Clara’s invitation and her compliment lit something warm inside him, and he savored the sensation.
Once Bible Study ended and Harry left them alone with the children, Clara’s easy manner changed. Her face paled, and she held her shoulders tight. She instructed the children to take their places in the choir pews, and Grant ushered them to their seats, climbing up onto the row behind the older boys.
Clara opened her satchel, removed the prepared signs, then crouched down, giving instructions to Annie. When she stood and faced the choir, she held her hands together tightly. “I’m so happy to see all of you at rehearsal.” Clara’s smile looked more forced than natural. “Since we do not need to learn the words to the song, we will work on singing together. The goal is to sound like one voice. So, as you sing, you should always hear the voice of the people beside you.”
In the row ahead of Grant, Freddy Pinkston whispered something to Barty Newbold. Barty responded with a jab of his elbow. Before Freddy could get in a jab of his own, Grant leaned forward and patted each boy’s shoulder. They quieted immediately.
Clara gave Grant a grateful smile. “Tonight, we’ll practice breathing all at the same time throughout the song. But this means you need to watch me. When it is time to take a breath, I will make a motion like this.” She raised her hands in front of her and at the same time lifted her chest as if she were breathing in. “If you forget the words, you can glance to the cards Annie is holding, but keep your eyes on me to know when to breathe. I’ll demonstrate with the first lines.”
Clara sang the first verse of “Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild,” drawing in an exaggerated breath between the phrases. She chewed on her lip, her brows furrowed as she looked at the choir. “Now, let’s do it all together.”
She raised her hands, and the children sang along with her. When they finished, she nodded. “Very good.”
“You didn’t breathe.” Barty pushed Freddy.
“I did!” Freddy slapped his hand away.
Grant cleared his throat, and the argument stopped.
Clara motioned to Annie to switch signs. “Now, the second verse.”
Once they sang the entire song and the children seemed to have mastered their breathing, Clara told them to sit.
“I am very pleased with your progress.” She smiled, looking less nervous and revealing her delightful dimple. “In only a short time, you’ve begun to sound like an accomplished choir.”
She motioned for Grant to join her. “Next week, we will work on presentation—how to walk to your places, how to stand, that sort of thing—but there is one last skill we need to practice today.”
She turned toward Grant.
He nodded. “Yes, and this is where I come in. Our choir sounds beautiful here in the church, but the festival is out of doors, and you all need to sing much louder if you are to be heard.” He reached into Miss Brightly’s satchel and drew out a stuffed toy tiger the size of a small cat.
The children’s eyes went wide. Some whispered and others gasped.
He cleared his throat and made a show of petting the toy while waiting for the children to quiet. “This tiger has come to us directly from India,” he said, using the narrative he and Clara had come up with at the castle. “What is his name, Miss Brightly?”
“Her name is Sita.”
He nodded, seeing he had the children’s undivided attention. “Sita is going to help me today as we practice singing loudly.”
“Singing in a loud voice isn’t the same as yelling,” Clara said, holding up a finger. “You must still sing as a choir, without anyone louder than the others.”
“Sita goes higher when she hears a choir singing loudly, breathing together, and sounding as one voice,” Grant said. He lifted the tiger high above his head. “But when Sita hears one voice louder than the others or thinks the choir is too soft . . .” He lowered the tiger and frowned, shaking his head as if it were a true pity to disappoint the toy tiger.
“Shall we see how high we can get Sita?” Clara said.
The children smiled, some whispered to one another, but all looked excited to see whether Sita would go up or down. Grant had thought the idea silly when Clara first proposed it, but seeing their eager expressions changed his mind. This simple game was precisely the thing to encourage them.
“Everyone stand, please,” Clara said. She glanced at Annie, then at Grant. She raised her hands to begin.
As the children sang, Grant raised and lowered the tiger with their volume. He’d never have believed something as simple as a stuffed toy lifting up a few inches would have the effect it did. All the children sang in strong voices that rang out through the church.
He walked backward along the aisle, holding one hand behind his ear, and with the other, he lifted up the toy tiger, moving her a little higher as the voices grew. When he reached the back of the church, the choir started the last verse of the song. Their sound swelled, and he held up Sita as high as he could reach, then stepped onto a pew to hold the toy even higher. The choir’s sound was enormous as the children sang with all their hearts.
The song ended, and the last note resonated.
The children’s cheeks were rosy, their faces glowing with pride. Clara clasped her hands together, looking back at Grant as if he were a hero who had just slain a dragon instead of a choir director who had waved a stuffed toy above his head.
The church doors opened, and the vicar entered, followed by the Ladies’ Charity Society. And though he heard the applause and felt the cool air, Grant didn’t look away from Miss Brightly. Her smile was full and her eyes shone, and in that moment, Grant knew Harry Barlow was right. He was in love with Clara Brightly. He only had to tell her, to ask her to stay, and he resolved to do so, but the moment must be perfect.
He smiled when the idea came to him. The perfect moment was just under a week away. He would declare his feelings at the queen’s ball.
Chapter Six
Clara looked through the window of the East Cowes hotel suite, watching boats sail in and out of the River Medina. Gazing toward the Solent, she could see the battleship guarding the port as it did when the queen was in residence. Earlier that day, Walter had pointed out the queen’s yacht—not that it needed pointing out. It would have been impossible to miss the enormous steamship with its royal pennants flapping on the masts. She let her gaze travel back to the street below. Night was falling, and gas lamps were coming to life. They would leave for the ball soon.
She and the Wickershams had arrived by train the evening before and taken rooms in a town close to the queen’s summer home at Osborne House. The trip had been very different from her lone journey a few weeks earlier. Traveling with the Wickershams—being with the Wickershams—was a delight. The pair were happy, and their conversation always uplifting. Clara could not imagine anyone loving their home as much as the Wickershams loved this island.
She centered the pendant on her necklace, her fingers brushing the filigree gold and dangling pearls. The ornate necklace was a gift from her father. Her throat tightene
d as she remembered her first ball at the Government House in Calcutta. Papa had looked so regal in his dress regimentals, his boots shined, and his medals sparkling in the light. He’d claimed her first waltz and kept a close eye on the younger officers who asked for a dance as the night went on. She swallowed hard, pushing down the tears that would leave her eyes puffy and cause her companions concern.
Hearing a knock, she crossed the room and opened the door.
Deborah entered in a flurry of feathers and lavender ruffles. When she saw Clara, she gasped. “Oh, don’t you look lovely?” She took Clara’s hands and held them as she stepped back to admire her. Her gaze traveled from the top of Clara’s head to the tips of her shoes. “And Emily arranged your hair beautifully.” She gave a satisfied nod. “Not that much work was needed.”
“She did a lovely job.” Clara turned back to study the hairstyle in the dressing table mirror. She was pleased with the style. The servant had pulled her tresses back into a complicated braided arrangement, leaving curls to fall over her shoulders and cheeks. A simple white orchid completed the presentation.
“And your dress . . .” Deborah let out a theatrical sigh. “Utterly splendid.”
“Thank you.” Clara adored the white gown with its lace-trimmed sleeves and full skirts. And Deborah’s attention reminded her so much of her ayah that she couldn’t help but smile. “You look very beautiful yourself.”
Deborah flounced the ruffles on her skirt. “It is not every day one gets to attend a royal ball.” She craned her neck to see the back of her dress in the mirror. “I’ve heard the queen’s residence has undergone some renovations since we were last invited. I am very curious to see what has been done.” She adjusted a sparkling bracelet.
“I didn’t realize you’d been to Osborne House before.” A quiver moved through Clara’s insides as it always did when she faced the unfamiliar.
Deborah turned back, but when she saw Clara, her grin died away. She shook her head and made a tsking sound. “You’re nervous.”
Clara grimaced. “I am, a bit. I shan’t know anyone at the ball.”
“Do not worry yourself.” Deborah wagged her finger. “Walter and I won’t leave you alone for an instant. And of course Grant Mason will be there. And his mother.”
Clara’s cheeks heated, and she kept her face turned down as she pulled on her gloves. Knowing Grant would be in attendance gave her both comfort and apprehension. Over the past weeks, she’d grown easy in his presence, feeling safe when Grant was near. But tonight was different, and she couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. Instead of feeling calm, nervous shivers moved over her skin. What would Grant think of her gown? Would he ask her to dance?
One moment, she hoped he would, and the next, the very idea made her heartbeat race in panic. She pushed away the confusing combination. She was being silly. She’d seen Grant only five days earlier at choir practice. There was no reason to feel anxious. Grant was her friend, and she would be happy to see him. In spite of her self-encouragement, the nervousness returned, making her stomach feel even more constricted than when Emily had pulled tight her corset strings.
“The ball will be an intimate affair. The house has a small gathering area, not an enormous ballroom like you’d find in a palace,” Deborah said. “I think you will discover it is quite magical.” She came near and fluffed Clara’s sleeves. “You know, Walter and I danced our first time at Osborne House.” Her brows bounced, and her smile grew mischievous. “The setting is very romantic.”
Clara fought a giggle, turning it into a smile. “I am glad to hear it. You found your true love at the queen’s ball. Just like in a novel.”
Deborah sighed and clasped her hands. “My dear Wally really is charming, isn’t he? And such a graceful dancer.”
“Ladies, it is time.” Walter’s voice came from the passageway outside Clara’s bedchamber exactly on cue. When Deborah opened the door, he kissed her cheek. “My dearest, you are a vision.”
“Thank you, darling.” Deborah fluttered her lashes.
Clara couldn’t help but feel warm, seeing the two so happily in love.
Walter looked past his wife and smiled when he saw Clara, his crooked tooth making its appearance beneath his mustache. “Beautiful, my dear. I do believe you shall turn quite a few heads tonight.”
The party rode the short distance to Osborne House in a hired carriage. They turned down a tree-lined road and emerged into a courtyard with a garden in the center. The carriage lane encircled a raised planter filled with purple bushes Deborah identified as heather. When they stopped before the grand house, Clara took Walter’s hand and stepped down out of the carriage.
The house itself was made from yellowish brick and arranged with smooth columns, balconies, and a flat roof in a style Clara recognized as Italian. A tall tower rose from one corner, reminding her of a mosque. Dark mahogany wood surrounded the windows, and an arch held up by columns crowned the main door. Beautiful, but hardly imposing, she thought, a bit disappointed.
“The backside is much more impressive,” Deborah said, as if reading her thoughts.
Footmen in regalia held open the doors, and the trio entered into a wide corridor. Elaborate tile designs covered the floor, paintings in carved frames decorated the walls between colored trim, and marble sculptures added life and dimension. They walked slowly, and Clara studied the artwork as they passed. Royal guards in their red coats with polished brass buttons stood at intervals along the passageway.
Walter left Clara and Deborah at the door to the ladies’ dressing room. When they entered, all the ladies turned. Clara’s muscles tightened and her nerves hummed with anxiety when she saw so many gazes looking in her direction.
Deborah began chatting immediately, introducing Clara as she went.
Clara searched the crowd for a familiar face and sighed in relief when she saw Mrs. Mason. The woman approached, having to elbow and squeeze all her bustles, feathers, and petticoats through gaps in the crowded room.
“I am so delighted to see you.” She clasped Clara’s hand, waving a feathered fan with the other. “Very warm tonight, isn’t it?”
Clara nodded. The small room was stifling.
“Grant will be happy to see you as well,” Mrs. Mason said. “Made me promise not to tell—” Her eyes went wide, and she closed her mouth so quickly that Clara heard her teeth click together. Her brows furrowed, and she looked to the side. “I . . . well . . . you’ll enjoy the ball, Miss Brightly. I am sure of it.”
If the room had been hot before, that was nothing to the heat spreading over Clara’s neck and chest. What was Mrs. Mason not permitted to tell her? Did Grant intend to ask her for a dance? Why would he keep such a thing secret?
The air in the room buzzed with excitement. Seamstresses and maids tended to tears in skirts and unpinned curls, and ladies inspected their presentation in the mirrors. Clara attempted to concentrate on the conversations around her but only managed to give an occasional answer when asked a question directly. Her thoughts tumbled, and her insides trembled. Mrs. Mason’s words had sent her already tensed nerves into a nearly manic state. She fisted her hands together tightly, knowing that leaving was not an option. It was, of course, an insult to the queen, and it would also ruin the Wickershams’ enjoyment of the evening.
She could do this. But what had Mrs. Mason meant? What did Grant ask his mother not to tell her?
The floor manager entered, calling for everyone’s attention and informing the ladies that the procession was to begin.
Clara straightened her shoulders, following the crowd to the outer passage where they’d meet the men and enter all together into the ballroom. She gave Walter a smile when she took his arm, but inside, her heart pommeled.
He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. “No need to worry, my dear.”
Deborah took his other arm, and they walked the remainder of the passageway to a pair of double doors that led outside onto a terrace. A rush of cool night air went over Clara’s hea
ted skin. The crowd thinned, spreading over the area, and she got a better look at her surroundings.
Lights illuminated the planters and balustrades, showing Italian fountains, statues, and gardens stretching off into the darkness.
“I told you,” Deborah said. “The terraced gardens are utterly stunning.”
“And farther down the path is the Swiss Chalet.” Walter motioned with his chin off into the darkness toward the sea. “A charming playhouse built by Prince Albert for the royal children.”
Some of the guests, Clara was happy to see, wore regimental uniforms, but most of the men were in dark coats and top hats. The ladies’ dresses were a rainbow of colors, some with trains and head veils. The ball attendees clustered in groups on the far side of the courtyard near a door leading to another wing to the right of where they exited.
“This is the newer section of Osborne House.” Deborah leaned forward around her husband to speak to Clara.
Clara nodded, scanning the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of Grant, but between the crush of people and the uneven lighting, she was unable to distinguish between all of the similarly dressed men. Trumpets sounded, and the crowd organized itself into a line. The doors were flung open, and the procession began.
Aside from the people directly in front of her, Clara couldn’t see much as they made their way through the door and along a passageway. They emerged into a ballroom, joining the crowd to await the queen’s arrival, and she continued to scan between the other guests, searching for Grant. How could such a tall man blend so completely?
She’d been inside the ballroom for a full thirty seconds before she noticed her surroundings. And when she did look up, she froze. The room was an exact replica of a Sikh palace.
The walls and ceiling were stark white, every inch detailed in intricate plasterwork. The floor was a dark wood, matching the trim of the doors and the rails of the upper galley. Gold fixtures shone in the lamplight. Turning around, she saw a carving of Ganesh on the wall above the entrance, and over the enormous fireplace was an elaborately carved white peacock.
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