by Erica Ridley
The entrance hall had been stunning. Spotless checkered floor despite the crush of visitors, intricate plasterwork decorating the high ceiling, a gorgeous staircase curving up to the next level.
The current salon was no less grand. Towering sash windows draped with elegant jade curtains, striped silk wall hangings in a paler tone to match, furniture and moldings and cartouches that Nora could only describe as beautiful and extremely expensive.
Toward the rear of the otherwise empty dais sat a gorgeous, lacquered pianoforte the likes of which she had never seen. Although she hadn’t a single musical bone in her body, she itched to run her fingertips over the smooth keys, the delicate curves of the carved cypress housing.
“How many songs will they play?” she whispered to Lady Roundtree. “Is it always different?”
The baroness glanced over her shoulder to ensure they weren’t being watched before leaning over the arm of her wheeled chair to whisper back. “Twelve. It’s been the same set for years, and as you can see, the fashionable set will never tire of it. We know quality.”
Nora belatedly recalled herself. She was not the fashionable set, and the baroness was not her personal guide to Grenville musicales. If she could not keep her curiosity in check, she would not be attending another.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent.”
Lady Roundtree hesitated, then opened a painted fan to hide her words from any onlookers. “You are correct to realize that any person in another’s employ should remain silent unless first addressed. However, as my companion, whenever we are in a situation where we are unlikely to be seen or overheard… I give you permission to speak freely.”
Nora blinked. “You what?”
“Use your fan,” Lady Roundtree hissed.
Nora unfurled her fan and positioned it just like the baroness. “You give me permission to speak freely?”
“Not here, Winfield,” Lady Roundtree clarified. “At home, whenever we won’t be disturbed.”
Nora’s teeth clacked together as she immediately closed her mouth, but inside her mind was whirling. The baroness quite understandably would not wish to publicly fraternize with an employee, but the explicit request to be herself whilst ensconced in the privacy of the Roundtree town house…
On the one hand, it felt like yet another double life. But on the other hand, it felt like freedom. Freedom to be herself, if only for a few hours each day.
Before she could ruminate more on this surprising turn of events, a footman swept aside the heavy velvet curtain and the first of three dark-haired Grenville siblings stepped out on the stage.
“Miss Camellia Grenville,” the baroness whispered behind her fan. “The only one of her sisters not destined to shame her family. The one with the violin is Miss Bryony Grenville. Once again, she didn’t bother to curl her hair for the occasion.”
Nora was no longer listening. Her pulse had skipped the moment Mr. Grenville emerged from the shadows, and she had not so much as blinked since. How was it possible that he grew more handsome every time she saw him?
His gleaming black boots looked spotless and shiny even from across the room. His formal knee breeches and the dark superfine of his evening coat contrasted brilliantly with the snowy white of an intricately tied neckcloth against a gold silk waistcoat. His dark, perfectly tousled hair looked soft and inviting, but his strong jaw was set at an angle to invite no disruption.
Nora could not tear her gaze from him. How he strode across the dais, how he was far from dwarfed by the enormous pianoforte, how he commanded every stuttering breath she took just from being in the same room. And when he began to play—
“That’s the first arrangement,” Lady Roundtree whispered from behind her fan. “I told you; there will be no surprises tonight. Wait until you hear Miss Grenville sing.”
When the youngest sister lifted her violin to her shoulder, Nora could feel the vibrations of the music beneath her seat, along the arms of her chair, inside her very bones.
But when the eldest opened her mouth to sing, the entire world fell away. Never had Nora heard a voice so pure, so rich and textured. If choirs of angels filled the heavens, they must sound exactly like Camellia Grenville. Each note transported the rapt audience out of their bodies and into the soaring melody itself.
And still Nora’s eyes were not on the incredible soprano or the impressive violinist, but on the devastatingly handsome gentleman whose fine fingers flew across the keys of the pianoforte, yet his eyes appeared lost somewhere far away.
The song ended and another began, even more haunting and arresting than the first.
Lady Roundtree and the rest of the breathless crowd were in raptures.
Nora’s forehead creased. The anguished concentration on Mr. Grenville’s face hinted he was building up to something far more powerful than a mere crescendo. As if this familiar arrangement he could no doubt play in his sleep was tonight a beast to be vanquished, a battle to be won.
When the song ended without incident, her lungs let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Is it always like this?” murmured a male voice in the row behind her.
Nora’s shoulders relaxed. Apparently she was not the only interloper amongst this crowd of well-heeled regulars. The gentleman must have been just as swept away as she was.
“Always,” a low voice responded to him. “Although tonight is even better than—”
All whispers stopped as Mr. Grenville began the next melody, leaving the entirety of the audience frozen in place like a life-sized glass menagerie.
In alarm, Nora turned wide eyes toward Lady Roundtree just as the gentleman behind her whispered, “What is it? What’s happening?”
“It’s…a new song,” came another man’s disbelieving voice. “It’s never a new song.”
Camellia Grenville stepped up to the edge of the dais to face her peers.
“Tonight, I am going to sing an aria currently being performed at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden.” She took a deep breath and smiled at the crowd. “With luck, the next time I perform, it will be on that stage.”
A collective gasp ran through the audience.
Before anyone could begin to process the shocking announcement, she opened her mouth and began to sing.
Nora stared in awe and disbelief. Miss Grenville had been born to vast advantages that someone like Nora could not begin to imagine, and yet was willingly tossing it all away to pursue a dream she might never achieve.
More startlingly, her elder brother wasn’t just allowing it to happen. He steadfastly played an operatic accompaniment despite the pallor in his cheeks, despite the horrified murmurs in the crowd, despite the obvious anguish on his face. Her heart flipped.
This was a man who loved his family just as much as Nora loved hers.
When the song ended, scattered applause sounded from a few brave souls whilst the rest of the crowd erupted into cacophony, each outraged opinion vying to be heard over the din.
Others simply stood up and walked out of the room in disgust.
“Don Juan: A Grand Opera in Two Acts,” Lady Roundtree whispered behind her fan. “She shouldn’t even know about such things, much less sing them.”
But she didn’t motion for her footmen to wheel her from the room. A significant percentage of the audience appeared just as glued to their seats as Nora was, on tenterhooks to see what would happen next.
Poor Mr. Grenville. And his sister! Nora’s heart twisted for the entire family. It had taken a lot of courage for the siblings to be complicit in such a display, and even more bravery for Camellia to destroy her easy path in favor of a difficult one she felt passion for.
An elegant lady with a silver-streaked chestnut chignon leapt up from the first row and whirled toward the crowd in an obvious panic. “Everybody go home! The musicale is over. Out! Out!”
“Lady Grenville,” the baroness whispered behind her fan. “Normally, such crass shrieking would be
the talk of the Town by morning, but I rather suspect no one will recall a word she says tonight because they’re all too focused on Camellia. Mark my words, that chit will be the next face you see in the caricatures.”
Nora’s sympathy twisted into self-loathing. She had not been thinking about the caricatures. She had not been thinking about the repairs needed on the farm or her grandparents’ fragile health or the boatload of money she could earn for her desperate family by turning the Grenville family’s pain into a city-wide mockery.
But could she afford not to?
Chapter 12
“More ribbons!” demanded Lady Roundtree from the closest chaise. “He’s not pretty enough yet.”
“Hold still, pup.” Nora settled Captain Pugboat on her lap—as much as one could settle a wriggling puppy anywhere—and reached for the pile of yellow ribbons. “If I tie any more to his collar, he’ll look like a wrinkle-faced lion.”
“He’ll look like a prince,” the baroness corrected with a sniff. “Have you not seen my great-grandfather’s likeness in the Hall of Portraits?”
Nora wasn’t certain any resemblance between the baroness’s ancestor and her plump, tail-wagging Pugmalion could be remotely construed as a compliment to either individual.
As she dutifully added more bright yellow bows to his leather collar, her fervent hope was that Mr. Grenville would not sweep into the salon and catch sight of her lunging about the carpet in an attempt to turn a pug into a lion.
When the last of the ribbons had been added to Captain Pugboat’s mane, Nora lifted her brows toward her patroness. “Now is he properly leonine?”
“He is a lion king.” Lady Roundtree patted the empty footstool before her. “Now set him here.”
With a dubious glance down at the yipping, wriggly puppy, Nora swung the pudgy lion king up from her lap and placed him in the center of the footstool.
Captain Pugboat immediately flipped onto his back in an attempt to gnaw the ring of yellow bows tickling his wrinkled chin.
“Make him sit still,” Lady Roundtree ordered.
Nora wished it were so easy. “He’s a dog.”
“A dog who will ruin the portrait if you can’t make him behave,” Lady Roundtree insisted.
“I draw from my imagination,” Nora said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I can sketch him bouncing on his tail or playing a flute, if that’s what you want. He doesn’t have to really do it.”
In fact, the longer they dilly-dallied, the more likely someone would come to call and catch Nora in the act.
A puppy top-heavy with curling yellow ribbon could easily be explained as one of Lady Roundtree’s many eccentricities. Nora’s skill with pencils, on the other hand… Even though she sketched and shaded her realistic portraits in a style completely unlike the ink cartoons, it would still be best if no one outside this household learned of her proclivity.
Especially not someone like Mr. Grenville.
“He’s not listening!” The baroness’s voice rose higher with each word. “I need Captain Pugboat on this footstool. The portrait must come out perfectly.”
Nora flipped the puppy onto his stomach and held him in position for several seconds. “Stay.”
The moment she let go, Captain Pugboat immediately rolled paws-up.
She returned him back upright and repeated the process, holding him in place for an extra few beats. “Stay.”
He licked the tip of her nose.
“Don’t let him do that,” Lady Roundtree shrieked. “It isn’t seemly!”
“He’s a dog,” Nora repeated with deliberate patience. Carefully, she lifted her hands from his soft, wrinkled sides. “Please stay. I’ll give you all the teacakes when we’re done.”
Captain Pugboat gave his curled tail several enthusiastic swishes, then closed his eyes.
“Is he looking in the right direction?” Lady Roundtree fretted. “He’ll ruin the portrait if he isn’t bright-eyed and leonine.”
Nora placed her sketchbook on her knees. “Do you want me to draw a dog or a lion?”
“I want you to draw my dog,” the baroness explained. “Like a lion.”
“Of course,” Nora murmured beneath her breath, and picked up her pencil.
She would draw as fast as she could. Not just to reduce the chance of discovery, but also because her mind was still reeling from last week’s musicale.
Every moment had been thrilling.
Although the audience could not decide whether the soprano or the violinist was more gifted, Nora’s gaze had been locked on Heath Grenville at the pianoforte in back. She’d felt Mr. Grenville’s presence before he walked out on the dais. Even during his sister’s jaw-dropping announcement, Nora had been unable to tear her eyes from him.
Mr. Grenville had been the only one in the room who didn’t look shocked. He had known the announcement was coming, that a scandal this big would be unveiled.
Her publisher considered it a perfect caricature opportunity. Had already offered to triple her price. Yet Nora could not bring herself to draw the moment of Camellia Grenville’s ruination, no matter how much money she was offered.
Lady Roundtree’s head jerked up from the pillows. “Would this be easier with watercolors?”
“It would not be easier with watercolors,” Nora replied distractedly.
Not for her, at least. Paints of any sort had been far too dear in her family, and she’d rarely had an opportunity to practice.
Drawing, on the other hand… She’d had plenty of practice. And for the first time, what had begun as a lonely habit was now granting her the ability to provide for the family that had always provided for her. Nora had sworn to help them in any way she could. Yet here she was, sketching a leonine puppy for free rather than a caricature whose earnings could restock the empty larder.
Was it selfish of her not to draw the Grenvilles’ pain? Her family was suffering, too. Grandmother and Grandfather weren’t fighting to save their reputations, but to have enough to eat.
While Nora was here in this comfortable home refusing to dash off a simple cartoon, her little brother was home toiling as unpaid companion, as maid-of-all-work, as farmhand, as footman, as scullery maid, as caretaker.
That was the family she owed her loyalty to. The Winfields, not the Grenvilles. So why was her stomach tied up in knots?
Lady Roundtree popped her head back up from the pillows. “I can purchase watercolors. I know where to find the best ones.”
“It would be a watercolor if I were painting with watercolors,” Nora explained patiently. “This is a drawing. I sketch drawings with pencil. Please relax, Lady Roundtree. Everything is fine.”
Except it wasn’t, was it? Her heart beat for one person, yet she had an obligation to another.
Foolish to be torn to pieces over such a thing. It didn’t matter how fervently her heart beat for Mr. Grenville. He would not want her even if he knew how she felt. Why would he?
Despite growing up only a few hours’ distance from London, she was exactly the green country girl his peers all thought she was. She just happened to be able to draw.
What else was someone like Nora to do with a pencil? Correspondence was out of the question for someone who could not make letters stand still on the page. Nor could she be governess in some nursery. Nannies were expected to know how to read. Essays, literature, primers. Even scullery maids would be expected to follow a simple shopping list for market days.
For someone like Mr. Grenville, a public attachment to Nora would be far worse than a public scandal. She would be a disappointment. An ugly, shameful embarrassment, even in private.
Baronesses were expected to be able to do so much more than read. They were expected to be absolutely perfect.
Lady Roundtree lifted her head again. “Do you have enough pencils? I can purchase more, you know. I know where to find the finest in all of London.”
“You’ve purchased more fine pencils than I could use in a lifetime,” Nora assured her. “Pleas
e don’t worry about the sketch. I have everything I need.”
Clearly unconvinced, Lady Roundtree lowered her head back down to the pillows.
The beautiful, wood-cased pencils and soft, cubed rubbers the baroness had purchased for Nora were a far cry from the bits of graphite encased in paper that Carter had somehow procured when they were children. Before the management of the farm had fallen completely on their shoulders.
Even the simple luxury of having nothing to do today but draw was so foreign as to make Nora feel as though she were constantly shirking some important task.
Drawing Lady Roundtree and her puppy was no chore—it was a dizzying pleasure. Nora would never tire of being afforded the privilege of losing herself in her art.
Lady Roundtree gasped and lifted her head. “Do you have enough foolscap?”
The corner of Nora’s mouth twitched. “One page should be enough for one drawing.”
“You have only one sheet left?” the baroness shrieked in alarm.
“There is plenty of paper,” Nora assured her. “I have a half-dozen untouched sketchpads. Please don’t worry.”
The baroness’s fretting over the state of Nora’s art supplies could not help but warm her heart.
Over the past few weeks, she had come to realize Lady Roundtree wasn’t the judgmental Society matron she presented herself to be, so much as a fussy old lady who loved hearing herself complain.
The baroness even nattered to Captain Pugboat when she thought no one could overhear. Her criticisms were not personal, or even meant to rebuke anyone. Hers was just the voice of a lonely woman who yearned to be heard.
Lady Roundtree turned her head toward Nora. “What if it doesn’t come out right?”
“I promise I’m drawing Captain Pugboat as an astonishingly leonine puppy,” Nora managed to say with a straight face.
“Not him!” The baroness’s lip trembled. “Me.”
Nora hesitated. “Are you meant to be leonine as well? Or in a costume of sorts?”