A Melody for Rose (The Wednesday Club Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  The Wednesday Club – Book Two

  A Melody for Rose

  Sahara Kelly

  Content © 2019 Sahara Kelly

  Cover art © 2019 Sahara Kelly

  (Cover Portrait “Prelude” by Edmund Blair Leighton;

  Harp-Lute, Cincinnati Art Museum;

  Both Images Released to the Public Domain)

  Acknowledgements

  The process of writing a historical romance can be arduous, challenging and occasionally frustrating. It can also be a source of endless surprise, amusement and fascination. Perhaps it is the combination of these things that has so delighted me over the years, and continues to do so.

  Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it, and also profoundly thrilled that so many readers share my feelings about the genre. Thank you to you all for joining me as I time-travel backward into a time that will never return. There will always be the odd carriage, and horses will continue to trot merrily along roads and through fields. But we don’t use them for transportation. And the bonnet, in all its variations, isn’t part of our daily wardrobe—nor is the maid to help us tie it correctly.

  Would I like to visit this time? Of course. I’d love to attend a musicale, and perhaps hear Catalini sing. I would like to peek into the ballroom at Almack’s, browse the various lending libraries and have a dress custom made to my requirements. But since all those things are unlikely, I content myself with putting my characters into those situations and living vicariously through them. I hope you, dear readers, do the same. Because my books are written solely for you, to take you back to those times with words, if not in person.

  Thank you for sharing my adventures.

  Author’s Note

  The importance of the gathering at Almack’s, familiar to almost every reader of Regency romances, cannot be underestimated. But there was a subscription price, and also an approval process. Failure to meet either criteria for whatever reason? Well, Luttrell’s poem puts it into perspective in the first two lines.

  “All on that magic list depends;

  Fame, fortune, fashion, lovers, friends;

  …”

  After consideration of these interesting facts, one question remains. What of the young ladies who failed to make that list? The ones denied vouchers and excluded from that elite gathering, who had nowhere to go on those fateful Wednesday nights…

  About the harp-lute…

  This tale mentions a musical instrument called the “harp-lute”. In a serendipitous moment, while scribbling various outlines for Rose’s story, I stumbled over this delightful piece of the past and it seemed tailor-made for this book. Researching it, however, has proved to be a major challenge.

  The instrument itself is sort of what you’d get if you mated a lap harp with a guitar. And the sound is the same, sometimes more harp, but never a hundred percent, since that firmer guitar power is also present. How do I know this about an instrument whose relatively brief popularity faded two hundred years ago? The Internet, of course. There are one or two references, (literally, only one or two…which, for the Internet, is astoundingly tiny) and I managed to dig up one CD, which I immediately bought. I have it playing right now as I write this. The music is delightful, invoking visions of the Regency that help enormously when taking a young lady through the intricacies of romance during that time.

  It was designed for ladies, since playing the guitar was considered a bit low-class, and a harp must have been the veriest nightmare to get into a carriage and convey to the evening’s soirée. So the harp-lute, played in a similar style to the harp itself, became the instrument of choice, and went through a few design alterations, remaining very popular until around 1825-30 or so.

  At that time, the pianoforte became more accessible, and with the onset of the industrial age, more people were able to afford one. Whether this caused the demise of the harp-lute is a debatable question. But whatever it was, the lovely instrument faded quietly into obscurity, ending up as a scant three-or-four-references item on the web. If you have a large pot of cash, you can probably buy an original one at auction, and some are indeed gorgeous works of art. You will see one behind the lady on the cover of this book. I was fortunate to find two images—Leighton’s portrait “Prelude”, and a harp-lute from the Art Museum of Cincinnati—and both are in the public domain. I combined them to give you an idea of what a gorgeous instrument the harp-lute was.

  A reading note… Rose’s last name, Glynde-Beauchamp, looks like an awkward mouthful. However, it is pronounced “Glind-Beecham”. Don’t you adore what the British do to their language?

  Chapter One

  The drawing room of Linfield Lisle, an elegant country manor not far from London, January 1819

  “You’re not getting any younger, you know, darling.”

  Lord Miles Linfield hid a wince at his mother’s choice of words, well-meaning though they were. “I have noticed a few grey hairs recently, I confess, so I suppose you’re correct in your assumption of my advancing age.” He followed that with a dramatic sigh. “Do you think I should have a blanket? There may be a draught in here…I should hate to catch a chill…”

  “Oh hush,” she laughed. “You know I adore you and your brother. I just want you happy, that’s all.”

  “No, it’s not,” he argued from the depths of his favourite chair. “You want us married, henpecked, altogether miserable as hell, and producing children you can spoil to death.”

  Lady Linfield rolled her beautiful eyes. “You’re impossible.”

  “Why aren’t you nagging Mowbray?”

  Something large fell in the hall, but they both ignored the clatter and the ensuing thud of the servants’ feet as they cleaned up whatever it was that Mowbray had just knocked over.

  “Sorry. It was only that deuced suit of armour.” The man himself entered, offering a slight apology and a shrug. “Not sure why it needs to be in the way, Mama.” He helped himself to tea and took another well-used chair near the fireplace. “It’s a positively dangerous hazard.”

  “Actually, brother-dear,” drawled Miles. “You’re the hazard. That suit didn’t exactly jump out in front of you, did it?”

  Mowbray sighed. “No. No, it didn’t.” He stared moodily into the fire. “I think I should build myself a small cottage on a distant and isolated point in the estate. No furniture that can’t be nailed to the floor and nothing that will break if it’s knocked over.”

  “Silly boy,” chastised his mother with a fond grin. “If you’d just focus on one thing at a time, instead of wandering around the house with your mind on twenty different things at once, you might be able to avoid the hazards of living with everyday household objects.”

  “I doubt that’ll come to pass, Mama. In his defence, my brother is possessed of one of the finest minds in England. He just hasn’t learned to control the vessel it’s housed in.” Miles’s lips twisted wryly. “God help us if he does. He could rule the world.”

  “Lord no, thank you very much.” Mowbray frowned. “I’d merely be happy to solve the damned rotational question I’m struggling with in reference to the planet Jupiter’s orbit…”

  “No, Mowbray. Not here. You know that sort of conversation invariably gives me a headache.” His mother held up her hand and stemmed the flow of her son’s words.

  “She wants you to get married, old lad.” Miles grinned at his brother.

  “What?” Mowbray’s head jerked up. “No. Dear God no.” He blinked. “To whom?”

  Lady Linfield once again rolled her beautiful eyes. “I said no such thing. Your brother is imagining things.”

  Mowbray’s appalled gaze turned to Miles. “What nightmare
did you have to come up with that?”

  “I didn’t need one,” he sighed. “When Mama points out the fact that I am not getting any younger, the underlying point of her comment is really quite clear.”

  Mowbray frowned at his mother. “I fail to understand, Mama. You know perfectly well that all of us are ageing. Nobody grows younger—it’s utterly impossible for the human body to regress in years. Our flesh won’t…”

  “Oh Mowbray,” Lady Linfield raised her eyes to the ceiling and pressed her hands together in an attempt to locate a heavenly being. “God help me. I simply want my sons to be happy with families of their own. Is that too much to ask?”

  “I doubt the chandelier will answer you, Mama,” said Mowbray practically.

  “She’s hoping for a miracle, old lad,” chuckled Miles. “And this miracle will arrive in the form of two females who will marry us, have our children and give her grandchildren to occupy her time.”

  “Oh.” He thought about that. “Children are acceptable.”

  “A miracle. Yes, indeed a true miracle. One of my sons actually agrees with me.” Lady Linfield collapsed back into her chair, clutching her breast.

  “I say, hang on, Mama. I said they were acceptable. Didn’t say I wanted any…” Mowbray’s brow creased into a frown.

  “Too late,” Miles declared smugly. “She heard you. I heard you. Go forth, my brother and find thyself a wife. Then be fruitful and multiply.”

  Mowbray snorted. “You first.” He looked at Miles. “Besides, you’re the eldest. There’s the title and all that sort of thing to think about.”

  “Dammit. Now you’ve given her another weapon,” Miles’s mouth turned down.

  “I could ask your Aunt Adele to recommend some possible candidates…”

  “No.”

  Miles and Mowbray spoke in concert, their emphatic refusal echoing around the room.

  “She helped Margaret Fenworth’s boys…”

  “Have you seen their wives?” Mowbray’s face reflected his horror.

  “Well…now that you come to mention it…no, I don’t think I have…”

  “I thought so.”

  Miles shook his head. “Accept it, Mama. If even Mowbray is against it, then you know it's a very bad idea.”

  “Why won’t either of you pay attention to me? It’s past time you were looking for wives.” Lady Linfield stood, lifting her chin and straightening her spine to her full height of five feet two inches. “Go and find some. That’s my final word on the subject.”

  She stalked out on a muttered oath, which impressed neither of their sons. They loved her to bits, but knew that far from being the last word, this would be just one more small engagement in the ongoing battle to get them married off.

  Mowbray sighed. “I suppose I shall have to think about marriage at some point in my life.”

  Miles nodded. “I know. I have the additional burden of carrying the title on my shoulders. Damn our father for dying too soon.”

  “Miles.” Mowbray looked shocked. “It wasn’t exactly his fault…”

  “Yes, agreed. But even so…” He sulked a little, still angry at a father who had managed to drown during a fierce storm. The previous Lord Linfield had been a sailor of some repute in his youth; there’d been nothing to suggest he couldn’t handle a boat in rough seas. But this storm had been brutal, and claimed not only his father, but many others. It had shattered the Linfields. It still did, from time to time.

  “Have you ever…I mean as far as the ladies go…” Mowbray hesitated.

  “Of course I have, but unfortunately the ladies never go far enough,” he quipped back. “At least not the ones that are considered eligible…”

  “Oh.”

  Miles blinked. “Mowbray. Are you, by any chance, inexperienced with the…er…fairer sex?” He daringly posed the question to his brother.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you still a virgin?”

  Mowbray’s head shot up. “No. Certainly not.”

  “I had to ask.”

  “No you didn’t. But since you did and I answered, I hope that marks the end of this conversation.” He stood, taking a breath and shooting a glare at Miles. “Let’s not talk about this anymore, lest I develop one of Mama’s headaches.” He walked out muttering about Jupiter’s rotation being more interesting than a wife any day and leaving Miles alone with his tea.

  “I suppose it’ll have to be me,” he groaned to himself. “But Lord, I’m not sure I’ve any clue who I might find acceptable as a wife.”

  Settling back into the warmth, his gaze lingered on the flames and he let his mind wander. He’d been out all morning helping clear snow from the stables, and he was tired, comfortable and quite cosy by the fire.

  His eyelids drifted shut—and for a brief moment he saw a young woman, smiling sweetly, her skin smooth and her chestnut hair flying loose, with touches of red catching the light. She held a rose…

  *~~*~~*

  Some distance away from Linfield Lisle, a similar conversation was taking place, although this time, the target of the marital discussion was Miss Rose Glynde-Beauchamp. She too sat by a warm fire, but outside her window the town traffic rattled by, heedless of the snow.

  London merely shrugged at snowfalls; the passage of so many carriages, horses and wagons soon reduced the pristine white mounds to muddy slush. But the mess was sufficient to keep people indoors on this nasty afternoon, and thus Rose had been entrapped by her mama, her aunt and the tea tray.

  “I have great hopes, Rose. Great hopes.” Lady Imelda Radford leaned back in her chair and surveyed her niece from beneath her long eyelashes. “You have become a charmingly attractive young woman, and there’s nothing about you that would not appeal to a suitable gentleman of good means.”

  “I’m glad you agree, Imelda,” said Rose’s mother Isabel. “I’ve been telling her she has inherited some of your beauty and she should be grateful for it. I’ve also been telling her she needs to make use of it, but that seems to be falling on deaf ears.”

  Rose, who could not really ignore the conversation since she was at the centre of it, merely sighed and sipped her tea.

  “She is a little larger than I was at that age,” said Imelda thoughtfully eyeing Rose’s bodice. “More bosom, I think. But that’s an excellent thing. Make sure your gowns are cut properly, darling. You should be showing your assets a little more.” She eyed Rose’s green wool gown with a slight frown. “And pastels, too. Virgins should always be in pastels. It emphasises their innocence.”

  Rose couldn’t help rolling her eyes at that pronouncement. “Aunt Imelda, that is the height of absurdity. At the last soirée we attended, Lady Jersey was in lilac. Surely you cannot expect me to believe that she is…”

  “Rose,” interrupted her mama. “That will do.” She sighed. “Aunt Imelda has years of experience, my dear. You should be most grateful that she is putting them at your disposal.”

  Lady Radford blinked. “Well, not that many years. You’re the older sister.”

  “By a mere two years,” snapped back Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp.

  “Yes, but you had a child, Isabel. That ages one, as I’m sure you know.” She touched the rich chestnut curls that piled on top of her head. Disdaining a cap, Lady Radford had compromised with a bandeau cleverly wrapped to accentuate her fine features.

  “Well be that as it may,” Isabel turned to her daughter. “If the voucher for Almack’s arrives, we must have a serious talk with the dressmaker. I won’t have you arriving at King Street looking as if you’ve spent your life in the country.” She shook her head. “If only dratted Alfred hadn’t died when he did…” She turned reproving eyes on her sister.

  “Don’t you dare look at me. I was completely locked away for six whole months. Asking you and Rose for a year of light mourning was not an imposition, it was a necessity.”

  Rose’s lips twitched. “I’m pleased to see you have recovered from your loss, Aunt.”

  Lady Im
elda’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t be cheeky, young lady.” She lifted her chin. “Your uncle was a dear man who knew how to care for a lady.”

  “And also how to make sure she was left comfortably situated?” Rose’s eyebrow rose a little in amusement.

  “Do you doubt it?” He shot her a look. “Neither of us were fools. He was twenty years my senior, and I will say we were quite happy together during our marriage.” She shook a finger at Rose. “You, miss, will be lucky to find anyone as delightful as dear Alfred.”

  “That’s all well and good, dear sister, but it took Rose off the market for a year, so to speak. She circulated, but it really wasn’t until last autumn that she returned to…to…”

  “The hunting field?” Rose sighed and put her teacup down on the side table. “My dear mama and aunt. I know you have my best interests at heart. But the fundamental truth at the moment is that I’ve scarcely had chance to get my feet thoroughly wet in our social circle. I’ve made some lovely friends and I’m enjoying my time with them.” She stood and shook out her skirts. “To be blunt, I really don’t care if I receive a voucher for Almack’s.”

  She paused, awaiting the twin gasps she knew would come. And they did.

  “I’m not even convinced that marriage is for me.” She glanced at her aunt. “And truthfully, Aunt, I think you’ll have to agree with me that taking one’s time and finding the right gentleman can be quite…educative?”

  “Oh dear God,” Rose’s mama fanned herself with her hand. “If you’re thinking of causing any kind of talk, Rose, just because your aunt…”

  “That’ll do, Isabel.” Imelda turned to her niece. “You will not follow in my footsteps. I refuse to allow it, Rose. I trod a thin and tenuous line between propriety and scandal. It was only a stroke of luck, and a lot of help from Alfred, that kept me from complete ruin. I will not permit you to make the same mistakes.” She stood as well, her face hardening as she glared across the room. “You will use the vouchers when they arrive. You will meet eligible gentlemen, and you will allow them to pay court to you. At which time, your mama and I will select the best candidate for your hand.”