The evening hummed along agreeably. He participated in several more dances, including a polka with Sophie, as all her waltzes were now taken. The lively pace allowed little time for intimate conversation, but he enjoyed watching her romp, light as thistledown, through the set.
Sometime later, he found himself beside the Christmas tree, nursing a glass of cider as he watched the couples on the floor. Sophie was in the midst of a schottische, twirling upon her toes with the grace of a ballerina. Robin sipped his cider and tried not to envy her partner too much.
A voice spoke up from the other side of the Christmas tree, startling him.
“—only seventeen. Not ready for marriage, by any means.”
“Young ladies her age marry every day in London.”
Robin stiffened. He recognized both voices: Sir Harry’s and that cool, cultured one that held no trace of a Cornish burr. And he knew, without a doubt, of whom they were speaking.
“Well, this isn’t London, Nankivell.” Sir Harry sounded just a bit testy. “Although since you have raised the subject, my sister has not yet made her debut in town society.”
“You mean to bring her to London?” A hint of triumph in the baronet’s voice had Robin’s hand tightening about his glass.
“Perhaps.” Sir Harry sounded guarded.
“I would say she’s assured of a successful Season,” Nankivell declared, with the air of one who considers himself an authority on such things. “Looks, charm, breeding—and I know you mean to dower her handsomely. But take care that she doesn’t attract the wrong kind of suitor; fortune hunters are thick on the ground in London.”
Sir Harry’s response was cool. “Fortune hunters may be found anywhere, Nankivell. Including right here in Cornwall.”
Robin tensed at the implication, but Nankivell did not appear to take umbrage. “Just so,” he replied in a tone as smooth as Cornish cream.
“In any case, I believe I can be trusted to protect my sister and whatever fortune the family chooses to bestow on her,” Sir Harry continued. “As for suitors, much will depend on what Sophie herself thinks.”
“Your sister does not strike me as someone who would refuse an offer that would be so much to her advantage,” Nankivell persisted.
“I would hope my sister would take the time to be sure of what she wanted before making her choice.” Sir Harry’s voice had taken on a decided edge. “And we are situated well enough that she need not decide in haste, or to accept the first offer she receives—unless she herself is convinced it’s the right one. I trust I have made myself clear?”
“Entirely.” And this time, that cultured voice held a note of pique, even displeasure.
“Then we need discuss this no further.” Sir Harry’s voice turned brisk. “It lacks just a quarter hour to midnight, and I have the most excellent tawny port on hand that I’ve been saving for just this occasion. Would you care to partake of a glass with me?”
After a moment’s pause, Nankivell replied in the affirmative, and they moved off together in seeming amity. And on his side of the Christmas tree, Robin exhaled slowly, the taste of cider bitter in his mouth.
So, Sophie was an heiress. He should have guessed as much, but he’d been too beguiled by everything else she was to consider how she was fixed financially. He’d wager that detail was never far from Nankivell’s mind, however.
Sophie, all youth, beauty, and bright promise. And Nankivell with those too-knowing eyes that seemed to calculate everyone’s monetary worth, doubtless hoping to secure her and her fortune for himself. Robin felt an almost visceral surge of revulsion at the thought.
And what right had he to feel anything of the kind? His own past mocked him for his hypocrisy. Because if Sir Lucas Nankivell had no business thinking of Sophie Tresilian’s many charms, Robin himself had far less.
He edged away from the Christmas tree, trying to forget what he’d heard, along with his own reaction to it. Best to go now, before he did someone—namely Nankivell—a violence.
He located Lady Tresilian in a far corner of the ballroom, talking to several other women, including her elder daughter. “Ah, Mr. Pendarvis, must you leave us now?” she inquired, once he’d offered his farewells. “Can we not persuade you to stay and see the old year out with us?”
“Thank you, Lady Tresilian, but I really must be going,” he replied. “Great-Uncle Simon will be expecting to see me tomorrow morning.”
She gave him her hand. “Very well then, I wish you a happy New Year, and I hope that you will call upon us in future.”
Robin bowed over her hand. “Thank you, Lady Tresilian. I may at that.”
He headed for the entrance hall, deliberately not looking back toward the dance floor, where he’d last seen Sophie embarking on a waltz with another of her many admirers.
No right to think of her that way. No right at all.
But her face was still before him, even after he’d left the house and was mounted on his horse, riding slowly back toward Pendarvis Hall in the darkness and cold.
The spell had been cast, and he did not know how to break it. Nor, if he were being wholly honest with himself, was he sure he wanted to.
Three
I attempt from love’s sickness to fly in vain,
For I am myself my own fever
For I am myself my own fever and pain.
—Henry Purcell, The Indian Queen
London, 1896
The applause roared in her ears, thunderous as the sea at high tide as it rushed into the mouths of the caves. Sophie bowed her head in acknowledgment of the audience’s appreciation, feeling the triumph and euphoria fizzing through her veins like champagne. This was what it was all about: the joy that came from making music, and nothing, not the most grueling rehearsal, not the most exhausting schedule, ever diminished that joy. She prayed that nothing ever would.
Beside her, David took her gloved hand, raising it to his lips in a gesture of mingled gallantry and solidarity. Sophie could feel his own exhilaration in the quiver of his fingers twined in hers. They exchanged a smile and bowed again, drawing renewed applause for their final piece, a soaring duet from Verdi’s La Traviata.
Then they were making their exits, heading for the performers’ green room and the inevitable rush of admirers and aficionados that would follow.
Not for the first time, Sophie found herself wishing she could just slip away unnoticed, surround herself with the stillness and quiet while she reveled in tonight’s achievement and the simple satisfaction that came of doing what one loved best. But her years on the concert circuit had taught her the impossibility of that following a performance. Not to mention the supper party afterward—to be held tonight at the Savoy Hotel—where there would be still more people to contend with. She stifled a sigh; while music could lift you to unimagined heights, inevitably you had to come back down to earth, and the descent always left her feeling rather flat. And for her, the glory seemed to dim all the faster the more people she had to talk to and the more questions she had to answer.
She caught David’s eye and he sent her a commiserating shrug. Though more gregarious than she, he knew her humor in this but also understood its futility. They were professional singers at the start of their careers and could not afford to snub their audience. Temperamental prima donnas might think otherwise, but neither she nor David was that foolish.
A dresser standing backstage handed them each a warm wrap. David, in full evening kit, accepted his only for form’s sake, but Sophie was glad enough to drape hers over her shoulders. It never failed to surprise her how quickly one cooled off after leaving the stage.
They had a few minutes’ privacy and solitude in the green room, which Sophie put to good use, patting her face dry with a clean handkerchief and refreshing herself with a draught of cooled, lightly sweetened tea, brewed especially for her. Then, suddenly, voices and footsteps sounded in the passage, and the room filled up in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. All the best people, or so she’d been t
old repeatedly: elegant, fashionable people, some of whom wielded considerable influence in the music world.
Sophie had just enough time to assume a bright social smile before the first visitors engulfed her: two splendidly dressed couples, one young, one of late middle age. A family, by the looks of it, and her guess was borne out when they introduced themselves to her as Viscount and Viscountess Ashby, their daughter Harriet, and her husband, Mr. Sutcliffe.
“You were wonderful, Miss Tresilian,” Lady Ashby said warmly. “This concert has been one of the highlights of the Season.”
“Thank you—I’m so flattered that you think so.” Sophie felt her smile becoming more relaxed and genuine.
“I have always loved Mozart,” the viscountess continued. “Especially The Magic Flute. I so enjoyed your rendition of Pamina’s lament.”
“I’m partial to The Marriage of Figaro,” Mrs. Sutcliffe chimed in. “I saw you in it last spring and thought you were simply divine as Cherubino. I’m so glad your ‘Voi che sapete’ was on the programme tonight. Was it very difficult, playing a breeches part?”
She seemed genuinely interested in the answer, so Sophie obliged her. “Oh, it was a bit of a challenge, but marvelously liberating too. Trousers do give one much more freedom of movement than skirts. I have three brothers, and I’ve often envied them their greater independence. And they do have a far easier time of things when it comes to clothes.”
“I have two brothers, both older, and I feel much the same,” Mrs. Sutcliffe confessed with a smile.
“Shall you be singing in any more operas?” Lady Ashby inquired.
“Oh, I couldn’t say at this point,” Sophie replied. “Now that the tour’s finished, I mean to take a short holiday. But my manager will let me know of any offers that seem appropriate.”
“Well, we all hope to see you again soon,” the viscountess said graciously. “Our congratulations on a wonderful performance tonight.”
The gentlemen offered their compliments as well, and the Ashby party moved on, leaving Sophie to bask in a warm glow of achievement. It was always enjoyable to receive the accolades of those who actually seemed to care about music.
Feeling more cheerful, she braced herself for the next rush, which came almost at once. Strangers continued to pour into the green room, some as grand as the Ashbys, others humbler, but all of them congratulatory, even friendly. Nonetheless, the sheer number of well-wishers was overwhelming, the individual faces and voices all swallowed up in a churning sea of humanity.
Taking advantage of an all too brief respite, Sophie gulped a lungful of air and glanced over at David, only to find he was surrounded as well. But he could at least claim familiarity with his present admirers; although she had met them only once before, she recognized his mother, brother, and sister-in-law.
“Well done, bach, well done!” Llewelyn, the brother, was saying as he pumped David’s hand. “Practically in tears, the ladies were.”
They lapsed into a mixture of English and Welsh that Sophie didn’t even try to follow, because by now more people had come up to surround her. She felt a brief pang that no one from her own family was here tonight, but most of them had seen her earlier performance at the Alexandra Palace before she’d left on her European tour in March.
Still, it would have been lovely to know that there was someone familiar in the audience watching her. This was her first time performing at the Albert Hall, and she couldn’t help but feel that the achievement lacked a certain savor without someone special to share it with.
“Sophie, darling!” A familiar voice—with a familiar accent—caught her ear.
Sophie felt her heart and spirits lift as the crowd parted and two people came toward her: a beautiful, golden-haired woman and a lanky but elegant man with brown hair and piercing green eyes, both dressed in the height of fashion.
Thomas and Amy Sheridan, her closest friends in London. All but family, really—Amy’s twin sister Aurelia had married Sophie’s cousin James, now the Earl of Trevenan.
“You were wonderful!” Amy said warmly, her blue eyes glowing as she embraced Sophie. “Even better than the last time I saw you.”
“A triumph, my dear,” Sheridan said, smiling down at Sophie in turn.
Sophie smiled back without constraint. “Thank you—I’m so glad both of you came!”
“Wild horses couldn’t have kept us away,” Amy assured her. “Especially since your next engagement is singing at my soiree two evenings from now! Are you sure you won’t be too tired, after tonight?”
“Oh, I will be in top form by then, I assure you.” She would always be willing to sing for the Sheridans. After all their kindness and hospitality over the years, it seemed the very least she could do.
“Come for luncheon tomorrow,” Amy invited. “We’ve got Mrs. Herbert to accompany you, and the two of you can work out your programme for the evening. You haven’t yet seen the new house, in any case. Our salon is almost twice the size of the old one.”
“I’d be delighted to come,” Sophie said. “And to see your Isabella too.”
Amy’s face lit up at the mention of her infant daughter, born the previous autumn while Sophie had been touring America in The Marriage of Figaro. “I can’t wait for you to meet her! Shall we say, one o’clock—if that’s not too early for you?”
Sophie assured her that one o’clock was fine, and after a last exchange of congratulations, the Sheridans stepped aside to let the other well-wishers approach.
Sophie soon lost track of the number of people she spoke to. David’s family came over to offer their compliments, but most of the others were unfamiliar. Not for the first time, she was conscious of the irony: thousands might come to see her perform, admire her phrasings, and hang rapturously upon her every note, but she was destined to remain a stranger to them, just as they were strangers to her. They could have no inkling of the person behind the performer and very likely no interest, either.
Which was how it should be, she reminded herself sternly, or how could she have any sort of privacy worth the name? There’d be time enough, now that her concert engagements were almost finished for the Season, for her to go away and be just Sophie for a while. She’d promised herself at least a week’s holiday—leasing a lovely cottage in the Cotswolds—and then there was John’s wedding later this summer. She’d be home for that, no question.
Home. The sudden longing for it struck her with an almost physical force. Because, even after all this time and all her successes, Cornwall was still home. A home from which she’d exiled herself for the better part of four years, but home nonetheless.
Her eyes stung, shamefully, and she looked down, blinking hard and berating herself all the while. Not since her first tour had she allowed herself to succumb to homesickness; she would not do so now, not when she’d enjoyed such a singular success tonight.
Vision now clear, she quickly summoned a smile for her next guests—only to feel the smile freeze on her face and the words die in her throat when she looked up at last.
For a moment she thought her eyes were deceiving her, that fatigue and excitement were making her hallucinate. Because the man coming toward her, his face formal and unsmiling, was the last one she’d expected to see tonight. Or any other night, for that matter.
Robin Pendarvis. Here. In London.
Like one in a trance, she watched him approach, cutting through the crowd with the swift, purposeful stride she had loved in him. A few of the fashionably dressed throng glanced at him in mingled curiosity and irritation, but none attempted to deter him. And then he was before her, close enough to touch if she stretched out her hand… as she must not do, lest she lose herself once more. Someone of her own, a voice half-wry, half-mocking whispered in her head. Except that he hadn’t been—or only for a little while.
“Miss Tresilian.”
His voice was the same, deep and resonant, its slight Cornish burr more of an intonation than an accent and much fainter than her own when she’d first com
e to London as a wide-eyed debutante. Nor did he look so different from the way he had four years ago. Thirty-one now, and no longer in his first youth. Perhaps a little leaner, with some faint lines about his eyes and mouth. But his dark-brown hair was still thick, his eyes still blue and piercing. A visionary’s eyes that saw how things might be and strove to transmute them into reality.
And how she’d loved that in him.
The only thing he hadn’t been able to envision, at the last, was a future for them, together. But that had been her decision as much as his. No rancor between them, ever—she’d been determined on that score—but regrets enough to last a lifetime, aching continually, like an old wound in inclement weather.
She was still staring, tongue-tied and transfixed. Remember who you are, Sophie told herself. If not a diva, she was still a professional singer of some note, no longer a schoolroom miss to be thrown into confusion by a chance encounter. Shaking off the paralysis, she swallowed dryly and managed to summon a response. “Mr. Pendarvis. Good evening. You are looking very well.”
The angular planes of his face seemed to relax at her words. “As are you, Miss Tresilian, and sounding even better. Magnificent, in fact. I congratulate you.”
Sophie found she could smile, though the expression felt strange and unfamiliar on her face. “Thank you.”
His eyes warmed, their cool blue brightening to a hue that reminded her of a sunlit summer sky. “I can’t say that I’m surprised, however. I knew you were destined for a great future from the moment I first heard you sing.”
Memory stirred, seductive and dangerous as a siren’s song. “Thank you again,” Sophie said hurriedly, “but I still have so much to learn. I am… glad to see you here tonight. It’s always good to see a familiar face. What brings you to London?”
His face grew remote again. “Some business, of a personal nature.”
“I see.” Sophie tried to sound neutral. “Well, I am honored that you found the time to attend this concert.”
Pamela Sherwood Page 3
