“Miss, are you ready for your gown yet?” Letty inquired.
Sophie came to herself with a start. “Yes, yes, of course.”
She glanced at the clock, grimaced. The Sheridans’ carriage would be here soon—and a fine spectacle she’d make, sitting here in her dressing gown and mooning over the past.
Rising, she crossed to the open wardrobe to inspect the contents. She’d narrowed her choice of which gown down to two: an ice-blue satin draped with an overskirt of silver lace, and a pale gold silk—the color of candlelight—sewn with sparkling crystal beads on bodice, sleeves, and skirt. Both had the extravagant balloon sleeves that were still all the rage after three years, probably because they made the wearer’s waist look tiny by comparison. In Sophie’s opinion, these sleeves had reached absurd extremes of fullness this Season, to say nothing of how tiring it could be to carry the weight of so much fabric on one’s upper arms. While in Paris this spring, she’d been relieved to hear that sleeves would be much less voluminous next season.
She’d almost decided on the pale-gold gown, was just reaching for it, when she heard the faintest whisper in her memory: “I’m partial to you in green.”
Then more faintly still—You look like a Nereid in that dress. My idea of one, anyway.
Try as she might, she could not push those whispers away. Almost of their own volition, her fingers sought and located the delicate confection of sea-green silk gauze over oyster-white satin that hung in the wardrobe as well.
“I’ll wear this tonight,” she found herself saying.
Not that it was any less fine. Far from it—there were seed pearls and silver bugles on the bodice that would shine just as brightly as the crystals on the gold gown. She’d purchased it just before leaving on her European tour and hadn’t found the right opportunity to wear it yet.
Letty made an approving sound as she lifted out the gown for her mistress. “You do look a proper treat in green, miss. I’ve always thought so.”
Feeling as mindless as a life-sized doll, Sophie let herself be dressed for the soiree. The green gown, with its matching slippers, then her jewels for the night: teardrop pearl earrings, then her pearl necklace, a single creamy strand. She restrained a shiver as their cool weight settled about the base of her throat with the intimacy of a lover’s touch.
Come, and I will lead the way / Where the pearly treasures be.
When had she last sung that song? Surely she must have performed it since that long-ago afternoon at Pendarvis Hall, she was sure of it… but no other occasion sprang to mind.
The past was all around her now, a living, breathing entity. And only time would tell whether she’d been wise or foolish to resurrect it, whether she should have let the ashes lie rather than stir the fire.
Letty’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Your shawl, miss?”
Sophie hurriedly recollected herself. “Of course. Thank you, Letty.” Obediently, she let the maid drape the folds of white silk about her shoulders and hand her a beaded reticule. “I don’t know quite when I’ll be back. Mrs. Sheridan’s soirees have been known to continue past midnight, so pray just go to bed. Waiting up for me twice this week is above and beyond the call,” she added with a smile.
“Very well, miss,” Letty conceded. “I suppose I could do with an early night.”
“Couldn’t we all?” Sophie observed lightly. “But that’s London during the Season for you.” She looped the cord of the reticule about her wrist, tilted her head as the sound of carriage wheels reached her from the street below. “Until tomorrow morning, then.”
Tomorrow morning, she thought as she descended the stairs. By which time she would know whether she and Robin shared a future… or merely a past.
***
On arriving at the Sheridans’ house, she was shown into the music room, where Amy, Thomas, and Joanna Herbert, the accompanist with whom Sophie had worked on other occasions, were already assembled. Earlier, she and Mrs. Herbert had gone over tonight’s programme, though Sophie had sung only briefly, intending to save her voice for the actual performance. Amy, resplendent in a gown of coral and silver silk, greeted her with an affectionate embrace. “Darling Sophie, you look simply wonderful tonight! Is that a new gown? From Paris?”
“I bought it in London before my tour,” Sophie confessed. “But the modiste was French.”
Thomas nodded sagely. “I thought as much. You can always tell French fashion from the line and the cut alone. And Amelia is right—you do look wonderful this evening.”
Sophie smiled. “Thank you. I hope my performance gives equal pleasure.”
“Based on what we heard this afternoon, it could hardly do otherwise,” he replied.
“Indeed, and I expect to be the envy of every other hostess in London for having engaged you for the night.” Amy linked her arm through Sophie’s. “I know you never eat much before a performance, but would you care for something to drink? We have lemonade, or my special iced tea, if you prefer. I had it brewed with mint this very morning.”
“Iced tea would be lovely, thank you,” Sophie replied. She’d developed a fondness for iced tea ever since Amy had first served it to her years ago, asserting that Americans found the drink very refreshing during the hot summer months.
Amy hurried to the sideboard and poured out a glass at once, while Thomas secured Mrs. Herbert a glass of lemonade. “Our guests should be arriving within the next ten minutes. And from the looks of it, we’ll have a full house this evening. Though not too full,” she added, bringing the tall, icy glass over to Sophie. “It’s always better to have more chairs than guests at a musicale, although I’m sure many would be willing to stand for the privilege of hearing you.”
Sophie inhaled the fragrance of the tea and sipped at the amber liquid, relishing the crisp bite of the mint. “I’m flattered that you think so.”
“I know so.” Amy paused, then resumed almost too casually, “And—one in particular, I might add.”
Sophie froze, her hand tightening about her glass. Swallowing, she looked at her friend, who gave the tiniest nod of confirmation.
So Robin would be attending tonight—or at least he’d sent an acceptance. But until she actually saw him, here in Amy’s music room…
Sophie’s mouth dried, and she took another, more deliberate swallow of tea. Nerves, she thought—but nerves that had nothing to do with tonight’s engagement. All the same, it was time to put them away. Whatever happened or did not happen between her and Robin, she had a performance to give, and she particularly wished to do her best for the Sheridans, who had been such constant friends to her.
Amy had turned away and resumed talking—chattering almost—in a light diversionary way that Sophie could only appreciate. “And the Kelmswoods are up from Kent, so they’ll be attending too. Can you believe what a staid, contented married man he’s become these last few years?” Amy shook her head over her erstwhile suitor, but her expression was indulgent.
“Not so unbelievable,” her husband demurred. “Sometimes, all it takes is—meeting the right woman.”
Their eyes met in a glance so intimate Sophie had to look away. She remembered all too plainly how that felt—the moment when no one else in the world existed but the one you loved. Those golden months in the summer of 1892 had been full of such moments. Robin had stopped trying to deny what he felt for her, had even begun to imagine their future, and she… she had never been happier. Music had bubbled up from her like a hidden spring, a fitting accompaniment to the joy she felt at loving and being loved in return. She’d been so certain, then, so sure that nothing could mar their happiness—and then fate had proven her wrong.
Could she face such a possibility again? Did she even want to? A divorce could take years, especially if Nathalie found ways to contest the suit. And there was Robin’s daughter to consider too, a child who might resent having to share her father and who would not unnaturally regard Sophie as an interloper and a usurper.
But in the end, it all came down to one q
uestion: Did she still want Robin?
If you know the answer, then you know which course to take, Amy had said.
Tonight was meant to help her discover the answer—and until that occurred, she would obsess no further about this. She drank more tea and surveyed the room instead. “You’ve done wonders with this salon, Amy. Everything looks beautiful.”
She spoke no less than the truth. While handsome enough by day, the music room blossomed into an oasis by night. Amy had tastefully distributed a few floral arrangements throughout the room: tall spires of delphiniums mingled with clusters of gardenias, their rich blue and white a perfect foil for the color scheme. Half of the French windows stood open, letting in just enough of the balmy evening air, though the rows of chairs had been carefully arranged so that no one would find himself sitting in a draught.
Nor had Amy stinted on refreshments: pitchers of lemonade and iced tea stood on the sideboard, along with trays of tiny pastel-iced cakes and bite-sized savories, especially for the benefit of guests who might have foregone dinner. Heartier refreshments and wine would be served after the entertainment. Best of all, the whole salon was bathed in the even glow of a large electric chandelier, cooler than gaslight or candle flames. The last must be entirely Amy’s doing; Americans set such store by modern conveniences, but in this case, Sophie could only approve.
Amy beamed. “Thank you. I know I should be used to this after almost four years as a hostess, but you can’t think how much it means to me when a friend approves my efforts.”
“Well, this friend certainly approves,” Sophie assured her, handing back her now-empty glass. She glanced toward Mrs. Herbert who was finishing her lemonade. “Now, is there time for Joanna and me to look over our music before your guests arrive?”
“Yes, I really do think we should,” the accompanist chimed in. “One cannot be too prepared, after all.”
“Of course. There’s a little antechamber just off the music room too.” Amy indicated a small side door just beyond the grand piano. “Shall I let you know when we’re ready for you?”
“Excellent,” Sophie said with a brisk nod, then beckoned to Mrs. Herbert to follow her.
***
The knock on the door came perhaps twenty minutes later. No words were necessary.
Smoothing her skirts, Sophie followed Mrs. Herbert out into the music room. The low hum of murmured conversations ceased as Amy’s guests caught sight of them, but Sophie refrained from looking back. Instead, she mounted the performers’ dais and positioned herself beside the piano as the accompanist took her seat behind the instrument. Only then did she turn her head to face the audience.
Amy hadn’t exaggerated before; every chair in the salon appeared to be occupied, at least from Sophie’s vantage point. As always, the faces blurred into a sea of featureless blobs for her in the first moments. Only the music and the training existed.
She took a bracing breath as Amy introduced them to a scattering of applause, then discreetly withdrew. Mrs. Herbert, who had nerves of steel, played the introduction to her first song. Almost at once, Sophie sensed the pleased expectancy in the room at hearing something familiar. Many of Amy’s guests would have seen her in The Marriage of Figaro last year, and while she wasn’t wearing breeches tonight, she knew Cherubino inside and out—certainly enough to give a sense of the character, even in full evening dress. Assuming an expression that was half-mischievous, half-wistful, she raised her head and launched effortlessly into the opening phrase of “Voi che sapete,” letting the music carry her away.
The audience clapped more warmly at the close, and with the opening song behind her, Sophie found it possible now to smile and look more directly at them all. Glancing down from the dais, she saw Amy beaming at her from the front row, with Thomas beside her looking equally pleased. And just beyond them…
Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him: the tall, dark man with his air of restless energy, now gazing at her as if she were his hope of heaven.
He’d come tonight. Just as he’d said he would.
***
From his chair, Robin stared up into her eyes, those brilliant green eyes that always made him think of a sunlit summer sea. And for just a moment, as their gazes met, he thought he saw the young Sophie looking out of those eyes. All else faded into insignificance as the connection they’d shared since their first meeting vibrated between them like a plucked string, an echo that reached all the way down to his soul. One word, one gesture from her, would bring him to her side, to her feet, wherever she wanted him… anything to bridge the distance between them.
Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. Sophie turned her head and the girl was gone, leaving the composed, soignée singer back in command. Which was as it should be, Robin told himself, even as he struggled against an ache of loss. The last thing he wanted to do was to fluster her or mar her performance in any way. Sophia Tresilian was nothing if not professional.
All the same, watching her now, he couldn’t help the bittersweet pang that shot through him. Sitting this close to the stage, much closer than he’d been at the Albert Hall, he’d experienced a clearer understanding and appreciation of the skills she’d honed and polished to such dazzling effect. So poised, so confident, enrapturing the audience with every note and phrase… Despite his resolve, the old doubts assailed him once more. The spark between him and Sophie might still burn after all these years, but having tasted fame and success, would she truly be happy as the wife of a country hotelier? Might he have lost her, after all, to the very life he’d encouraged her to pursue?
If he had… well, he would just have to face it, Robin thought as he turned his attention back to the stage, where the accompanist was now eyeing Sophie with a touch of concern. She relaxed at Sophie’s quick smile of reassurance, turned the page of her sheet music, and played the introduction to the next song.
More Mozart, Robin observed, as Sophie began a melting rendition of “Deh, vieni, non tardar,” Susanna’s aria from the last act of The Marriage of Figaro. According to critics, Sophie was fast becoming a consummate interpreter of the composer’s works. Robin was especially impressed by the genuine pathos that crept into the song. Sophie’s Susanna began by teasing her beloved—the eavesdropping Figaro who wrongly suspected her of infidelity—but ended her song with real tenderness, laced with an aching regret for the masquerade that necessitated his thinking the worst of her, even briefly. Robin had to remind himself that everything was happily resolved in the end, even for the couples estranged at the start of the opera.
He could only hope that matters between Sophie and himself turned out even half as well.
From Mozart, Sophie moved on to songs by Handel, Haydn, and Purcell, all of which had English lyrics—the better to engage the audience, Robin suspected. The strategy proved successful, and when Sophie followed Purcell’s “Music, for a while” with a lighthearted selection of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, the wave of delight that rippled through the salon was almost palpable. Her interpretation of those was sprightly and beguiling, but the atmosphere grew electric when the accompanist played the opening of Sullivan’s famous solo composition, “The Lost Chord.” Her expression instantly shifting from gay to grave, Sophie began to sing, pitching her clear soprano almost to an alto’s range:
“Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.
I know not what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen!”
She sang it without irony or bombast, inviting the audience to share the momentous discovery with her, and mourn along with her the inability to find that angelic chord again. Robin had heard many moving renditions of the song, including one by Mrs. Ronalds, Sullivan’s particular companion, but Sophie’s sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps only someone who was a born musician coul
d do full justice to that song, he thought. Someone who understood the unexpected discoveries that went into making music: the joys, the frustrations, and the occasional blind luck that yielded the greatest rewards. Rewards that might prove fleeting, but were no less glorious for that.
The applause that greeted “The Lost Chord” was the loudest of the evening. Robin clapped until his hands tingled within his gloves, his chest tight with mingled pride and pain. This was what Sophie could give the world, what she was meant to give to it… How in God’s name could he possibly compete with that?
He forced back the pain until there was only the pride, and made himself look up again at the stage, determined to savor Sophie’s triumph.
She was gazing directly down at him, her eyes glowing, her lips softly parted in the way he remembered, the way he’d pictured time and again.
Robin swallowed, almost resenting the hope that her smile revived in him, but unable to resist it nonetheless. What more did he have, after all?
So he smiled back, trying to convey all the love and admiration he felt for her. The faith he’d always had in her talents, the pleasure he took in her success. Trying not to convey the fear that shadowed his heart—that he had lost her long ago, to this brilliant, glittering world she had made her own.
’Twere all one / That I should love a bright particular star / And think to wed it…
She is so above me.
***
Buoyed by the applause that greeted “The Lost Chord”—the last song on the programme—Sophie took the opportunity to catch her breath… and let herself dwell, for the first time since they’d locked eyes, on Robin’s presence here tonight.
He had come. With no guarantee of what answer she might give him tonight, he was here. The knowledge had sent a flood of warmth through her, melting away some of the doubts and anxieties that had plagued her before. A part of her had wanted to shriek with exultation and spin in circles like a giddy schoolgirl, but fortunately for her professional reputation, she’d managed to refrain from doing any such thing.
Pamela Sherwood Page 19
