Love in a Major Key

by Fiona Hill

  Her introductions were perfunctory in the extreme. In effect, she simply pushed the young people together, saying their names curtly and abjuring them to enjoy the evening. After that she went away, leaving Daphne and Latimer entirely at a loss for what to do. It occurred to Daphne to speak, but she remembered Lady Bryde’s warning that she was not to initiate any thing. Latimer, his chin held uncomfortably high above his cravat, stared at his sister. Just when the silence among them became positively unbearable, India Ballard spoke. “I suppose you have come here to find a husband,” she said to Daphne. “You will discover it is not nearly as simple a matter as you think.”

  Chapter III

  Daphne hesitated for a moment, her fingers reaching involuntarily for the bone-buttons on her bodice. “If that is so,” she answered finally, with half a smile, “then I shall be obliged to return home without one. It is not so very significant after all. At least we shall have seen London.”

  William Ballard returned her smile with a braver one and bowed slightly as he spoke. “I think Miss Keyes will have no difficulty in finding suitors. Her difficulties will be in chusing among them.”

  Daphne met his gaze unwillingly. He was about twenty-three years old, narrow-shouldered and high-waisted. Fair-haired and light-complected, his features appeared to have been pinched with admirable thrift from his slightly freckled face. A narrow nose, a pair of ungenerous lips, a sharp chin and wide, shallowly-set eyes presented themselves to Daphne’s troubled glance. The eyes, green like his sister’s, were lighted now with a faint, electrical amusement. “You are kind to say so, sir,” she replied; “But if your sister has found London thin of agreeable suitors, I am sure I must discover it to be so as well.”

  India Ballard smiled at this and extended an impulsive hand to Daphne. “You must not mind William, you know. He is an incorrigible flatterer. Still,” she added, sighing, “he is quite right. You are prettier than I am, and will no doubt have an easier time of it. Is this your first visit to London, then?” She withdrew her pale hand from Daphne’s after giving it a reassuring squeeze. She resembled her brother very closely, though the slightness of his traits became her some what better. She was very near to him in stature, which meant she was a bit tall for a woman, and though her figure was painfully stick-like, she held herself well up and was by no means unpleasant to look upon. Daphne felt herself warming to the older girl.

  “It is indeed,” she said. “Latimer has been before, and so has my father, but my mother and I are entirely uninitiated. We have already committed some gross improprieties,” she confided, adding, “quite without meaning to, of course.”

  “Goodness!” cried India, laughing. “And what were they?”

  “My sister exaggerates,” Latimer interrupted. “In truth, they were only very small improprieties, and they have since been corrected. My great-grandmother, Lady Bryde, is taking care that we do not repeat them.”

  “You intrigue me,” India responded, “but I will not press you. It must be quite daunting to have Lady Bryde for a chaperon. I am sure she frightens me to death.”

  “O, she is not so bad as that,” Daphne reassured her. “Though I must admit, she has intimidated me to the point where I can scarcely say or do any thing without long and careful consideration. I daresay I am not difficult to intimidate,” she concluded, with a rueful smile.

  “Then you must learn to be bolder,” William informed her. “The gentlemen of London are quick to turn a lady’s timidity to good account—or at least,” he added, in an undertone to Latimer, “what they consider to be good account.”

  “Why don’t you go off and fetch us some punch?” said India to her brother, rather bluntly. “I am sure Miss Keyes must be thirsty. Such a crowd!” She fanned herself emphatically with a tiny silver-and-ivory fan.

  “India!” cried William in a plaintive voice, “I protest, you ought not to—” Then, thinking better of it, he merely bowed and invited Latimer to join him on his errand. The women remained alone in the large drawing-room while the two young men went off to discover the punch-bowl.

  As soon as they had gone, India turned to Daphne and whispered excitedly, “Come with me into the ball-room, won’t you? I have been aching since we arrived to get close to the pianoforte, but William insisted I stay here and attempt to attract some notice from the gentlemen.” She took Miss Keyes’ hand and began to lead her from the room. “Do you care for music at all? I simply adore it!”

  “Yes, I am very fond of it,” Daphne answered, as they threaded their way towards the ball-room, “but I do not play at all well.”

  “Perhaps you sing, then?”

  “Abominably,” Daphne confessed.

  “I dote on singing,” said the elder girl. “William has a very pleasant voice too, when one can persuade him to be serious and use it properly. We often sing duets; you must come and join us. I am sure your voice cannot be so hopeless as you say.”

  Daphne was about to protest that it was—and, in truth, it was—when they arrived at the doors to the ball-room. Except for the pianofortist, it was empty. Miss Ballard checked in the door-way and held up a cautionary hand to her companion. It was unnecessary. The music, heard clearly now, was irresistibly charming. Deep, mellow notes rolled out of the bass, complemented continually by the thin, brittle warbling of the treble. Both young women caught their breath and listened, spell-bound.

  Even if they had spoken, the player would not have noticed them. Absorbed in his music, he was as distant from his surroundings as could be. His back, long and perfectly straight, scarcely moved at all; the whole of his being seemed concentrated in his arms and hands, which rose and fell with enormous power, always gracefully controlled. He appeared to be some seven- or eight-and-twenty years of age; when he left the key-board, he stood just under six feet tall. Now, however, he sat at the instrument, his blond head held upright over broad, straight shoulders. The gleaming, waveless hair had become unkempt as he played; a few strands were falling diagonally across the clear, heedless brow. He sat in profile to the women, his bronze skin and large green eyes shining in the light of the candles which illuminated the keys. The eyes, alive with a ferocious intensity, seemed fixed on nothing. All his thought and strength were gathered in the long, curved fingers, perfectly articulated and unadorned by any ring, which struck the black and white keys with unerring, unhesitating precision. As these delivered and repeated the final, crashing chords of the sonata, an almost imperceptible quiver could be discerned in his full, cleanly-curved mouth, and the sensuous crimson lips blushed a shade deeper. While the last vibrations of music died away, he removed his hands from the pianoforte and dropped them in his lap, tossing his head back as he did so to reclaim the straying golden hair. The musculature beneath his smooth, straight features relaxed visibly, and he stretched his hands out slowly, rubbing his wrists.

  When the last strains had been inaudible for some fifteen seconds, India Ballard could no longer resist applauding. She clapped her hands together and cried, “It is so beautiful; Miss Keyes, is it not unbelievably beautiful?”

  “It is,” she agreed in a low tone. Christian Livingston, startled to find himself with an audience, had turned round and now regarded the young women curiously. He divided his glance evenly between them, and a faintly sardonic expression crept into his countenance, his forehead and nostrils regaining their former tension.

  “I am delighted to hear it pleases you,” he said, his voice clear and remarkably toneless. “Hadn’t you better return to the drawing-room, though?” he inquired.

  As he seemed to be addressing India, it was she who answered. “I am terribly sorry if we disturbed you,” she said with composure. “I am sure it never occurred to me that we might.”

  “O!” he responded, the colour of his eyes deepening to a jade-green, “it is not for my sake but for yours that I suggest it. I think you must be better amused there; that is all.”

  “On the contrary, sir,” she replied. “The attractiveness of mere talk can
be nothing to the pleasure of music.”

  “Indeed?” said he, with a smile. He did not appear to believe her. “And you?” he asked, directing his gaze towards Daphne. “Do you share the opinion of your friend?”

  “I do, Mr.—” she faltered.

  “Livingston,” he supplied. “You see, I do not ask your names, for I think I have no right to know them. However, a cat may look at a king. It has been very pleasant speaking with you both, but if you will pardon me, I will return to my work. Lady Mufftow will be wondering what sort of ramshackle fellow she engaged.”

  “Of course,” said Daphne. She was completely at a loss to understand the unmistakable hardness of his tone; so far as she knew, he had no cause to take her or her companion in dislike. Her disposition was not such, however, as to encourage her to challenge him, and setting a hand on India’s arm, she turned to leave the ball-room.

  “I wonder why he said that—about cats and kings, you know,” whispered Miss Ballard as they returned to the drawing-room.

  Daphne merely shook her head in answer. “Our brothers will be asking themselves where we are,” she said, after a moment. “We must hurry and find them.”

  This was accomplished without much difficulty, and the evening passed away without further incident. Neither girl mentioned their conversation with the pianofortist, and when the time came for dancing, Daphne hung about the walls as much as possible to avoid a second exchange with him—even an exchange of glances. She was not permitted to dance any way, she learned from India, until she had made her come-out. The music which Mr. Livingston supplied for the dancers was familiar and uninspired; he played it competently but without interest, and a dull shadow veiled his eyes.

  Daphne’s come-out was being arranged for her by Lady Bryde. The Countess would have preferred to have had nothing at all to do with it, but her grand-daughter’s total bewilderment as to what needed to be done soon convinced her that she had best contrive it herself. Finchley House did not have a ball-room any way, and Lady Bryde insisted on seeing her great-grand-daughter brought out in the most correct and sumptuous style. Consequently the large saloons at Dome House were submitted to a vigorous round of dusting and polishing; the great chandelier which hung over the ball-room was relieved, for the first time in years, of the brown Holland which shrouded it, and its crystal drops were rubbed till they shone. The walls of the ball-room had been covered with red-and-white paper, the white being creamy and smooth, the red of raised velvet. It was designed in a floral pattern shot through with vertical stripes, and this motif was repeated in the long brocaded curtains which hung at the many windows and flanked the French doors. These doors opened on to a terrace, and Lady Bryde arranged for the wrought-iron railings round it to be garlanded with red and white roses, masses of which were also distributed about the interior of the room. The drawing-room, being predominantly blue, was filled with hyacinths, and the Green Saloon, converted to a supper-room, was heaped with jonquils. Every available sconce was supplied with tall, white candles, and by the time Daphne arrived from the house in Grosvenor Square, all of these had been lighted.

  Lady Bryde had invited simply every one whose acquaintance might be of value to her great-grand-daughter. This, it turned out, meant about four hundred people, the cream of London Society; very few of the gentlemen were not to be found among the pages of the Peerage. Daphne, of course, was not consulted about any thing, and least of all when the invitations went out. When the responses were returned, Lady Bryde discovered—without much surprise, but with a little satisfaction—that nearly all of them had been accepted. It was the first time since she had been widowed, fifteen years before, that she had entertained on a scale which even approached this; no one, among the ton, wished to be absent. The Countess had been a celebrated hostess in her day, and Daphne’s come-out promised to be an extraordinary event.

  A corner of the ball-room had been reserved to the musicians. In it stood an enormous pianoforte of rich, gleaming rose-wood, and several chairs and music-stands for the violinists. The violinists, who arrived shortly after Daphne herself, were men of middle-age, short and greasy-collared. Two of them were brothers; the third, a cousin. The pianofortist, of course, was Mr. Christian Livingston.

  Miss Keyes was garbed in a gown of white gauze draped over ivory satin, with a demi-train and a shallow edging of blond-lace round the low collar. A long strip of lace in a geometrical design ran down the center of the dress from the top of the bodice to the lace-edged hem, where it met with a pair of ivory satin sandals. Lady Keyes had wound a string of pearls six times round Daphne’s throat; ear-drops and rings to match completed her jewellery. As the gown had only wisps for sleeves, her white kid gloves were elbow-length. Her hair, coiffed high in elaborate curls, was ornamented by a single ostrich plume whose soft whiteness contrasted admirably with the deep, rich darkness of her locks.

  Lady Bryde inspected her critically. “She looks fine,” she admitted at last to her grand-daughter; “but I’ve got a notion we can do some thing better for her than that ostrich feather. You wait here, gal; I’ve a gift for you.”

  Daphne murmured thanks and moved to take a seat on the long carved and gilt Confidante which dominated the drawing-room. “What are you doing, Miss?” cried the Countess sharply. Daphne held herself still immediately. “Listen to me, now. You are not to sit down—no, not if it kills you—except at dinner. Too much trouble has been taken over you today for you to go and spoil it by creasing your gown. I hope your shoes fit you.” she added, a little grimly.

  “They are tolerable, ma’am,” said Daphne, still taken aback by the unexpected reprimand.

  “Good. You must stand there until I return,” the old lady instructed as she left the room, a footman opening the doors as she went. After a space of some fifteen minutes, during which the Keyes family was too nervous even to converse among themselves, she re-entered the drawing-room, a small red jewellery box in her hand. Daphne was still standing, her hands unconsciously smoothing the kid gloves over her fingers. “I see that you are obeying orders tonight,” said the Countess shortly. “See that you continue. Now we’ve only a few minutes before the dinner guests start to arrive, so let us try to arrange this immediately. Goodbody will help you,” she ended, handing the box to her dresser, who had followed her into the room.

  Mrs. Goodbody opened the box and drew from it an astonishing head-dress, made of perfectly graduated pearls and hundreds of seed-pearls. “My dear ma’am!” cried Daphne, when she saw it.

  “What now?” asked Lady Bryde, as if irritated. “You do not care for it?”

  “Not care—! It is exquisite!” A large, tear-shaped pearl was suspended from the center of the head-dress; as Mrs. Goodbody threaded the strands of seed-pearls through her hair, Daphne saw in the pier-glass that this exotic gem was to hang in the middle of her forehead, just above the center of her brows, in a fashion which suggested the women of India. “My dear ma’am, are you certain you wish to give this to me?”

  The Countess merely nodded, compressing her lips in an expression of annoyance. It was Lady Keyes who spoke, and she did so in the faraway tone of reminiscence. “My mother wore that when she made her come-out, did not she? She showed it to me. I had forgot all about it. I must thank you, Grandmamma, for giving it to Daphne. Some time her daughter will wear it too.”

  Lady Bryde did not answer her, but muttered something impatiently about where Lord Houghton could be. By this time the head-dress had been fastened in place, and Daphne, though she hardly dared turn her head, felt quite beautiful. Mrs. Goodbody surveyed her work, nodded as if satisfied, and quitted the drawing-room, taking the discarded ostrich feather with her. Her exit was followed presently by the entrance of Lord Houghton—who showered flatteries upon the Countess and Daphne in equal measure—and some nine or ten couples, who were to dine at Dome House previous to the ball.

  Conversation at the long dining-table turned first upon the great actor Kemble, whose intention to retire in the very near
future was being bruited about by certain people who “ought to know” (as Lady Ballard, India’s mother, said). “You must make a point of seeing him before he does so,” Lord Houghton advised Daphne. “English boards are not likely to be trod upon by such another as he for a good long while.”

  The Princesse de Lieven, who sat across from Miss Keyes, interrupted him with a languid wave of the hand. “You make too much of him, Houghton,” she said. “What is an actor, after all? Merely a boy who has not yet tired of dressing up in his papa’s clothes, or pulling faces in his mother’s glass. Actors are the drones of theatre-just as ministers are the drones of government.”

  “Shakespeare did not think so,” objected Lord Houghton who, no longer caring to frequent Almack’s, had nothing to lose in antagonizing one of its patronesses.

  “Shakespeare,” replied Madame de Lieven, with devastating condescension, “had a number of odd fancies.” Having ornamented this opinion with a gracious and positively lethal smile, the Princesse returned her attention to her salad and declined to say any thing more until the third remove was served.

  Long before that course arrived, Sir Andrew Ballard (encouraged by his wife) took notice of Daphne and addressed her for the first time. Lady Ballard, her attention drawn to Miss Keyes by the extraordinary pearl which decorated that lady’s brow, had begun to toy with the notion of setting up a match between Daphne and her son William. She whispered as much to her husband while the white wine which accompanied the first remove was being poured. He responded in a terse undertone, “How much will she have?”

  “I am not certain,” Lady Ballard answered. “I think it must be a good deal, though.”