Love in a Major Key

by Fiona Hill

  “Find out,” her husband instructed. Sir Andrew then set himself to the not very difficult task of taking a fancy to Daphne. “I suppose you like having such a fuss made about you, eh Miss?” he inquired gruffly.

  “It is certainly unusual,” said she.

  “I should think so,” he responded. “Tell me this, Miss Keyes; do you like to ride very much?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Daphne; “very much indeed.”

  “And I guess you like a trot round the Park every now and then?”

  “Do you mean Hyde Park, sir?”

  “Yes, of course I do.”

  He sounded a trifle impatient. Daphne, who was having a difficult time with a slippery forkful of peas, began to regret this seemingly pointless interrogation keenly. “I have not been there as yet,” she replied, abandoning the peas.

  “Well, you must go there!” said Sir Andrew. It was rather more a command than a suggestion. “How would it be if I sent young William round to take you out riding some fine morning? You’ve met my son William, I think?”

  “O, yes. Indeed I have.” A footman took her plate from before her and replaced it with another. “I should—that would be most obliging of you, sir.”

  “Done,” said Sir Andrew, nodding an impatient, satisfied nod. “The chit’s got charm,” he added to his wife in a whisper. “You find out what else she’s got from the Countess, eh?”

  “Yes, my dear,” said Lady Ballard. She was accustomed to her husband’s despotic disposition, and had long since given up resenting his habit of ordering every one about, though she accepted commands from no one else. When the ladies had removed from the table to the drawing-room she set about learning Daphne’s exact value in land, position, and pounds sterling.

  The Princesse de Lieven overheard her there, pressing a flustered Lady Keyes for details. “Going to set her up with young William?” she inquired, yawning behind an ebony fan.

  “I beg your pardon?” asked Lady Ballard, extremely annoyed with the Princesse’s bluntness.

  Madame de Lieven surveyed Miss Keyes, who was standing near the fire-place with her great-grandmother and smiling diligently. “She’s a taking little creature,” Madame observed at last. “Rustic, of course. But I see no reason why she and William should not suit.”

  “Really, Madame,” said Lady Ballard, blinking her ice-blue eyes rapidly, “I think it is too early to be discussing such matters.”

  “Do you?” asked the Princesse archly. “I think your husband did not.”

  “My husband! Why do you—”

  “I am certain every one heard, my dear,” said Madame, with a smile that was part yawn. “No need to pout, Lady Ballard,” she went on. “I am equally certain no one cares.”

  Lady Ballard was too vexed to reply. There was no need to any way, since at that moment a roar of laughter broke out at the other end of the drawing-room, and the Princesse’s attention was diverted.

  “Has some one said something amusing?” she called across the room.

  “It is only Daphne,” Lady Bryde responded. “She wishes to know what it is about London that makes so many of the gentlemen creak.”

  The Princesse smiled politely. “A wit in spite of herself,” she said, in a voice just loud enough to be heard.

  “Sheath your claws, my dear,” said Lady Bryde, not the least bit intimidated by the formidable Princess. “She is not fit adversary for you.”

  “No one is,” the Princess observed, her smile sad and pensive. She retired behind the ebony fan to brood upon this misfortune.

  The first guests for the ball began to arrive shortly before midnight. Daphne, flanked by her mother and her great-grandmother, stood at the top of the stairs to receive them. Before one o’clock she had murmured “Good-evening,” “Thank you,” and “So pleased to make your acquaintance” upwards of three hundred times. Her cheeks ached with smiling, her knees with courtesying, her feet with the mere effort of standing for so many hours together. The ivory satin slippers were less comfortable than she had hoped, and the lace on her collar tickled her chest. By the time the Prince of Wales arrived she scarcely noticed him, and merely bobbed a sketch of a curtsey.

  “You must smile twice for this gentleman,” Lady Bryde instructed her audibly. “He is the Prince Regent.”

  Daphne’s eyes flew open and her cheeks blushed darkly. “I am so—I am so terribly sorry, your Highness,” she said, executing a proper courtesy and hardly daring to look at him. The portly monarch before her did not notice any way; his eyes looked beyond her into the ball-room, as if searching for some one through the crowd.

  “You seem well, Margaret,” he said. “Pretty child you’ve got there too. Your grand-daughter, is she?”

  “My great-grand-daughter,” Lady Bryde Corrected. “You appear in good spirits, your Highness.”

  “Faugh!” said he. “If you mean to ‘your Highness’ me, I must find some other company.”

  “I suppose I am expected to call you Prinny?” inquired the Countess.

  “Why not?”

  “I do not care for the name,” she informed him. “It has always seemed to me an abominable sobriquet.”

  The Prince shrugged. “Tell me, how is—” he hesitated for a moment, trying to remember something. “Ah yes, how is Halston?”

  “Halston?” she echoed. “Dead these fifteen years.”

  “Is he?” the Prince replied. His wandering attention had been caught by the appearance of a young lady of extraordinary beauty whom he had never seen before. He was no longer listening to the Countess at all. “Well, that is good. No doubt I shall find him inside some where,” he said cheerfully. He smiled towards, though not quite at, her, and went off to make the acquaintance of the exquisite young woman.

  “That is the man who holds the destiny of England in his hands,” Lady Bryde observed blandly to Daphne. “Let it be a lesson to you.”

  Daphne had no idea what lesson she was meant to learn, but she smiled at her great-grandmother and turned to greet another guest. She had other things to concern herself with than the fate of the country any way. Although the dancing, of course, had not yet begun, the musicians had been playing since eleven. For some time Miss Keyes had been too much occupied with receiving her guests to pay any attention to the players, but during a lull in the arrivals just before the Regent’s entrance, she had turned to observe them for the first time. Christian Livingston, unfortunately, had looked up at just that moment, and their eyes had met.

  Daphne had endeavoured to smile at him, but the smile was not returned. There had been no break in the music which flowed from the pianoforte—nor was there any disruption in the calm of Mr. Livingston’s features. He had simply stared at her, apparently without recognition, and apparently without interest. In a very little while she had averted her eyes, focusing them thoughtfully upon the tips of her mother’s shoes. The Prince Regent’s arrival had interrupted her meditation.

  The last guest whom she welcomed officially was a Mr. Frank Deever, an American whose exalted, though remote, connexions in London were responsible for his having been invited. He was a solid young man, scarcely taller than Daphne herself, but with such a brusque, forward manner that he seemed rather larger than he was in fact. His reddish face glistened with health and self-satisfaction, and the hearty smile with which he met his hostesses struck Lady Keyes as being almost excessively warm. Of course she said nothing about it to any one.

  Frank Deever extracted a promise from Daphne that she would dance with him when she could, and passed on into the ball-room. The musicians, having received instructions from Lady Bryde (who preferred the old-fashioned dances of her youth), were preparing to play a minuet, the greasy violinists regarding their employer anxiously as they re-tuned their instruments. Miss Keyes was to walk the first dance with her father, naturally, after which the rest of the company was free to join them. The last thing Daphne saw before she settled her concentration to the stately steps of the dance was the luminous eyes of Christ
ian Livingston, which had fixed upon her with a quizzical expression, and which caused her to blush extremely.

  Chapter IV

  It seemed to Daphne that the minuet which she danced alone with her father was rather longer than it might have been. If she had not been under inspection by the entire assembly, she would surely have been tempted to throw some glaring looks at the musicians during the trio. It was as well she could not, since she would have found her glances returned by Mr. Livingston’s slightly amused gaze, and this might have distracted her, if it did not enrage her. Sir Latimer thought the dance went on a long while too, and began to perspire liberally.

  When the last bars finally were struck, Latimer came to take his father’s place. A contre-dance was to follow the minuet, and couples from among the guests drifted on to the floor to take their places for the first figure. Daphne, no longer feeling herself the focus of quite every one’s eyes, was free to turn her attention to her feet, which hurt excessively. Since Latimer had been her constant partner when they learned to dance at Verchamp Park, they went down their two dances together easily. The two next she had promised to William Ballard, who claimed them accordingly. He was a poor dancer—worse than poor, in fact, since he was unaware of his own awkwardness and therefore caused every one round him to be awkward too, without feeling the slightest twinge of conscience. Furthermore, he insisted on paying lengthy and elaborate compliments to Daphne as they danced, which obliged her to interrupt him when the movements of the dance required that she step away. She begged him, finally, to discontinue his flatteries.

  “But they are not flatteries,” he said. “Flattery implies insincerity, and I am sincere. You must forgive me, Miss Keyes; these compliments, as I should prefer to call them, rise spontaneously to my lips whenever I am near you. Your beauty—”

  Daphne did not hear the end of his phrase since the music had changed and the pattern of the figure required that she turn to the gentleman on her left. She felt relieved indeed when her set with William ended.

  He was replaced during the two third by Mr. Deever, who danced—as he did everything else—with inordinate energy. He was replaced in his turn by Walter, Lord Midlake, who was replaced by Lord Trugrove, who was replaced by Alexander Reade…and so forth, and so forth, until Daphne would sooner have consented to translate the Bible into French than to dance another dance. Happily, supper was at hand. Lord Houghton escorted her to the supper-room, where she sat down in spite of her great-grandmother’s warning. She excused herself presently and went to one of the chambers which had been provided for the use of the ladies. Here she splashed cold water from a basin on her hands and cheeks, and otherwise refreshed herself. She knew she ought to return immediately to the supper-room, but her delight in finding some respite from the ball was so great that she could not prevent herself from stepping into the conservatory, which was miraculously empty of people, and enjoying her brief solitude a few more minutes.

  The conservatory was a smallish apartment, but it contained a wide variety of flowers, and especially of ferns. It was behind a clump of these, on a low, unupholstered bench, that Daphne concealed herself. Marvelling at her own courage, she dared to remove her slippers and rub her feet. If the Countess, or even one of her footmen, were to discover her there she would surely be severely reprimanded. Fortunately, neither Lady Bryde nor her servants observed her. Unfortunately, Christian Livingston did.

  For a little while he remained silent, watching Miss Keyes quietly over the tops of the ferns. He had chosen this moment for a recess too, leaving the violinists to play trios for the benefit of the company. The apparent unpopularity of the conservatory had drawn him, and he was as surprised to happen upon Daphne as she was, a few moments later, to see him.

  “I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed, unconsciously assuming that he had more right to be there than she.

  “I see no reason why you ought to,” he answered evenly. “I am the intruder, after all.”

  “O no—” she began. Then, realizing that her slippers were still upside-down upon the floor, she bent and donned them hastily. “Should you like to sit down?” she asked, springing up from the bench.

  “Not if it means your standing up,” he bowed.

  “But it does not. That is—I do not know why I stood just now. I am sorry.” She seated herself again at one end of the bench.

  “Perhaps you do not like to sit next to your great-grandmother’s employees,” he suggested, still on his feet.

  “Perhaps…O please, that is so silly. Do sit down; I beg you will.”

  “If you are quite certain—”

  “I am quite certain, Mr. Livingston.”

  Mr. Livingston obliged her. “You recall my name, then,” he remarked. “You are very clever.”

  “There is nothing clever in recalling the names of one’s acquaintances.”

  “Am I to be counted among your acquaintances?” asked he, apparently amazed.

  “But why not?”

  “Our stations in life, Miss Keyes, are rather—disparate.”

  “I do not see what that is to do with it.”

  “Then you are not as clever as I thought.”

  Daphne searched for a reply but found none. In a little while Mr. Livingston spoke again. “Won’t your guests be wondering where you are?” he inquired.

  “O, my guests,” she echoed, frowning. “No, I do not think they will notice my absence. My great-grandmother may, however.”

  “But this is your night,” he objected.

  “If it is,” she murmured in a tone slightly grim, “let us hope I never have another.”

  There was a pause. “You really are a very curious young lady, aren’t you?” Christian said at last.

  “Am I? Why do you say so?”

  “I imagine most girls pass the night of their come-out in an absolute swoon of rapture. Yet you seem hardly to care.”

  “On the contrary, I care very much. My feet ache extremely.”

  Mr. Livingston laughed for the first time. His laugh was low and came from deep within his chest. “I am sorry to hear it,” he said, his green eyes smiling at her.

  “I appreciate your condolences,” she said. She began to feel at ease with him, and sat back a little on the bench. “I suppose your hands must be equally weary?”

  “They are accustomed to such work.”

  “Is it work to you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Music is my life, but it must also be my living. When I am at leisure to indulge my artistry, I am happy. On such an evening as this, however, it is merely my trade.” In answer to her puzzled glance, he continued, “I do not particularly care for minuets and contre-dances. The need to keep the metre precise for the dancers prohibits any interpretation.”

  “What do you like to play?”

  “O, anything else. Nocturnes, sonatas, concertos when I have the opportunity…even waltzes are more interesting. Lady Bryde stipulated that there was to be no waltzing tonight,” he added.

  “No, of course,” she mused. “I understand it is still considered scandalous by some people in London. It is certainly deemed so in the country.”

  He looked directly at her. “Have you attempted it in spite of that?”

  “Never,” she cried guiltily. “O dear, that is not quite true. My brother and I—did—once. After the dancing-master had gone home. I suppose it was very bad of us.”

  Mr. Livingston laughed again. “Despicable,” he agreed.

  She hesitated a moment. “I enjoyed it excessively,” she confided at last.

  “Well!” he said, rather bitterly. “So the English aristocracy condescends to admit to pleasure every now and then. I had no notion.”

  Daphne experienced a surge of boldness. “You are very conscious of that, aren’t you sir? Of rank, and position, I mean.”

  Mr. Livingston’s eyes clouded over. “You are very naïve about it,” he said. In a short time he rose and they excused themselves to one another. Daphne returned to the supper-room,
and then to the ball-room, executing her duties in each place with weary obedience. When the night at last was over she learned, to her astonishment, that she was expected to have enjoyed it and to thank her great-grandmother profusely. Instructed to that effect by Lady Keyes, she mustered up a few grateful phrases and delivered them to the Countess. Happily, that lady was not in a humour to receive them.

  “Never mind all that, gal,” she interrupted. “You passed, any way. Madame de Lieven promised to send your family vouchers for Almack’s next week. You ought to be proud of yourself.”

  “I am sure I made a great number of mistakes,” said Daphne humbly.

  “If you did they weren’t crucial,” said her Ladyship. “Now get to bed and stay there. I know I am ready to do so”.

  Daphne dropped one final courtesy and descended with her family to the coach. On the way home she fell asleep, leaning against her brother’s shoulder, and dreamed of a land inhabited exclusively by hands and feet.

  The vouchers for Almack’s arrived on a Monday morning. Sir Latimer and Lady Keyes were in the breakfast-parlour, involved in an anxious discussion concerning when, how, and if they ought to be used when James appeared bearing a silver tray with a card upon it. This he tendered to my Lady, who accepted it and discovered that it belonged to Mr. William Ballard, Esq. She looked nervously at her husband. “He must wish to see Daphne,” she said. “I shall be obliged to receive him with her, and to sit with them.”

  “Very well, my dear.”

  “But what about Almack’s?” she protested.

  “O, indeed. James, you may first tell Mr. Ballard that her Ladyship is in. After that, please send Mr. Clayton to me. I have business to discuss with him.”

  James bowed and disappeared discreetly.

  “Clayton will know about Almack’s,” said Sir Latimer, blinking benignly at his wife. “You go and fetch Daphne.”

  “If you think so, dear,” she said faintly, and hurried from the room.

  James had shown William Ballard into the drawing-room, and it was there that Latimer happened upon him.