by Kerstin Gier
“The feeling’s mutual,” I assured him. Wow, these eighteenth-century floors really did wobble. Funny that I hadn’t noticed it earlier. “I mean, she may be a little old for you, but don’t let that bother you. Or the consolation the Duke of Wherever offers her. This really is a great party. People here are a lot nicer than I expected. So happy to make contact … physical contact.” I looked at the piano-playing groper and the second-rate Netrebko. “And they obviously like to sing. Very nice. Makes you feel like jumping up at once to join in.”
“Don’t you dare,” whispered Gideon, leading me over to the sofa where the count was sitting. When he saw us coming, he rose with the flexible ease of a much younger man, curving his lips into an expectant smile.
Okay, I thought, lifting my chin. Let’s act as if I didn’t know that Google says you’re not a real count at all. Let’s act as if you really had an aristocratic title and weren’t a con man of unknown origin. Let’s act as if you didn’t half strangle me last time we met. And let’s act as if I were stone-cold sober.
I let go of Gideon, picked up my heavy red silk skirts, spread them out, and sank into a deep curtsey. Only when the count reached out his hand with its many rings, all set with jewels, did I come up from it.
“My dear child,” he said, and there was a glint of amusement in his dark brown eyes as he patted my hand, “I do admire your elegance. Others can’t even speak their own names after four glasses of Lady Brompton’s special punch.”
Oh, so he’d been counting. I lowered my eyes guiltily. In fact it had been five glasses, but they’d been worth it, they really had! I couldn’t be sorry I’d shaken off that oppressive, vague feeling of anxiety. And I didn’t miss my inferiority complex, either. I liked my tipsy self. Even if I did feel rather unsteady on my legs.
“Merci pour le compliment,” I murmured.
“Delightful!” said the count.
“I’m sorry. I ought to have been watching more closely,” said Gideon.
The count laughed softly. “My dear boy, you were otherwise occupied. And after all, today we are first and foremost intent on amusement, are we not? Particularly as Lord Alastair, to whom I was extremely anxious to introduce this charming young lady, is not yet here. However, I have been brought word that he is on his way.”
“Alone?” asked Gideon.
The count smiled. “That makes no difference.”
The downmarket Anna Netrebko and the bosom groper ended the aria with a rousing final chord, and the count let go of my hand so that he could clap. “Isn’t she wonderful? A really fine talent, and so beautiful, too.”
“Yes,” I said quietly, clapping as well and taking care not to play pat-a-cake. “It’s quite something to make the chandeliers ring like that.” The clapping upset my sensitive sense of balance, and I staggered slightly.
Gideon caught me. “I can’t make it out,” he said angrily, his lips close to my ear. “We haven’t been here two hours, and you’re totally drunk! What on earth were you thinking of?”
“You said totally. I’m going to tell on you to Giordano,” I giggled. In all the noise, no one else could hear us. “Anyway, it’s too late. No point in locking the stable door after the horse has gone.” A hiccup interrupted me—hic. “Sorry.” I looked around me. “But everyone else is much more drunk than me, so leave out the moral indignation, okay? I have everything under control. You can let go of me again. I stand here as steady as a rock among the breakers.”
“I’m warning you,” whispered Gideon, but he did let go of me.
For safety’s sake, I braced my legs a little farther apart. Well, no one could see that, not underneath my huge skirt.
The count, amused, had been watching us. His expression gave away nothing but a certain grandfatherly pride. I glanced at him surreptitiously and was rewarded by a smile that warmed my heart. Why had I been so scared of him? It was only with difficulty that I could remember what Lucas had told me—how this same man had cut his own ancestor’s throat.…
Lady Brompton had quickly come up to the pianoforte again to thank Mr. Merchant and Lady Lavinia for their performance. Then—before Miss Fairfax could get to her feet again—she asked for a warm round of applause for today’s guest of honor, the famous, much-traveled Count Saint-Germain, a man surrounded by mystery. “He has promised me to play something on his violin today,” she said, and Lord Brompton came hurrying up with a violin case as fast as his potbelly allowed. The audience, spaced out on punch, roared their enthusiasm. This really was a super-cool party.
The count smiled as he took the violin out of its case and began tuning it. “I would never dream of disappointing you, Lady Brompton,” he said in a soft voice. “But my old fingers are not as agile as they used to be when I played duets with the notorious Giacomo Casanova at the French court … and my gout troubles me a little these days.”
A collective whispering and sighing ran through the room.
“So this evening I would like to hand the violin over to my young friend here,” the count went on.
Gideon looked slightly shocked and shook his head. But when the count raised his eyebrows and said, “Please!” he bowed, took the instrument and the bow, and went over to the pianoforte.
The count took my hand. “And we two will sit on the sofa and enjoy the music, shall we? No need for you to tremble! Sit down, my child. You don’t know it, but since yesterday afternoon we have been the best of friends, you and I. We had a really, really intimate conversation, and we were able to settle all our differences.”
What?
“Yesterday afternoon?” I repeated.
“From my point of view,” said the count. “From yours, that meeting is still in the future.” He laughed. “I like it to be complicated, you see!”
I stared at him, baffled. But at that moment Gideon began to play, and I entirely forgot what I had been going to ask the count. Oh, my God! Maybe it was the punch—but wow! That violin was really sexy! Even the way Gideon raised it and tucked it under his chin! He didn’t have to do more than that to carry me away with him. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and a lock of hair fell over his face as he began passing the bow over the strings. The first notes filling the room almost took my breath away, they made such tender, melting music, and suddenly I was close to tears. Until now, violins had been way down on my list of favorite instruments, and I really liked them only for accompanying certain moments in films. But this was just incredibly wonderful—well, all of it was: the bittersweet melody and the boy enticing it out of the instrument. All the people in the room listened with bated breath, and Gideon played on, immersed in the music as if there were no one else there.
I didn’t notice that I was crying until the count touched my cheek and caught a tear gently with his finger. Then I jumped in alarm.
He was smiling down at me, and I saw a warm glow in his dark brown eyes. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “If it were otherwise, I’d have been very disappointed.”
I was surprised to find myself smiling back at him—really! How could I? This was the man who had strangled me!
“What’s that tune?” I asked.
The count shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I assume it has yet to be composed.”
A storm of applause broke out in the room when Gideon came to the end of the piece. He bowed, smiling, and successfully declined to play an encore, although he was less successful in eluding the embrace of the lovely Lady Lavinia. She clung to his arm, and he had no alternative but to bring her over to our sofa.
“Wasn’t that marvelous?” cried Lady Lavinia. “But when I saw those hands, I knew at once that they could work miracles.”
“I bet,” I muttered. I would have liked to get up from the sofa, if only so that Lady Lavinia couldn’t look down at me like that, but it was beyond me. The punch had had an unfortunate effect on my muscles.
“It’s a wonderful instrument, sir,” said Gideon to the count, giving him back the violin.
Gideon went a little red. With delight, I assumed. “That … oh, I can’t…” He looked into the count’s dark eyes, but then lowered his own and added, “You do me great honor, sir.”
“The honor is all mine,” replied the count gravely.
“My word,” I murmured to myself. The two of them seemed to have formed a mutual admiration society.
“And are you as musical as your foster brother, Miss Gray?” asked Lady Lavinia.
No, probably not. But I bet I’m as musical as you, I thought. “I like to sing, that’s all,” I said.
Gideon shot me a warning glance.
“You like to sing!” cried Lady Lavinia. “As indeed so do I, and our dear Miss Fairfax.”
“I’m afraid I can’t reach such high notes as Miss Fairfax,” I said firmly. Well, I wasn’t a bat, was I? “And my lungs don’t have the capacity of yours. But I do like singing, all the same.”
“I think we’ve had enough music for this evening,” said Gideon.
Lady Lavinia looked hurt.
“Of course we would be delighted if you would honor us again,” Gideon was quick to add, giving me a dark look. I was so happily drunk that, for once, I couldn’t have cared less.
“You … you played wonderfully,” I said. “It made me cry! It really did.”
He grinned as if I’d told a joke and put the Stradivarius away in its case.
Lord Brompton came up, out of breath, bringing us two glasses of punch, and assured Gideon that he was absolutely delighted by his guest’s virtuoso performance. It was a shame, he added, that poor Alastair had missed what was undoubtedly the high point of the soirée.
“Do you think Alastair may yet find his way here this evening?” asked the count, with a touch of annoyance.
“I’m sure of it,” said Lord Brompton, handing me one of the glasses. I took a greedy gulp. Was this stuff good! I just had to sniff it, and I was on a high. Ready to snatch up a hairbrush, jump on a bed, and sing “Breaking Free” with or without Zac Efron!
“My lord, you really must persuade Miss Gray to offer us something from her repertory,” said Lady Lavinia. “She so likes to sing!”
There was an odd undertone in her voice that made me prick up my ears. In a way, she reminded me of Charlotte. She might not look like her, but there was another Charlotte somewhere deep inside that bright green dress, I felt sure of it. The kind of person who always wanted you to notice how absolutely wonderful and unique she herself was by comparison with you and your mediocre talents.
“Very well,” I said, trying to get up from the sofa again. This time it worked. I could even keep on my feet. “Then I’ll sing.”
“What?” said Gideon, shaking his head. “On no account will she sing—I’m afraid that the punch—”
“Miss Gray, it would be a great pleasure for us all if you would sing to us,” said Lord Brompton, winking at me so hard that his fifteen double chins wobbled like crazy. “And if we owe it to the punch, so much the better! Come up to the front with me and let me announce you.”
Gideon firmly held my arm. “This is not a good idea,” he said. “Lord Brompton, please—my foster sister has never before performed in public.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Lord Brompton, guiding me on. “We’re all friends together here. Don’t spoil sport for us!”
“Exactly. Don’t be such a spoilsport,” I said, shaking off Gideon’s hand. “Do you happen to have a hairbrush with you? I sing better holding a hairbrush.”
Gideon looked rather despairing. “Definitely not,” he said, following me and Lord Brompton over to the piano.
I heard the count laughing quietly behind us.
“Gwen,” whispered Gideon, “do please stop this nonsense.”
“Penelope,” I corrected him, draining the rest of my punch in one draft and handing him the empty glass. “Do you think they’d like ‘Over the Rainbow’? Or,” I added, with a giggle, ‘Hallelujah’?”
Gideon groaned. “You really can’t do this. Come back with me now!”
“No, ‘Hallelujah’ is too modern, isn’t it? Let’s see…” In my mind I went over my entire playlist, while Lord Brompton announced me in pompous terms. Mr. Merchant, the groper, came over to join us at the pianoforte. “Does the lady need a competent accompanist on the instrument?” he asked.
“No, the lady needs … needs something entirely different,” said Gideon, sitting down on the piano stool himself. “Please, Gwen…”
“Pen, if you must,” I said. “I know what to sing! ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.’ I know all the words, and musicals are timeless, don’t you agree? But maybe they don’t know about Argentina.…”
“You’re not really going to make a fool of yourself in front of all these people, are you?”
It was a nice try at scaring me, but useless in the circumstances. “Listen,” I said in a confidential whisper. “I couldn’t care less about these people. First, they’ve been dead for two hundred years and, second, they’re also as good as dead drunk anyway—except for you, of course.”
Groaning, Gideon leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand, hitting a whole series of notes on the pianoforte keyboard in the process.
“Do you happen to know … yes, ‘Memory’?” I asked Mr. Merchant. “From Cats?”
“Oh—no, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Merchant.
“Never mind, then I’ll just sing it a capella,” I said confidently, turning to my audience. “This song is called ‘Memory,’ and it’s about … about a cat who’s unhappy in love, but basically it fits us humans as well. In the widest sense.”
Gideon had raised his head again and was looking at me incredulously. “Please,” he tried again.
“We just won’t tell anyone about it,” I said. “Okay? This will be our secret.”
“And now comes the great moment!” cried Lord Brompton. “The wonderful, unique, and beautiful Miss Gray will sing for us! Her first performance in public!”
I ought to have felt alarmed, because all the talk died down, and all eyes were on me, but I didn’t. That punch was just divine! I absolutely must get the recipe.
What was it I’d said I was going to sing?
Gideon struck a couple of notes on the keyboard, and I recognized the opening bars. “Memory.” Yes, right, that was it. I smiled gratefully at Gideon. How kind of him to prompt me and join in. I took a deep breath. The first note of this song was particularly important. If you got it wrong, you might just as well give up right away. The word midnight had to come out clear as glass and yet ring all around the room.
I was pleased, because I sounded just like Barbra Streisand singing it. “Not a sound from the pavement, has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.”
Guess what? Gideon could obviously play the piano, too. And not badly either. Oh, God, if I hadn’t been head over heels in love with him already, I’d have fallen in love with him now. He didn’t even have to look at the keys, he was just looking at me. And he seemed slightly surprised, like someone who has just made an unexpected discovery. Maybe that the moon was a she?
“All alone in the moonlight I can dream of the old days,” I sang, just for him. This salon had great acoustics; it was almost as if I were singing into a mike. Or else it was because no one was making a sound. “Let the memory live again.” This was much more fun than playing SingStar. It was really, really great. And even if the whole thing was just a lovely dream and Cynthia’s father was about to march into the room and kick up an almighty row, this moment was worth it.
No one would ever believe me.
Time ain’t nothin’ but time.
It’s a verse with no rhyme.
Man, it all comes down to you.
BON JOVI, “NEXT 100 YEARS”
&n
bsp; ELEVEN
THE ONLY STUPID THING was that it’s such a short song. I was tempted to make up another verse of my own, but that might have just spoiled the general good impression, so I didn’t. Instead, a little regretfully, I sang my favorite lines—“If you touch me, you’ll understand what happiness is. Look, a new day has begun”—and thought, yet again, that the song couldn’t have been specially written for Cats. Maybe it was the punch—in fact it was certainly the punch—but the guests at this soirée seemed to like our performance just as much as the earlier Italian operatic arias. At least, they applauded enthusiastically, and while Lady Brompton hurried forward, I bent down to Gideon and said, meaning it, “Thank you! That was really nice of you! And you play so well!”
He leaned his head on his hand again, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done.
Lady Brompton hugged me, and Mr. Merchant kissed me exuberantly on both cheeks, called me his “golden-voiced charmer,” and demanded an encore.
I was in such a good mood that I would have launched right into one, but at this point Gideon came back to life, stood up, and grabbed my wrist. “I’m sure Andrew Lloyd Webber would be delighted to know that you already appreciate his music here, but my sister has to rest. Until last week, she was suffering from a nasty throat infection, and now, on medical advice, she has to spare her voice—or she might lose it forever.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried Lady Brompton. “Why didn’t you say so before? The poor girl!”
I was happily humming “I Feel Pretty,” out of West Side Story.
“There certainly is something special about your punch,” said Gideon. “I think it tempts us to throw caution to the winds.”
“To be sure it does!” said Lady Brompton, beaming all over her face. Lowering her voice, she went on, “You’ve just revealed the secret of my success as a society hostess. All London envies us our famous parties. People scramble for invitations. But it took me years to perfect the recipe, and I don’t intend to give it away until I’m on my deathbed.”
“What a pity,” I said. “But you’re right. Your soirée is so much more fun than I expected! I was told it would be a boring, stiffly correct—”
