The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  “How long is she here, do you suppose?”

  He touched his forefinger to his lips, then pointed down at his mother’s hymnal, indicating for her to stop talking and sing.

  “The choir festival—”

  “I know, Mother.” He put a hand on hers. “But we can do nothing about it until after the service.”

  She nodded and sat back, finding her place in the song just in time to sing the last words, and then closed the hymnal with a sigh.

  Grant knew she must be disappointed. “It Is Well With My Soul” was one of her favorite hymns, but she had naught to blame but her own snooping for the missed opportunity. He wondered if the woman behind him felt the same regret. From the resounding sound of her voice, she must be a person who enjoyed singing. If only his mother’s curiosity had not embarrassed her into silence.

  Throughout the sermon, Grant’s thoughts returned to the mystery singer. He had been enchanted by her voice and, though he’d not admit it to his mother, or anyone else for that matter, he was curious. His mother was right; he’d never known the Wickershams to have relatives visit. Their only son died years earlier, and none had come for the funeral. Grant assumed none existed, which was a pity indeed, because of any couple he knew, Walter and Deborah Wickersham possessed enough kindness and goodwill for an army of relatives. And he felt a tingle of suspicion at this newcomer, not liking the idea of a stranger among his people.

  Truth be told, he was suspicious of all overners, or mainlanders. The island was a popular tourist destination, even more so since Queen Victoria had claimed it for her own vacation home, and in Grant’s experience, tourists were full of criticism, condescension, and complaints.

  There were plenty of other concerns to occupy his mind, and he pushed away thoughts of the stranger behind him, glancing around the congregation. The company of locals was scant, even for the off-season. Whooping cough had ravaged the parish this winter, leaving hardly a family untouched. Though the sickness had thankfully not resulted in many deaths, recovery had been slow, and Grant’s tenants would need more help than ever with their spring planting. He’d already spent nearly the entire winter caring for animals whose owners were too weak to do much more than thank him.

  But such was the way with caulkheads—island residents. They helped one another. When any challenge reared its head, the community rallied, caring for children, bringing meals, and assisting with chores. The people of Brading Parish were family, and though they had no choice but to welcome outsiders, they would always be just that—outsiders.

  When the final hymn began, both Grant and his mother tilted their heads again to listen.

  “Why isn’t she singing?” his mother asked, twisting fully around.

  He batted away the feathers with an irritated sweep of his hand. “Perhaps your attention has made her self-conscious.”

  She sat back against the bench, looking petulant. “She must be used to the attention.” She thumbed through the hymnal until she reached the correct page. “With such a talent, of course people take notice.”

  The service concluded, and the congregation rose, moving to the aisles. Grant scanned the crowd, hoping to catch a view of the mystery singer, but only saw the back of her as she exited the church.

  When they stepped outside, Grant’s mother made a beeline for the Wickershams and their companion. The three were across the churchyard, talking with Mrs. Barlow, the vicar’s new wife, and her friend Mrs. Pinkston, who held her youngest, Arthur, on her hip.

  Grant followed at a more sedate pace, greeting neighbors and friends as he went. As he drew closer, he took the opportunity to study the unfamiliar woman. She wore a blue dress with a bustle and a high collar and upon her head a small hat set with a few silk flowers. Practical attire, he thought, yet upon her, it looked soft and feminine. Perhaps it was the thick, honey-colored curls just brushing her shoulders, or her pink cheeks. He concluded that she was young, not yet in her twentieth year. And she appeared very uncomfortable, shifting from one foot to the other, her shoulders tight. Was she wishing to be away from the company? He frowned.

  A child darted through the crowd and dashed right in front of Grant, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Grant recognized his tenant’s son, Barty Newbold. “Careful there.”

  “Beg your pardon, Mr. Mason. Didn’t mean to trip you, sir.”

  “No harm done.” He ruffled the boy’s hair.

  When Grant reached the group, his mother was, of course, speaking. He tipped his hat toward Mrs. Wickersham and the other women, winked at Mr. Wickersham, and tickled little Arthur beneath his chubby chin.

  “. . . loveliest parish in all of the island,” Mother said to the newcomer with a flourish. She looked up at Grant and waved him closer. “And here is my son now, if I may introduce him, miss.”

  The young lady nodded.

  “Grant Mason.” Mother lifted a hand toward him, then spread it back in the other direction. “And Grant, it is my privilege to introduce Miss Clara Brightly.”

  She curtsied. “How do you do, sir?”

  “A pleasure.” Grant tipped his hat.

  “Miss Brightly is my cousin,” Mrs. Wickersham said, her face lighting with a smile that lifted her round cheeks and crinkled the skin around her eyes. “Come to live with us after the death of her father.”

  “My sympathies, Miss Brightly,” Grant said.

  “Thank you.” She spoke in a soft voice and rubbed her arms.

  Grant thought Miss Brightly seemed standoffish, and her indifference to the people around her raised his defenses.

  “Mr. Mason and his mother reside at Haverstone Park.” Walter Wickersham jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “East of the town.”

  Miss Brightly glanced behind him. “I see.”

  Arthur Pinkston grabbed on to Mrs. Barlow’s beads, sticking them into his toothless mouth.

  “The Masons are our very good friends,” Deborah Wickersham said in her gentle voice. She gave Grant and his mother a loving smile.

  Grant smiled back and renewed his opinion that she was the kindest of women.

  After a few moments of exchanging pleasantries, Walter cleared his throat and pushed his fingers into his waistcoat pockets. “Now that we’ve the formalities out of the way, Mrs. Mason, what was it you wished to speak with us about?”

  “Actually, it is Miss Brightly whom I hoped to speak with.” Grant’s mother turned toward the young lady. “You see, I heard you singing during the service, and my dear, your voice is lovely. Isn’t it lovely, Grant?”

  “It is.”

  Miss Brightly gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

  “You are very accomplished,” Mother continued. “I assume you’ve had professional instruction?”

  Miss Brightly glanced between Grant and his mother. “I studied under a voice tutor,” she said.

  “I knew it.” Mother’s eyes widened, as did her smile, and she leaned toward Miss Brightly. “We need you.”

  The young lady’s brows pulled together. “You need me?”

  Another of the Pinkston children, Lucy, ran to her mother, tugging on her skirt. Mrs. Pinkston handed baby Arthur to Mrs. Wickersham and bent to tend to her daughter. The baby didn’t release his hold on Mrs. Barlow’s beads, so she moved closer to Mrs. Wickersham as if she were being pulled on a leash.

  “Yes,” Grant’s mother continued to Miss Brightly. “You see, the May Day celebration in Wippingham is a long-standing tradition here on the island. Choirs from every parish perform at the festival.” She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “Well, over the years, it has become something of a competition, and . . .” She trailed off, pulling her lips to the side as if unsure of her next words.

  “And you wish me to join the choir?” Miss Brightly asked.

  “Yes, well, what remains of the choir. Many of our parishioners have been ill this winter and are still recovering. Our very best tenor, Bentley Durham, is in Brighton with his daughter until summer. Gertrude Nuttal, our lead soprano
, broke her ankle.” Mother wrung her hands, and Grant recognized the look of anxiety that talk of the festival had caused over the past months. “And with the Ladies’ Charity Society sponsoring a booth at the festival, I’ve simply had no time to dedicate to the choir, and neither have most of the parish women.”

  “We know, Mrs. Mason,” Mrs. Barlow said as she pried the beads from the baby’s fat fingers. “You have been so busy.”

  Mrs. Pinkston and Mrs. Wickersham nodded their agreement.

  “I’m not sure how I can be of help,” Miss Brightly said.

  “Well, I’d very nearly made up my mind to give up on the choir altogether this year, since we are already quite into April, but when I heard you sing . . .” Grant’s mother placed a hand on her breast and sighed. “It was as if the Lord himself sent you to Brading as an answer to prayer.”

  Mrs. Pinkston and Mrs. Barlow exchanged a glance, Walter grinned, and Grant rubbed his brow. Mother was laying it on rather thick.

  Miss Brightly’s cheeks turned pink. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

  “Well, everything, dear.” Mother spread her hands to the side. “We must recruit new members, as our choir is so dwindled that I think only a few will come to rehearsal. And of course you must choose a song to sing, one that will not suffer for lack of a crowd, and then teach it to the choir.”

  Miss Brightly’s eyes were round, and Grant did not blame her for being overwhelmed. May Day was less than three weeks away. He had half a mind to whisk his mother away and save the young lady. But doing so would only postpone the conversation.

  “I do not know if I am the person for the job, Mrs. Mason.” Miss Brightly rubbed her arms again. “I only just arrived and—”

  “Oh, but you must.” Mother linked her elbow with Miss Brightly’s, turning her to face the churchyard and spread her arm toward the parishioners. “It cannot be a coincidence that you arrived at Brading just as I had given up hope of a choir. And we can’t disappoint everybody.”

  Miss Brightly looked around the churchyard for a long moment, then removed her arm gently from his mother’s grasp. “May I have a moment to consider?”

  “Yes, of course, dear.” His mother took young Lucy’s hand and moved toward the other women. “Take your time. We have plenty to discuss.”

  “The Ladies’ Charity Society will be making its rounds this week.” Mrs. Barlow held her beads away from the baby. “I thought beef stew or possibly lamb . . .”

  Miss Brightly leaned closer to Walter. “Do you mind if we move to stand in the sun?”

  “Certainly.” Walter offered his arm and led her out of the church’s shadow to a sunny spot on the grass.

  Not wanting to listen to a discussion about stew, Grant followed. “I hope my mother did not overwhelm you, Miss Brightly.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “She can be, ah . . .”

  “Earnest,” Walter said. His grin spread his thick mustache.

  Grant smiled. “I was going to say aggressive.”

  “Nonsense.” Walter clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. “Her heart is in the right place, but when she gets an idea in her head . . .”

  “Then we should all beware,” Grant finished with a grimace.

  Walter smiled his agreement, then turned to the young lady. “And Clara, you do not have to do anything you don’t wish to do. Mrs. Mason will understand if you choose not to lead the choir.”

  “Eventually,” Grant muttered.

  The men laughed, and Miss Brightly smiled, though her brow remained furrowed as if she were still contemplating.

  “However, my dear,” Walter said, “it might be just the thing. A fine way to meet people. I think it very important to be involved in a cause.”

  “I agree,” said a voice behind them.

  The three spun at the sound and greeted Harrison Barlow, the vicar and Grant’s closest friend, who’d approached without their notice.

  “From the sound of it, Mrs. Mason has been recruiting a new choir director,” Harry said.

  “She has.” Grant gave a knowing look to his old friend.

  Harry’s lips twitched. He knew firsthand how Grant’s mother operated. “And what are your thoughts on the matter, Miss Brightly?”

  “I am . . .” She glanced between the men, then to where the ladies were still, no doubt, discussing the benefits of beef versus lamb stew. “I am thinking it over.”

  Barty Newbold darted past again, running to join a group of children sitting in a ring on the grass. One of the older girls led them in a chant, and the others followed in a clapping game.

  Grant remembered playing on the same patch of grass after Sunday service as a child. Most likely, he’d been waiting for his mother to finish her church business, he thought. Some things never changed.

  The women joined them. Mrs. Barlow slipped her hand into her husband’s elbow, giving him a warm smile. The couple had been married less than a year and were very affectionate. Emmeline Barlow was from Shorwell, just fifteen miles away. The entire parish was quite taken with the vicar’s wife, and Grant was pleased to see his friend happy. Walter smiled at his wife, then patted Lucy’s head and tickled baby Arthur’s chin.

  “Mr. Barlow, Mrs. Mason, have you ever considered a children’s choir?” Miss Brightly said, her gaze still on the game.

  The vicar blinked.

  Grant’s mother frowned, then tipped her head to the side. “Oh, well, I don’t know . . .” She turned with the others and watched the children at play.

  “In India, parents sent home their school-age children to England,” Miss Brightly said. “I am not used to so many in church, and I noticed their voices among the congregation.” She faced the vicar, her expression relaxing into a gentle smile. “There is something very special about hearing children’s voices, especially when they sing about Jesus.”

  “Witness of truth borne by innocents has the power to soften hearts.” Walter nodded and scratched his neck. “The idea is unexpected.” He looked at his wife, then back to the young lady.

  “Delightful,” Mrs. Barlow said.

  “It would certainly be unique,” Grant’s mother said.

  “A children’s choir.” Mrs. Pinkston shifted the baby on her hip and glanced down at Lucy, smiling.

  “A wonderful idea, dear.” Mrs. Wickersham nodded.

  “I think I like it.” Grant’s mother’s face lit in a grin. “Perhaps it is just the advantage Brading Parish needs at the festival.”

  Walter patted Miss Brightly’s shoulder, giving a crooked smile. “By Jove, but it might just win the competition.”

  “How fortunate that you’ve come to us, Miss Brightly,” Mr. Barlow said. “A fresh idea and a talented musician to carry it out.”

  “You will, of course, lead the choir,” Grant’s mother said.

  She glanced between them. “I can assist, certainly, but not lead.”

  Grant pursed his lips, not liking her reaction—as if coming up with a brilliant idea were all the contribution she cared to give and the implementation of it was beneath her.

  Miss Brightly folded her arms. “I do not have much—any—experience with children, and I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  “Nonsense.” Mrs. Pinkston shifted the baby to her other hip. “It is easy as you please.”

  Grant was becoming tired of the fickle Miss Brightly. She seemed extremely arrogant. If she did not wish to lead the choir, so be it. His mother could certainly find a person better suited for the job, and one who did not require the entire parish to beg her.

  Miss Brightly met his gaze and looked away quickly, no doubt startled by the displeasure in his expression.

  The vicar patted her arm. “It is a daunting task, Miss Brightly, and we certainly do not expect you to do it all alone.” He raised a finger as if an idea had just occurred to him. “Grant will assist you.”

  He must not have heard correctly. “Pardon?”

  Walter and the vicar grinned, and the ladies all chattered their agreeme
nt.

  Grant’s stomach sank. “I can’t . . . Harry, you’re aware of how busy I am this time of year.”

  His mother linked her arm through his. “You know all the children, dear. And like Mr. Barlow said, we can hardly expect Miss Brightly to undertake the entire project alone.”

  The vicar continued to grin. He clasped Miss Brightly’s fingers in one hand, and Grant’s in the other. “It looks as if we have a plan. A choir-directing team. I will announce the first rehearsal shall take place directly after the children’s Bible Study meeting on Wednesday.”

  Mother grinned and clapped her hands. “Oh, it has all come together, hasn’t it, Grant?”

  “Indeed.” He spoke the word through clenched teeth.

  The Barlows made their farewells, and the others chatted excitedly about the festival and the children’s choir. Grant’s mind scrambled to think of a way out of the situation, but with each passing second, he grew more resigned to his fate. He looked at Miss Brightly, who was rubbing her arms and watching the children.

  As if she could feel his gaze on her, she glanced toward him.

  He gave a cool stare, then looked away. Miss Brightly may have a beautiful voice and a pretty face, but she was still an overner—one who thought herself above the simple people of the island. He tightened his jaw. He would work with her for the sake of his parish, but that didn’t mean he would trust her.

  Chapter Two

  An invitation from the queen changes nothing. I am still leaving. Clara Brightly tucked the heavy parchment card back into its envelope, fingering the royal seal for a moment before handing it across the carriage to Deborah.

  Deborah took it with a smile and slipped the invitation back out, reading over it with Walter for what Clara thought must have been the hundredth time.

  She and the Wickershams were headed to Brading. As it turned out, the Ladies’ Charity Society met at the vicar’s cottage on Wednesday evenings during the children’s Bible Study. Clara’s fingers tingled with nervousness as she thought of leading the choir. In addition to the shyness she already fought against, she had no idea how one went about teaching children, and based on her impressions of Grant Mason, her partner wasn’t going to offer any help. She didn’t think it possible for a person to look less pleased about the prospect of working with her. The memory of his unhappy expression made her stomach burn.