A Melody for Rose (The Wednesday Club Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  “Your gratitude is all the thanks I require, my Lord,” he bowed, a perfect blend of courtesy and respect. “Of course, we will be discussing this year’s remunerations for the staff, shortly, I believe?”

  “Um, yes, I suppose it is getting near that time again,” Sir Laurence nodded.

  “In that case, sir, I shall take the liberty of reminding you of these miracles. They might come freely from above,” his eyes rotated to the ceiling, as he directed his gaze to Heaven, “but here on Earth, they come at a price, you know.”

  Sir Laurence’s lips twitched, but he refrained from anything more than an agreeable smile and nod.

  Satisfied, Hobson left the room, head high, his posture about as regal as could be. Certainly a lot more regal than the Prince Regent, who had allegedly required help just to leave his bed recently.

  Sir Laurence sighed. An excellent butler like Hobson would never have let the man get that fat.

  “Ahhh, brandy. Just the thing.” Maud Sydenham swept in, the decanter in her sights. “It’s cold outside, and I’ve had to stand for hours having pins stuck in me.”

  “One must suffer the pains of pride, love,” said Sir Laurence, pouring her a brandy and passing it over. “I assume there will be a bill forthcoming from Madame deRoyale?”

  Maud rolled her eyes. “Sorry, darling, but yes. Gowns are getting more expensive every day.”

  “So are miracles, it seems,” he said dryly.

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “So the invitations are out, and we should be seeing some responses soon.” Maud raised her glass in a toast to her husband. “You’re an awfully good chap to put up with all this, darling.”

  “I know.” He grinned at her, his heart overflowing as it always did when he looked at his wife. “You can thank me later.” He waggled his eyebrows.

  Maud’s lips curved into a smile. “I thought I did last night, actually. And quite thoroughly.”

  “Thorough doesn’t mean enough, my sweet,” he replied.

  She blinked. “If you’re going to try those fur straps again, I have to tell you they left a bit of a rash last time, right around my…”

  “Harrumph.”

  A loud throat-clearing behind them made both Maud and Laurence jump.

  “Begging your pardon, my Lord, my Lady,” Hobson bowed. “Much as I’d like to hear the rest of that conversation, I feel it inappropriate for you to be discussing matters of a personal and intimate nature in the drawing room. Anybody might have overheard.” He looked at Sir Laurence with rebuke all over his stern face.

  “Well if you’re really interested, Hobson, I daresay her Ladyship might loan a few things to Berry…”

  At the mention of Maud’s maid, and her ill-concealed but unrequited passion for Hobson, the butler drew himself up, and lifted his chin. “That will do, Sir Laurence.” He cleared his throat, ignoring Maud’s muffled snicker. “I came to inform you both that there appears to be a rather large number of envelopes in the hall. Where would you like me to put them?”

  Maud, knowing her husband, put a hand quickly on his arm before he could respond with some awful and inappropriate comment. “Thank you, Hobson. I will be right out. I think maybe my study, but I’d like to see how many we have before I decide.”

  “Very good, my Lady.” He bowed again and stalked out.

  She turned to Laurence. “You are a cruel man, dearest.”

  “I really wanted to tell him where to put those responses, you know.”

  “Yes, and I believe your suggestion would be physically impossible.”

  Her husband sighed and shook his head. “You know me too well, my love.”

  She smiled fondly. “Darling, for the last two decades at least, any time anyone asks you where you’d like them to put something—and that includes everything from a kitten to bagpipes—you have responded the same way. And people don’t enjoy being told to shove things up their arse.”

  “But Maud…” he whined.

  “I know. I’ll admit to a time or two when I’ve felt the same. But I do believe it’s high time you left that jest to die quietly.” She leaned over and dropped a light kiss on his cheek. “Move on, my love. Move on.”

  He muttered as she turned to leave, taking another sip of his brandy and noting she’d finished hers. “Tonight. You’re going to thank me. Don’t forget…”

  “I won’t,” she answered as she headed for the door.

  “The bagpipes, though. You have to admit I was right on the bagpipes…”

  She waved over her shoulder without turning away. But yes, she had to agree with him on those damn bagpipes.

  *~~*~~*

  Meanwhile, in Beauchamp Place’s drawing room, Rose stared at the envelope her mother held in both hands. “Oh no.”

  “Yes, my sweet girl, yes.” Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp was all but dancing in place. Which, given that she was not a petite woman by any means, was most out of character. It could only mean one thing.

  “The vouchers for Almack’s?” Rose asked hesitantly. “I got in?”

  “You did.” Her mother did a tiny little quickstep of delight. “I have the response here. I have your voucher here.”

  “But I don’t want to go…”

  The response slipped out before she could stop it, and Rose realised immediately that it had been a grave mistake. Her mother’s eyes narrowed and her lips firmed into a thin line.

  “Now listen to me, Rose. And listen well. You must marry. You must find yourself a husband, and soon, because in a year’s time you’ll be well and truly on the shelf. So this is it, young lady. There will be no shilly-shallying around. You will go to Almack’s, we will review the potential candidates available this year, and your Aunt and I will work very hard on your behalf, trying to find you an acceptable husband.”

  “But Mama…”

  “Be quiet.” Her mother frowned at her, clearly getting angrier by the minute. “You are not a nodcock, Rose. You are a member of Society, albeit around the edges…”

  “The very edges,” mumbled Rose.

  “Be that as it may, the notion of marriage should not come as a surprise. Why, you attended Miss Fairhurst’s wedding only weeks ago.”

  Rose’s eyes met her mother’s. “Judith is head over heels in love with Sir Ragnor. Anyone can see that.”

  “Judith is one of the fortunate ones.” Her mama’s response was firm and dismissive.

  “And as soon as Ragnor takes a mistress, that will change.” Aunt Imelda strolled in. “It’s inevitable.”

  “No.” Rose remained unmoved. “No. Not Ragnor and not Judith. I refuse to accept that.”

  “Silly girl,” her aunt seated herself gracefully. “All men want from a wife is an heir. Keeping the line going and all that rot. Rid yourself of the notion that love is involved, my dear. That’s best kept between the pages of one of the current crop of novels.” She cast a sly smile at Rose. “Or, of course, for the gentleman you yourself might favour, after you’ve produced the requisite offspring.”

  Sickened at the thought, Rose sank down on the couch, trying to swallow her disgust at what she heard from both women. Part of her knew that what they said was true; but most of her rebelled against that truth. “Darling, this is difficult.” Her mother sat next to her and took her hand. “Both your aunt and I want the very best for you, you know that, I hope.”

  Rose nodded, but kept silent.

  “We will do all we can to find you the right husband. Someone who will take care of you, give you a good life and perhaps even share your interests. We’re not monsters, just family who love you.”

  Rose closed her eyes. She knew what her mother said was true. They did love her. But the future they outlined for her was dictated by Society, convenience, finances and matters that were far removed from the only one that mattered to Rose.

  “I’d hoped to fall in love,” she whispered. “I’ve seen too many marriages where the only things that counted were superficial.” She
opened her eyes and looked at her mother, then at her aunt. “I want to have a happy life. If that’s silly, or being a nodcock, then I admit to both. But I don’t see how I can be happy with a man I do not love.”

  The two women exchanged glances.

  “I am not naïve,” continued Rose. “I know what the world is like and yes, I’m aware of what is expected of me. But you two also know that I have…I am…slightly different. Have you taken that into consideration? How are you going to find me a husband that can accept it?”

  Mrs Glynde-Beauchamp stood and looked down at her daughter. “By not mentioning it, of course. No point in scaring off an eligible suitor by telling him his future bride has an odd quirk in her…personality.” She shook out her skirts dismissively. “Now then. I must make a list of the new gowns you’ll need, and your Aunt can begin looking through Debrett’s to make sure we know all the gentlemen available this Season. These things take effort, time and thorough research.”

  Rose knew that tone in her mama’s voice. It was the one that said, “I have important work to do.”

  So she nodded and kept her thoughts to herself. She couldn’t tell them she was going to go upstairs to her music room and stay there for the rest of the day, but that was indeed her plan.

  And when she finally walked through the door and shut it behind her, the sigh of relief came from her heart. All was as it should be in here. The notion of finding a husband she could love didn’t seem outrageous.

  The idea of being happy, of being with a man who loved music as much as she did and understood her passion for it…that didn’t seem outrageous either.

  She crossed to her chair by the window, picked up her harp-lute and settled it on her lap, strumming it and smiling. It was still perfectly tuned. She could tell that in an instant, not just because she’d been blessed with perfect pitch, but because the colours were right as well.

  *~~*~~*

  Someone else also had music on their mind a little later the same day.

  “Good afternoon, my Lord. A pleasure as always.”

  The bell on the door of the small shop tinkled as Miles closed it behind him. “Hullo, Selwyn. How are you keeping?”

  “Well, thank you, sir,” answered the short man, pushing his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. “How can I be of service today? A new concerto perhaps?” He waved his hand toward a shelf where thick sheaves of sheet music lay in neat rows.

  “Hmm, not today,” returned Miles, who wasn’t exactly sure himself what had brought him here to Nota Bene, an unassuming little shop that he patronised regularly.

  “How is the pianoforte sounding?”

  “Your recommendation, Selwyn, was spot on. Thank you. Master Girodamo tuned the beast to perfection. Now it makes my poor attempts sound good. Even the cat stays in the room.”

  Selwyn laughed, as Miles intended. He truly was grateful, since although his musical skills were modest, he had a good ear and disliked anything that was just a smidgen off key. Which thought took him back to the musicale and Miss Rose’s acuity in catching an operatic error.

  “Do you happen to have a harp-lute?”

  The little man blinked, then rubbed his bare scalp. “Well now. That’s a surprise. More for the ladies, that kind of thing is.” He nodded across the room to one corner. “We actually had an instrument come in the other day. Apparently the lady who played it passed away and her family didn’t want it anymore.”

  “How sad,” commented Miles, strolling to where Selwyn had pointed. “This is a pretty piece indeed.”

  He picked it up carefully, noting the elegant curve of the sound box and the miniature curve of the harp-like top where the strings were attached. “Any provenance on this one?”

  “It’s a Wheatstone, I believe,” Selwyn adjusted his glasses. “But they’re going out of style, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “These things come and go. I’ve heard more ladies are now taking lessons on either the harp or the pianoforte. Prices are dropping on both.”

  “Is that a problem for you?” Miles asked out of curiosity, still admiring the harp-lute.

  “Not really. Our major source of income is our sheet music.” He straightened his shoulders proudly. “It’s well known that only Nota Bene gets the first copies of any new and important pieces. Even the Prince’s courtiers come by and enquire about our latest arrivals.”

  “And I’m happy to hear it,” nodded Giles. “No matter what the instrument, it will always need music. No matter what the orchestra plays, it has to have the music.” He replaced the harp-lute carefully on the shelf.

  “Isn’t that the truth,” observed Selwyn. “I hear that the Season’s musicales got off to a good start.”

  “Indeed. Fortuna was magnificent as always.” Miles browsed, his eyes wandering over all the fascinating pieces of bric-à-brac that Selwyn had accumulated or inherited over the years. A thought occurred to him. “Tell me, do you have any music for the harp-lute? Anything new that might not have become generally available yet?”

  Selwyn paused a moment and put down the cloth he was using to polish a flute. “Well, now you come to mention it, I believe I might.” He pushed away from his desk and moved to a table just to the side of the dusty window. “One of the smaller music distributors dropped this over last week. Only two or three copies though, since demand for sheet music specifically for that instrument is fading. Now they’re trying to use regular music for the harp.”

  “Sounds like a bit of a challenge,” said Miles.

  “Unless you’ve perfect pitch, I should think it’s damned hard.” He fussed over a couple of bundles, then finally emerged triumphant. “Here you are, my Lord. The latest piece for harp-lute.” He adjusted his glasses again and scanned the first page of the bundle, moving aside the ribbon securing the papers together. “A short air, by the looks of it. Could be the melody for a nice song, I’m thinking.”

  “Is this from a composer known to you?” Miles didn’t ask lightly; Selwyn’s reputation within the limited field of music scores was top notch.

  “No, sir. These things often come in without attribution, in case they don’t sell well. But I will say that the compositions I got last month did quite a good business and I did re-order several copies for customers. I’m hoping this one will prove to be as successful.” He sighed. “But they can’t compare to the interest in new pieces for the pianoforte, of course.”

  “That will always be popular, I’m guessing,” agreed Miles. “But I believe I’ll take this.” He lifted the harp-lute score from Selwyn’s hands. “I met someone who plays recently. I’d like to see what she thinks of it.”

  Selwyn nodded. “Excellent. I’d like to hear that myself.”

  “As soon as I get an opinion, I’ll let you know.”

  Miles left the shop with his package, neatly tied and wrapped in brown paper, tucked beneath his arm. All he had to do was to work out a plan to get it to Miss Rose, without her mama thinking that it was obviously a prelude to a proposal.

  He sighed.

  Mothers could be the very devil.

  Chapter Four

  “I can’t wait.” Lydia Davenport put her teacup back on the saucer and looked eagerly across the table at her friends. “It’s been quite some time since we were all together at the Sydenhams.”

  Rose nodded in agreement. “Things are getting started again, that’s for sure. I’ve already been to one musicale.”

  “How was it?” asked Ivy Siddington, the third at their table. “The Derby affair, right? How was Fortuna?”

  “Magnificent,” sighed Rose. “Just magnificent.”

  “Meet anyone exciting?” Lydia leaned forward. “Any eligible gentlemen?”

  “Oh please,” said Rose, exasperated. “Don’t you start. My mother and aunt are bad enough. Time to find you a husband, dear. You must be thinking about marriage this season, dear. Anyone would think I’m on the verge of drying up into a useless husk and blowing away.”

  “We’re all suffering from that s
ame disease, Rose,” commiserated Ivy. “I spent most of the Christmas season closeted with my grandmother, going over Debrett’s. She’s trying to make a list of potential husbands.”

  “Oh lord,” groaned Lydia. “I have to thank Fate for filling the house with politicians over the holidays. They kept Mama and Papa busy enough and away from that topic.” She sighed. “But I know it’s looming over me. A sword of Damocles about to drop on my head and cleave it asunder.”

  Rose raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit dramatically Shakespearean, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” answered Lydia. “But part of our festivities involved putting on an abbreviated version of one of the Bard’s plays. I still have his couplets haunting my nightmares.”

  “That sounds like fun,” observed Ivy. “Which play? Since it was December, probably not Midsummer Night’s Dream, so maybe As You Like It?”

  “King Lear,” replied Lydia, in a voice of gloom. “Damned depressing.”

  The other two girls agreed to the point where no comments were necessary, and Rose spent a moment trying to imagine a festive version of that tragic play.

  She gave up. “Well, be that as it may, we’re all here, all back in town, and ready for the Wednesday Club’s first gathering.”

  “That’s right. Although I’ll miss Judith…” Ivy sighed. “And I confess I envy her Sir Ragnor. He was quite delicious.”

  “The most important thing,” Lydia leaned toward her friends, “is that she loves him.” She sat back. “And God forbid any of our parents should hear that, because apparently the tender emotions are barely considered when picking a husband.”

  “I don’t want that to be the case in my marriage,” said Rose firmly. “I’ll fight tooth and nail if I have to. I refuse to marry someone because they’re convenient or appropriate. I want someone who will…who will give me shivers.” She leaned forward in her turn. “Someone like Sir Desmond Deville in that book…”