Chapter Ten #2
“I want nothing of the sort,” Mrs Mifford sniffed, before turning to Mrs Pinnock to boast. “Though if anyone desires entertainment, I might play a piece on the pianoforte. I’m quite the accomplished musician.”
James observed a horrified glance pass between the host and hostess.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Lady Crabb protested at the exact same time as her husband blurted; “The piano isn’t properly tuned.”
“And the baby doesn’t seem to like piano music, Mama,” the duchess added, with a nod to her bump. “It sets her off kicking and I’m already anticipating dyspepsia after the blancmange.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have had a second helping,” the duke worried, earning himself a withering scowl. James hid a smile—even unmarried he knew better than to question how many helpings of dessert a lady partook in.
“It’s remarkable the things you know the babe dislikes before it’s even here,” Mr Mifford commented innocently. “By my count they include: your mother’s piano playing, your mother’s singing, and her famous bread-and-butter pudding.”
“It’s famous for a reason,” the marchioness observed, with a delicate shudder.
“Flora can sing!”
The whole room started as Lady Crabb—in a tone that was rather panicked—interrupted the exchange.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs Mifford agreed, pouncing on the suggestion. “I was just thinking it would be nice if Miss Bridges graced us with a song. Great minds, eh Jane?”
The viscountess nodded, her expression betraying equal parts relief and amusement.
“Miss Bridges has been blessed with a beautiful voice, Captain,” Mrs Mifford added with a pointed glance in James’s direction. Then, turning to a very red Flora, she waved her forward. “Come, Miss Bridges, show the captain—I mean, the company—what you can do.”
“Oh, really, I couldn’t—” Flora began, but she was drowned out by a chorus of encouragement from the guests.
“Oh, alright,” she agreed, clasping her hands together as though to steady them. She looked as if she might rather face a firing squad than their expectant gazes, James thought with a pang.
When at last she began, her voice was soft and uncertain, but it soon gathered strength. The ballad was a simple one—a sailor lost at sea, waiting for the tide that never brings him home.
The room grew still as her pure, sweet voice transfixed them all.
Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the brandy, but James felt the words pierce his very heart.
The lyrics reminded him of his own years afloat, of comrades who never returned, and of how close he himself had come to never seeing England again.
That such a song should come from Flora moved him almost beyond measure.
When the last note faded, there was a silence more eloquent than applause. Then, inevitably, Mrs Mifford broke it.
“How touching,” she said brightly. “It must remind you of your dear father, Miss Bridges.”
Flora’s lashes lowered, her fingers twisting together, perhaps thinking of the father she had never met. James longed to step between her and Mrs Mifford’s careless remark, to shield her from the curiosity of the room.
The company stirred, offering their compliments, but James hardly heard them. He could think only of how much he wanted to gather Miss Bridges in his arms.
“What did you think of that, captain?” Mrs Mifford asked pointedly.
“A voice that could still the roughest seas,” James replied firmly, catching Miss Bridges’ gaze and holding it far longer than was proper.
He hoped to somehow convey to her without words just how moved he was. Alas, Mrs Mifford interrupted.
“Something caught your eye, captain?” she enquired saucily.
Before James could frame a reply, Lady Crabb interjected with a bright smile and a steely tone. “What a wonderful evening this has been! I shall call for the carriage, Mama, before we quite tire our guests out.”
Her words carried a note of finality that even Mrs Mifford could not ignore.
The guests began to rise, each thanking their hosts for the wonderful evening and making their farewells.
“You must come to the next meeting of the Parish Ladies’ Society, Miss Bridges,” Mrs Mifford declared, clutching Flora’s hands.
“Mrs Canards had already invited me…” she replied, her tone doubtful.
“Oh, don’t let that put you off, dear. The rest of us are far less reptilian,” Mrs Mifford laughed, whilst her husband mimed covering his ears beside her.
The guests from the inn and Miss Bridges all followed Lord and Lady Crabb to the entrance hall, where a carriage awaited them outside the front door. It was decided that they would drop Flora home first and then the rest of the group would repair to The King’s Head together.
James followed Miss Bridges into the carriage, a pang striking him at the thought of their imminent parting. Yet it did not quite dull the thrill of having her pressed close beside him on the bench, while Mrs Pinnock boomed cheerfully to the compartment about her plans for the next day.
When the carriage halted at the gates of Brackenfield, James disembarked to assist Miss Bridges down. Her gloved hand slipped into his, light yet steady, and he relished the brief contact.
“I’ll be calling on your grandmother tomorrow around noon,” he told her softly. “I hope you’ll be there.”
“I will,” she promised.
Their eyes met and James felt his breath catch as if she had stolen it away like a mermaid luring a sailor beneath the waves.
And then, far too soon, she was gone, her hand slipping from his. The absence of it left him feeling oddly, uncomfortably bare.