Chapter 9
The wooing. The wedding. I’m so glad you were there, even if it did make certain people cross.
LONDON, ENGLAND
He arrived, unannounced, on a soft Sunday afternoon. Inez had been practicing in her room, lost in some song she’d never noticed before, the melody of it drifting through her open window as inspiration sometimes did. Maybe from the clouds, maybe from the sun, or the trees. Unannounced, but welcome.
Normally, she’d practice in the parlor, but lately she’d begun to feel as if she was too much a distraction to the staff. A week ago, she’d overheard Mrs. Corbyn rebuking Della for lingering outside the parlor door while Inez had been pacing her way through Handel’s opening aria from Xerxes.
She was a child of peace, not strife. She never wanted anyone to get into trouble, certainly not over her playing, and so had retreated to the smaller, stuffier space of her bedchamber for practice.
Hence, the window being open.
Hence, hearing the motorcar tearing up to the curb, even past her song.
The motorcar was very loud. She tried to ignore it, but its engine grumbled and growled right beneath her sill. At last, irritated, Inez set down her violin and moved to the window. She leaned past the frame to gaze down at the street, waving a hand in front of her to disperse the petrol fumes.
It was a bright yellow roadster just below her, long and very shiny. The engine cut off. A man in a tan duster leapt out from behind the driver’s seat, his coattails flaring, his hair gleaming. He strode up the steps to her front door and beyond her view.
Inez pulled back, her fingers to her mouth. She looked blankly around the room, her same old ordinary room, her same old floral-print duvet on the bed, ceramic jug and basin, crocheted doilies draped along the rosewood bureau and chest and nightstands.
Her violin and bow atop the duvet, settling plush against the down.
The vanity mirror showed her a silvery hint of girl, summer shadows all around, since she’d lit no lamp to add to the heat. She rushed to it, bent down, and took a closer look.
Yes, all right, her hair was still mostly smooth and her eyebrows were fine and there were no smudges on her face. No stains down her bodice from the oxtail soup she’d had for lunch about an hour ago. She cupped a hand over her mouth and exhaled, and couldn’t smell the soup. So.
So.
A light tapping at her door.
“Miss? There’s a gentleman here for you. A Mr. Vernon?”
“Yes,” Inez said, drawing away from the mirror. She brushed a palm down her skirts, wishing she was wearing something more flattering than her lavender-sprigged muslin, as light as it was. “Very good, Della. I’ll be down directly.”
She descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, determined to reveal nothing by the squeak of the steps. He was waiting by the bay window in the parlor, the place she sometimes sat to watch people and horses and birds flit by.
“Mr. Vernon,” she said, and he turned with a smile.
“Inez. Would you care to come for a ride with me?”
He spoke as easily as if they’d just parted yesterday, as if they’d long planned to meet today, right now, in this room.
As if there had not been months and months of flowers and postcards with queer, foreign stamps and whimsical messages.
She’d never even had the chance to ask him how he knew where she lived.
“Yes,” she said. “Let me get my hat.”
IT WAS A fine day for a drive, with clear sunlight and hardly any breeze, except for the wind generated by the auto itself, zigzagging roofless along London’s congested streets.
He drove quickly, a little too quickly for Inez’s taste, but she said nothing, just clamped a hand on the crown of her hat and watched, wide-eyed, as the buildings and parks and carriages flit by.
He’d lent her a spare duster to cover her dress and suggested a scarf to tie down her hat, but the one she’d grabbed was a thin, pretty gossamer shot with gold threads. Even knotted tight beneath her chin, Inez worried it stood no chance against the wind.
“Where are we going?” she shouted over the noise, as the roadster swerved around a one-horse shay, the driver’s whip biting through the air like a curvy black snake.
“A concert,” he yelled back cheerfully. “One at the Lyra. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m not dressed for a concert!”
“Don’t worry. I know the management.”
“That’s not the point!”
“You’re ravishing.” He shot her a smoky look, his hair mussed, bright light sliding across his cheekbones and the line of his jaw. “As ever. Trust me, you’ll outshine every other lady around.”
He drew the roadster around the back of the concert hall, where a flattened stretch of macadam held half a dozen parked automobiles.
She shrugged out of the duster and untied the scarf, letting it dangle between her fingers.
As she was trying to figure out what to do with her hat—a picture hat, fashionable and wide-brimmed; she could hardly wear it inside—he plucked it from her fingers and opened up the boot of the auto, tossing it in, followed by the scarf.
She couldn’t help but notice the boot had no lock.
“But—” she began. The hat was new, plum straw topped with pink taffeta roses, hardly worn. She was very fond of it.
“No one will steal it. Trust me,” he said again.
He offered his arm. With a single, unhappy look back at the roadster, she tucked her hand through the crook of his elbow, allowing him to lead her to the rear entrance of the hall.
“George!” someone called out. He lifted his free hand in response without pausing, guiding her along a maze of barely lit corridors.
It was much cooler inside than outside; gooseflesh crawled up her arms and down her neck.
She could hear the orchestra warming up from somewhere nearby, men’s voices talking about scaffolding and trimming the lights.
“Here we are,” he said. They crept down a short flight of steps, pushed aside some curtains, and entered the auditorium itself, already filling with patrons. He escorted her to an empty pair of seats in the front row, released her arm, and gave a short bow.
Seats 19 and 20, her mind noticed, winding into a slow building dread, fixating on small details: 19 and 20, exactly in the middle of the row.
Inez sat down nervously, discomfited by her simple day dress, the locks of hair torn loose from her pins, when everyone else around them looked so sleek and polished.
Everyone here was so obviously prepared for a concert, when all Inez had prepared for was an afternoon by herself in her bedchamber.
She tried to smooth back her messy chignon, but it didn’t help. She needed a mirror. She needed a comb and pins and probably a lady’s maid at this point. It had been a rough drive.
“Hang on a bit,” George said in his nonchalant way. He hadn’t yet taken his own seat. “I just need to pop backstage a moment to freshen up.”
“Oh,” she said, rising. “May I come? If I could just borrow a mirror—”
“You’re ravishing,” he said again firmly, holding up a palm to stop her in place. “I swear it. Inez, or Leigh, I’ll be back soon.”
He was gone, swallowed by the curtains concealing the edge of the stage.
Inez sank back into seat 19. The orchestra was already in place, their chairs arranged around the conductor’s podium.
She watched the musicians tuning their instruments, practicing their notes, the strings, the brass, the woodwinds and percussion, her eyes instinctively following the movements of the first-chair violin, the concertmaster.
How, even though he was a slight man, he seemed bigger somehow than the rest of the group, more important.
She frowned at him, thinking, Focus! If she could just focus enough on the concertmaster, forget where she was, how she was—
The house lights lowered. The audience gave a faint smattering of applause. Inez looked around for George, but he still hadn’t returned. Then the conductor entered with quick hard strides, and the applause swelled.
She didn’t even have a program. She had no idea who the conductor was, as he didn’t look familiar, or even the name of the orchestra.
She tried to peek at the program on the lap of the lady next to her, but it was turned facedown.
All she could read of it was an advertisement on the back, framed in black lines: PEARSON’S BEST CLOTHES WRINGER!
STAY FRESH WITH THE BEST! DOUBLE WHEELS, DOUBLE COGS!
She rubbed her hands up her arms, fighting the cold. What was she doing here? Was George playing some sort of joke on her? How was she going to get home if he’d abandoned her here? She wasn’t even certain she had enough money in her reticule for a cab.
But then he was there, a silhouette looming before her, dropping down beside her into number 20’s blue leather seat.
“Apologies,” he whispered, leaning his head to hers as the conductor began his opening remarks. “I tried to hurry, but it’s miles of corridors back there. I had to trot in the end. I wouldn’t want to miss any of this.”
“Gracious,” she whispered back, amazed, taking him in. “You’ve changed entirely.”
And he had. Gone was the duster and lounge suit he’d worn beneath it; gone was the wind-mussed hair. He now wore a tailcoat with black silk lapels, white tie over a stiff linen collar. His hair was neatly brushed and oiled. His shoes shone polished ebony in the dark.
Inez clenched her hands against her armrests. “George! What on earth is happening?”
“… give you our celebrated tenor, Mr. George Vernon,” the conductor was saying grandly, gesturing toward the side curtains off to the left.
George pried free of her right hand and pressed a quick kiss to the back of it. He sprang from his seat and climbed the stairs up to the stage, as the conductor looked around, surprised, and the audience was once again stirred into applause.