Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The carriage wheels hit a particularly vicious pothole, jolting Hugo against the padded seat hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Christ,” he muttered, steadying himself. “Remind me why we couldn’t simply send our regrets?”
“Because Cassandra is one of my dearest friends,” Sybil replied, though something in her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced by her own reasoning. “And because this is our first public appearance as a… properly married couple, not just pretense.”
Properly married. Such a delicate way to refer to the fact that we’re now sharing a bed.
“Besides,” she continued, adjusting her gloves, “it’s only one evening. How terrible could it be?”
Anthea, seated across from them in the hired carriage, let out what could charitably be called a snort. “How terrible indeed.”
That doesn’t sound promising.
“Anthea,” Sybil warned.
“What? I’m simply agreeing with our dear duchess. One evening of… music. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Hugo didn’t miss the way she emphasized the word ‘music’ like it was something distasteful she’d found on her shoe.
“You’re both being dramatic,” Sybil said firmly. “Cassandra has been practicing for months. Her violin playing is quite accomplished.”
“Her violin playing, yes,” Anthea agreed with suspicious sweetness. “It’s her cousins who provide the… challenge.”
“Challenge?” Hugo found himself asking though he suspected he’d regret it.
“Well…” Anthea settled back in her seat like someone preparing to deliver particularly juicy gossip.
“Lady Margaret has never met a note she couldn’t flatten.
Lady Elizabeth seems to believe volume compensates for accuracy.
And dear Lady Catherine… bless her heart…
she plays the cello like she’s strangling a chicken. ”
Good God.
“That’s uncharitable,” Sybil protested, but her voice lacked conviction.
“It’s honest. There’s a difference.” Anthea’s smile was sharp. “Though I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it, Your Grace? You’re married to our Sybil which means you’ll be attending this… concert annually. For the rest of your life.”
Hugo felt something that might have been panic claw at his chest. “Annually?”
“Oh yes,” Anthea continued with obvious relish. “It’s tradition. Lady Cassandra and her cousins perform every spring without fail. They consider it their contribution to London’s cultural Season.”
Their contribution to London’s suffering, more like.
“Hugo,” Sybil reached over and placed her hand on his arm, “you’re looking rather pale.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just… preparing myself mentally.”
“For what?”
For what sounds like musical torture disguised as entertainment.
“For an evening of culture and refinement,” he said diplomatically.
Anthea’s laugh was distinctly unladylike. “Oh, you poor man. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The carriage drew to a halt outside the Burrow townhouse which blazed with light from every window. Hugo helped both Sybil and Rosalie from the carriage, noting how his daughter practically vibrated with excitement about the evening’s musical entertainment.
“Now remember,” he murmured to Rosalie as they approached the front steps, “this is not a debut ball. You’re here as part of our family, with proper supervision.”
“Yes, Papa,” Rosalie replied though her eyes sparkled with anticipation when she spotted Lord Pemberton among the arriving guests.
“Remember,” Sybil murmured as they made their way up the front steps, “Cassandra is nervous about performing. Whatever happens, we must be supportive.”
“Of course,” Hugo replied though privately he was wondering if ‘supportive’ included applauding music that made his ears bleed.
Lady Cassandra met them at the door, resplendent in pale blue silk that complemented her blonde curls. She looked radiant with excitement and what Hugo was beginning to suspect was blissful ignorance about her cousins’ musical abilities.
“Sybil! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. And Your Grace, how wonderful that you could attend.” She practically bounced on her toes. “We’ve been practicing so diligently. I do believe this will be our finest performance yet.”
Their finest performance. God help us all.
“I’m certain it will be… memorable,” Hugo replied which was probably the most truthful thing he could manage.
“The music room is just through here. We’ve arranged chairs for everyone, and there will be refreshments afterward.” Cassandra beamed at them. “Oh, I do hope you enjoy chamber music, Your Grace. There’s something so intimate about a small ensemble, don’t you think?”
Intimate. Yes, there’s definitely something intimate about being trapped in a small room with bad musicians.
They followed her through to what had once been an elegant music room but was now packed with chairs arranged in neat rows. Hugo estimated perhaps forty people total—enough to make escape impossible but small enough that every wrong note would be clearly audible.
“Oh, and I see young Lord Pemberton is here as well. He mentioned he might attend this evening.”
“Where is Rosalie?” Hugo asked, scanning the crowd.
“I believe she’s in the ladies’ retiring room with Miss Pemberton,” Sybil replied. “They seemed to be getting along famously.”
Before Hugo could ask further, the room began to quiet as four women took their places at the front. Lady Cassandra looked serene and confident with her violin. Her cousins… well, they looked enthusiastic, which Hugo was beginning to suspect was not the same thing.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lady Cassandra announced, “we’re delighted to present an evening of chamber music beginning with Mozart’s String Quartet No. 1 in G major.”
Mozart. At least they’re starting with something civilized.
The first few notes were actually quite pleasant—Lady Cassandra’s violin sang sweetly, carrying the melody with genuine skill and feeling. For a moment, Hugo allowed himself to relax.
Perhaps this won’t be as bad as Anthea suggested.
Then the other instruments joined in.
Dear God.
What emerged from the front of the room could only generously be called music.
Lady Margaret’s second violin seemed to be playing an entirely different piece, flat and discordant.
Lady Elizabeth’s viola sounded like she was sawing wood with great enthusiasm but little skill. And Lady Catherine’s cello…
That poor cello. It sounds like it’s crying.
Hugo glanced at Sybil, who was maintaining a polite smile through what appeared to be sheer force of will. Her knuckles were white where her hands were clasped in her lap.
“Cassandra really is quite good,” she whispered so quietly only he could hear.
“And the others?” he whispered back.
Sybil’s smile became strained. “Well… they’re very enthusiastic.”
Enthusiastic. That’s certainly one word for it.
“Can they hear themselves?”
“Apparently not.”
The torture—for torture it surely was—continued for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Mozart’s elegant composition had been transformed into something that would make the composer weep. Or possibly rise from his grave to put a stop to it.
Hugo looked around the room and was amazed to see that most of the audience appeared to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Either London society was collectively tone-deaf, or they were all much better actors than he’d given them credit for.
Or they’re all thinking about the refreshments afterward.
The piece finally—mercifully—came to an end. The applause was polite but enthusiastic, and Lady Cassandra beamed with pride.
“Thank you so much,” she called out. “We’d like to continue with a selection from Haydn…”
There’s more.
Hugo closed his eyes and tried to think of England. Of his duty. Of the fact that his wife cared about these people, and he cared about his wife.
For Sybil. I’m doing this for Sybil.
But as Lady Catherine’s cello began what could only loosely be described as an attempt at Haydn, Hugo found himself wondering if love really did conquer all.
Because if it did, surely it wouldn’t sound this painful.
During what Lady Cassandra announced as a brief intermission, Hugo leaned over to Sybil with the desperation of a drowning man.
“I need air,” he muttered. “Before I do something we’ll both regret. Like standing up and requesting they stop.”
Sybil bit her lip, clearly torn between loyalty to her friend and sympathy for her husband’s suffering. “It’s only been twenty minutes, Hugo.”
“Twenty minutes? It feels like twenty years.” He stood abruptly, offering his arm. “Come. A brief walk in the garden. For my health.”
“Your health?”
“My sanity, then.”
“Very well,” Sybil whispered, gathering her shawl. “But we can’t be gone long. People will notice.”
They slipped out through the French doors at the back of the music room, escaping into the blessed quiet of the Burrow’s garden. The contrast was so stark that Hugo actually groaned with relief.
“Good God,” he breathed, loosening his cravat slightly. “I thought I was going to suffocate in there.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sybil protested though her voice lacked conviction.
“Isn’t it? That last piece… what was that supposed to be?”
“Haydn’s String Quartet in D minor.”
“Haydn’s probably spinning in his grave.” Hugo guided them down a gravel path lined with roses. “How long have they been inflicting this on London society?”
“Hugo!” But she was laughing now, the sound bright in the evening air. “You’re being terrible.”
“I’m being honest. There’s a difference.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “How do you stand it? Year after year?”
“Well…” Sybil looked around to make sure they were truly alone. “I usually sit near the back. And I’ve become quite good at making mental lists during the performances.”
“Lists of what?”
“Household supplies we need. Letters I should write. Ways to improve the orphanage curriculum.” She grinned up at him. “Tonight, I planned next week’s menus three times over.”