Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
“And what about your hobbies? Do you enjoy hawking?” Dowager Duchess Caverton’s eyes glittered as she leaned on her walking stick, eyeing Vivian up and down.
It had been several days since Vivian had had her conversation with Thomas, and though she had tried to think about what he had said to her, her mounting anxiety at the Dowager Duchess’s birthday party had driven it from her mind.
It was the first time she would be at one of his family events, after all, and with how kind Thomas had been to her, she wanted to return the favor.
I do not want to embarrass him. Vivian had quizzed not only Thomas but also Andrea and Charlotte relentlessly on the Dowager Duchess and had been feeling reasonably confident about the encounter. She knew her tea preference, favorite color, and hobbies by heart.
Unfortunately, Vivian had not anticipated the woman asking her questions about herself.
“I have never been hawking,” Vivian admitted, forcing herself not to look at Thomas, who was standing with his cousin Cecily a little way away from them.
Mother did not think it a suitable interest for a lady.
“Never? My understanding was that Lord Brookes had a rather wonderful aviary on his northern estate.” The Dowager Duchess’s eyes narrowed.
And perhaps if they had deigned to take me up north, I would know this. Vivian swallowed, sensing that sharing this would not endear her to the Dowager Duchess.
“My father and mother were often busy, and felt it more important that I focus my attention on what would be needed to be a good wife. Things like embroidery, painting, managing the household finances.”
The Dowager Duchess’s smile thinned just a little more. “And yet you must have other interests, other desires outside of that. What about wine? What kind of wine do you enjoy?”
“I have not given it a great deal of thought.” Vivian nearly shrugged but remembered how much her mother had hated the motion and could almost hear her voice chastising her.
I suspect she would be furious about this entire interaction.
“Perhaps red? No, maybe white. I… It depends on my mood.”
“You do not sound convinced.” The Dowager Duchess pursed her lips. “Though I suppose one’s taste in wine is not the most important thing. I myself, prefer whisky.”
“I have never had it.” Vivian had not thought it possible to feel more awkward, but apparently it was.
It took all of her effort to keep smiling as her mind desperately searched for a way to use all she had learned in this conversation.
The Dowager Duchess tapped a finger against her lips. “What about riding? Thomas is a very skilled rider, you know, and there is some lovely countryside near Elington castle.”
“I have ridden before, but not often. I did not have access to a horse.” Vivian bit her lip. “I enjoyed what little I did of it.”
“Hardly a passionate answer.” Thomas’s grandmother nodded to herself. “What does ignite your passions?”
“My passions, your Grace?” Panic swelled within Vivian.
“Yes, surely you must have something which stirs your heart. Something you wish for above all else?” She canted her head toward Vivian, her blue eyes pinning her to the spot.
“I enjoy poetry. And the theater.” They were the first things she could think of, but neither felt like a true passion, and from the look on the Dowager Duchess’s face, it was clear the woman did not believe her answer.
“I see.” The Dowager Duchess did not even have a ghost of a smile on her face, and Vivian felt her stomach twist itself into a knot. “Very well. Perhaps you might discover something while you are here.”
Her tone made it clear she was not convinced such a thing would occur. Vivian tried to think of something to say, to draw on some of the information she had gathered, but her mind was unhelpfully blank.
By the time she thought of something, the Dowager Duchess had walked off, leaving Vivian standing alone.
The only way that could have gone worse would have been if I had stamped on her foot.
She forced herself to stand up straight and moved back toward Thomas, who was still talking to his cousin.
“I know you are only saying that to wind me up, but really, Tommy, you need not be disingenuous.” Cecily shook her head, pursing her lips. “You are quite as bad as Grandmama sometimes.”
How is it that all the women in Thomas’s life are so effortlessly beautiful? Cecily even managed to make her frown somehow inviting, and she seemed so sure of who she was and what she wanted. If I could be more like her, perhaps that conversation would not have been such a disaster.
“I am being no such thing, Cece. I am speaking the truth, plain and simple.” Thomas made an emphatic gesture with his hand before looking to Vivian.
As he opened his mouth, she could tell he was about to ask her how it had gone with his grandmother, and not wishing to relive her embarrassment quite so soon, she said, “And what has Thomas done to provoke you?”
“He insists that poetry is the most transformative art form. That it is the only thing that can capture the complexities of human emotions, of our experience, our wants, and our desires.” Cecily gave Thomas an exasperated look. “Never mind that novels and paintings also do such things.”
Vivian tilted her head toward Thomas. “I have always thought that such things were best expressed in music.”
“Music evokes feelings; it does not describe them.” Thomas shrugged. “It is too abstract, in my opinion, to give form to thoughts.”
‘Always agree with him; that will win him to your cause.’ For a moment, she nearly gave in to her mother’s voice in her head, but then she pushed it to one side.
I do not have to trick him; I do not want to.
“But surely that is the point? Most concepts are abstract rather than universal. Music captures the abstract and makes it real, transcending the limitations of language.”
“I will grant you that prose is limited, but poetry is not.” Thomas brushed his hair from his forehead. “Poetry plays with language to create meaning, using both words and form to create the image, to capture the feeling and lay it on the page where all might see it and know that it holds a truth.”
“I had not realized you were such a romantic at heart.” Vivian teased. “However, there is a flaw in your logic. Poetry in and of itself is limited by language and literacy.”
“Not true. One does not need to read to experience poetry. In fact, the reading of the poetry aloud often makes its meaning clearer.” Thomas grinned at her, his eyes flashing.
Vivian felt her heart race as she shook her head. “Or the interpretation of its meaning to the speaker. After all, the tone, timbre, and intonation can make all the difference. It is the speaker who evokes emotion, not the poetry itself.”
“And does that not also happen with music? The performance of one piece can greatly vary from one conductor to another, each pulling out the themes and motifs he feels most relevant.” Thomas countered.
“And yet he cannot control how people will respond to the piece. He cannot control what feelings the notes will evoke, what melodies will remain long after the music has stopped.” Vivian tilted her chin up, meeting Thomas’s appraising eyes.
“If you insist that poetry is the truest expression, then why do we have songs?”
“Songs are just poetry set to music.” He made a dismissive motion with his left hand. “You are proving my point.”
“Yet if you remove the melody, are they as impactful? I think not. You can hear someone recite the words, but to hear them sing them is to add a depth of meaning that words alone cannot do.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“And yet, when young lovers court one another, they write poetry. They do not write songs.” The smugness on Thomas’s face stoked Vivian’s irritation.
We shall see about that. She rolled out her shoulders.
“Perhaps that is because poetry is an easier composition than music. I expect that if music were easier to send to one another, then lovers would send each other songs that made them think of one another. In fact, I am fairly certain an earl once did something along those lines for his intended.”
His eyes widened, and he took a step closer. “Exactly. If music were truly better at this, we would find ways to share it more easily. Yet we do not. We opt for poetry because we think in words. It speaks truth in a way that music cannot.”
“Just because something is easy or popular does not make it better.” Vivian did not back away from him; instead, she took a step toward him. “It simply means more people are doing it.”
“Music is entirely too woolly, too vacuous to drill down into the specifics of the human condition.” Thomas’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “Poetry, on the other hand, gets right to the heart of the matter.”
Vivian arched an eyebrow at him, placing a hand on her chest as she thought of the last moving concert she had been to. “Music speaks to a primal part of us. A concerto can take you from the very heights of euphoria to the depths of despair and back to joy.”
“And you think poetry cannot?” Thomas’s brow furrowed.
“I think that there are some things that lose their magic when we try to confine them with words.” Vivian was so close to Thomas now that all she could smell was amber.
She watched his mouth open, every muscle tense as he prepared to respond, ready to counter. Her heart raced, blood pounding through her body. She could see from his expression that he was enjoying this just as much as she was.
“Your wife makes an excellent point, Thomas,” the Dowager Duchess said from behind them, making everyone whip around. “Besides, you have not considered the most important thing.”
Vivian blushed furiously. How did I not hear her approach? She swallowed as the Dowager Duchess continued to look at her, as though she were a book that had fallen open to a particularly interesting page.
“Which would be?” Thomas asked, and Vivian noticed a faint flush to his cheeks.