Chapter 9
“Come now, Crispin, you must sing for your supper,” the duchess insisted.
Hermia winced. How she wished she could stop her mama, but one could not stop the traditions of the Duchess of Westleigh. It had been something that her mother had begun when she had first started hosting afternoon teas at Heron House.
Only certain people were allowed to come, and those people had to prove to the duchess that they were worthy of being in her company. Of course, it was always done in good fun.
But the truth was the Drexel title seemed to be a bit stiff. Hermia had now officially met his mother and his sister, and both of them looked about as welcoming as a prickly burr. Still, it could be worse. After all, she might have had to live with them, but she never would.
She would soon have her own cottage, and all would be well with the world. She would have to spend very little time with them, the poor things. She didn’t wish hardship on them and her presence would not doubt grate, for they were so different. The pair of them made their own lives hard enough as it was.
Crispin stood quite surprised in the salon, a teacup held in his hand. He looked about for guidance. “I beg your pardon? I am not a particularly good singer.”
“Oh, and we don’t wish you to sing, Crispin,” the duchess explained, clapping her bejeweled hands together as all her children watched and waited.
“No, my lord,” Hermia added. “That is not required. Any talent that you have will be allowed.”
“I see,” he said carefully.
“Not today,” her mama said grandly. “Not any talent.”
Hermia swung her gaze to her mother, suddenly worried. “I beg your pardon, Mama.”
Her mother’s eyes lit with anticipation. “I have something particular in mind for Crispin.”
“Mama,” she warned, “you mustn’t be unkind to him. He will run away.”
The earl’s mother’s gaze swung from person to person. Though she tried to hide it, she looked as if she had sucked on a particularly tart lemon.
Her mother tsked. “Oh, Crispin does not look like the kind to turn tail. Are you, my lord?” the duchess asked.
“Of course not. Anything you set out for me, I shall endure.”
“Ah. Careful,” her mother warned. “I might set out something for you as difficult as Jason or Hercules.”
His lips twitched at that. “I do hope not. They both had rather gruesome ends,” he pointed out.
Her mother’s face lit with happiness. “Oh, thank goodness, you do know your Greek stories. My husband would have approved.”
He smiled again, his shoulders beginning to relax under the fine cut of his dark coat as if he was finding his footing.
The truth was every boy worth his salt had had it drummed into them. Hermia, due to the nature of her parent’s beliefs that girls should be as educated as boys, also knew The Iliad backwards and forwards.
Still, he seemed to warm particularly to this line, and she found that promising.
“What sort of thing would you have me do?” he asked amiably.
The duchess grinned, all but bouncing with pleasure. “I’d like you to do a speech.”
He folded his hands behind his back and looked relieved. “I do speeches all the time. What would you like a speech on? Corn prices or the state of things in America, or the rights of women?”
“Oh, no,” the duchess cut in with a wave her hand, the lace at her elbow dancing. “I hear those things all the time. I am in profound favor, of course, of the rights of women. Mrs. Wollstonecraft has spoken in this very room. But this is different,” she said and paused.
That paused filled the room.
Crispin leaned forward, awaiting his fate.
“I’d like you to read Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare?” he echoed.
His mother let out a slight note of impatience.
“I adore Shakespeare,” Hermia’s mother said, ignoring the countess.
“Yes, I know,” Crispin replied, looking slightly doubtful now.
“Good,” she said. “We often put on family plays.”
He blanched.
His mother blanched.
His sister blanched too.
“You do?” he queried, the idea seeming alarming to him as if she was going to ask him to put on hose and do Hamlet.
“Oh, yes,” her mother purred. “And you have a good form, Crispin. So we should expect you to play many heroic parts.”
Hermia choked back a laugh.
Her mother was having far too much fun with him and mercilessly. For it was evident that the earl was not accustomed to such things. It was probably a good thing because if Crispin did wish to retreat, he should do it now. Even so, this testing of a person’s character was rather fast, even for her mother.
“I am amenable,” he said, though his voice was a bit strained. “I’m assuming I know the speech in mind.”
“Do you?” her mother asked, her brows rising.
“Of course,” he said. “You wish me to do ‘We Band of Brothers, We Happy Few’.”
“No,” she stated.
“No?” he queried.
“No,” the duchess affirmed. “I should like you to do Romeo.”
“I beg your pardon?” he coughed.
“Romeo,” she reiterated.
He shifted on each foot, looking about for support, certain this had to be some sort of jest. “A history play would be, I think, far more in keeping…”
“A history play would be easy for you. You are an important man with a name that is already recorded in the annals of history. And I’m aware that you give speeches in Parliament. They’re decent speeches as well. Westleigh told me. He’s heard you.”
“Romeo it is then,” the earl agreed.
And as if she had been waiting for this very moment, Hermia’s mother slipped a slim volume from the table beside her and trotted over to Crispin. “This is what I wish you to read. I’ve marked the spot.”
He opened it, scanned the pages, and if his eyes could have gone any wider, they would’ve done. Still, he was a formidable fellow. And he did not wilt.
“Hermia, my love,” her mother began, holding out her elegant hand. “Come here.”
“Mama,” Hermia warned, wondering what the devil her clever mama was about. “I do not wish to do a scene from Romeo and Juliet,” she said pointedly. “It has a terrible ending, and I still don’t understand why you named Juliet after Juliet, given the fact that…”
“Yes, my dear, yes,” her mother soothed. “You all question my reasons for doing things, but I promise you there is always a good reason in the end.”
Juliet watched, amused.
Many a time, Juliet had also done scenes in this room, though usually not from the play which she was named after.
Juliet folded her arms just under her breasts, plumped up by her pink silk gown, and tried not to laugh.
Hermia stared at her twin, arched her brow, and mouthed, “Don’t you dare.”
Juliet grinned at her and winked.
She supposed it was only fair for Hermia to have a turn in the fire.
“All right,” Hermia relented. “Mama, if this is what you want, we will indeed sing for our supper.”
She crossed to Crispin, immediately drinking in his rich scent which caused her senses to dance. She willed her senses to obey.
Hermia looked up at Crispin, then turned her gaze to the opened page. She scowled. “Not this scene, Mama.”
“It’s just a little one,” her mother pointed out.
She supposed it could be worse. At least it wasn’t the lark scene.
“It is the most beautiful piece of poetry,” her mother enthused, explaining her thoughts to Crispin. “You see, Shakespeare wrote it not as a bit of dialogue, but as a poem. And I’d like to hear you two read it… To see how you do.”
Crispin took in a long breath, resigned.
Hermia bit her lower lip, then whispered, “You don’t have to—”
Then, much to her amazement, he smiled slowly at her and then began the passage.
And as he continued talking about holy palms, and kisses, and saints, and hands doing what hands did, and lips too, she was astonished to find that his voice was beautiful.
Her heart did the most astonishing skip, and she felt as if she was melting before him. Melting into pleasure and a sort of giddy excitement.
Once he finished his section, she began Juliet’s answering lines. And the truth was it was one of the most perfect pieces of poetry ever written.
He lifted his gaze to hers and she smiled at him, for she had not expected such full animation.
When they reached the end of the passage, her mother lifted her hands and applauded.
“Oh, well done, my lord,” she exclaimed. “Well done. That was far better than I ever expected.”
But the poem seemed to have had a strange effect on the earl.
He gave a nod and closed the book quickly.
Hermia cleared her throat. The warmth she’d felt was beginning to fade.
“And I?” his mother drawled tersely. “Am I to sing for my supper too, to please the duchess?”
Hermia’s mother turned to the lady and said calmly. “Well, of course.”
“I will not read Shakespeare,” the countess said flatly.
“I did not expect you to,” the duchess returned without rancor. “What would you like to do?”
The countess hesitated. “I suppose…”
“Mama,” Gillian suddenly rushed. “You must sing.”
The countess looked at her daughter with a strange stare. “No, my dear, no. They don’t want to hear me sing.”
“Of course we do,” the duchess said brightly. “Your daughter seems very proud of you for your ability.”
The countess tensed but then relented. “For the good relations of our families uniting, I shall do as you ask, if I must.”
“Indeed, you must,” the duchess said with a surprisingly friendly smile. “I’m eager to hear you.”
Without urging, Gillian went to the pianoforte at the end of the room and easily sat. She began playing a beautiful melancholy song.
The tragic notes filled the air, rich with passion and so full of beauty.
Hermia waited to hide a wince. For few could sing this particular song well. But the moment the earl’s mother parted her lips and began to sing, the entire room paused, captivated by her voice. It was so shockingly beautiful—like being taken suddenly into heaven when one was expecting to walk the mortal realm—that no one could speak.
In fact, the room hardly drew breath.
Suddenly, it struck Hermia that this was to be her mother-in-law. This strange creature who seemed so displeased with the world and yet could channel sheer bliss. When the song came to an end, everyone stared, paused, quiet.
But the quiet was one of awe.
The countess folded her hands before her and looked about in alarm. “Oh dear. Have I committed some sort of faux pas?”
And then the duchess began to clap. “Brava. Brava, my lady. I have not heard the like in all my time in London, not even at the opera.”
The countess hesitated for a moment and then she smiled. “I have always loved singing. It is one of my rare pleasures. And when I was in Paris, I did study…”
The duchess gasped, noting such an impressive thing. “My goodness, what a treat that must have been.”
“It was. I lived there before Marie Antoinette came to marry Louis, but I had the good fortune to visit the court of Versailles many times. My husband, the earl, always remained here. In the country. He far preferred his hounds—” And then the countess stiffened and a sadness overtook her. “They were the happiest days of my life.”
The awkward phrase came out quickly, and they all realized how very sad most of her life had been.
“I understand. I understand,” the duchess said, coming forward and taking the countess by the hand. “It is a wonderful sort of freedom that you must have had. And you were in Paris at the height of so many exciting things.”
“It’s true,” the countess said, her visage softening. “I’m glad you understand. But I never performed upon a stage.”
“Not even in the private theater of Marie Antoinette?” the duchess asked.
“How did you know?” the countess asked, her voice pitching up.
The duchess looked upon the countess with respect as an artist and said, “I have known many people who performed for the Bourbon court. And of course, those performances were considered to be legendary. Did you enjoy it?”
The countess hesitated ever so slightly and then admitted, “I did.”
It was very odd. Hermia had expected the countess to be bitter, to be unkind, to make her life hard, and yet this opportunity to perform in such a small setting seemed to have done something entirely different to the countess.
“Shall we take tea now?” the duchess asked.
“Indeed,” the earl said, stunned by is mother’s exchange with the duchess. As if he had never heard such things from his mother before.
And then Hermia’s brother, the duke, strode in.
The entire room altered, for he was larger than life. And it was as if he knew he was a god amongst mortals.
And she adored him.
When he stopped and stood, everyone gave a slight bow or a curtsy, as befitting a man of his importance, even though he was family.
“Were you waiting for me?” Westleigh teased. “Shall I recite a limerick?”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “You have just missed the most transporting piece of music by the Countess of Drexel.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, turning to give her a bow. “A compliment from my mother on such a point is quite something. She never ever says something is good unless it is excellent.”
The countess’s cheeks turned pink, and she looked pleased, though embarrassed. Was this the woman who had stared at them so displeased the night before?
Was there, in the woman’s heart, a performer wishing to break free? It was an interesting idea, but as soon as that smile had touched the countess’s face, it vanished again. And she crossed the room and took Hermia by the hand. “You will sit by me, my dear, because I wish to find out just what sort of wife you shall be to my son. For we must make sure society is pleased.”
Hermia wanted to say she didn’t give a drat about society, but such a thing would not be politic. Such a thing would be very ill-advised, and she knew that these next few moments could prove most difficult. But the truth was she did not care what the countess thought, and she never would.
Not truly. And given the fact that Crispin wished to unite with her family, he did not either.
Just as the countess pulled her aside, a crow flew into the room, circling.
The countess let out a scream.
“Never fear, Countess,” Hermia insisted. “It is my sister Perdita’s bird. She rescued it.”
“Filthy beast,” the countess spat out.
“They’re actually quite clever and work best in a group,” the duke replied.
“Much like us,” Juliet put in.
“Thank goodness it wasn’t her ferret,” the duchess sighed.
“F-ferret?” the countess stammered.
Hermia fought a groan. She prayed the countess didn’t faint.
She looked to Crispin, expecting horror. Instead, he looked… He looked as if he had not had so much fun in years.
And Hermia’s heart soared.