Chapter Eighteen
The Musicale at Mrs. Drummond-Burrell’s Home
Searching through the dresses in the oversized cherrywood armoire, Valentina gushed over Madame Brigitte’s latest creations.
“Absolutely, this one.” She pulled out a deceptively simple empire-style silk in pale seafoam with tiny, puffed sleeves. Velvet ribbons in deep turquoise crisscrossed the bodice and met underneath the breast, and a sheer net in a slightly darker blue-green fell over the skirt.
“There is a perfect shawl to match in my dresser. You might be a trifle cold while traveling, but it will be worth the sacrifice. And wear your aquamarines. I’ll send Betty to dress you and do your hair when I’m finished.”
Valentina frowned, sifting through the basket of accessories on Fiona’s dresser. “I do believe there is—yes! Madame B sent some matching ribbons for your hair. Shall we do it à la Grecque? I love that style for you! Up off your neck and wound with ribbon, with some smaller curls around your face?”
“I’m too intimidated to disregard your taste in fashion.”
“And you never should,” Valentina announced in Miss Ernest’s strictest manner, then spoiled it by giggling. “Now, I need to find something beautiful for myself that will still keep you the brightest star. After all, it is your night.”
“Do you know how wonderful it is to have a sister, after growing up an only child, mo chara milis?”
Valentina responded with a fierce hug. “I feel the same, dear friend. I’m sorry for the circumstances that brought you here, but we’re so glad you came to London. Now, see to your preparation, and I’ll go to mine. It will be time to leave before you know it.”
At six o’clock, they met Lady Amelia in the atrium. “Oh! I must fetch my sheet music,” Fiona realized.
“Let me look at both of you first,” Lady Amelia ordered. Valentina spun in a circle, adding a curtsy at the end. She wore a gossamer sarsenet in her favorite powder blue with delicate lace across the bodice and sleeves. Fiona stopped and curtsied, lifting her skirts with care.
“Ah, perfect. You both deserve extraordinary matches. Perhaps you will see Viscount Atterbury tonight, Valentina.”
“I expect so.” Valentina sounded less than enthusiastic. She handed Fiona a cream challis shawl embroidered with irises in a pattern of intricate celadon leaves.
“Now, dear, I have told you often that fondness grows with time. After all, how can you be in love with someone you barely know?”
Fiona examined the soft wool, hiding her blush. She barely knew Richard, yet she could not deny the attraction between them. “Valentina, this is exquisite…are you sure you don’t wish to wear it yourself?”
“Not when it matches your gown so perfectly. Richard brought it as a gift from Paris, and a similar one for Mama. Do wear yours, Mama…it will complement your gown wonderfully.”
“Why don’t you lend me your cape, and I’ll ask Betty to bring it for you to wear. You know how I hate the cold.”
The ride seemed interminable, though they had only traveled to St. James’s. Fiona wondered if her butterflies were for the performance or from the possibility of seeing Richard.
The Burrell home, a grand red brick affair on the corner of Grosvenor Place, stood crowded with carriages and blue-and-silver liveried footmen in attendance.
Alighting, Lady Amelia shook out the folds of her mauve dress and straightened her lace cap.
Fiona and Valentina, lifting their skirts from the street, followed her to the entrance where a doorman with a powdered wig opened the ornate wooden doors.
A flood of light and noise poured from within. Fiona immediately looked for Richard, but she didn’t see his tall figure anywhere near the entrance hall.
Mrs. Drummond-Burrell met them at once, wearing wine velvet and sparkling with diamonds.
“My dears, how kind of you to come. Miss Rafferty, I was thrilled when Lady Sefton told me you would play for us. Shall I take your music and set it by the piano? It’s a Sauter, imported from Germany. Peter insisted on it. Ah, here he is.”
“Can’t wait to hear you play, m’dear. Lady Amelia, I don’t see your son. Is he still at Seldon? I hear he has the odds-on favorite at Newmarket next week.” He took a pinch of snuff from a lacquered box.
“Richard will join us later. And as for his horses, you know I am hopelessly ignorant about that aspect of my son’s life, Mr. Burrell. I can only hope he shows more restraint than his poor father.”
“Your Creighton was a superb rider, Lady Amelia. By God, to see him run with the hounds was something. If only Lord Rayburn had not dared him to take that stone wall…it had to be five feet, at least.”
“No more such talk, Peter. You know it saddens Lady Amelia,” his wife interrupted. “Miss Rafferty, I have you last on the program, with five artists to perform before you.”
“Of course, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. It’s my pleasure to play for you and your guests. Thank you so much for asking me.”
“Have you someone to turn pages for you, dear?” Mrs. Drummond-Burrell asked, as Mr. Burrell drifted off to greet newcomers at the door.
“I see Denys Spencer,” Valentina offered. “He is speaking with Miss Winston and her mother over by the fireplace. Surely, he’ll oblige. I would turn the music, Fiona, but it is more fitting for a gentleman to attend you.”
“Excellent. I shall find your mother some seats. We start at seven thirty.”
Fiona wandered with Valentina into the huge drawing room.
An impressive piano graced one corner, surrounded by chairs, and she assumed this would be the setting for her performance.
Portraits and gilt-framed landscapes hung on the walls, with scattered furnishings throughout the room.
Denys Spencer sat on a rose-striped settee next to a pretty, walnut-haired young lady and her overdressed mother.
“Annalise Winston and her designing mama have had their sights on Denys this Season. I vow the girl squints,” Valentina whispered.
Fiona looked closer, but she could detect no flaw in the fair Miss Winston. She scanned the room, hoping to see Sir William. He stood in a far corner, conversing with a florid man in naval uniform. She wondered if he had suffered any repercussions from her ill-advised behavior on their ride.
When they approached, Denys took leave of Miss Winston and her mama to greet them. “May I say you both put the rest of the room to shame?”
“Even Miss Winston?” Valentina asked archly. A slight tinge of color appeared on Denys’s cheeks. “Will you turn pages for Fiona, Denys?” Valentina asked. “I can’t imagine what has become of Richard.”
“Of course.” Denys smiled warmly.
Fiona managed to catch Sir William’s eye, and he crossed the room toward them.
“Miss Rafferty, I hear you are to play for us tonight. Good evening, Miss Merrick, Mr. Spencer.”
Denys inclined his head politely, but his expression was cool. “Good evening, Sir William. I see you have come to support Miss Rafferty’s performance.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Miss Merrick, I hope you’re recovered from your indisposition?”
Valentina tapped his arm with mock reproach. “You, Sir William, are not in my good graces. Riding alone into Hyde Park with Fiona was really too bad of you.”
“Fiona was entirely to blame,” William assured her.
“You wretch,” Fiona choked.
“Since I know my friend well, I’ll allow that there wasn’t much you could do,” Valentina conceded.
A bell chimed, and the guests moved to their chairs.
“Oh, we’re starting. Where is Richard?” Valentina fretted.
Denys offered his arm. “Come, let me take you to Lady Amelia. I promise when it’s Fiona’s turn to play, I’ll assist her.”
Sir William escorted Fiona. “Are you nervous?” he whispered.
“Heavens, yes. And there are five to perform before me.”
“I would be worried if you were calm. A bit of nerves will enhance your performance. Good luck.”
The first performance began as Fiona opened up her program.
She glanced at her name near the bottom of the page, Miss Fiona Rafferty, piano, barely hearing the first vocalist, a young lady whose strong alto faded in and out of key.
Fiona concentrated on her pieces, visualizing the notes and the placement of her fingers.
Next, Miss Gunstead played her Schubert violin sonata quite well, and after her, an older woman sat down at the piano to play some charming folk songs.
She was followed by two singers—first, a soprano with a lovely, somewhat thin tone and good range; and then a handsome blond gentleman with a fine baritone.
In her estimation, the best pieces were the soprano’s delicate rendition of Handel’s Ombre Mai Fu and his stirring Toreador Song.
As the baritone finished to enthusiastic applause, Fiona removed her elbow-length gloves, flexing and stretching her fingers. She stood, waiting for Mrs. Drummond-Burrell to introduce her, and was dismayed to find her legs trembling.
Courage, she told herself. It’s no different from recitals for far harsher audiences. The instructors and fellow musicians at the Dublin Conservatory were brutal with critiques. She looked over at Denys and he smiled in encouragement.
As she made her way to the platform, Fiona heard a slight stir behind her, but she ignored it, sat, and regarded the piano. She was sure the whispers were about her unfortunate ride with Sir William. She had already gotten some chilly greetings and a few speculative stares.
When a hand placed the pages of the Beethoven sonata in front of her, something made her look up. With a start, she saw Richard and her heart leaped in her breast.
A small smile played about his lips. “Did you think I would miss your performance, Fiona? You will be extraordinary.”