Chapter Five
Ophelia sat in the morning room, soaking a scone in her tea.
Morning rooms were supposed to be sunny places, but windows could not fetch in sunlight when there was none to be had.
What a dreary place London was. After a few moments, she tried again to crack the scone between her molars, to no avail.
“I must go to Montreal,” she muttered, dropping it back into her dainty porcelain cup where it sank, stone-like, to the bottom.
She heard footsteps and turned.
“Oh, Lord, don’t eat those,” Dessie said, pulling her wrap tighter.
She had not yet dressed for the day. It reminded Ophelia of early mornings at home, except that here she was already bathed, tidied, and entirely presentable.
Because this wasn’t home. She was a guest. “Lynch’s aunt sends them over by the gross.
I swear her cook was Admiral Nelson’s victualer and those are left over from Trafalgar. ”
“Dessie—”
“So how does it feel to have your dreams come true?” she asked, leaning against the back of Ophelia’s chair. It was not her usual teasing voice. Rather, she sounded reflective.
“My dreams?”
“You were invited to practice with Mr. Cameron.”
Pshaw. That was not important now. She twisted around to face her sister squarely. “Dessie, are you increasing?”
They had not had opportunity to talk last night because Dessie had dozed off in the carriage. Ophelia had scarcely slept for wondering. It didn’t seem fair that Lynch could know and she didn’t, which was ridiculous, of course. Yet even so.
Dessie nodded. “At least, I’m pretty sure I am.
Lynch is having his physician come around to see me this morning.
I can’t imagine what Dr. Ballantine could tell him that I haven’t already, but it will make Lynch feel better.
” She shrugged. “I have to get dressed, but I wanted to talk to you first.” She put a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder.
“I was going to tell you as soon as the doctor agrees with me.”
Ophelia tried to smile. “Congratulations.” Unfortunately, tears flooded her eyes, the worst possible response to her sister’s good fortune. “I’m sorry, I am delighted for you. I just—”
“I know!” It was Dessie’s favorite expression; one that always sounded cheerfully surprised whether she was happy, furious, or miserable.
Dessie bent down to wrap her arms around Ophelia’s shoulders.
“It isn’t…nothing is how…well, frankly, Daddy didn’t think things through! ” She straightened, frowning.
“What are you talking about?”
“You know. His whole spiel. We were ‘princesses.’ Half my life, I honestly believed that. I thought that we would both marry princes, brothers, I suppose, and live in castles in the English air. The princes were always vague, shadowy things. The important part of the dream was that you were there too.”
Ophelia nodded, a lump growing in her throat. “But that was just fantasy.”
“Well, you realized it much sooner than I did. I actually thought it was a plan, until my debut, when I looked around and saw the same old boys. But even then, it only slowly dawned upon me that Daddy could not just sail us to England, drop us off in St. James’s Park in pretty clothes with bags of money at our feet, to wait for lords to happen by.
You need connections to mix with the ton.
You need a sponsor. You need a bloody clue how English society works. ”
“You need to not say ‘bloody.’”
“Well, that was true even in New York.” Dessie half smiled. “I was vexed with Daddy, but more so with myself. You were not waiting for the magical day we sailed away to find our princes.”
“No. I held onto an even more ludicrous dream. Until I resigned myself to being a patroness of the arts rather than a virtuosa.” She had been working with a wealthy friend to establish a National Conservatory of Music in New York, promising funds for scholarships for women.
She was proud of their work, even if, privately, she’d thought of it as giving up.
“And I resigned myself to, I don’t know, Winslow Vanderdyke.”
“Eeew! You did not.” Not even thirty, and the unfortunate Winslow already had jowls like a bulldog. Yet he was “old money” New York, so he thought Dessie should consider herself fortunate that he deigned to court her. If his mother let him.
“But then, Lynch came to New York and found me.” Dessie’s voice softened and her eyes misted.
“It was meant to be. I married my prince after all.” She dropped into the chair next to Ophelia’s.
“But now I am at ‘happily ever after,’ and I can’t be happy because I am increasing and the baby will be born and you will be an ocean away. ”
“Oh, Dessie.”
“I would have told you first, Lynch or no Lynch,” she fretted. “But yesterday morning I was sick on his shoe.”
“That sounds more like something I would do.”
“I know! Doesn’t it?”
Dessie leaped from her chair to pour herself a cup of tea from the pot on the sideboard, ignoring the platter of scones.
“Lynch is not wild about the name Ophelia for a daughter, I’m afraid. He wants something—”
“Less tragic?” Ophelia and Desdemona. They used to say they couldn’t imagine what their parents had been thinking. Until she and Dessie began planning to name their firstborn daughters after each other. But that now seemed silly too.
“Yes,” Dessie said, glancing over her shoulder, “but I told him I’m not crazy about Laurence for a boy.”
Laurence. “I’d forgotten that was Lynch’s name. You never use it. Why do you call Trentham ‘Robin’ but not Lynch ‘Laurence’?”
“Laurence?” Dessie’s nose wrinkled. “You can’t be serious.”
Ophelia laughed. Dessie did not. With a wistful expression, she came back to the table, fragrant teacup in hand, and slumped beside her.
“Ophelia, will you stay?”
“Stay?”
“I shouldn’t ask it. I know. It’s too much. Six or seven months, probably. And then, afterward, even if things go well, I wouldn’t want you to leave.”
“Dessie.” She put her hand on her sister’s arm. “Everything will go well.”
“Of course. But—” She bit her lip.
Their mother had died giving birth to their brother, who had not survived. Their father had never really recovered. Neither had they, she supposed. She’d never seen Dessie afraid of anything, until now.
“You know I’ll stay. You only had to ask. So long as Lynch doesn’t mind.”
“He will be thrilled.” Dessie rubbed her eyes as if to clear them, then looked up and smiled.
“Oh, thank you, thank you. I feel ten stone lighter. Now it is happily ever after. I can believe so, anyway. But what about you? I mean, now that you have promised to stay with me rather than disappear into the European wilds on tour with Mr. Cameron?”
“I was never going on tour with Mr. Cameron.”
“He’s taken with you, though. And this whole ‘patroness of the arts’ thing—”
“I’m not going to buy myself a pretty piano player.”
“He is delicious to look at, isn’t he? Especially with that tortured lover look on his face, bent over the keys.”
“You are not allowed to look anymore.”
Dessie sipped her tea and peered over the rim, eyeing her. Twinkling. “Of course, Elias Cameron doesn’t hold a candle to old bird face.”
“He isn’t really that bird faced.” Lud. She hadn’t meant for her voice to go mushy.
Dessie cocked an eyebrow and set her cup down. “No. He’s a handsome devil. And a composer, apparently; I’m certain that didn’t slip your notice. I don’t know why he’s so embarrassed about it.” She squirmed in her chair. “But I wasn’t entirely joking when I called him a rakehell.”
“Don’t be silly. He’s a duke. Naturally he’s done dukish things.” She didn’t know what, exactly, “dukish” things might be, but they couldn’t be any worse than what young American wastrels got up to. And the British were probably more polite about it.
“Listen to me. He has a past of some sort. And not just the usual actress here and there and exploits with gin. He is…well, apparently there are more than a few peers who won’t receive him in their homes.
I don’t know what he did because Lynch won’t talk about it.
Not even to me. I’m not going to say stay away from him, because that’s melodramatic, but be careful. ”
“As if that didn’t sound melodramatic. Oh!” She threw her head back, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “Be careful, sister!”
While Dessie frowned, Ophelia tried to picture the bemused man who’d watched her attempting to wrench open his window involved in anything wicked.
Impossible. She thought of the dignified, haughty man looking past her while he greeted guests who mattered.
A perfect prig. Scandal could not attach itself to that.
But to not be received? That was something.
“I’ll be careful.” She would. Because if there were two utterly convincing yet poles-opposite Dukes of Trentham, there could be more.
*
It was awkward having tea with Dessie and Mr. Cameron.
Trentham was not present. He had an “appointment,” which surely was less mysterious than it sounded.
But he must have given instructions to his staff before leaving because everything was set up for tea in the drawing room and Mr. Cameron certainly had not arranged it.
He was so befuddled, he dismissed the parlor maid too soon, and Dessie had to take over and pour.
The room was lovely, with a more feminine appeal than the music chamber or billiards room.
The wood moldings and trim were lighter hued, and the walls were papered in silk with a green floral design.
The chairs were delicate yet comfortable.
It was hard to picture Trentham folding himself into one.
Too bad he was not there to demonstrate how he managed.
Once they began sipping and nibbling, Mr. Cameron tried to enchant them with anecdotes from his tours, but the stories all reflected so well on him that they soon ceased to charm.
Moreover, it was disconcerting that the man never settled for long in one place.
He would be leaving for Prussia at the end of the week to take a position as music tutor to the British ambassador’s children.
It occurred to Ophelia, hearing the litany of his various far-flung engagements and short-lived posts, that this extraordinarily talented pianist must be living hand-to-mouth.
He would not say anything about Trentham’s composition, other than that he thought he’d only written the one piece, and if they had questions, they really ought to ask Trentham.
The man had loyal friends. Which implied he deserved them. So Dessie’s warning was just so much piffle.
They moved to the music room.
Mr. Cameron suggested warming their fingers at the piano and said she should go first. He propped several sheets on the music desk, and she played while he hovered at her shoulder.
He leaned in so close she could smell tea and a hint of gin on his breath.
Dessie failed miserably as a chaperone. She immediately curled up in an overstuffed chair and fell fast asleep.
The music he had chosen was technically rather difficult, but fortunately, it was a piece she’d played before. So it bothered her when he sucked on his teeth and shook his head, right next to her ear.
“That’s fine,” he said, meaning it wasn’t. “But it rather should be this.”
Reaching around her, he repeated the phrase she had just played. She could hear the difference. He was right. But when she tried again, hers sounded no different from the first time.
“What am I doing wrong?”
“Not wrong. It’s just this, here.” He tapped her little finger. “You have harpist’s hands. This poor little digit,” he stroked it, “has forgotten how to work.” A tingle ran up her arm. She didn’t want to be thrilled by a practice partner’s outrageous flirting…but this was Elias Cameron.
He played again. She could hear the emphasis on the notes his little finger struck, emphasis her playing lacked.
“My word,” she said. It had been a while since she’d played the piano for any length of time. “You’re right. What do I do?”
“Practice. Practice intentionally. Play it again. This time, hit those notes. Hard. Don’t worry if it sounds silly.”
She did. It did. She suspected he was biting back his smile.
“Or, you could try this.” He angled over her, chest to her back, arms enveloping hers, and played several measures of the song. This time, he altered his fingering rather drastically, not using his fifth fingers at all. He did not miss a note.
“Impressive,” she said, breathlessly. No, breathily, which was worse.
“Let’s try a duet.” He slid onto the bench beside her. Close.
She whisked off the other end, in her haste knocking a few sheets of music onto the floor.
“No, it’s your turn to warm up. I’ll turn pages.”
“All right.” He smiled up at her.
He was sly. And gorgeous, with his tousled dark hair and soulful brown eyes. Ophelia wondered how many girls fell for this. If she were three or four years younger, she’d fall for it too.
He shifted some of the paper left on the music shelf.
The piece he began was the Chopin Nocturne that he had played last night.
Very romantic. It evoked his “tortured lover” face.
He didn’t need to see the music; he hadn’t used it when he performed.
Nevertheless, she followed along to turn the pages, and to watch his technique, which was absolutely perfect.
He had long, slender, delicately tapered fingers.
Prettier hands than hers. He glanced up at her, with half-lowered lids and an inviting curve to his lips.
“Oh! Too much!” Dessie cried out. “Foul! Foul!”
Ophelia’s head shot up. Not only was Dessie upright, leaning forward in her chair, rapt, but Trentham was sitting on the arm of the chair. Glowering.
Ophelia jumped back, off-balance, hoping she had not been draped all over Mr. Cameron.
Her heel landed on the sheet music that she’d spilled, and the floor slid out from under her.
Flailing, with nothing to break her fall, she smacked into the window.
The latch had not only been fixed, but left unfastened.
The window flew open. And Ophelia tumbled out.