Chapter Seventeen #2
Lady Townes exhaled forcefully and tossed her head.
“Rumors. And knowing the women, I’d question who seduced whom.
” Her eyes sparked with anger and perhaps pain that struck Ophelia as disproportionate to the discussion.
“That is all I will say on the subject. Mr. Cameron is perfectly safe for Ophelia. And Robin knows it. I can’t imagine why he would malign him like that. ”
“Perhaps he—”
“To be fair,” Ophelia interrupted her sister, “he didn’t say Mr. Cameron could not be trusted. He merely said that I should be wary of his reputation.”
“Perhaps he’s worried about scandal, any scandal, touching too near while he’s courting Lady Elizabeth,” Dessie said, undeterred, dancing closer to the point.
This time, Lady Townes’ reaction was telling. Her mouth drew tight and her eyes narrowed. She started to say something, then stopped.
Dessie pressed, “Do you think that explains it?”
Lady Townes picked up her tea. After a sip, she laid it down and said, “I don’t think the Barringtons would give any thought at all to what Eli is up to.”
Dessie furrowed her brow thoughtfully. Ophelia worried her sister might just overstep the bounds and ask directly if the Barringtons could be concerned about Trentham’s reputation.
She reached for her teacup and knocked it over.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry.” She daubed at the spot on the carpet with her napkin. “I am terribly clumsy.”
“It’s nothing,” Lady Townes assured her. “My housekeeper can clean any stain.” She cleared her throat. “Have you been to see The Magic Flute? Robin has a box at The Gaiety and asked me to accompany him tonight. He’s going alone, I gather, because he told me to bring guests if I liked.”
It sounded like a deliberate change of subject. As deliberate as spilling tea.
“Ophelia and I would be delighted,” Dessie said. “But I’ll have to check with Lynch to see if he’s free. Do you suppose Robin has asked Mr. Cameron?”
“I doubt it. Apparently, he invited Lady Elizabeth and her mother. But they said they’d just been.”
Ophelia and Dessie exchanged glances. Ophelia’s heart dipped. Lady Elizabeth was obviously trying to sidestep Trentham’s courtship. And he was still avidly pursuing her.
Lady Townes tapped her chin. “Eli would make a lovely addition, but I would leave it to my brother to invite him. They may be quarreling, which could explain why Robin would have been insulting. They are still like two schoolboys sometimes.”
“Oh, well. Boys.” Dessie stood. “Thank you. This has been a lovely visit. I hope you will call on me soon. We have to get back to the house before Mr. Cameron arrives for Ophelia’s lesson. But we’ll see you tonight. At least, Ophelia and I will.”
*
Mr. Cameron arrived punctually at three o’clock, dressed severely in a dark gray jacket and trousers, and carrying a thin black case. Dessie offered tea, which he declined with a terse smile.
“I am not a guest, Lady Lynchford. Thank you, but Miss Delancey and I should go straight to the music room. And will your abigail attend us?”
Dessie harrumphed her displeasure. “Yes, I’ll send Milly in straightaway.”
Ophelia tried walking side-by-side with him to the music room, but he seemed determined to remain two steps behind. And when they entered the room, he directed her to the piano without so much as a smile.
He set his case on a chair near the piano. “Sit on the bench and show me your posture, Miss Delancey.”
He’d seen her play before. He knew how she held herself. But she did as he said.
“Very good. Now play a D Major scale. Keep playing until I tell you to stop.”
Milly walked in with a basket of sewing. A momentary distraction only. She seated herself quietly in the back of the room.
“Go on, Miss Delancey,” Mr. Cameron said, without acknowledging their chaperone.
Over and over she played, until he stopped her and assigned another scale. And another. Her fingers began to ache, then grew clumsy.
Mr. Cameron tsked. “You may stop.” He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned. He stuffed it back. “How often do you practice your scales?”
Her face heated. “Not—not very often.”
“It shows.”
She was miffed, but he was right.
“Every morning, every morning, do these exercises for at least half an hour before you play anything else.”
Ophelia nodded. Scales bored her to tears, but she understood their importance. In theory. She wanted to ask if he still warmed up like this, but the new version of Mr. Cameron intimidated her. Besides, his answer would be of course.
“Now,” he said, a pensive frown on his face. “One minute.” He retrieved his case and fished out two pieces of sheet music, untitled. He set them before her. “I’d like to see you sightread.”
She scanned the score. When he cleared his throat impatiently, she began to play.
It was a moderately difficult piece that she did not recognize.
Still, she made very few mistakes as she plowed through it.
When she reached the end of the second page, she glanced up, expecting his nod. Not his grimace.
“What did I do wrong?” she asked.
“You played with your eyes, your brain, and your fingers. Where was your heart?”
“My…?”
“Stand up. Step aside.”
She slid from the bench and moved away, taking note, as she did so, that he did not simply sit down beside her.
“Now, pay attention,” he commanded. He commenced to play.
Her eyes jumped from his fingers to the score and back again.
He missed a few notes and struck one wrong chord.
But it didn’t matter. She heard the beauty of the piece.
The raw emotion. By the time he finished, she felt breathless.
Had he held out his arms, she would have collapsed into them.
“But you’ve played this before,” she complained weakly.
“No. I have not.” He stood. “That would be cheating.” A hint of a smile softened his mouth; then he grew stern again. “And it would not have made my point. Which is that technical proficiency is one thing, Miss Delancey. But talent is something else.”
Ophelia’s face fell. She was used to people praising her talent.
He sighed. “I can teach technical proficiency. You will improve. But I can’t teach passion.” The little smile appeared again. “Fortunately, I have heard you play the harp. I know what you are capable of. I need you to bring that passion to the piano.”
She nodded, although she still felt defensive. “But don’t I need to play correctly before I—”
“No. Although I have no doubt that is what you’ve been taught. But it’s wrong. Play with passion. Feel the music. Then, with repetition, the right notes will come.”
Maybe it worked that way for him. She had always been told to learn the piece and then infuse the feeling. The only emotion she would be capable of displaying while hitting the wrong keys would be embarrassment.
“Let us play a duet to finish today’s lesson. Shall we?” Mr. Cameron said, his tone kinder. “You take the lead on your harp. We’ll play Trentham’s piece.”