Page 15 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

Thursday – Seven days remaining

‘I’m not sure I can do it.’

It was after dinner the following evening. The party had retired to the drawing room as they always did, and Lydia and Pip were drinking their tea in a pair of armchairs positioned at a little distance from the rest of the group.

‘I’m not sure you need to,’ Pip said. ‘ Look at him.’

Across the room, Ashford was seated next to Lady Phoebe on a low sofa, looking distinctly careworn.

As well he should. This past day, Lydia had launched an attack of unparalleled magnitude upon Ashford’s defences.

From breakfast to dinner, over toast and blancmange , she had interrupted him, misunderstood his witticisms, claimed an ignorance on any topic he raised and referred to him as ‘your grace’.

Twice. From the clumsy to the frankly ludicrous, no stone had been left unturned in a siege so thorough that even Reeves had a wary look in his eye when he regarded her.

‘And yet he will not jilt me,’ Lydia said. ‘I need to do something to push him over the edge, Pip.’

Still, she was not certain she had the wherewithal to carry out what she was considering next. It was Aunt Agatha’s most serious rule, and the only one Lydia had never had any difficult following.

‘I would have to be very brave,’ she said.

‘It is everyone else who will have to be brave.’

‘Do you have any other ideas?’

They were running out of time.

Pip did not answer. Lydia followed the direction of his gaze to where Lady Morton and Lord Hesse were deep in conversation.

‘Conspiracy,’ Pip identified darkly, raising his quizzing glass to regard them.

‘Mere flirting,’ Lydia said, shaking her head. ‘I think she just does it to irritate Lady Hesse.’

‘A ruse, perhaps.’

‘There was nothing in Hesse’s chambers,’ Lydia reminded him.

Pip had managed to scour both Lord Hesse and Miss Hesse’s chambers while everyone was enjoying a nuncheon that morning.

‘I shall try Lady Morton next,’ Pip said. ‘She’s practically dripping in jewels.’

Indeed, as Lady Morton turned back to face the room, Lydia could see a glint of rubies at her ears, throat and wrists.

‘Doesn’t that prove she can buy her own?’ Lydia wondered.

‘There are other motives for theft,’ Pip said waspishly.

Lydia opened her mouth to argue but was forestalled.

‘Shall we have some music?’ Lady Morton suggested. ‘We could do with waking up a bit.’

Lydia straightened up, a rush of nerves prickling down her spine. Here it was. Her chance, if she was brave enough to seize it.

‘You cannot,’ Pip hissed in her ear. ‘Fact is, cannot let you.’

‘It would be the perfect distraction for you,’ Lydia whispered. ‘You might slip upstairs while everyone is watching.’

Pip hesitated, clearly torn.

‘Everyone is here,’ she said, ‘and the servants will all be at dinner, now.’

‘Do you intend to entertain us, Lady Morton?’ Sir Waldo said, with a wag of his eyebrows.

‘Oh, you scallywag,’ Lady Morton said. ‘I am far too old for such exertions, as you well know.’

She smoothed her hands coquettishly down the closely fitting bodice of her cerise gown.

‘I cannot allow you to utter such falsehoods, my lady,’ Hesse said dramatically.

‘She did attend your christening,’ Lady Hesse told her son, twisting a smile in Lady Morton’s direction. Lady Morton narrowed her eyes.

‘I think music a famous idea,’ Lady Phoebe interceded hastily. ‘Don’t you think, Ashford?’

‘Perhaps something soothing?’ Ashford said. He was leaning his head against the back of the sofa, uncharacteristically slovenly. At dinner, Lydia had concluded the meal with a lecture on her grandfather’s factory, and he had yet to recover.

‘Cynthia!’ Lady Hesse said. ‘Go and fetch your music.’

Miss Hesse gave a tiny, tired sigh.

‘Miss Hesse has entertained us three nights in a row,’ Mr Brandon pointed out lightly. ‘Is she not fatigued?’

Was anyone going to ask Lydia? This was one scenario in which she could not barge blindly in. When word of this got back to Aunt Agatha, and word would, indeed, travel far, she wished t o be able to say, ‘ They insisted , I could not refuse again without seeming ungracious!’

‘Oh, she’s used to it, poor thing,’ Lady Hesse said. ‘When one has a voice that sweet, one can’t hide it away.’

‘Are you certain, Miss Hesse?’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘I should offer but—’

‘No, no,’ Sir Waldo protested. ‘You cannot subject us to such caterwauling, it is too cruel.’

Lady Phoebe flushed.

‘Twenty years of lessons, and she cannot hold a note,’ Sir Waldo declared to the room with a fatuous chuckle. ‘Not at all the thing for a Governor’s wife!’

‘I recollect your voice being rather fine, my lady,’ Dacre said, in quiet support.

‘You only say so because yours is even worse!’ Sir Waldo said. ‘Perhaps the two of you should duet! That would wake us all up a bit.’

He slapped his thigh, laughing.

‘Not kind, Waldo,’ Lady Phoebe said, though Dacre – giving an infinitesimal shrug – did not appear to have minded.

‘I am jesting, my dear.’ Sir Waldo patted Phoebe’s knee. ‘You need not take everything so seriously.’

‘Perhaps Miss Hanworth would like a turn?’ Mr Brandon said, smiling at her.

It was perfect. It was horrifying. If this did not cause Ashford to jilt her, nothing else would. She looked to Pip. He took in a deep breath and nodded.

‘I should be honoured,’ Lydia lied, her mouth very dry. She did not, even now, know if she could do it.

‘I do so love to sing,’ she said, and felt herself stand as if she were not quite in control of her own body. ‘I’d sing every day if I could – but you will have to forgive me – my skill is not the equal of Miss Hesse’s.’

Never had a statement been truer.

‘You mustn’t worry,’ Lady Hesse insisted. ‘Cynthia has the privilege of a unique gift and several excellent masters – we should none of us be so unjust as to compare you.’

‘How kind you are.’ Lydia inclined her chin modestly.

‘Splendid!’ Sir Waldo clapped his hands together.

‘Have you any music?’ Lady Phoebe asked. ‘Ought someone fetch it for you?’

‘I’m afraid I brought none,’ Lydia said, entirely truthfully – for not in a thousand years would she ever have thought it would come to this. ‘I shall have to play from memory.’

She stood and approached the pianoforte as if she were ascending the gallows, sat down before it and ran her hands over the keys in apology for what she was about to do.

Pip, at the back of the room, slid out of the door.

Ashford, placed in a chair quite near the pianoforte, had his eyes fixed politely on her face, entirely unaware of what was about to happen.

Lydia took in a deep, deep breath and opened her mouth …

To say the past few days had been trying for Ashford would be an egregious understatement. In truth, his cousin’s house party – previously an event he associated with good conversation, excellent food, and the promise of relaxation – had begun to assume the proportions of a nightmare.

Every ounce of forbearance, patience and politeness he possessed had been brought to bear – strained and taxed and challenged as Miss Hanworth, his affianced bride, had tested h im in ways he had not known were possible.

Indeed, Ashford’s nerves, a concept he had not previously believed in, might never recover, and yet he had remained outwardly calm throughout.

He had retained a sense of positivity, weathering Sir Waldo’s disapproval and Lady Phoebe’s consternation, certain that the assessment of her character he had made those six weeks ago, could not have been so wrong, still sure that the Miss Hanworth he had previously known would soon re-emerge. She had not.

But the moment she began to sing, Ashford felt whatever vestiges of hope that remained leave his body in one fell swoop.

It was not just the timing – a nervous young lady, performing in front of veritable strangers for the first time, could be forgiven for coming in a few beats ahead of where she ought – nor the inadequate mastery of the pianoforte, which had surely never known its keys to be jangled so aggressively in its lifetime. Those he might have explained away.

It was her voice. At turns a coarse rasp a full octave lower than the song required, punctuated by shrill screech whenever the song required a high C.

And the song required many, many high Cs.

In the second verse, some of Miss Hanworth’s nerves appeared to have dissipated, and she became louder, more assured.

But volume held no virtue for her, and the audience pressed themselves back into their seats, as if this extra distance would provide respite.

Even those with the hardiest constitutions among them looked faint.

By the time the song appeared to be entering its final verse – Ashford had never noticed it had quite so many before – he felt as if he had lived a thousand lives. It was quite possible, in fact, that he had already died, and this was hell – pure, unending hell.

But worse was still to come.

For the final chorus, Miss Hanworth – who had thus far kept her gaze fixed upon the keys of the piano, as if she was trying very hard to get each one correct (and wasn’t that a horrifying thought?) – lifted her head and looked straight at him.

Before today, Ashford wouldn’t have said he particularly believed in the power of music to convey meaning.

He was much more struck, on the whole, by literature and he certainly wouldn’t have thought the simple country ballad Miss Hanworth was currently butchering – the tale of a country maid looking for her lost sheep – had any deeper meaning other than the literal.

And yet, as he stared, almost mesmerized, into Miss Hanworth’s eyes – as still as if she had turned him to stone – he felt a vision come upon him.

I do so love to sing – I’d sing every day if I could , she had said, just minutes before. And she would. He could see his future, his entire life, lying ahead of him, with the certainty and clarity of a vision from God.