Page 20 of The Spinster’s Stolen Heart (Willenshires #5)

Lavinia and William’s soiree was going very well, it seemed. There were plenty of people here, yet it was not the stifling crush that Pippa had grown used to in Society. The aim of her cousins was not, it seemed, to fill their homes with as many people as would come. No, their gatherings were smaller, quieter, and more select, and apparently that made members of Society all the more eager to attend.

Pippa was privately aware that an invitation to any Willenshire gathering was quite a sought-after thing. As a member of the family, she was, of course, invited by default, but it seemed that other members of Society resented her. She supposed they did not consider her as a proper part of the family. She was poor and friendless, after all, and did not even carry the Willenshire name. There had been a few resentful glances and pointed comments over the days leading up to the soiree.

Pippa had learned not to mind. There would always be people who disapproved of her, for one reason or another.

Her mother was the most recent addition to their ranks.

Things had been strained between Pippa and her mother of late, perhaps unsurprisingly. Conversation was limited to small talk and vague remarks when they were with others. When they were alone, they didn’t talk at all. The private parlour set aside for Bridget and Pippa’s use was never used at all and sat empty.

Indeed, things were difficult between them. Pippa was privately relieved that Lord Barwick and his hawkish mother were not at the soiree. Not only did it mean that she avoided his company, but Bridget also seemed to relax her guardianship.

I suppose if Lord Barwick is not here, it does not matter who I talk to. Everybody knows I’m promised to him, it seems, she thought bitterly. There had been enough veiled comments from others to make her understand that her upcoming betrothal was well talked-of. It seemed that Lord Barwick had been most open about talking about his intentions, and apparently his wretched mother had shared her critiques on Pippa to just about every widow and matron in the country.

“You shall have to work hard to please your mother-in-law once you are engaged, Miss Randall,” one be-feathered widow in black satin had advised, throwing her an indulgent smile. “She adores that son of hers.”

Pippa had stiffened, looking the woman dead in the eye.

“To whom do you refer, Mrs. Hattan?”

Mrs. Hattan had only smiled and looked meaningfully, stopping just short of tapping the side of her nose.

“ We know, Miss Randall, but you are right. Let us not say names until the announcement is out. It’s a good match, you know. A very good match indeed. That mother of yours is a genius. I wish I could have gotten her advice for my girls.”

Pippa had been forced to leave the conversation a little abruptly, anger pricking at her insides.

I can’t marry him. I won’t.

But then, what would become of her? Where would she go, if Bridget turned her back and disowned her own daughter? Only a few months ago, Pippa would have confidently said that her mother, for all her flaws, would never do such a thing.

Now, she was not sure.

I could stay with Cousin Katherine, or with William.

That was a glimmer of hope in the darkness, but hardly a guiding light. After all, despite their growing intimacy, Pippa did not really know her cousins very well at all. If there was a scandalous breach between mother and daughter, perhaps they would wash their hands of both, and then Pippa really would be in a difficult situation.

But I can’t marry Lord Barwick. I can’t, and I won’t.

The only solution seemed to be avoiding his company and preventing him from making a proposal. How she was to do that, Pippa did not know.

A flourish of music summoned the guests to the other end of the ballroom, where a pianoforte and a harp had been placed in front of several semicircular rows of chairs. There was to be a musical element of the evening, and several ladies and even a few gentlemen were supposed to be exhibiting their talents.

Including Pippa, of course. Her violin lay on top of the pianoforte, waiting.

Bridget hadn’t tried to convince her to play something more ladylike , at least.

Lavinia moved to the front of the room as the guests took their seats, beaming around at them.

“To begin, I am most proud to present my dear cousin, Miss Pippa Randall, playing a piece of her own composition on the violin!”

There was polite applause. There was always polite applause before a person began to play, the rapturous applause being reserved for the end of the performance, if it met with the standards of the audience.

Smiling faintly, nerves thrumming inside her, Pippa got to her feet. This was the largest crowd she’d even performed in front of.

Not every lady’s performance was well-received. The gentlemen, of course, were not expected to exhibit musical talents, so the ones who chose to do so were extremely confident in their abilities.

Pippa had cringed through more than once inexpert renditions of Fur Elise or Canon in D . Her own pianoforte playing was less than lustrous, which was one reason why she preferred the violin.

There was silence while Pippa climbed the platform. She passed Lavinia on the way, who nodded and smiled encouragingly at her. Pippa did her best to smile back.

Whispers had started up by the time she picked up her violin, turning to face the crowds. Nerves jumped in Pippa’s veins. She took a breath, scanning the crowd.

The first face she noticed was her mother’s, stony and grim, unsmiling. Pippa hastily looked away. She spotted Miss O’Hare next, a round-faced, homely girl with a friendly disposition, who had played several wrong notes during her performance at the last musicale and received belated and stiffly polite applause at the end of it, retreating red-faced.

And then Pippa saw Lord Whitmore.

He sat on the end of a row, beside his mother. His gaze was fixed on her, a look in his eyes that she could not interpret. He was dressed impeccably, of course, a garnet cravat pin glimmering at his throat. Pippa realised with a rush that he was the most handsome man in the room.

Or at least, she thought that he was the most handsome man in the room. Their gazes met, locking together as if by magnetism, and her breath caught in her throat. He gave a tiny, tentative smile, and a nod of encouragement, and Pippa was forced to bite back a smile.

How could I ever have believed that I could make myself love Lord Barwick? It was a childish thought, the ramblings of a woman who does not know herself and does not know the world around her.

She gave herself a tiny shake, and before the audience could start to shift and fidget – or worse, glance over their shoulders to see what she was looking at – she lifted her violin to her shoulder, wedging it under her chin, and began to play.

The piece she chose was one she had composed years ago. Lavinia had said it was Pippa’s own composition, and that was not entirely true.

She had composed it with her father.

Lord Randall had often said that he was not as keen a composer as Pippa, but he had some talents in that respect. They had spent hours playing music together, hunched over untidy sheets of written music, exchanging ideas and engaging in experiments.

They had been some of the happiest hours of Pippa’s life.

Closing her eyes, she found herself back there again, in the corner of the parlour where she and Papa had gone over their compositions. Bridget had used to sit by the fire and sew, snorting and making derisive comments about their ‘nonsense’. Papa had only laughed at her, though, saying that she could never give a straight compliment.

And to Pippa’s amazement, her mother had smiled to herself, shaking her head. She had put down her sewing, as if unconsciously, and closed her eyes, listening to the music.

When was the last time I felt as though I were part of a family? When was the last time I felt as though I were not embarrassing my mother, and myself?

The music swelled, and Pippa felt almost disconnected from it, as if somebody else was moving her fingers and angling the bow, teasing long, mournful notes out of the instrument. Her eyes were still closed, and she wondered, just for an instant, how she must look to the rest, a woman standing so still with her eyes closed, the only movement the dancing of her fingers and the slide of the bow.

It was a short piece. Pippa had never wanted to bore the captive guests with a long song – virtue and talent wasn’t to be found in minutes and seconds, but in the notes she played – and it quickly came to its end.

There was no bold flourish, no sweeping climax. The notes filtered away, fading, like the last drops of water shaken out of an empty bucket.

She opened her eyes, letting her bow-hand drop to her side.

For an instant, there was silence, but only for one heartbeat. Then the applause broke out, several guests rising to their feet. Pippa blinked, amazed. She could see Lord Whitmore’s mother wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye.

Lord Whitmore was looking at her, of course, his expression still unreadable. He was on his feet, clapping as hard as he could.

Clearing her throat, Pippa dropped a curtsey and scurried off the stage. She was intercepted by Lavinia herself, who was going to play next.

“Oh, marvellously done!” she whispered. “What a beautiful piece of music! Everybody will want you to play at their musicales. You have a rare talent, cousin.”

“Th-Thank you. I’m sorry, Lavinia, but I need a breath of fresh air,” Pippa did not know that she was going to say that until the words exited her mouth. Suddenly, the space was too crowded, too stuffy.

Lavinia’s expression changed to one of concern. “Oh, my dear, are you well?”

“Yes, quite well, just a little too hot.”

“Go out onto the balcony then, to take some air. Nobody will notice you’re gone, not while the musicale continues. Be careful, won’t you?”

Pippa gave a smile of relief. She realised a moment too late that she was still holding her violin, but of course she could not go and replace it on top of the pianoforte now, not with Lavinia moving to take her seat at the instrument.

She hurried along the rows of seats, heading for the balcony. No doubt her mother was staring balefully after her, but there was nothing she could do. Bridget sat in the middle of a row, and her departure would be most certainly noticed. She would make a scene , and Bridget hated to do so.

Pippa estimated that she had at least ten minutes, perhaps more, to enjoy her solitude and the cool night air.

Propping her violin up against a wall, she slid open the French doors tucked away behind a curtain and stepped out onto a narrow stone balcony.

Cold air rushed over her, soothing her flushed skin and lifting her curls from her neck. Pippa stood still for a moment, closing her eyes and lifting her hands from her sides, breathing in the fresh air. She placed her hands, palms down, on the damp-cold rock of the balcony wall, feeling her heart slowly return to its normal rhythm of beating. She could hear the faint swells of pianoforte music drifting out, a jovial and happy song in contrast to her mournful dirge.

It was a dirge, Pippa knew that now. A song she’d been longing to play for two years. A dirge for her father.

I did it. It’s over. Safe. I’m safe. For now, at least. These ten minutes are mine, to do with as I please. This is my domain.

And then the French door behind her slid open.