There’s a momentary silence in the parlor, Mrs. Ogden’s attention caught afresh on their conversation, then Cora squeals. “And look how he can fetch! What a darling.”
One of the terriers—is this one Fritz?—darts past Alice’s legs and back. She adjusts her skirts to keep them from being trampled yet again. When she looks up, she finds Ogden’s attention has wandered across the room.
“Your niece is very charming,” Ogden says. “How old is she?”
“Cousin,” Alice corrects. “Miss Ritter is twenty-two.”
“Ah. In the first bloom of womanhood.”
Across the parlor table, Ward’s eyes meet Alice’s, flashing consternation. He sets down his wineglass. “Now, I might be talkin’ out of turn here, but I don’t think the duchess is completely averse to the idea of you investing in this company of hers.”
“It is a matter of trust,” Alice puts in, returning to the script. “Nothing is pure business in Württemberg, unlike here, you see. Friendship is a commodity of its own and—”
Ogden stands, newly distracted. “What do you say to a little music? Miss Ritter, an accomplished young lady like yourself must possess some musical gifts, no?”
Cora glances between Alice and Ward, eyes wide.
Mrs. Ogden attempts a wavering smile as she strokes the dog on her lap. “I myself was quite skilled at the pianoforte atyour age. Some said I could have pursued a career in music, before love came along and scuppered those plans.”
She gazes adoringly up at her husband, but when he strides across the parlor, it’s Cora to whom he offers a hand.
Taking it, she stands. “I... suppose I do have a fair singing voice.”
She does, Alice recalls. The girl has a habit of drifting around the Third Avenue house singing to herself like the heroine of a two-bit operetta. It’s a sweet tone. Rathertooenchanting for tonight’s audience.
Alice waits for Cora to look at her so she can offer a slight head shake, a flash of her eyes, any subtle signal she can muster that this is not a man whose attentions the girl will want fixed upon her.
But Cora does not look over.
“Excellent!” Mr. Ogden claps, invigorated. “Priscilla, darling, perhaps you’ll serve as her accompanist.”
He points his wife toward the piano.
Before she can assume the bench, Alice jolts upright.
“Cora, dear, will you be so kind as to sing one of our Württembergian folk songs? They are among the great gems of our culture”—she is careful to insert that word back into the conversation—“and we would so love to spread our songs beyond our borders.”
Priscilla Ogden frowns deeply. “I wouldn’t know how to begin to play along with that.”
“No need!” Alice smiles. “Our songs are traditionally unaccompanied by instruments.”
She lifts her nearly empty glass and Ogden moves to fill it, though his eyes remain raptly fixed on Cora. They erred in dressing the girl quite so fetchingly tonight. Alice hadn’tpredicted this wrinkle, but she ought to have. She could kick herself now.
“That’s right.” Cora smiles in apparent relief. “They are extemporaneous expressions of—”
“Yodeling,” Alice cuts in sharply, praying the girl understands the assignment. “You may know the style best as yodeling.”
Cora swallows around her smile. “Yes.”
“Yodeling,” Mrs. Ogden repeats.
“Well, I for one would verymuch like to hear this,” Ward crows, turning his chair around to face Cora.
“I’m not sure I’m in very good voice tonight,” Cora demurs. “Bit of a tickle in my throat.”
“Oh pishposh.” Alice laughs. “Why, I heard you singing ‘Unt Demelische in Pleinden’ just this morning. Your sudden variations in tonality were thrilling. Go on, why don’t you give that song a go? I’ll note for our audience that this song is sung in an old dialect of Württemberg, rarely spoken these days apart from some of our elderly rural citizens.”
Now Cora’s stormy eyes meet hers, relaying fresh alarm. Alice tries to remain placid, with all eyes upon her, but feels her forehead begin to crease.
