“What? I’m simply agreeing with our dear duchess. One evening of… music. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Hugo didn’t miss the way she emphasized the word ‘music’ like it was something distasteful she’d found on her shoe.
“You’re both being dramatic,” Sybil said firmly. “Cassandra has been practicing for months. Her violin playing is quite accomplished.”
“Her violin playing, yes,” Anthea agreed with suspicious sweetness. “It’s her cousins who provide the… challenge.”
“Challenge?” Hugo found himself asking though he suspected he’d regret it.
“Well…” Anthea settled back in her seat like someone preparing to deliver particularly juicy gossip. “Lady Margaret has never met a note she couldn’t flatten. Lady Elizabeth seems to believe volume compensates for accuracy. And dear Lady Catherine… bless her heart… she plays the cello like she’s strangling a chicken.”
Good God.
“That’s uncharitable,” Sybil protested, but her voice lacked conviction.
“It’s honest. There’s a difference.” Anthea’s smile was sharp. “Though I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it, Your Grace? You’re married to our Sybil which means you’ll be attending this… concert annually. For the rest of your life.”
Hugo felt something that might have been panic claw at his chest. “Annually?”
“Oh yes,” Anthea continued with obvious relish. “It’s tradition. Lady Cassandra and her cousins perform every spring without fail. They consider it their contribution to London’s cultural Season.”
Their contribution to London’s suffering, more like.
“Hugo,” Sybil reached over and placed her hand on his arm, “you’re looking rather pale.”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just… preparing myself mentally.”
“For what?”
For what sounds like musical torture disguised as entertainment.
“For an evening of culture and refinement,” he said diplomatically.
Anthea’s laugh was distinctly unladylike. “Oh, you poor man. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The carriage drew to a halt outside the Burrow townhouse which blazed with light from every window. Hugo helped both Sybil and Rosalie from the carriage, noting how his daughter practically vibrated with excitement about the evening’s musical entertainment.
“Now remember,” he murmured to Rosalie as they approached the front steps, “this is not a debut ball. You’re here as part of our family, with proper supervision.”
“Yes, Papa,” Rosalie replied though her eyes sparkled with anticipation when she spotted Lord Pemberton among the arriving guests.
“Remember,” Sybil murmured as they made their way up the front steps, “Cassandra is nervous about performing. Whatever happens, we must be supportive.”
“Of course,” Hugo replied though privately he was wondering if ‘supportive’ included applauding music that made his ears bleed.
Lady Cassandra met them at the door, resplendent in pale blue silk that complemented her blonde curls. She looked radiantwith excitement and what Hugo was beginning to suspect was blissful ignorance about her cousins’ musical abilities.
“Sybil! Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. And Your Grace, how wonderful that you could attend.” She practically bounced on her toes. “We’ve been practicing so diligently. I do believe this will be our finest performance yet.”
Their finest performance. God help us all.
“I’m certain it will be… memorable,” Hugo replied which was probably the most truthful thing he could manage.
“The music room is just through here. We’ve arranged chairs for everyone, and there will be refreshments afterward.” Cassandra beamed at them. “Oh, I do hope you enjoy chamber music, Your Grace. There’s something so intimate about a small ensemble, don’t you think?”
Intimate. Yes, there’s definitely something intimate about being trapped in a small room with bad musicians.
They followed her through to what had once been an elegant music room but was now packed with chairs arranged in neat rows. Hugo estimated perhaps forty people total—enough to make escape impossible but small enough that every wrong note would be clearly audible.
