“Oh, and I see young Lord Pemberton is here as well. He mentioned he might attend this evening.”
“Where is Rosalie?” Hugo asked, scanning the crowd.
“I believe she’s in the ladies’ retiring room with Miss Pemberton,” Sybil replied. “They seemed to be getting along famously.”
Before Hugo could ask further, the room began to quiet as four women took their places at the front. Lady Cassandra looked serene and confident with her violin. Her cousins… well, they looked enthusiastic, which Hugo was beginning to suspect was not the same thing.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Lady Cassandra announced, “we’re delighted to present an evening of chamber music beginning with Mozart’s String Quartet No. 1 in G major.”
Mozart. At least they’re starting with something civilized.
The first few notes were actually quite pleasant—Lady Cassandra’s violin sang sweetly, carrying the melody with genuine skill and feeling. For a moment, Hugo allowed himself to relax.
Perhaps this won’t be as bad as Anthea suggested.
Then the other instruments joined in.
Dear God.
What emerged from the front of the room could only generously be called music. Lady Margaret’s second violin seemed to be playing an entirely different piece, flat and discordant. Lady Elizabeth’s viola sounded like she was sawing wood with great enthusiasm but little skill. And Lady Catherine’s cello…
That poor cello. It sounds like it’s crying.
Hugo glanced at Sybil, who was maintaining a polite smile through what appeared to be sheer force of will. Her knuckles were white where her hands were clasped in her lap.
“Cassandra really is quite good,” she whispered so quietly only he could hear.
“And the others?” he whispered back.
Sybil’s smile became strained. “Well… they’re very enthusiastic.”
Enthusiastic. That’s certainly one word for it.
“Can they hear themselves?”
“Apparently not.”
The torture—for torture it surely was—continued for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. Mozart’s elegant composition had been transformed into something that wouldmake the composer weep. Or possibly rise from his grave to put a stop to it.
Hugo looked around the room and was amazed to see that most of the audience appeared to be genuinely enjoying themselves. Either London society was collectively tone-deaf, or they were all much better actors than he’d given them credit for.
Or they’re all thinking about the refreshments afterward.
The piece finally—mercifully—came to an end. The applause was polite but enthusiastic, and Lady Cassandra beamed with pride.
“Thank you so much,” she called out. “We’d like to continue with a selection from Haydn…”
There’s more.
Hugo closed his eyes and tried to think of England. Of his duty. Of the fact that his wife cared about these people, and he cared about his wife.
For Sybil. I’m doing this for Sybil.
But as Lady Catherine’s cello began what could only loosely be described as an attempt at Haydn, Hugo found himself wondering if love really did conquer all.
Because if it did, surely it wouldn’t sound this painful.
During what Lady Cassandra announced as a brief intermission, Hugo leaned over to Sybil with the desperation of a drowning man.
