“Respectable couple, then?”
“Very,” he agreed. “The Standishes, Archibald and Clara. I seem to recall hearing that Archibald was Lord Lieutenant of the county at one point in his career.”
“Oh.” Grace stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs and looked at him. “Any relation to Cornelius Standish?”
“Uh…I have no idea. Who’s he?”
She sighed. “Only one of the most impressive current composers of woodwind quartets.”
“Ah.” Perry’s face was a study in polite interest.
“You’re not fond of woodwind quartets?” She held back a grin.
He took her arm, slid it through his and led her down toward a large corridor they’d not yet explored. “You know I enjoy music. But even I have my limits and I’m afraid woodwind quartets are low on my list of performances to suffer through.”
She couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Let me guess. You were made to practise the oboe as a child?”
“The flute.” He shuddered. “I had the misfortune to be struck down with a lung infection. To improve my breathing, the flute was recommended. Apparently I didn’t have the chest capacity for the oboe.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your chest,” remonstrated Grace. “How absurd an observation.”
“Thank you.” He grinned. “But right or wrong, I was handed the damn thing, along with a tutor, and spent two years trying to convince the poor man that I could not learn to play it.”
“Not a single note?”
“I think I managed the first few bars ofSummer is a’comin’ in…”
“Ah yes.Loudly sing cuckoo…”
“Please don’t. I shall start coughing in protest.”
Grace’s laugh rang out as they opened an impressive set of double doors. “Oh my…” Her amusement was replaced by surprise as they stepped into a ballroom that took her breath away. “Perry. Do you see?”
“I see,” he murmured.
Their boots clicked as they walked in over a checkerboard floor of deep polished mahogany squares interspersed with a lighter wood. The whole was coated with dust, but the gleam lingered, making Grace’s fingers itch for a mop. “What an amazing floor.”
“I’m looking at the ceiling,” he whispered.
She raised her head and tilted it back, only to gasp again. There were paintings, exquisite paintings of nymphs, elves, goblins and other fanciful creatures ringing the three massive chandeliers that ran the length of the room.
The glass decorating the chandeliers, dirty now and home to spiders whose webs hung like sparse lace, defied description.
“It must be Italian,” murmured Perry, walking beneath one and circling it in awe. “Look at the flower petals, the birds…all in glass. I do not know another place capable of making such magnificent pieces.”
“Are those little flowers porcelain? The ones cupping what look like old candles?”
“Could be. Hard to tell with the dust all over it.”
“But nothing seems damaged. Just neglected.” She glanced at the walls.
They were covered with pale ivory fabric, silk perhaps, with gold leafed acanthus chair rails and ceiling cornices. A perfect background for elegant gowns, brilliant colours and the glitter of a ball in full swing.
On one wall were two sets of tall French windows which opened out onto the terrace and the lawns beyond. A small fireplace nestled between them, but Grace supposed that if a ball was going on there probably wouldn’t be much need for a fire, even on a cold night.
Perry was wandering around, pausing here and there, tapping, poking, prodding and appearing to be enjoying himself. He paused with a grunt and she turned to watch.
“Well I’ll be…” He tugged at what looked like a decorative ornament and a screen emerged, delicately slatted, unfurling as he pulled it out. It would segment the ballroom into two spaces; a brilliant notion for smaller affairs where there were fewer dancers and more people who might wish for cards.
