CHAPTER SEVEN
Signor Marchesi’s song floated through Lucasta’s head as she rose the next morning and went about her toilette. The melody was enchanting but simple, and she thought about a setting for the harpsichord as she washed from the basin, combed a cleansing oil into her hair, and scrubbed her teeth. While she drew a morning gown over her stays and petticoat and affixed her cap, apron, and lace fichu, she considered a set of variations for a string quartet. All of her friends played, and a new arrangement would provide pleasant occupation for a rainy afternoon. Perhaps she should make a setting for five instruments and invite Cici.
Another image surfaced from the previous night. Lord Rudyard’s rich-timbred voice at her ear. The firm strength in his arm as he escorted her to and from the box, as a gentleman did a lady.
The warm brush of his hand beneath her chin as he tied the laces of her cape.
Her stomach quivered in a much different way at the memory of Rudyard’s touch than it did at the thought of Signor Marchesi’s music.
And quavered in another way altogether when she wondered when her aunt would learn that Lucasta had left the house without her permission to attend an entertainment she had flatly forbidden her to engage in.
She carried her basin and towel downstairs. She had a new pleasure, besides the company of her friends, to bear her through the coming weeks. A note commending Signor Marchesi’s performance would not be too forward. And if she sent him an arrangement she had made of his tune, with her compliments, he might take an interest. He might consent to offer her lessons. Trevor Pevensey could squire Cici through her season, Lord Rudyard could turn his games on another, and Lucasta could focus on her music.
If Aunt Pevensey allowed. Her foray to Haymarket would not remain a secret, though she’d sneaked home before her aunt and Cici returned. If she drew notice from the gossips for associating again with Smart Jeremy, her aunt might very well come up with a more terrible punishment than relegating Lucasta to the sidelines of the Season’s every ball and rout, doomed to listen to the music, but not participate.
She hummed Signor Marchesi’s tune as she entered the kitchen. Her ladyship forbade the girls to take tea and toast in their rooms, for while the baron might do what he liked, unmarried girls ate in the dining parlor with her ladyship, and her ladyship did not rise before noon. Lucasta, being an early riser, would have found this fashionable schedule a trial to her constitution had she not settled, soon after her arrival in the Pevensey household, on the simple expedient of making friends with the staff.
She looked after herself and her chamber, saving the housemaid the extra effort, and Mrs. MacGowan rewarded her by sharing the servants’ breakfast and occasionally sneakingmeals to the music room while Lucasta practiced, with her ladyship none the wiser.
“That’s a lovely tune, it is.” Mrs. MacGowan, who served as housekeeper and cook, greeted Lucasta with a smile as she descended into the kitchen.
“I saw Signor Marchesi at the opera last night.” Lucasta disposed of her basin of cloudy water in the scullery, then returned to help slice a loaf of bread. Miss Gregoire insisted that her girls not scorn to turn their hands to household tasks, nor make too much of station, for Miss Gregoire knew firsthand how far a young woman might fall.
The kitchen maid hugged a jar of preserves to her chest. “I’d love to see an opera, I would.”
“I’ll share a bit with you, then,” Lucasta said, and she sang what she remembered of Iphigenia’s part while Mrs. MacGowan piled a tray with warm bread, butter, and the preserves. None of the servants being proficient in Italian, Lucasta took the liberty of composing English lyrics for their enjoyment, and no one knew to object if she adjusted the tessitura to something more suiting her natural range. Mrs. McGowan allowed the footman to idle, the housemaid to linger in the linen cupboard, and the boots boy to leave his post in the hall while Lucasta sang.
Mrs. MacGowan sighed with delight as she set her tray in Lucasta’s hands. “You’re fine enough for the stage yourself, miss.”
“If only.” Lucasta nodded her thanks as the housekeeper added a pot of tea. The opera had filled her head with visions. If she could use her time in London to acquire the training she needed, that could take her from merely passable to truly skilled.
But Rudyard replaced these visions as she whisked herself off to her music room. What cursed luck had brought him to the opera, and what misplaced gallantry had prompted him toshare his box? His attention could only increase the town’s speculation, and her aunt’s displeasure with Lucasta.
He must know that. What possible benefit could accrue to him by being seen with the women he had named the Gorgons? What motives could he possibly have for conversing with poor, plain Lucasta Lithwick?
He had asked her about the libretto as if he were interested in her opinion.
He had tied the laces on her cloak in a manner that, even now, made her breath grow shallow and her heart thud in her chest.
No. No thinking of Rudyard. There was nothing to be gained there.
She had listened closely enough to remember every measure of Signor Marchesi’s tune, and it was a simple matter to make up a notation for the harpsichord. An English translation of the lyrics, however, gave her some trouble. The theme of the ballad was a young man yearning for a lady far above his station. Nearly a rite of passage for a man coming of age, Lucasta thought with a curl of her lip.
But a girl who longed for a man far above her station was a fool. If she failed to win him, she would be taunted ever after for her vain hopes. And if she succeeded, the scorn was worse, for she would never be allowed to forget her unworthiness, her deficiencies.
Lucasta steeled herself as she entered the dining parlor for the morning gauntlet of tea, gossip, and recriminations. Aunt Pevensey had set aside her customary cup of chocolate for a dose of balsam cordial, the recommended elixir for disordered nerves in ladies of high quality. Newsprint pages lay beside her plate, which held a soft-boiled egg she demanded be made to very precise specifications and which she would likely neglect to eat.
“You were in his box,” Lady Pevensey yelped. “What were you doing in the Marquess of Arendale’s box?”
Lucasta perched warily in the chair the footman pulled out for her, trying to guess her aunt’s complaint. That she had gone against her wishes and attended the opera, or that she was seen with Lord Rudyard?
“The Gorg—my friends invited me to the opera after you had left, and since I had spent the day indoors as you advised, mum, I thought a small outing with my friends could do no harm. It happens Lord Rudyard decided to attend the opera as well.”
Lucasta poured a cup of tea and turned to Cici. “How was the rout? Were you overwhelmed by admirers, or did Major Mallory beat them all away?”
“Rudyard came to the rout,” her ladyship said, attacking her egg. “But he only spoke with Cecilia long enough to ascertain that you were not present, then he took his leave of Lady Skylarmostprecipitously.” She gave Lucasta an incredulous look. “He cannot have had reason to be in search of you.”
“No, mum. I imagine he turned up at the theater quite by coincidence. Is there any sugar left?”
