He had never learned Latin. He had never been taught an instrument. He only knew how to dance because Bertie had taught him, imparting the lessons of her dancing master. For all that his father’s held a marquess, Jeremiah Falstead was a draper’s son, and though he put on fashionable attire and paraded through the parlors and parks and the narrow paths of thebeau monde, a draper’s son he remained. They petted him, made much of him, teased him about his accomplishments, but they saw what he really was.
And now, for the first time, he was seeing the real Lucasta Lithwick. He didn’t need musical training to understand that her voice was astonishing. The tone was as pure and clear as a waterfall on some island of paradise, like the one his father governed. Her voice made the back of his neck tingle, made his body flush with warmth. Her voice was pliable as gold, clear as sunlight, strong as spun flax, and it poured through the room like a magical elixir that cast a spell of beauty over them all.
She ended the last note and lowered the pochette. The room echoed. Jem felt hollow in his bones, in his chest. Something otherworldly had blown through him, and he might never be the same again.
Tears shone in the eyes of more than one girl. Several held hands clasped to their chins or hearts. Eliza stood with her eyes closed, an expression on her face like that Lucasta had worn when she heard Signor Marchesi sing. Complete and profound rapture.
Jem cleared his throat. “Thank you, Miss Lithwick.”
Lucasta picked up her cloak and drew it about her shoulders. “Thank you, girls, for letting me spend this time with you. Shall we meet again Friday? I will bring what instruments I can, and we can practice.”
“Yes, Miss Lithwick! Thank you, Miss Lithwick!” Several girls pressed forward to take her hand, sliding arms about her waist. Lucasta embraced them in return and kissed the tops of several muslin caps, generous with her affection.
Jem stared as if scales had fallen from his eyes. Or as if some veil had fallen from her, the shell she wore in society that guarded the pure, bright being beneath.
He fell into step beside her as they walked down the hallway toward the door where they had entered. “You come here often,” he observed.
“As often as I can. My aunt allows it, since, as you pointed out, the Foundling Hospital is a fashionable charitable interest to have.”
He regretted that sly cut. “You bring joy into their lives,” he said instead. “The governors take an interest in their care and upkeep. But you bring them joy.” He paused. “And you do so in their free time. I thought there was a music master?” There was at least one earning a stipend, he knew from the records.
“Several are taught singing or violin, when it may be their only possible means of support,” she answered. “I’m sure you have seen the blind foundlings playing on nearly every street corner in London.”
She didn’t know Jem sat on the board of governors for the hospital. He was still just an idle fop to her.
Jem was very aware of those foundlings. For someone like Eliza, her opportunity for apprenticeships would be limited, and no one would take her into service. Music was one ability she did not need sight to cultivate.
The maid came awake with a soft snort as Jem helped Lucasta into his calash. He waited until she was snuggled once more into her bonnet, cloak, and the furred throw, and they had waved to Silas, before he let the question burst from him.
“Why are you not singing on the stage?”
“I’m a contralto,” she said, as if that answered anything.
Jem waited. She glanced at his face, then away. “There are very few opera roles written for contraltos. And castrati often take those parts.”
“But besides opera,” Jem said. “I’ve heard singers in Ranelagh Gardens. Vauxhall. Haymarket offers more than operas. You could perform solo. You could tour the Continent and sing in the greatest courts.” He didn’t understand why she wasn’t doing that already. A voice as divine as hers would be welcome anywhere.
She drew a long breath through her nose. He couldn’t see her face beneath the bonnet, only the very tip of her nose. “I sing at Miss Gregoire’s, and I’ve given small performances in Bath. My Aunt Cornelia likes me to perform for her friends.”
“Then she should share you with broader audiences.”
She shook her head. “Aunt Cornelia comes from a world where only the lower-class perform on stage. Actresses and singers are, to her, little more than common women.” She chose the phrase delicately. “And Lady Pevensey is set against me training. She thinks it is vulgar. As I am only a vicar’s daughter,” she added in a bitter tone, “I cannot forfeit what small claim to respectability I have by performing on the stage.”
“What about small venues?” he argued. “Private performances.”
“Perfectly acceptable, since that supports the ease and enjoyment of my family and friends. Given that women were intended by God’s design to ornament the home, not public spaces.”
“Your talent should not be hidden,” Jem swore. “It is a divine gift.”
Her fur muff, which had been trembling as if her hands were shaking within it, stilled. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Jem looked straight ahead, not daring to glance at her face. He feared her expression would unman him, as he had probed what was clearly a deep wound. Lucasta Lithwick stood on the sidelines because she was not permitted, by some absurd belief of her family, to share her astonishing talent in public. That had to be some level of crime.
She had not shrunk from Eliza, nor any of the blind children, just as she had not shrunk from the scarred, the lame, or those missing teeth. She had not treated the blind girl any differently than the others, had in fact singled her out to play for them, an honor he suspected Eliza would hold in her heart for weeks, if not months to follow. Lucasta Lithwick was not cruel.
At least, not to the vulnerable. Jem had taken it upon himself to teach her a lesson she already knew.
“Where are you bound to next?” he asked, realizing he was driving down Red Lion Street without purpose.
