Mother swallows audibly beside her and Catherine grabs her hand for support.
Lady Tisend rises and moves to the front of the dais. “We are so thrilled all of you could join us tonight for such a wonderful performance,” she says, her voice commanding yet somehow still soft. Everyone has to lean in to hear her. “But we couldn’t let tonight just be a sparkling concert! Lady Rosalie and I had planned to perform for you, but then a dear old friend returned to town.”
Mother stiffens beside Catherine, her hand like a vise.
“I couldn’t dare to deprive you of her talents, and that of her lovely daughter. So, what better way to reintroduce herself to Bath than for you all to hear the brilliant talents of my friend Mrs.Pine?” Lady Tisend says, smiling over at Mother.
She gestures to them and for a horrible, halting moment, it seems Mother can’t make herself stand up. How dare Lady Tisend do it like this, frame it like this? As if she isn’t the reason Mother isreturningto Bath in the first place.
Father discreetly moves his hand to Mother’s upper back. Catherine looks toward Lady Rosalie. Is she in on this? Does she know what happened?
But then Mother stands up. Her face settles into a blithe mask and she walks toward Lady Tisend with a broad smile. Only Catherine and Father would notice the way her shoulders are just slightly too far back.
Catherine slides over to sit next to Father, taking his hand, her own heart in her throat as Mother takes her place at the pianoforte. She adjusts the seat and sits for a moment, staring at the keys. Time stretches and Catherine’s chest grows tight, eyes prickling. If her mother should falter here, she’ll never forgive herself. To have returned to Bath only to be humiliated—
And then Mother begins to play. What was halting and fumbling in their sitting room becomes the most fluid, exciting, propulsive piece of music Catherine thinks she’s ever heard. Mother is stunning there at the pianoforte, her mouth set in a relaxed smile, her posture tall, her fingers flying perfectly and effortlessly over the keys.
She soars through the piece, and when she hits the final note and looks up and out into the audience, the crowd erupts with applause. Catherine watches her mother’s eyes sparkle, her face breaking into a humble smile. She’s never seen her mother look so luminous, so excited, and so relieved in all her life.
Catherine needs to secure their place in society, heal whatever hurt lurks in her mother’s heart, and wash away the ugly past, so her mother always looks this radiant. She should never fear the ton. They should fear her, just as they do Lady Tisend.
Catherine will start by winning Mr.Dean’s hand.
Chapter Five
Rosalie
The audience is still clapping when MissPine stands and trades places with her dazzling mother. They squeeze each other’s hands when they pass, their dimples rising exactly the same way. It makes Rosalie’s heart clench a little to see MissPine so proud of her mother.
Rosalie’s mother’s nails, on the other hand, are biting into her arm. Neither of them expected Mrs.Pine’s performance to be that technical nor that spectacular. Rosalie doesn’t know how she’s going to follow it, let alone how MissPine will manage.
Mother never outshines Rosalie in moments like these. She comes close, but keeps herself back to let Rosalie take the spotlight. Mrs.Pine made no such effort for her daughter. Rosalie almost pities MissPine, watching as she adjusts herself on the bench.
Then MissPine looks right at her for a moment before beginning to play the most beautiful rendition of Field’s Nocturne she’s ever heard in her life. Every note, every beat, every rest feels poignant and powerful. Her graceful, delicate fingers dance across the keys. The long line of her neck and the soft smile on her face—she is luminous.
Rosalie’s every minute movement on the pianoforte is rehearsed and calculated. She feels no grace, no ease, when she’sbehind the instrument. It’s a battle between her and the keys. She always wins, but not like this.
MissPine’s piece is far less technical, far less impressive than Mrs.Pine’s was, but she makes it sing. It’s— She is—
“Breathtaking,” Mr.Dean whispers.
Rosalie’s awed wonder immediately sloughs away. She can’t let MissPine’s talent, and charm, wry wit, and beautiful face cloud her judgement. Make her careless when she needs to be in control, of MissPine, of Mr.Dean, of everything.
This girl is her competition, not something—someone—to be ogled and mesmerized by and infatuated with. The spell she’s cast over the audience—over Rosalie—will end when she finishes the piece, and then Rosalie will decimate her.
When MissPine concludes, there’s another round of thunderous applause. MissPine curtsies to the crowd and then steps down from the dais. Her eyes briefly catch Rosalie’s, triumph on her face.
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Mother asks the crowd, looking gracious and happy for the Pines. But Rosalie can see the tightness in her jaw. Mother’s furious.
“My daughter, Lady Rosalie, would like to play a piece for you as well. And then my sister-in-law, the lovely Lady Jones, will serenade us. And I’ll play a little something too, just for fun.”
The crowd laughs good-naturedly. Rosalie takes a deep breath and forces herself to rise with poise. She walks to the dais and up to the pianoforte, smiling at the audience.
Don’t look at MissPine.Don’tlook at MissPine.
Rosalie adjusts the bench forward, Miss Pine’s lithe, tall body having shifted her normal setup. But she’s not thinking aboutMiss Pine, or her body. She’s thinking about her fast, technical variation. If she can’t have Miss Pine’s musicality, she’ll impress them with Bach.
She settles her hands over the keys, raises her head, and looks straight into MissPine’s eyes. There’s a catch in her chest, and she starts playing almost by reflex.
