The Wolf And was the little ancient pub adjacent to The Grand Palace on the Thames. Much like The Grand Palace on the Thames sign featured aghostly extra word, The Wolf And’s sign was missing a word, and no one could remember what it used to be.
She’d performed with these particular musicians before she’d sung at patent theaters. They knew her repertoire well.
Delilah cleared her throat. She and Mrs. Durand were clearly struggling to formulate a feelings-sparing response.
“They’ve been told not to play with me, is that it?”
Her gut went cold. It was so thorough, the ostracizing. She’d been one man’s lover briefly, and the effects of that had spread like a stain, until suddenly these poor musicians had been told toavoidher. What did that mean for her career in general? Was there naught left of it? What would she do then?
“Delilah and I know all the songs you intend to sing save one, and both of us will learn the aria fromThe Glass Rose. We shall take it in turns. We aren’t professionals, but we won’t embarrass you,” Angelique said firmly.
It was so kind to say, given that it seemed more than likely she would embarrass them.
The moment she’d arrived today, Valkirk had assigned Miss Wylde the task of transcribing the lyrics from an aria fromThe Glass Rose—one of her favorites, she said—from Italian into English.
She was doing a credible job of it. Many of the words in this particular song—“delicate,” “fragile,” “transparent”—were similar to the English versions, and were precisely the sort of words onewould expect from an opera calledThe Glass Rose.
Every now and then she looked up, silently, for guidance. But she was determined to do as much as possible by herself, and of this he approved. It was how lessons stuck.
He’d removed all the invitations from the anteroom and tucked them instead in his bedroom. For some reason he refused to examine closely, he did not want her to see them.
Perhaps more accurately—and more troublingly—he didn’t want her to have to look at them.
He’d be dining with the Earl of Balfe and his family a week hence. Who, unsurprisingly, had a daughter of marriageable age.
He watched Mariana perform her careful, slow, even, graceful writing, head bent studiously.
“You can ask me about a word before you frown yourself into a headache.”
She paused. “Was I frowning?”
“As if you could intimidate the word into yielding its meaning.”
She smiled. “Then I’m learning more than Italian from you.Per sempre?”
“Forever.”
“Thank you. As it turns out, it’s a beautiful aria about the fragility of love,” she told him, as she wrote that word.
“Shocking. Such original lyrics, too,” he said.
She quirked the corner of her mouth.
“Why ‘jetty,’ Miss Wylde?”
She went still.
Then she gently laid down her quill, straightened her posture, and stared at him. “You remembered.” She sounded both pleased and not about it.
“It isn’t the sort of metaphor one easily forgets.”
Fascinatingly, she seemed reluctant to share the story.
And then she sighed. “Very well. I shall tell you.” She seemed to be deciding where to begin.
“Do you remember when I said that I had gone twice to the seashore with my family?”
“I do.”
