“Yes!” Portia said. “Or wear gray, or one of Mrs. Norris’s dresses… Anything but that!”
Cordelia frowned. “I think the Blacksmith Duke is in no danger of falling in love with me. He made that perfectly clear.”
“Oh, when are you going to figure that everyone who meets you falls in love with you?” Portia carped. “You’re too nice and agreeable and sweet and attractive. I’m sending you into the lion’s den.”
“Really, Portia, it’s too early in the day for these hysterics,” Cordelia said, moving to the door. “I told you we would rendezvous in the garden at half past ten tomorrow night.”
“In the sculpture garden?” Portia asked, perking up a little.
“In the sculpture garden,” Cordelia confirmed as she opened the door.
Portia offered a smile and Cordelia would accept that as a win. Stepping out in the hallway, she smoothed her dress and began making her way to the ballroom.
She met Mr. Wright on the landing; he looked like he had just come from his office. Cordelia had taken to walking with her head held high, so as to avoid running into people. But his gaze was now glazed over and far away. He almost didn’t notice her until she announced herself.
“Mr. Wright,” Cordelia said with a curtsy. She spoke quietly. If Mrs. Norris was to hear her refer to the duke as anything but “Your Grace” she’d be lectured for the better part of an hour.
“Lady Cordelia,” he replied, bowing.
He offered her his arm and she took it lightly. They did not speak to one another as they descended the stairs and walked past the portraiture and landscapes that dotted the main passage to the ballroom. Cordelia stole a quick glance at Mr. Wright, whose dark eyebrows were drawn together, deep in thought.
“How did you fare with the correspondence, Your Grace?” Cordelia found herself asking. Portia would also be unimpressed with her attempts to make small talk. She couldn’t help it; afterall the years and the training and the parties it came rather naturally to her.
“Oh,” he said, surprised to be addressed by her. “Very well, thank you.”
When they came to the doorway he paused, gesturing for her to walk through first.
The Hollyhead ballroom was something to behold in its time. It had not seen a proper ball held here for seven years at this point. Cordelia’s slippers clacked on the black-and-white checkered floor. She looked up at the frescoed ceiling, her eyes dropping to the walls, where rectangular stains showed paintings and art that had once hung there. The grand piano was tucked away in a corner, a white sheet covering it.
Mrs. Norris had quietly become part of the furniture as she was doing some mending. She stood and curtsied as they entered, exchanging light pleasantries.
“It’s not what it once was,” Cordelia said. “But it will do. We have some art in storage that will freshen up the room, and we’ll have the servants give everything a good scrub.”
“I trust you. I can see that this must have been a very grand room in its day,” Mr. Wright said, turning his gaze skyward.
Oh it was…Cordelia wanted to say. She wanted to tell him that it had been the envy of the ton, at least when Mother was still alive and when Father was not so worried and when everyone was happy. But instead she held her tongue, thinking of Portia’s warnings.
“Have you invited someone to play?” she asked instead.
“Oh, was I supposed to engage someone?” he asked.
Cordelia felt heat in her cheeks. “I rather thought that was obvious.”
They simultaneously turned to Mrs. Norris, whose head was leaning against the wall. It did not surprise Cordelia in the leastwhen she heard her soft snores emanating from the corner. That woman had been known to fall asleep in the middle of dinner.
“Obvious to whom?” he asked. “I’m neck deep in land agreements and divisions right now. I don’t have time to think about trivial things.”
Cordelia felt her blood begin to heat. “You asked for lessons, so let this be your first one. Society does not see these things as trivial. Music is an important part of mingling with the upper classes. My father used to tell me that wars, marriages, and kings are made in the ballrooms of the elite. Music simply facilitates those encounters.”
Mr. Wright looked like he wanted to retort, but instead his features softened, his eyes glinting. “That’s well said. All right, is there anyone in this house that can play?”
“Besides me? I think Bea was taking lessons, but there’s also—”
At that moment, Cordelia caught a dark shape walking past the doorway.
“Hermione!” Cordelia called out, her voice echoing off the empty walls. The shape stopped and looked into the light. Hermione wrung her hands together as Cordelia waved her in. “Hermione, would you be able to play for us? Just for an hour?”
Her younger sister’s cheeks began to redden, but besides herself Cordelia wasn’t sure who else would be able to hold a tune on the piano. They stared at one another in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Mr. Wright cleared his throat.
