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“I will have to think of some way to involve the children,” Mrs. Cunningham said, frowning. “There is not a great deal of time to organize anything elaborate, is there?”

“And whose fault is that?” her mother asked.

Mrs. Cunningham laughed. “I will go and have a word with Winnie,” she said. “She is always good with our children, and she can always be relied upon for a creative idea. Come with me, Abby?”

“Perhaps I can help her,” Stephanie said, jumping to her feet. Oh, this was intolerable. Intolerable.

“Oh, will you?” Mrs. Cunningham said, beaming at her.

Anything, Stephanie thought, to distract her tumbling thoughts. They were going to have to practice together, presumably in the privacy of the music room. They were going to have to choose something from the music she hoped she would find in the music room, and they were going to have to work together, probably with just the one piece of music between them, to get the timing and expression right, to get everything right. She would have been a bit nervous anyway about having to sing tonight in front of both families without the comfort of a choir all around her. But now— Well, there were no words.

Was it too late to ask Nicholas anyway and inform Viscount Watley that she was accustomed to singing with her brother’s accompaniment—he would surely know she was not—and would be more comfortable doing so tonight? But yes, it was too late. Any number of people had heard Lady Dirkson ask and Viscount Watley agree.

Oh, bother good manners. Why was she so tied to them? But she had already been unpardonably rude to him on one occasion. She could not possibly do it to him again—even though he would probably be eternally thankful if she did.

Oh bother!

Some sort of Nativity play, she thought as she made her way toward Winifred. Was it too ambitious an undertaking when the concert was to be this evening? Just a few hours from now? Well, of course it was too ambitious. Winifred thought so too, while Nicholas laughed and set an arm about each of them.

“But you will think of a solution,” he said. “I have the greatest confidence in both of you.”

“Somehow,” Stephanie said, “that is no great comfort, Nick.”

“Yes, it is,” Winifred said. “Let us do it, Stephanie. We will make it work. Nicholas says we can, and he is always right.”

All three of them laughed.

“A good wifely answer,” Nicholas said.

But suddenly Stephanie was getting rather excited, her mind already teeming with images of just how lovely it was going to be. They had two heads to put together, not just one. And she had confidence in Winifred too.

Oh, she really did love Christmas, and there was nothing unusual about impromptu concerts when a number of people were gathered together, though they usually involved only adults, it was true.

—

Bertrand and Estelle were going to play a duet on the pianoforte. It was something they had done for fun when they were growing up, and when they could remain out of earshot of Aunt Jane, who did not believe helpless laughter while they practiced their pieces was compatible with serious learning. They had never been satisfied with taking one half of the keyboard each and confining their playing to their own half, of course. It had been a matter of pride to encroach upon each other’s space, their arms clashing and their fingers becoming tangled together as they tried to shoulder each other farther along the bench all the while keeping the tempo steady and the music accurate.

But sometimes they had played more seriously, reveling in the rich sound of the music they could produce with four hands instead of two. They would play seriously tonight and hope their lack of practice together since Estelle’s marriage would not make their performance a downright embarrassment. It was all very well for Camille to remind everyone that none of them were professionals, either as performers or as critics, but no one could be expected to applaud a mistake-riddled performance by two supposedly accomplished adults.

Aunt Matilda had allotted those musicians who needed to practice in the music room half an hour each. Estelle and Bertrand were first, before the Christmas dinner, the rich aromas of which had been teasing and tantalizing them all for hours.

“This could well be an impossibility,” Bertrand said to Estelle when they were alone together, staring at the grand pianoforte as though it were an alien beast.

There was not even any music they could use. There was nothing for four hands instead of two. They would have to play from memory.

“Of course it is not impossible,” she said. “We will pretend tonight that we are playing for our own amusement. We will play Mozart. He was always our favorite, and we have a number of pieces by heart even if it must be a few years since we last played them together.”

“Hmm,” he said dubiously. Mozart was not easy. But then, nobody was. “Sometimes one could wish Camille would not blurt out every scatterbrained idea that flies into her head and would surely fly out again if she would just pause to take a breath before she spoke. I was looking forward to a quiet, lazy day sitting by the fire with congenial company.”

She laughed. “I adore Camille,” she said. “I think a concert, followed by dancing, is just the thing for a Christmas evening. Better than endless card playing or snoring before the fire, anyway. Bert, why did it not work out?”

This was his twin. There was no point in looking mystified at the dizzying change of subject. He played a few quick trills on the keyboard to loosen up his fingers.

“She was not interested,” he said.

“You told me that last night,” she said. “But why was she not? Did something happen? I find it hard to believe she simply did not like you or found you lacking in some way. I have seen the way women gaze at you. You have looks and manners and intelligence and charm and…well, everything. Not to mention prospects. Did something happen?”

“I am arrogant,” he said. “And entitled. Someone who gets whatever he wants whenever he wants it. She did not wish to waltz with me or dance at all during the ball that ended the summer fete at Ravenswood. Not then or ever.”