Page 110 of The Virtuoso
“A lady does not correspond with a gentleman, your lordship,” Ellen chided him, though her smile was still radiant.
Westhaven cast an assessing glance at Nick. “He’s no gentleman. He writes a very charming letter, nonetheless. Next time, Bellefonte, you do as David and Letty do with Val. Val writes a two-sentence letter to David and then a four-page postscript to Letty.”
“Strategy is always so tedious.” Nick sighed. “Here comes one of my two favorite brothers-in-law.” Ellen was hugged again as Darius Lindsey greeted her, looking strikingly handsome in his evening finery.
“I believe Her Grace will want to see you two,” Westhaven decided. “Why don’t you escort Lady Roxbury back to the box while I check on something backstage?”
A look passed between the gentlemen, something of male significance that had Ellen concluding Westhaven needed the retiring room. She let Nick and Darius each take an arm and was more than pleased when Her Grace invited them to stay for the second half. Westhaven slipped into the back of the box just as the ushers were dousing the candles.
“So this is the good part?” Nick asked from beside her.
“The party piece is always saved for the second half,” Ellen explained, though it occurred to her belatedly, Nick had been to far more entertainments than she. “That way all the latecomers won’t miss it.”
“One wouldn’t want to miss this,” Nick murmured, only to be thumped on the arm by Darius.
She looked around one last time for Val, and then she spied him, his progress being marked by the growing hush of the audience as he strode across the stage.
Oh, he looked so handsome, so distinguished. He was too lean, maybe, though it was hard to tell when he was so far away, but how fortunate the lights caught his dark hair, his elegant, muscled form as he approached the conductor’s podium.
Whatonearth?
He tapped a baton on the music stand and signaled to the oboist, who offered the pitch. When the squeaks, toots, and honks of tuning up were silenced, Val turned to face the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice carried straight into the darkest corners of the hall and straight into Ellen’s heart. “There is a slight misprint on tonight’s program. We offer for our finale tonight my own debut effort, which is listed on the program asLittleSummerSymphony. It should read,LittleWeldonSummerSymphony, and the dedication was left out, as well, so I offer it to you now.
“Ellen, I know you are with me tonight, seated with my parents and our friends, though I cannot see you. I can feel you, though, here.” He tapped the tip of the baton over his heart. “I can always feel you there, and hope I always will. Like its creator, this work is not perfect, but it is full of joy, gratitude, and love, because of you. Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this work to the woman who showed me what it means to be loved and love in return: Ellen, Baroness Roxbury, whom I hope soon to convince to be my lady wife. These modest tunes and all I have of value, Ellen, are dedicated to you.”
He turned in the ensuing beats of silence, raised his baton, and let the music begin.
Ellen was in tears before the first movement concluded. The piece began modestly, like an old-fashionedsonatadichiesa, the long slow introduction standing alone as its own movement. Two flutes began it, playing about each other like two butterflies on a sunbeam, but then broadening, the melody shifting from sweet to tender to sorrowful. She heard in it grief and such unbearable, unresolved longing, she wanted to grab Val’s arm to make the notes stop bombarding her aching heart.
But the second movement marched up right behind that opening, full of lovely, laughing melodies, like flowers bobbing in a summer breeze. This movement was full of song and sunshine; it got the toes tapping and left all manner of pretty themes humming around in the memory.
My gardens, Ellen thought. My beautiful sunny gardens, and Marmalade and birds singing and the Belmont brothers laughing and racing around.
The third movement was tranquil, like the sunshine on the still surface of the pond, like the peace after lovemaking. The third movement was napping entwined in the hammock, and strolling home hand in hand in the moonlight. She loved the third movement the best so far, until it romped into a little drinking song, that soon got away from itself and became a fourth movement full of the ebullient joy of creation at its most abundant and beautiful.
The joy of falling in love, Ellen thought, clutching her handkerchief hard. The joy of being in love andbeinglovedthewayyouneedtobe.
Ah, it was too much, and it was just perfect as the music came to a stunning, joyous conclusion. There was a beat of profound silence and then a spontaneous roar of approval, a deafening wall of applause, cheers, foot stomping, whistling, and calls for an encore. Val stood to the side, looking dazed and pleased, until the first violinist rose and gestured with his bow toward the podium. Even Ellen could hear the concertmaster happily yelling at Val to bow, for the love of God, and the applause did not diminish until Val turned, said something to his musicians, and held up his baton again.
The little drinking song served wonderfully as an encore, and the orchestra had to play through it yet again before the audience let the musicians and their conductor go.
In the ducal box, Ellen sat dazed and so pleased for Valentine she could not stop laughing and crying and being glad she had been there to see it. Her exile was now worthwhile. Through years and even decades of gardening in solitude, she would recall this night and those lovely sentiments tossed to her before all of London as if she were the prima donna on the stage.
And she would not—she wouldnot—let herself worry that Freddy would get wind of this and pitch another tantrum.
“Come along.” Nick took her arm when they left the box, and with his superior height, navigated her deftly through the crowds.
“Where are we going?” Ellen asked, for she did not recognize the path they were traveling.
“To meet your fate, my lady,” Nick said, but his eyes were sparkling, and Ellen didn’t realize the significance of his comment until she was being tugged backstage toward a growing buzz of voices. “The green room is this way”—Nick steered her along—“but for you, we will refer to it as the throne room. Ladies and gentlemen…” Nick bellowed as he gently pushed Ellen into a crowded, well-lit room. “Make way for the artist’s muse and for a large fellow bent on reaching that punch bowl.”
Applause burst forth, and the crowd parted, leaving Ellen staring across the room at Valentine where he stood, a glass in his hand, still in his formal attire. He’d never looked so handsome to her, or so tired and happy and uncertain. He set the glass down and held out his left hand to her.
“My Ellen,” he said, as if introducing her. She tried to make her steps dignified before all these strangers, but then she was walking very quickly, then, hang it, she pelted the rest of the distance right into his arms, holding on to him with every ounce of her strength. She did not leave his side when the duke and duchess were announced or when his various siblings and friends came to congratulate him. She was still right by his side when the duke approached.
“Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.”
