Page 22 of Hold Me Fast
Lady Bevan gaped at her, then, frowning, said, “Gone? But you came here to sing. I paid the Earl of Coombe.” She flapped her hands as if shooing hens. “Go with my butler. He will show you where you are meant to be.”
“Lady Bevan, I have performed before the crowned heads of Europe, before princes, dukes, and others who trace their blue blood back to the time of Charlemagne. Never have I been expected to prepare in a china pantry and to sing while people masticate their food. I will not remain to be so insulted.”
Bewilderment and temper fought for supremacy in Lady Bevan’s face and temper won. “The Earl of Coombe shall be hearing about this,” she threatened.
“Yes,” said Tammie, “for I shall tell him. An insult to my music is an insult to Lord Coombe.” The one true thing about Guy was his love for music. In every other respect, he would do whatever advantaged him, even if that meant tramping all over his dependents and anyone else in his way.
“But… I have told my guests you will be singing,” Lady Bevan complained.
That statement did not need a comment. Tammie ignored it.
“You have to sing,” Lady Bevan declared.
Tammie glanced at her and went back to contemplating the footmen. That one near the door was going to drop his vase if he did not put it down soon. He was turning all sorts of interesting colors, his jaw was set, and his knuckles were white.
“Miss Lind! I am speaking to you!” Lady Bevan shrieked.
Tammie turned her attention to the lady. “Lady Bevan, I suggest you take any complaints to Lord Coombe. I will leave as soon as my carriage is ready.”
The lady deflated. Tammie could almost see the bombast spurting out of her in red puffs. “What can I do to convince you to stay?” she demanded, pouting.
“All I need, my lady,” Tammie replied—humbly, for she had won and did not need to crow about it—“is a parlor to wait in and a time to sing. Before or after the luncheon, whichever suits you. But not during, while your guests are busy with something else. Other than that, I need to speak with your musicians to ensure that they have the music to accompany me. That is all. If your ladyship can see your way to providing me with what I need to do justice to your good reputation and my own, then I would be happy to stay.”
“Hmmph!” said Lady Bevan. She barked at the butler. “Bishop! See to it that Miss Lind has what she needs.” She turned her back on Tammie just as the struggling footman gave up and the vase slipped from his grasp with a loud crash.
Bishop, the butler, looked at the chaos of the broken vase, flowers, water, and his mistress taking out her anger on the hapless footman, and crooked a finger at another footman who was not currently burdened. “See Miss Lind to the green parlor, and ask the leader of the musical quartet to visit her there.”
“Bishop,” Tammie said, “When you have a moment, please let Henry know to send the carriage back to the mews and to join me in the green parlor. Thank you.”
She followed the footman away as Bishop began to try to restore order in the entrance hall. Poor man. He might be a pompous idiot with a stick where the sun did not shine, but he had her sympathies.
The green parlor was acceptable. Tammie asked the footman for a large jug of fruit juice or lemonade or some other cordial, and sufficient glasses for them all. Once he left on that errand, she invited her entourage to sit. “Good job with the lady, Miss Lind,” said Guy’s muscle.
Tammie smiled, vaguely. The muscle had a flask with her next dose of laudanum, which made it all the more important to have his approval.
The footman must have found the quartet before he fetched the lemonade, for the violinist who was their leader turned up just before Henry reappeared with a tray containing the requested jug and glasses. Nothing to eat, Tammie noted.
She discussed music with the violinist, and it was as well she did, for he was not familiar with one of the pieces she had chosen. It gave her the opportunity to ask if he knew “The Ballad of Tam Lin”.
“No, Miss Lind. I haven’t heard of that one.”
“It is from Scotland’s borderlands, I believe,” she said.
“My cellist might know it,” said the violinist. “Mac is from Dumfries.”
“Never mind,” Tammie said. “I shall sing ‘Sweet Nightingale’, without accompaniment. We shall make it the last song, and you and your colleagues can take a five-minute break. I fear Lady Bevan might expect you to play straight through, otherwise.”
They had settled the program just in time, for a footman came running to say that the guests had started to arrive, and Lady Bevan wanted to know why she only had a trio and not a quartet. The violinist scurried away.
After that, there was nothing to do but drink her dose of laudanum, wash it down with lemonade, and wait. Guy’s muscle played cards with one of the footmen and Tammie’s maid took out some sewing. Tammie sat idly watching the sunbeams that infiltrated the windows, splintered by the imperfections in the glass, and further distorted by the surfaces they struck: a mat, the legs of a table, the parquet floor.
When she was called for her performance, she drifted towards the door. Henry tugged on her arm. “Miss Lind, I shall order the carriage for forty-five minutes from now, so you do not need to wait after the performance.” In an undertone, he added, “Sir Jowan Trethewey is in the audience.”
That name penetrated the daze. She blinked a couple of times while she tried to remember what she wanted to say to Jowan. “The ballad.” That was it. “Tell JowanThe Ballad of Tam Lin. Tam Lin. Remember that.”
“Miss Lind?” The muscle had turned back in the doorway and was looking at her with suspicion.
“One moment,” she commanded, putting on her imperious persona. “Henry, yes. Your suggestion is excellent. Henry is going to order the carriage now so it will be ready in forty-five minutes.”
