Page 49 of Some Like It Wild
In secret we met
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget
Thy spirit deceive…
From her place next to Connor on the settee, Pamela had to admit that Crispin would have cut a striking figure on the stage. He seemed to grow taller and more confident when not forced to share the limelight. Several of the other guests had abandoned their conversations and were drifting toward their little group, drawn by the rich timbre of his voice.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?
With silence and tears.
An enthusiastic smattering of applause greeted the end of Crispin’s reading. He took a bow, then tucked the book back on the shelf.
“As most of you already know, my long lost cousin here has spent most of his years living with that hale and hearty race known as the Scots.” As Crispin’s calculating gaze settled on Connor, Pamela felt a twinge of foreboding. “Since there is no greater pleasure than hearing a poem rendered in its native tongue, who better than my dear cousin to bring to life the words of Robert Burns—the most famous Scotsman of them all!”
As Crispin plucked a cloth-bound volume from the shelf and tossed it at Connor, Pamela felt her blood run cold. She had sought to spare him the embarrassment of her outmoded dresses, never dreaming he might endure a far worse humiliation at his cousin’s treacherous hands. She’d had every intention of teaching him how to read before anyone discovered his lack of education, but they’d certainly had no opportunity for study since arriving at Warrick Park.
She snatched the book out of the air before Connor could catch it. Glaring daggers at Crispin, she said, “I’m sure the marquess has better things to do with his time than play at these ridiculous games.”
Connor gently removed the book from her hand. “It’s all right, darling. A Scotsman welcomes any chance to enlighten an Englishman when it comes to the romance of poetry.”
His words were greeted with bemused glances and nervous chuckles. A hush fell as he rose to take Crispin’s place at the bookshelf, his imposing presence commanding the attention of everyone in the drawing room.
“May I choose my selection?”
Crispin extended a gracious hand. “Be my guest.”
Pamela held her breath as Connor flipped through the book several times before finally securing a page with his finger. Without introduction, he read:
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean’s roar…
The words were as simple and heartfelt as when the poet had first penned them, but Connor’s evocative burr transformed even the simplest syllable into music. He glanced at her, no longer making any attempt to hide the passion simmering in his eyes. Unlike Crispin, he was performing for an audience of only one. Pamela felt helpless tears start in her eyes as he continued:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.
As the echo of those last words faded, the entire drawing room erupted in thunderous applause. Judging by the number of handkerchiefs that suddenly appeared, Pamela wasn’t the only one who had been moved to tears. The freckled young man was even rewarded with a tender kiss on the cheek from his Emily.
Both Crispin and Byron were forgotten as a chorus of eager voices rose to beg Connor for another Burns poem.
“That’s enough for tonight, lads and ladies,” he told them, “but I promise to return after my wedding to bring you a rousing rendition of ‘O Aye My Wife She Dang Me.’”
