Page 51 of Everything a Lady is Not
Her eyes rolled upward as she pondered. Charlotte waited with happy anticipation.
“Certainly not the harp,” she replied finally. “The dulcet tones of that instrument exercise a certain deleterious effect on my waking state.”
Henry blinked. “Deleterious effect? By that you mean…”
“The harp puts me to sleep. I should think it bad form to slip into slumber while playing for potential victims of marital acquisition. Do you agree?”
While he stared at her with befuddlement, Charlotte intervened. “That is perfectly well, Lucy. The pianoforte it is, then.”
Lucy shook her head. “The pianoforte is not viable, either, I am afraid. It is far too complicated for proficiency within the short time afforded us. I refuse to make a larger fool of myself by stumbling over a set of keys.”
Charlotte’s expression turned to worry. “What musical accomplishment should you offer, then?”
Lucy’s eyes lit. “Mr. Jeffers, an experienced musician and pickpocket, showed me how to play the spoons. I practiced the skill over the years and attained a certain expertise enjoyed by many visitors when the wine began to flow.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “Spoons?”
“Yes, spoons. Holding two or three spoons in each hand and slapping them against one’s thigh in a pleasing pattern of syncopation.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “No spoons. What passes for favorable entertainment within army camps and dens of thieves would not be accepted by anyone above a certain station.”
She frowned. “I suppose you must be right. Now that you mention it, I do not recall witnessing such entertainment in finer gatherings while living abroad. My apologies.”
Charlotte tapped her chin. “Can you perhaps sing?”
Lucy froze before slowly shaking her head. Henry, however, recalled what he had heard in the night. The sound of her quiet singing had intoxicated him, and he’d been forced to muster every ounce of his resistance to walk away. “Yes, she sings beautifully. I have heard her do so, in fact.”
She glanced sharply at him with question. He grinned playfully. “Sound carries well in these old stone halls. Especially during the wee hours of the morning.”
A blush crept up her cheeks, and she averted her eyes. Charlotte, however, clapped her hands. “Wonderful, Lucy! You shall sing at social gatherings. What songs do you know?”
She shrugged. “I know the words to all three verses of ‘The Chandler’s Wife’.”
“I have not heard that one,” said Charlotte.
“And well you should not have,” Henry blurted, “as it is entirely inappropriate for gentle company. Do you know another?”
“‘The Lusty Young Smith’?”
“Definitely not. What else?”
“‘All for Me Grog’?”
Henry’s head fell in dismay as words failed him. Her repertoire seemed more suited for patrons of alehouses than for anyone of breeding. Charlotte interpreted his pause as acceptance.
“Wonderful, Lucy. Let us hear… What did you call it? ‘All for Me…’”
“Grog. And it goes like this.” She inhaled a breath and began to sing with gusto.
“All for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog. All for me beer and tobacco. Well, I spent all me tin in a shanty drinkin’ gin…”
“That will be quite enough,” Henry interrupted loudly. Lucy froze, her eyes wide. Charlotte stared at her in astonishment. He breathed deeply and adopted a gentler tone. “A sailor’s drinking song is entirely inappropriate for gatherings of the finer class. They wouldn’t understand.”
As hurt encroached on Lucy’s face, Henry immediately regretted his harsh rebuke. Charlotte leaped to the rescue. “Why, Lucy! Your singing voice is quite lovely. And I did enjoy the jaunty nature of your tune.”
Henry found that he agreed with his sister. Her singing possessed a certain husky quality that spoke of passion—a perfect extension of her personality.
“My sister is quite correct. Your singing is more than adequate to please guests, regardless of station. However, we need to find songs suitable for sensitive and judgmental ears. Perhaps Charlotte may recommend a few.”
