Page 10 of The Dove
“Very well, then you shall call me Winnie,” Winifred replied with a decisive nod. “And I hope to see you this evening. Do not worry over what anyone might say. I shall stick by your side as much as I am able. And my brother would be an ally of ours, as well, I think. We will not allow anyone to treat you badly.”
The other woman’s kindness lifted her spirits, chasing away a bit of the worry that had been gnawing at her insides from the moment she’d discovered Adam’s whereabouts. Perhaps an evening out would be a pleasant diversion.
“Thank you, Winnie,” she said. “I am grateful for you.”
Reaching out to take her hand, Winifred gave it a squeeze, then released it, turning to take up her hat.
“Until this evening,” she called out, before breezing from the room.
Daphne sank back onto her place on the sofa, the invitation still held in one hand. Meeting with Winifred had only affirmed that she’d made the right decision in choosing to believe Adam’s story over her brother’s insistence that nothing was what she’d thought. It made her feel better about the decision to keep every penny of the money Adam had given her for herself.
They did not deserve salvation, and she refused to pull them out of the hole of poverty they’d buried themselves in.
Rising from the sofa, she set out for her chambers, already mulling over what ensemble she would wear for the musicale.
That evening, Daphne arrived at the Bellingham residence promptly at eight. Shunning the practice of arriving fashionably late, she hoped to avoid being gawked at by the entire assembly. She was greeted by Winifred, who stood in the vestibule wearing a pale yellow silk evening gown and white gloves. At her side, a tall, slender man with her coloring and features smiled down at her, his expression open and friendly.
“I cannot tell you how delighted I am that you’ve come,” Winifred said, looping an arm through Daphne’s and pulling her forward to meet the man. “This is my brother, Mr. George Bellingham. George, this is Lady Daphne Fairchild.”
“It is an honor,” George said, bowing to her as if she were a lady and not a whore.
She had not expected such deference, despite being entitled to it as an earl’s daughter.
“The honor is mine.”
As a footman came forward to accept Daphne’s shawl, a woman she recognized as Mrs. Bellingham appeared on the staircase, swiftly descending from the upper floor. She was lovely in demure dove grey silk, but her expression conveyed a sense of panic.
“Mother, whatever is the matter?” Winifred asked. “This is Lady Daphne, by the way.”
Lady Bellingham gave her a tight smile. “Hello, dear. Do forgive me, but I am in the middle of a crisis. One of the musicians I had hired for the evening has just sent word that she cannot come … a cough or some such thing.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Daphne replied, for lack of anything better to say.
“Which musician?” George asked, his face a mask of bland, polite interest.
Something told Daphne he did not care one way or the other. A young, unattached gentleman like him would probably much rather spend his evening at a club or even the theater.
“The harpist,” the mother replied with a sigh. “You know, the one who played at the Mallory soirée last fall.”
“Ah, what a shame,” Winifred lamented. “She was quite wonderful. Oh, but Lady Daphne is a harpist, are you not?”
Daphne’s face warmed when all their eyes landed upon her.
“Erm … not professionally,” she joked.
“Oh, do not be modest,” Winifred insisted. “I can remember attending a dinner at … at Fairchild House.”
Silence fell in their midst as she paused and cringed, as if unable to believe she’d brought up her former connection to the Fairchild family.
Clearing her throat, Winifred pressed on. “At any rate, I remember retiring to a drawing room after dinner and you entertaining us with such beautiful music. I don’t think I’ve heard anyone play as well as you.”
“Now, Winnie, we could not possibly impose upon Lady Daphne that way,” Mrs. Bellingham insisted. “She came to listen to music, not play it.”
“Oh, but I do not mind,” Daphne blurted.
She found that she truly meant it. It would be nice to play again, as she had not touched a harp since her time at Dunnottar; had not realized how much she’d missed it until just now. As well, it would be a pleasant way to pass the evening, instead of worrying over the sorts of cutting remarks she might be forced to endure, or even receiving the cut direct in front of a room full of people. Performing would put a bit of a veil up between herself and the other guests.
The more she thought on the idea, the more she wanted to do it.
