Page 26 of A Captain, a Corpse, and Miss Bridges
“There’s a lot of that about,” Mr Goodwin offered, as he scowled darkly down at his cup of tea.
James felt what was nearly a pang of sympathy for the young man, whose exuberance had dimmed since the library. He at last reached Miss Bridges’ side, though she did not note his arrival for her eyes were trained thoughtfully on Mrs Pinnock.
“How goes your evening, Miss Bridges?” James whispered, wishing to steal her attention his way.
“Well enough,” she glanced up at him, her lips curving into a smile. “No one has accused me of murder yet, so I suppose my first evening in society might be considered a success.”
“I’d like to see the person who would dare accuse you of anything while I am present,” James replied, his mild tone belying the roar of protectiveness he felt.
Miss Bridges flushed and glanced away, leaving James free to take his measure of her. The light of the chandelier caught on the curve of her neck and the small hollow at her collarbone. James was seized by a wholly improper urge to lean over and kiss that very spot. For a man who prided himself on discipline, it was a most alarming impulse.
“Miss Bridges, Captain Thorne—whatever are you doing skulking in the corner? Come closer.”
With impeccable timing, Mrs Mifford’s voice cut across his thoughts. Both he and Miss Bridges coloured and edged reluctantly toward the centre of the room.
“There now,” Mrs Mifford said with satisfaction, quite unabashed in her desire to observe them at close quarters. “I can see you perfectly.”
“Would you like them to perform a party-piece for you too, mother?” Lady Crabb queried dryly, with an apologetic glance their way.
“I want nothing of the sort,” Mrs Mifford sniffed, before turning to Mrs Pinnock to boast. “Though if anyone desires entertainment, I might play a piece on the pianoforte. I’m quite the accomplished musician.”
James observed a horrified glance pass between the host and hostess.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Lady Crabb protested at the exact same time as her husband blurted; “The piano isn’t properly tuned.”
“And the baby doesn’t seem to like piano music, Mama,” the duchess added, with a nod to her bump. “It sets her off kicking and I’m already anticipating dyspepsia after the blancmange.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have had a second helping,” the duke worried, earning himself a withering scowl. James hid a smile—even unmarried he knew better than to question how many helpings of dessert a lady partook in.
“It’s remarkable the things you know the babe dislikes before it’s even here,” Mr Mifford commented innocently. “By my count they include: your mother’s piano playing, your mother’s singing, and her famous bread-and-butter pudding.”
“It’s famous for a reason,” the marchioness observed, with a delicate shudder.
“Flora can sing!”
The whole room started as Lady Crabb—in a tone that was rather panicked—interrupted the exchange.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs Mifford agreed, pouncing on the suggestion. “I was just thinking it would be nice if Miss Bridges graced us with a song. Great minds, eh Jane?”
The viscountess nodded, her expression betraying equal parts relief and amusement.
“Miss Bridges has been blessed with a beautiful voice, Captain,” Mrs Mifford added with a pointed glance in James’s direction. Then, turning to a very red Flora, she waved her forward. “Come, Miss Bridges, show the captain—I mean, the company—what you can do.”
“Oh, really, I couldn’t—” Flora began, but she was drowned out by a chorus of encouragement from the guests.
“Oh, alright,” she agreed, clasping her hands together as though to steady them. She looked as if she might rather face a firing squad than their expectant gazes, James thought with a pang.
When at last she began, her voice was soft and uncertain, but it soon gathered strength. The ballad was a simple one—a sailor lost at sea, waiting for the tide that never brings him home.
The room grew still as her pure, sweet voice transfixed them all. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps the brandy, but James felt the words pierce his very heart. The lyrics reminded him of his own years afloat, of comrades who never returned, and of how close he himself had come to never seeing England again. That such a song should come from Flora moved him almost beyond measure.
When the last note faded, there was a silence more eloquent than applause. Then, inevitably, Mrs Mifford broke it.
“How touching,” she said brightly. “It must remind you of your dear father, Miss Bridges.”
Flora’s lashes lowered, her fingers twisting together, perhaps thinking of the father she had never met. James longed to step between her and Mrs Mifford’s careless remark, to shield her from the curiosity of the room.
The company stirred, offering their compliments, but James hardly heard them. He could think only of how much he wanted to gather Miss Bridges in his arms.
