Page 70 of Hearts of Briarwall

Oh, dear heavens, he was trilling hisRs.

Andrew’s lips were now pursed, and he looked uncomfortably at the floor.

Lydia closed her eyes. She knew the poem well enough to know it was almost done.

“—the smiles that win, the tints that glow—”

Indeed, she was surely glowing now. Bright and hot.

“—but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent!”

The four members of the immediate audience and members of the staff who’d been invited to view the performance from the back broke into varying shades of applause.

Lydia kept her eyes glued to Violet and clapped ferociously as her friend curtsied. She averted every notion to look at Sir Lawrence, though she saw him bow low from the corner of her eye, then a flash from his white kerchief as he wiped his neck and face. She felt his intense gaze upon her, but she could not bring herself to return it.

He’d always been a sedate sort of man. Sure of himself, but not in any memorable way. A mediocre person that had earned Andrew’s loyalty by way of the elder Mr. Piedmont’s overseeing the care of her family. But suddenly she wondered how far Andrew’s loyalty reached, and if she was entangled in that loyalty. If she somehow had become a part of Sir Lawrence’s suddenly unnerving aspirations.

Violet sat in the empty chair next to her after setting her instrument in its case and arranging her skirts.

On Lydia’s other side, Spencer leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together. His head was bowed, and his knee bounced.

“What do you know?” she murmured.

A jerk of his head told her he’d heard her, and his head lowered once more.

Lydia turned to Violet, whose eyes were wide and questioning.

“About what?” she asked.

“Who chose your song?” Lydia asked quietly.

Violet shrugged. “I wrote up a list, and Sir Lawrence insisted upon that one. I was quite surprised, but I wasn’t going to argue.” She read Lydia’s expression and sobered. “What happened?”

Of course, from Violet’s perspective and focus, she’d missed Sir Lawrence’s embarrassing display.

“Nothing,” Lydia said, forcing a smile. “You played beautifully. I’m sure your lady composer would be very proud.”

Violet’s smile returned, gentled by the compliment. “Thank you.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Though I will say I was surprised with all the trilling and flourish Sir Lawrence added to his performance. He was quite timid during rehearsal.”

“It was very ... stirring,” Lydia said, swallowing hard. “Don’t you think so, Spencer?”

She knew he’d been listening to their conversation.

He nodded, not looking at her. “That’s one word for it.” He lifted his gaze to Violet and straightened in his chair. “What a marvelous surprise to hear you play, Violet.”

“What, because I’m a woman?” she asked good-naturedly. Though more women had been taking up the instrument in the past decade or so, a female violinist was still rare.

“Not at all. I’ve never heard the violin performed in person before, by man or woman. I hope it’s not my last opportunity to do so.”

“Thank you,” Violet said, her gratitude genuine as it always was when it came to her beloved violin. “I’m pleased to have provided a more intimate introduction to the instrument.”

A clearing of a throat drew their attention to the piano, where stood Mrs. Piedmont. Andrew waited to the side of the piano bench.

She pulled herself to her full height. “I shall be performing ‘Flight of the Bumblebee,’ or ‘Polyot shmelya,’ by Russian composer Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov. The song was written for his opera,The Tale of Tsar Saltan, in which a magical swan turns a prince into a bumblebee so he might visit his imprisoned father.” She pressed her hand to her breast. “What a vivid imagination Mr. Korsakov had, to be sure.” She turned to Andrew. “Mr. Wooding will be turning pages for me, which is no easy task for this particular piece.” She bowed her head to Andrew, and then to her audience, and regally took her seat at the piano.

After a steadying breath, the woman began, her fingers immediately climbing the keys, nimbly building on the bee’s furious flight of fancy. Indeed, in her yellow gown, the silk of her billowing sleeves shivering with movement, the woman portrayed the image quite effectively.

Andrew, Lydia noted, turned the pages as Mrs. Piedmont flew through them without need of her signaling nod. He simply knew when to turn the page because he could read music. A pang of sadness pulled at Lydia’s heart. It could be him at the keys. Or the violin, or the cello, or probably a lute if they had one lying around. She’d been told he was brilliantly gifted on strings of any sort, but he’d not played since their parents had died.

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