The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 9

  The expressions of the three young musicians had eased. Brandon and George were nodding; Phillip had his chin tipped up as Moreton measured his neck.

  When, finally satisfied, Moreton released him, Phillip said, “While earning money enough to live on is nice, ultimately, our success is that, isn’t it? What we bring to our audience and how successful we are in delivering the joy of the music to them.”

  George took Phillip’s place. “That’s the moment that’s most uplifting—that instant you spoke of when you realize that, yes, you’ve done your job and shared the music with those listening.”

  Phillip looked down the room and caught Frederick’s eyes. “We were talking on our way here, and we want to thank you—you and her ladyship—for giving us this opportunity to perform before a more exacting audience. If we succeed in this sphere…well, it’s what we’ve been training for all these years. To share our God-given talents and what those can make of the music with an audience who appreciates that.”

  The other two murmured their agreement.

  Frederick inclined his head in acknowledgment of their words, even while he pondered the fact that, in the matter of playing before any audience, he’d taken the exact opposite stance.

  He’d been hiding his talent, hoarding it away, for more than a decade.

  From the mouths of babes…

  It was somewhat chastening to realize that, in reaction to the ton’s over-avid interest, instead of confronting it and overcoming the hurdle, he’d instead run away and withdrawn his talent from the world.

  Moreton was finally finished. He dismissed George, rolled up his tape measure, consulted with Thomas, then faced Frederick. “I believe we’ll be able to deliver within the specified time frame, my lord. Where do you wish the garments to be sent?”

  Frederick glanced at the three young men, then said, “Package each set separately, address each to the relevant gentleman, and send all three packages to the Music School at St Martin-in-the-Fields, Trafalgar Square.”

  George nodded. “We can pick them up easily from there.”

  “Indeed. I’m sure the good Mrs. Withers will keep them safe until you do.” Frederick turned to Moreton. “Thank you for rising to the occasion, Moreton. You may send the account to me.”

  “My lord.” Moreton bowed. “And can I say that while this commission is somewhat different, we at Moreton and Sons will be happy to execute any such commissions in the future.”

  Frederick dipped his head. “Thank you, Moreton. I believe you and Thomas know the way out.”

  With a nod to his three new clients, Moreton quit the room, followed by Thomas.

  Frederick waved the three younger men to the door; they filed out, and he joined them. As they walked slowly along the upper gallery and down the main stairs, the three asked, and Frederick explained the rationale behind his choice of pieces; in doing so, he realized he’d brought his knowledge of the ton very much to bear.

  After seeing the three men on their way, he retreated to his study. Slumping into his favorite chair by the fireplace, he reviewed the insights generated during the past hour courtesy of his interaction with the youthful trio.

  With the benefit of hindsight, he could admit that his reaction to the ton’s fawning had been driven more by selfish self-interest than any other cause. He might abhor the over-avid lauding and the smothering attention to the point of outright rejection of the activity that gave rise to it, yet he doubted any serious musician—like the three he’d taken under his wing—would regard his abraded sensitivities as sufficient cause to withhold his, as they’d termed it, God-given talent from the world.

  He sat and considered that proposition—contrasted his life and its lack of meaningful hurdles with those of the three young musicians.

  All in all, it was difficult to avoid the charge that, in the matter of sharing his talent, he’d been acting in a cowardly manner.

  From that, it was a short step to a newfound appreciation of the impact of Stacie on his life. She hadn’t accepted his initial lack of interest but had held to her purpose and convinced him to put his talent to good use in introducing worthy musicians to the ton. But en route to gaining her objective, she’d succeeded in persuading him to, once again, accept the responsibility that came with a talent such as his—namely, to sit before an audience and let the music he truly revered speak through his fingers.

  That afternoon, Frederick called on Stacie in Green Street. On being welcomed into Stacie’s private parlor—a cozier room than the formal drawing room—he greeted Stacie and her cousin Ernestine, then moved to the armchair Stacie waved him to, opposite hers and angled toward the chaise where Ernestine sat stitching.

  He sat and said, “Now that we have our first three protégés selected and the music they should play at our first event decided and have arranged for appropriate raiment”—he met Stacie’s eyes—“is there anything else we need to determine before we decide on a date?”

  After the revelations of the morning, he felt re-energized, with his commitment to Stacie’s enterprise reinforced. A certain impatience prodded him; he was eager to see how the musical evening would pan out, for himself as much as for their protégés.

  Stacie lightly frowned, her expression suggesting she was consulting some mental list, then she shook her head. “Nothing I can think of.” She refocused on his face. “But of course, in deciding on a date, we need to consider who we wish to invite and what other entertainments are slated for the same night.”

  Frederick drew a list from his pocket. “These are the events during the next three weeks for which I’ve seen invitations. Not that I’ve accepted any, but the events are scheduled.” Glancing at the list, he added, “The coming week isn’t crowded, but the week after that is already event-heavy, and the week after that looks ridiculously crammed.”

  Ernestine looked up from her embroidery. “The week after next is considered the first week of the Season, these days. And by the following week, the social whirl is in full swing.”

  Frederick caught Stacie’s gaze. “If you want to host more than one musical evening during this Season, then for my money, we need to move quickly and decide on a night in the coming week. The major hostesses—most likely all those you’ll wish to invite—will already be in town, and the academics and aficionados I believe we should invite will also likely be here—some bury themselves during the height of the Season.”

  Stacie had to acknowledge his point, yet… “Choosing a date in the upcoming week—with less than a week’s notice—”

  “Will pique people’s curiosity,” Ernestine interjected. When both Stacie and Frederick looked at her, she smiled and said, “Such an invitation would certainly pique mine. Every hostess worth her salt knows that less than a week’s notice for an evening event at this time of year is virtually guaranteed to ensure a poor showing. Yet the invitation will be coming from you, Stacie, and all the ton’s ladies know you’ve grown up in the very heart of the ton, so why would you do such a thing? If it’s not a novice’s mistake but a deliberate act…?”

  Nonplussed, Stacie widened her eyes, inviting an answer.

  Ernestine’s smile deepened. “Obviously, it must be because you’re absolutely assured of a full house, and you’re not concerned that some might not answer the call.” Ernestine looked down at her stitchery. “It has always seemed to me that, within the ton, confidence in a certain outcome—or at least giving the appearance of such—is the best guarantee that that outcome will, in fact, be achieved.”

  Frederick nodded. “A shrewd observation. So”—he looked at Stacie—“the only question is which night will suit us best.”

  Stacie rose and walked to her writing desk. She picked up the stack of invitations resting on one corner, extracted those pertaining to the coming week, left the others on the desk, and returned to her chair. Holding out her hand for Frederick’s list, she sat and compared his list with her invitations. Eventually, she said, “I have a few additional invitations for those
evenings, but it looks like Wednesday will be our best option. Almack’s, such as it is, won’t hold its first ball until the week after.” She tipped her head, considering the spread of invitations before her. “Quite possibly out of habit, most hostesses have avoided scheduling their evening events on Wednesday.”

  Frederick nodded decisively. “Wednesday will work. Our three protégés will have their clothes and, I’m sure, their pieces polished to perfection by then.”

  “If you write your invitations today and send them via footmen rather than the post,” Ernestine said, “then I see no reason the majority of your invitees won’t attend. Curiosity alone will draw them to the door.”

  Stacie bit her lip. “How many do you think we can fit?”

  A discussion ensued, resulting in Frederick finally agreeing to a limit of one hundred and fifty guests. “We can seat close to a hundred in the music room alone,” Stacie pointed out. “And although we’ll invite one hundred and fifty, I doubt all will come.”

  “Oh, I think you should err on the side of caution, dear,” Ernestine said. “Especially in the catering. If you invite one hundred and fifty, then assume all will cross the threshold. Yet I do take your point—if we seat ninety in the music room, others will remain seated in the drawing room and morning room, and still others will stand around the walls, which creates a feeling of earnestness, don’t you think?”

  She had to agree. “Very well—one hundred and fifty guests. So who should they be?”

  They all had people to suggest, for varying reasons. Stacie moved to her desk, sat, assembled paper and pen, and duly noted all the names and addresses.

  It took nearly an hour to settle on their guest list, one including the most influential hostesses as well as the majority of the recognized grandes dames and, at Stacie and Ernestine’s insistence, several families they knew who were hoping to puff off young ladies that Season. “They,” Stacie maintained, “the mamas and young ladies all, chatter so much to each other that, as a group, they are the most likely to spread word of our evening as an event—as well as enthusing over the caliber of our young musicians—far and wide throughout the ton.”

  Frederick reacted to that comment with a sour look, but made no protest. As he’d rattled off a string of names of gentlemen influential in the world of music, all of whom Stacie had put on the list, he had no grounds for complaint.

  She had also included Protheroe and the governors of St Martin-in-the-Fields. “To make sure they know we appreciate the quality of the graduates the music school produces.”

  With Stacie’s family and close connections, including the powerful Cynster ladies, all on the list, they had had to cull some of the lesser hostesses to trim the numbers to the desired one hundred and fifty.

  Finally, she declared, “With our guest list agreed, we need to decide on the wording of the invitation.” She arched a brow at Frederick. “Do you wish to be listed as co-host or…?”

  He shook his head. “Not co-host.” He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm, then suggested, “List the program on the reverse of the card.”

  She envisioned that, then, lips curving, nodded and reached for a fresh sheet of paper. Frederick recited the program as agreed with their three protégés, then paused.

  Pen poised, Stacie looked at him.

  But it was Ernestine who said, “We should list you with your formal title—Frederick, Marquess of Albury. Anything less will be…well, underplaying your hand, so to speak.”

  Stacie tried to read what was going on behind Frederick’s impassive countenance, but failed.

  However, after a moment, he met her eyes and inclined his head in agreement. “And I’ll be playing Robert Schumann’s ‘Fantasie in C Major. Opus Seventeen.’ That will fill half an hour, which is the longest we should stretch our guests’ patience and their ability to sit still.”

  She hid a smile; given the quality of his playing, she doubted they would hear a pin drop, let alone a rustle.

  He went on, “So timewise, we start with Brandon, and he’ll play for about fifteen minutes. Be sure to list a short interval between his performance and that of the string duo, but it should stretch to no more than three minutes. Then Phillip and Brandon will take a few minutes to settle their instruments, plus another ten or so minutes of playing. After that, list another short interval—that one should be a full five minutes to give the audience time to exchange views on our three protégés’ performances—”

  “And build expectation and anticipation for your performance,” Ernestine put in.

  Glancing at Frederick, Stacie glimpsed a hint of resistance, but after a second, he nodded. “Quite.” He met Stacie’s eyes. “So from beginning to end, your program will last just over an hour, which should be ideal.”

  She looked down at her notes. “So if we invite people to arrive at eight, start our program at nine-thirty, then at the conclusion, just after ten-thirty, pause for, say, ten minutes before serving supper, we’ll have a nicely rounded evening, with all our guests away by sometime shortly after midnight.”

  “That sounds perfect, dear,” Ernestine said. “Now”—she set her embroidery in her lap—“do you want help with those invitations?”

  In the end, even Frederick helped, penning the invitations to his peers and colleagues in the music world. As many of the invitations were for couples, if not families, there were sixty-seven actual invitations to scribe, then blot, fold into envelopes, and address.

  When the last invitation was done, it was nearly time to dress for dinner. Frederick had divided the stack of envelopes into two roughly equal piles, one to be dispatched from Mount Street, carried to the various residences by Raventhorne footmen, and the other to be delivered by the Albury House staff. The latter pile included not just the invitations for Frederick’s scholarly peers but also those for his mother, his sisters, and several acquaintances, as well as a large group of the more general invitations to ton families. As he tied the stack of envelopes with a ribbon Ernestine had found, he observed, “It won’t hurt for some invitations to be delivered by a footman in the Albury livery.”

  Stacie agreed; despite the short notice, the news of Frederick’s involvement would definitely get around town and feed expectations.

  Finally, Frederick rose and picked up his stack of invitations. After taking his leave of Ernestine, he turned to Stacie, and she waved him to the door.

  In the front hall, she gave him her hand. “Thank you. Between us, I believe we’ve organized a musical evening the ton will remember.” Her lips curving, she couldn’t resist adding, “And with your name on the program, I predict our first event is destined to be an outright crush.”

  The expression in his eyes as he held her hand was one of resigned cynicism, but all he said as he released her was, “I suspect you’ll be proved correct.”

  With an arrogant lift to one eyebrow, he turned and went out of the door Hettie was holding open.

  Stacie watched him descend, all languid grace, to the pavement, then turn for Park Street. He might not appreciate the ton’s adoration, but in reality, she doubted he had a humble bone to his name.

  Frederick reached Albury House with just enough time to hand over the stack of invitations to Fortingale, then hurry upstairs and change before joining his mother and Emily in the drawing room.

  “Well!” his mother exclaimed as he walked into the room. “I’d almost given up hope.” She waved her invitation—already opened—at him. “I take my hat off to Stacie—she is clearly a miracle worker.”

  “Don’t overdo it, Mama.” Frederick bent and kissed her check, then nodded a greeting to Emily, who grinned, understanding his mood and not the least bit inclined to pander to it.

  “So tell me,” the marchioness commanded, “how on earth did Stacie manage it?” Immediately she held up a hand. “No—wait. Perhaps you’d better leave the mystery intact.”

  Frederick lounged in one of the armchairs. “If you must know, she shamelessly appealed to my sense of
noblesse oblige.”

  “Oh?” Emily looked fascinated; she’d known him since birth. “How on earth did she manage that?”

  He sighed and gave them a condensed description of the music school and the difficulties faced by its English graduates. “They’re merchants’ sons and can’t afford to attend the Royal Academy, yet from all I’ve seen, their artistry would compare favorably with that of the best of the Academy’s alumni. The three Stacie and I have chosen to introduce at this event are well and truly worthy of the ton’s attention—as you’ll see next Wednesday.”

  “I have to say that choosing the last free Wednesday is a stroke of genius,” Emily stated.

  “And giving such short notice,” his mother added. “Nothing like a subliminal suggestion that something’s afoot to bring the ton flocking.” She arched her brows at him. “So who has been invited?”

  He rattled off all the names he could remember. Fortingale interrupted him, and they adjourned to the dining room, yet even once they’d settled at the table, his mother continued her inquisition. He bore with her questions with what grace he could muster, knowing he could rely on her support, and that said support would be instrumental in ensuring the evening was a social success.

  Sure enough, before she and Emily left him to enjoy a quiet brandy, his mother declared, “You and Stacie can rest assured that Emily and I, and your sisters, too, will all do our part in planting the right seeds in the right minds to escalate interest in your joint enterprise.”

  “And with such an exclusive guest list,” Emily said, “you can be assured there will be plenty of interest in what transpires on Wednesday night.”