Anne Perry - Cardington Crescent

Therefore, Emily would act the role of her life. She would be so utterly charming and delightful George would find Sybilla a pale copy, a shadow, and Emily again the true substance.

For three days she kept up her charade without noticeable failure. If she felt close to weeping again she was sure no one else saw it-except perhaps Great-aunt Vespasia, who saw everything. But she did not mind that. Behind the ineffable elegance and the radical humor, Aunt Vespasia was the one person who cared for her.

However, it had proved so difficult at times she was all but overcome with the futility of it. She was bound to fail. She knew her voice sounded flat, her smile must be sickly. But since there was nothing else with any hope of success, after a moment’s solitude-perhaps merely in walking from one room to another-she had renewed her effort, trying with every strength she possessed to be amusing, considerate, and courteous. She even forced herself to be civil to old Mrs. March, although she could not resist exercising her wit on her in her absence, to the rather exuberant laughter of Jack Radley.

By dinner on the third day it was becoming extremely difficult. They were all most formally dressed, Emily in pale green, Sybilla in indigo, sitting round the monstrous mahogany table in the dining room. Rust red velvet curtains, heavily swagged and draped, and too many pictures on the wall made Emily feel suffocated. It was almost unendurable to force the smile to her lips, to dredge up from a weary and fearful imagination some light and flippant remark. She pushed the food round her plate without eating and sipped more and more wine.

She must not do anything as obvious as flirting with William; that would be seen as retaliation-even by George, uninterested as he was-and certainly by everyone else. Old Mrs. March’s needle eyes missed nothing. She had been a widow forty years, presiding over her domestic kingdom with a will of iron and an insatiable curiosity. Emily must be equally entertaining, equally delightful to everyone-including Sybilla-as befitted a woman of her position, even if it choked her. She was careful not to cap other people’s stories, and to laugh while meeting their eyes, so as to appear sincere.

She searched for the appropriate compliment, just truthful enough to be believed, and listened with attention to Eustace’s interminably boring anecdotes about his athletic exploits when younger. He was a great and vociferous believer in “a healthy mind in a healthy body” and had no time for aesthetes. His disappointment was implicit in every phrase, and watching William’s tense face across the table, Emily found it increasingly hard to hold her peace and keep her expression composed in polite interest.

After the sweet, with nothing left on the table but vanilla ice, raspberry water and a little fruit, Tassie said something about a soiree she had been to, and how bored she had been, which earned her a look of disgust from her grandmother. It struck a sudden chord of memory in Emily. She looked across at Jack Radley with a tiny smile.

“They can be fearful,” she agreed. “On the other hand, they can also be superb.”

Tassie, who was on the same side of the table and could not see Emily’s face, was unaware of her mood. “This was a large soprano singing rather badly,” she explained. “And so terribly serious.”

“So was the best one I’ve ever been to.” Emily felt the memory sharper in her mind as the scene came back to her. “Charlotte and I once took Mama. It was marvelous …”

“Indeed?” Mrs. March said coldly. “I had no idea you were musical.”

Emily continued to keep a sweet expression, ignoring the implication, and stared straight at Jack Radley. With a stinging pleasure she knew that she had his attention as deeply as she would like to have had George’s, and with precisely the same nature of excitement.

“Go on!” he urged. “Whatever can be marvelous about an overweight soprano singing earnestly and badly?”

William shivered. Like Tassie, he was thin and sensitive, with vividly red hair, although his was darker and his features sharper, etched with an inner pain that had not yet touched her.

Emily recounted it exactly as it had been. “She was a large lady, very ardent, with a pink face. Her gown was beaded and fringed practically everywhere, so that it shivered when she moved. Miss Arbuthnot was playing the pianoforte for her. She was very thin, and wearing black. They huddled together for several minutes over the music, and then the soprano came forward and announced that she would sing ‘Home Sweet Home,’ which as you know is heavy and extremely sentimental. Afterwards, to cheer us up, she would give us Yum-Yum’s delightful, lighthearted song from The Mikado, ‘Three Little Maids.’ “

“Much better,” Tassie agreed. “That goes along at a lovely pace. Although she hardly sounds like my idea of Yum-Yum.” And she hummed a bar or two cheerfully.

“‘Marvelous’ is overstating it rather a lot,” Eustace said critically. “Good song ruined.”

Emily ignored him. “She faced us all,” she continued, “composed her features into lines of deep emotion, and began slowly and very solemnly with a blast of sentiment-only the piano bounded away with the trills and twitters of a rollicking rhythm!”

Only Jack Radley’s face registered understanding.

“‘Be it ever so hu-u-mble,’” Emily mimicked sonorously, at once savage and doleful.

“Da-di-di-dum-dum, da da dee-ee,” Jack sang with delight.

“Oh no!” Tassie’s eyes lit with joy, and she started to giggle. Sybilla joined in, and even Eustace smiled in spite of himself.

“They trailed off, scarlet-faced,” Emily said enthusiastically. “The soprano stammered her apologies, wheeled round, and charged to the piano, where Miss Arbuthnot was fumbling wildly through sheets of music, scattering them to the floor. They gathered them all up, muttering fiercely together and wagging their fingers at each other, while we all sat and tried to pretend we had not really noticed. Nobody said anything, and Charlotte and I dared not look at each other in case we lost control. Finally they came to some agreement, new music was set up on the piano, and the soprano advanced purposefully to the front of the floor again and faced us. She took an enormous breath, her beads jangled at her throat and all but broke, and with tremendous aplomb she began a spirited rendition: ‘Three Little Maids from school are we, filled to the brim with girlish glee’ …” She hesitated a moment, staring straight into Jack Radley’s dark blue eyes. “Unfortunately Miss Arbuthnot was crashing out the ponderous chords of ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ with a look of intense longing on her face.”

This time even the old lady’s mouth twitched. Tassie was helpless with giggles, and everyone else chortled with pleasure.

“They struggled on for a full three minutes,” Emily said finally, “getting louder and louder, trying to outdo each other, till the chandeliers rattled. Charlotte and I couldn’t bear it any longer. We stood up at precisely the same moment and fled through the chairs, falling over people’s feet, till we collided in the doorway and almost fell outside, clasping each other. We gave way and laughed till we cried. Even Mama, when she caught up with us, didn’t have the heart to be angry.”

“Oh, how that takes me back!” Vespasia said with a broad smile, dabbing at the tears on her cheeks. “I’ve been to so many ghastly soirees. Now I shall never be able to listen to an earnest soprano again without thinking of this! There are so many fearful singers I should like such a thing to happen to-it would be such a mercy for the rest of us.”

“So should I,” Tassie agreed. “Starting with Mr. Beamish and his songs of pure womanhood. I suppose with a little foresight it could be arranged?” she added hopefully.