Mary Balogh - Simply Unforgettable

And then, even more belatedly, he realized that he should have stood and made some comment and asked for another song. But it was unnecessary to do so. The applause had died away, to be succeeded by a few shushing noises as Caroline spread out another sheet of music and awaited the signal to begin playing.

Frances sang “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth.”

What had been pure brilliance in the first piece became sheer raw emotion in the second. Before she had finished Lucius was blinking back tears, totally unaware of the ignominy of weeping in public at a mere musical performance. She sang it better than she had the last time, if that was possible. But the last time, of course, he had had to fight distractions in order to hear her.

He was on his feet even before the final note had died away, though he did not immediately applaud. He watched her, tall and regal and beautiful, stay in the world of the music until the last echo of sound had died away.

During the timeless moment between the last bar of music and the first sounds of applause, Lucius knew beyond all doubt that Frances Allard was the woman he would love deep in his soul for the rest of his life even if he never saw her again after tonight. And, despite everything, despite all she had accused him of earlier in the drawing room, he was not sorry for what he had done.

By God, he was not sorry. He would do it all again.

And she would never be sorry. She could surely never ever regret tonight.

Finally she smiled and turned to indicate Caroline, who really had done a superb job at the pianoforte. Both of them bowed, and Lucius stood beaming at both, happier than he could ever remember feeling in his life.

It was impossible in that moment not to believe in happy endings.

Frances was happy. Consciously, gloriously happy.

She was where she belonged—she knew that. And she was doing what she knew she had been born to do.

She was filled to the brim and overflowing with happiness.

And instinctively, without thought, she turned as the applause gradually died down to smile at Lucius, standing in the front row, beaming back at her with what she could not avoid seeing was pride and an answering happiness.

And surely more than that.

How foolish she had been! From almost the first moment of their acquaintance she had been given the chance to reach for the stars, to risk all for the vividness of life—for passion and for love itself. And then for music too.

She had chosen not to take the risk.

And so he had taken it for her.

She felt a rush of love so intense that it fairly robbed her of breath.

But the Earl of Edgecombe was making his way toward her. He took her right hand there in front of everyone, bowed over it, and raised it to his lips.

“Miss Frances Allard,” he said, addressing the audience. “Remem-ber the name, my friends. One day soon you will boast of having heard her here before she became famous.”

The concert was over then, and there was the buzz of conversation as some people rose from their places and a line of footmen appeared at the ballroom doors, bearing trays of food and drink to set on the white-clothed tables at the back.

But Frances was not left unattended even though the earl turned away to speak with her great-aunts. Viscount Sinclair stepped up to take his place. He was looking wary again.

“There are no words, Frances,” he said. “There simply are no words.”

She wanted to weep then. But his mother had come forward too, and she actually hugged Frances.

“Miss Allard,” she said. “I have been to heaven and back this evening. My father-in-law and Lucius and Amy did not exaggerate when they spoke so glowingly of your talent. Thank you for coming here to sing to us.”

Lord Tait bowed and Lady Tait beamed and said she could not agree more with her mama. Emily Marshall linked an arm through Caroline’s and then smiled at Frances.

“I heard you, Caroline,” she said, “and you did superlatively well. But Grandpapa was right. One day I will be able to boast that my sister accompanied Miss Allard during her first concert in London.”

Amy, sparkling with enthusiasm, hugged Frances too.

“And I shall be able to boast to everyone I know that you were my special friend before I was even out,” she said.

Frances laughed. It did not escape her notice that she was surrounded by Lucius’s family, and that they were all looking on her with approval. It was a precious moment that she knew she would look back upon with pleasure.

And then they all stepped aside as another lady and gentleman came forward. Lord Sinclair performed the introductions. But Frances had seen the gentleman before. He was Lord Heath. She curtsied to him and Lady Heath.

“Miss Allard,” he said, “I hold one concert each year around Christmas time, as perhaps you know, at which I gather together for the delight of my friends and carefully chosen guests the very best musical talent I can attract from all over England and the Continent. I wish you will allow me to make an exception to my usual rule and arrange an additional musical evening now, during the Season, with you as the sole performer. I do assure you that everyone who has heard you tonight will wish to do so again. And word will spread like the proverbial wildfire. There will not be enough room in my house for those who will wish to attend.”

“Perhaps, then, Roderick,” Lady Heath said, laying a hand on his sleeve and looking at Frances with smiling eyes, “you should consider hiring a concert hall for the occasion.”

“Brilliant, Fanny!” he said. “It shall be done. Miss Allard, I need only your word of agreement. I can make you great in no time at all. No, let me correct that ridiculous assertion. You do not need me for that—you already are great. But I can make you the most sought-after soprano in Europe, I make bold to claim, if you will put yourself into my hands. I must enjoy this feeling of slight power while I may, though. It will not last long. Very soon you will not need either my patronage or anyone else’s.”

His words served up with them a healthy dose of reality.

It was too much to bear. Too much light had come flooding into her life in too short a time. She felt a desperate need to take a step back, to hold up a staying hand, to think . She would have given anything at that moment, she felt, to have seen the calm, sensible face of Claudia Martin in the crowd nearby. She longed for Anne and Susanna.

She was aware at the same time of Viscount Sinclair beside her, silent and tense, his eyes burning into her.

“Thank you, Lord Heath,” she said. “I am deeply honored. But I am a teacher. I teach music among other subjects at a girls’ school in Bath. It is my chosen career, and even now I long to get back to my pupils, who need me, and to my fellow teachers, who are my dearest friends. I love singing for my own satisfaction. Occasionally I enjoy singing for an audience, even one as large as this. But I do not wish to make a career of it.”

There was certainly truth in what she said. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but . . .

“I am sorry to hear it, ma’am,” Lord Heath said. “ Very sorry indeed. I am afraid I misunderstood, though. When Sinclair invited me here tonight, I thought it was at your request. I thought you wished to be promoted. If you do not, I understand. I have a stepson with an extraordinarily sweet voice, but my wife keeps a very firm rein on my ambitions for him. Quite rightly so—he is a child. I respect your decision, but if you should ever change your mind, you may call upon me at any time. I have been exceedingly well blessed to have heard the purest of boy soprano voices and now the most glorious of female soprano voices all within five months.”