She threw him a faintly exasperated look—what hostess relaxed while guests were in her house?—and went.
As per her instructions, led by Ernestine, the staff had guided the majority of guests into the music room, where they had settled like so many richly plumed chickens in the rows of straight-backed chairs. As Stacie made her way through the morning room, she looked through the double doorways and noted that, as expected, several of the older ladies had remained in the drawi
ng room, with chairs and chaises angled so they could hear and partially see into the music room, while others, mostly gentlemen and younger ladies, stood in groups about the open doorways to the music room and lined the walls of the room itself. The morning room also contained several groups of older ladies, plus a smattering of younger ones and more gentlemen.
A steady thrum of chatter blanketed the scene, while eager anticipation and suppressed excitement rippled over all.
Stacie pressed her palms together at her waist, drew in a deep breath, then glided forward. She’d chosen to wear a new silk evening gown in her favorite shade of cherry red to bolster her courage; as she halted to one side of the grand piano, with her back to the long bow windows at the apex of the music room, she was glad she had—in that instant, she needed every tiny degree of support she could muster.
This was it. If this evening wasn’t a success, her project—her purpose—would be doomed.
She looked out over her guests, and the chatter faded. An expectant hush took its place. A few ladies shifted, then even the rustling of gowns ceased.
Stacie smiled, and somewhat to her surprise, the gesture was entirely genuine. She spread her hands, palms out. “Welcome to what I hope will be the first of many such evenings. As most of you gathered here will know, I have long harbored a fascination for classical music, and I recently discovered the talents of the graduates of the music school attached to St Martin-in-the-Fields. Although of high quality, such local musicians rarely have the chance to feature as solo performers. In particular, it seemed a shame—indeed, a travesty—that such talented Englishmen were so rarely seen within the ton, that venues at which we”—her gesture included all those assembled—“might enjoy their gifts simply did not exist. Subsequently, I recruited the Marquess of Albury, one of our own highly talented musicians, to the cause, and with Mr. Protheroe, the Master of Music at the school”—she inclined her head to Protheroe, who was standing against the wall to her right—“Albury and I chose the three performers who will appear before you tonight, prior to Albury himself playing.”
She swiftly scanned the faces of her guests; all were listening, all were drinking in her words. At the edge of her vision, she saw that, right on cue, Pemberly had arrived in the morning room with Brandon in tow. “The first to play is Mr. Brandon Miller, on the pianoforte, and he will perform the first movement, the allegro con brio, from Ludwig van Beethoven’s ‘Piano Sonata Number Twenty-one.’”
With a smile, she turned toward the morning room’s doorway and led her guests in politely applauding as Brandon—looking tense and pale but determined—walked forward. He crossed before the piano, halted beside her, and bowed to the audience, then straightened, turned, circled the piano, and took his seat.
Stacie stepped back toward the windows—metaphorically speaking, into the shadows—from where she could survey the audience’s reactions.
Brandon’s neat and rather handsome appearance had already caused several ladies, young and old, to pass whispered comments in archly complimentary vein. Then he set his hands to the keys, and the first chords rang out, and the whispers abruptly cut off.
His concentration absolute, Brandon performed flawlessly. As the movement unfurled, Stacie noted several of the gentlemen Frederick had invited—scholars and others from the Royal Academy—exchange impressed looks, then sit straighter and pay more focused attention.
Also exchanging pointed, transparently impressed looks were the hostesses Stacie considered her competitors in the musical-events-within-the-ton sphere, but it was too early to feel vindicated; Carpenter and Goodes had to impress as well for her point to be made.
For the following minutes, the audience remained utterly still and silent, trapped in the web of the great composer’s music that Brandon brought to vibrant life.
Finally, his fingers flying faultlessly through the runs and trills, Brandon brought the piece to its triumphant conclusion; the final chords rang out, and he lifted his hands from the piano—and a second of silence passed as the audience caught its collective breath—then applause rang out, unrestrained and spontaneously joyous. Sincere.
Brandon flushed, glanced briefly at the audience, then looked around for Stacie.
Smiling delightedly and clapping, she walked forward as several calls of “Bravo!” rang out. She waved Brandon forward, and he rose and joined her and bowed deeply to the audience, who continued to clap and call.
By the wall, Protheroe looked beyond delighted.
Brandon turned to Stacie and half bowed. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his voice thick. “I will never forget this.”
Stacie touched his arm briefly as unexpected tears formed in her eyes. “You did wonderfully well—all of us thank you.”
He stared at her for a second, then turned and bowed again to the audience before walking to where Pemberly stood waiting to escort Brandon back to the parlor and fetch Carpenter and Goodes to replace him.
Stacie gave the assembled company a few minutes—a short interval as per their program—to exchange opinions, comments, and observations; it seemed plain that despite her describing the music school’s graduates as “high quality” and “talented,” most hadn’t truly appreciated the degree of musical ability that had, until now, passed unnoticed, essentially beneath their noses.
Eventually, Pemberly returned and hovered in the parlor, far enough back to be out of sight of those in the music room, with Carpenter and Goodes, carrying their instruments and looking even more pale and tense than Brandon had, close behind him. Stacie saw them and motioned to a waiting footman to place two chairs before the long bow windows, as they’d previously arranged, while she moved once again to her mistress-of-ceremonies position a yard before that spot.
Facing those assembled in the music room, she lightly clapped her hands.
Instantly, all chatter faded, and all eyes fastened on her. “Our second performance of the evening will also come from graduates of the music school of St Martin-in-the-Fields. Mr. Phillip Carpenter, on violin, and Mr. George Goodes, on cello, will perform for us the ‘Duet for Violin and Cello in C Major,’ also by Ludwig van Beethoven.”
She raised her hands, and the audience clapped with her as she stepped back and nodded to Carpenter and Goodes, and they drew in deep breaths and walked toward her. They halted before the chairs, turned to the audience, and bowed low, then straightened and took their seats.
They glanced at each other. Phillip tweaked a string, then ran his bow across, and George responded. Both appeared satisfied with the outcome; bows poised, they exchanged another long look.
In perfect accord, the pair launched into the lilting piece, quickly bringing approving smiles to several faces. Soon, many heads were nodding in time; the light, smooth, and airy piece was the perfect composition to keep this audience’s attention, requiring sufficient skill and subtlety to satisfy the more critical, yet consistently pleasant on the ear of the less-demanding, more-intuitive listener.
Stacie scanned those present for any signs of negativity and found none. Everyone was…simply enjoying the wonderful music.