The final notes sounded, the strings singing in blissful harmony—concluded in perfect unison as both musicians raised their bows.
This time, the applause was even more eager, more enthused. Stacie saw keen calculation in many matrons’ faces; string performers of the likes of Carpenter and Goodes could perform at many ton functions—at soirées, parties, routs, and balls—and the ton was always hungry for fresh faces, preferably handsome, and above all, appreciated exactly the sort of skill Carpenter and Goodes had displayed.
Unaware of the speculation running rife through the audience, the pair exchanged a hugely relieved look, then rose and came forward to take their bows.
As the audience continued to clap and call, Carpenter and Goodes turned to Stacie and half bowed, then, as Brandon had done, with a last bow to the audience, returned to Pemberly in the morning room and, under his protection, retreated to the safety of
the parlor.
Stacie heaved a huge, ecstatically happy sigh. They’d done it—achieved what they’d needed to achieve. It might be only a first step—a first event—but if they’d failed at this hurdle, the way forward would have been strewn with difficulties. Instead, even before Frederick played to cap off the evening, on the basis of the young musicians’ performances alone, they’d caught and fixed the attention of her guests—arguably the most critical and discerning of the ton’s lovers of music, especially given the number of Frederick’s academic peers present. Indeed, most of the latter group were now chattering with each other in much the same excited vein as the matrons with events later in the Season.
With Frederick’s help, she’d succeeded in bringing three local musicians to the attention of the ton.
Unable to stop smiling, she glanced at Protheroe. He was beaming as well and, transparently delighted, bowed to her.
After nodding back, Stacie returned to her survey of the ladies arrayed before her, and Mary caught her eye and smiled in congratulatory encouragement—then Mary was tapped on the shoulder by Honoria, Duchess of St. Ives, and turned to answer what was plainly an inquiry regarding the three musicians.
Stacie glanced toward the morning room—and caught sight of Frederick, standing as far back in the shadows as possible.
For her audience, his performance would be the crowning glory of the night.
She faintly arched a brow at him, and he nodded curtly.
She walked forward—and the immediate hush that fell was startling in its intensity.
On reaching her mistress-of-ceremonies spot, she halted, raised her head, ran her gaze over the audience, and stated, “Our third and final performance of the evening will be Robert Schumann’s ‘Fantasie in C Major, Opus Seventeen,’ performed by Frederick, Marquess of Albury.”
The welcoming applause was loud, avid, and eager.
Frederick entered the music room and, without glancing at the audience, walked to Stacie’s side. He turned and bowed to the assembled horde, then straightened, circled the piano, sat, and set his fingers to the keys.
By then, an expectant, almost-quivering silence had fallen. He didn’t hesitate, and the first series of trills, the building first sequence, fell into and claimed that silence.
It was easy to surrender to the music, to lose himself in it, to let it roll and fall and spill out of the piano, forming a wall of constantly shifting sound between him and those listening.
He’d forgotten how easy that was, forgotten how completely the music shielded him from his audience—from the world. As his hands confidently swept and skipped over the keys, he gloried in that forgotten freedom and allowed his ability full rein.
As the notes built and sang and the chords compounded, he might as well have been alone…except for the presence standing closest to the piano, a little way to his right.
Curiously, he could sense her; in the swirl that was his music, his imagination saw her as a bright soul, a burning beacon his music sought to draw to him…
He was almost at the end of the piece before he realized he was playing to her. For her.
That it was she whom he sought to impress—no one else.
Then the concluding passage commanded his full attention, yet even then, he didn’t lose mental sight of her. Under his fingers, the final lilting chords built cleanly, tripping quickly upward, only to slow, to fall quiet, to musically sigh and, finally, close.
The silence when he raised his hands from the keyboard was profound. From its quality—from the absolute stillness that gripped the audience—he cynically surmised he hadn’t lost his touch.
That spellbound pause stretched for a long, protracted moment, then applause erupted, thunderous and ecstatic; unmoving, he let the wave roll over him, then he glanced at Stacie—and read her verdict in her shining eyes. She was clapping furiously and smiling giddily, and he had to fight to hold back his answering smile.
But he couldn’t forget where they were. Now the music had ended, the audience was back.
However much elation and satisfaction he felt, he wasn’t going to show it; he needed to hold this audience at a rigid distance.
Keeping his features locked in the impenetrable and uninformative expression he’d long ago perfected for moments such as this, he rose and walked around the piano to Stacie’s side, turned, and without actually focusing on the audience’s faces, bowed—not as deeply as generally prescribed, but then, he was a marquess.
He straightened, and the audience continued clapping and calling bravos, then someone thought to stand, and in a surging wave, the entire seated company came to their feet, still clapping and calling. He glanced at Stacie.