Simply Unforgettable

A meddler. A tyrant. A bully.

Well, he was guilty as charged, he supposed. Better to be a meddler than a milksop. He had always met life head-on. He was not likely to change at this late date.

She was standing by the window, her back to the room, looking out into the heavy dusk. She looked very straight-backed, but when she turned at the sound of the door, he could see that her face and general demeanor were calm and composed.

He was, he realized, in the presence of the consummate professional. She had been taken by surprise and she had not liked it one bit, but she was now ready to sing.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

She crossed the room without a word and took his offered arm.

It was perhaps, he thought, the last time he would walk anywhere with Frances Allard. She did not want him —or rather she would not have him. And it was time he gave up the pursuit. After tonight she would have a clear choice—he was convinced of that. She could return to Bath or she could put herself into Heath’s hands and forge a new and glorious career.

At least he had arranged matters so that she would have that choice. But he would meddle no more.

If proving his love for her meant letting her go, then he would do it.

It would be the hardest thing he had ever done, though. Passivity did not come naturally to him.

Frances paused when they reached the doorway into the music room and her hand tightened slightly on his sleeve.

“Ah,” she said softly, “so this is what some friends look like.”

There was no question in her words. He did not offer any answer but led her to the empty seat between her great-aunts in the front row.

“Is this not a delightful surprise, dearest?” Miss Driscoll asked her as she seated herself.

“You are not too dreadfully nervous, my love?” Mrs. Melford asked.

Lucius moved away to take his own place on the other side of the center aisle. But everyone was seated, he had seen. And a near hush had fallen at his appearance. He stood again, welcomed everyone, and introduced the first performer of the evening, a violinist of his acquaintance who had been enjoying some success in Vienna and other parts of the Continent during the past year.

His performance was flawless and well received by the audience. So was that of the pianist who followed him and that of the harpist who followed her. But it was hard for Lucius to concentrate. Frances’s turn was next.

Had he made a dreadful error in judgment?

He did not doubt that she would acquit herself well, but . . . Would she ever forgive him?

But, devil take it, someone had to shake her out of her torpor.

He got to his feet to introduce her.

“My grandfather and my youngest sister and I attended a soiree in Bath several weeks ago,” he said, “at which there was musical entertainment. It was there, as part of that entertainment, that we heard for the first time a voice my grandfather still describes as the most glorious soprano voice he has heard in almost eighty years of listening. It was a voice we felt both honored and privileged to hear. Tonight we will hear it again, as will you. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Frances Allard.”

There was polite applause as Frances got to her feet and Caroline took her place at the pianoforte and spread out sheets of music on the stand.

Frances looked slightly pale but as composed as she had been in the drawing room. She looked calmly at the audience and then lowered her head and even closed her eyes for a few moments. She was, Lucius could see while a hush fell in the combined rooms, filling her lungs slowly with air and then releasing it.

Then she opened her eyes and nodded to Caroline.

She had chosen “Let the Bright Seraphim” from Handel’s Sampson, an ambitious piece for trumpet and soprano. There was no trumpet, of course, only the pianoforte and her voice.

And so her voice became the trumpet, soaring through the intricate runs and trills of the music, filling both rooms with pure sound, which was never shrill, which never overpowered the space or overwhelmed the listeners. Voice, music, space—all were one glorious, perfect blend.

“Let the bright Seraphim in burning row, their loud, uplifted angel trumpets blow.”

She looked at the audience as she sang. She sang to them and for them, involving them all in the triumph of the lyrics and the brilliance of the music. And yet it was clear that this was no mere performance to her. This time—and for the first time—Lucius could see her as she sang, and it was clear to him that she was deep in the world of the music, creating it anew with every note she sang.

He was in that world with her.

So immersed was he, in fact, that he started with surprise when a loud and prolonged applause followed the song. Belatedly he joined in, his throat and chest constricted with what could only be unshed tears.

To say that he was proud of her would be an imposition. He had no right to claim any such feelings. What he felt was . . . joy. Joy in the music, joy for her, joy for himself that he was part of the experience.

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.”