then slid into one of the concert songs, swift and bawdy.
The pianist gave a little squawk of horror and sat stark still with her mouth open. The cellist burst into tears.
'Oh, stop it!' Rose commanded her. 'Pull yourself together! And hold that thing properly!' She pointed to the cello. 'Like a lover, not as if it just made you an indecent proposal!'
The cellist flung the instrument on the ground and fled, the bow trailing behind her.
Someone in the audience fainted, or pretended to. Another began to laugh hysterically. A man started to sing the words to the song. He had a rich baritone voice and-most unfortunately-knew all the words.
Hester stood frozen, aware of Jenny beside her and Alan Argyll a few feet away, paralyzed.
Rose did not hesitate a stroke but kept on playing in perfect time, swaying and tapping her feet.
Suddenly the pianist abandoned all propriety and joined in. Her face was fixed in a terrified smile, showing all her teeth.
Alan Argyll jerked to life, moving to stand at Hester's elbow. 'For heaven's sake,' he hissed. 'Can't you do anything to stop her? This is appalling! Morgan Applegate will never live it down!'
Hester realized she was probably the only person who could do anything. She was Rose's friend. Therefore it was an act of the utmost compassion and necessity that she intervene. She walked forward to the dais, picked up her borrowed and rather long skirts and stepped up. Rose was still playing very elegantly. She was on to a different song now, but no better.
'Rose!' Hester said quietly, but with as much authority as she could manage. 'That's enough now. Let the violinist have her instrument back. It's time we went home.'
'Home, sweet home!' Rose said cheerfully, and loudly. 'That's a terrible song, Hester. Positively maudlin! We're celebrating Sir what's-his-name's death. At least-I mean we're remembering his life with… with regrets… I shouldn't have said that!' She started to laugh. 'Far too close to the truth. Should never speak the truth at funerals. If a man was a crashing bore like Lord Kinsdale, you say he was fearfully well-bred.'
There was a gasp of horror from the maid. 'If a woman had a face like a burst boot, such as Lady Alcott,' she went on, 'you say what a kind heart she had.' She laughed again, stepping back out of Hester's reach and speaking even more loudly. 'If he was a liar and a cheat, like Mr. Worthington, you praise his wit. If he betrayed his wife with half the neighborhood, you talk all about his generosity. Everyone keeps a straight face, and weeps a lot into their handkerchiefs to hide their laughter.' She hiccupped and ignored it. 'You don't understand,' she went on, looking a little dizzily at Hester. 'You've spent too much time in the army.'
'Oh, God!' someone groaned.
Someone else began to giggle and couldn't stop. It was wild, hilarious, hysterical laughter, soaring higher and higher.
Rose was hopelessly drunk. She must have had far more than Hester had seen or realized. Was this the terrible weakness that Morgan Apple-gate had been trying to guard her against? Had he the faintest idea what she was like? What she was saying so devastatingly loudly was awful! The worse for being perfectly true, and what everyone was secretly thinking.
Rose was about to start playing the violin again. The pianist was waiting, half in agony, half in ecstasy. It was probably a night she would remember for the rest of her life. She kept her eyes straight ahead and took a deep breath, then plunged in with a resounding bass chord, and then a trill on the top notes.
Hester was desperate. It was all completely out of control, and part of her was on the edge of laughter. It was only the knowledge of ruin that stopped her joining in. She snatched the violin bow from Rose, gripping it around the middle in a fashion that probably did it little good. She flung it behind her, towards the back of the dais, where at least no one would tread on it. The original violinist was still collapsed in a heap, and someone was waving a fan at her quite uselessly. The cellist had disappeared completely.
'You are going home because you are no longer welcome here,' Hester told Rose as sternly as she could. 'Put that violin down and take my arm! Do as you are told!'
'I thought we could play a game,' Rose protested. 'Charades, don't you think? Or perhaps not-we're playing it all the time, really, aren't we? Or blindman's buff? We could all grope around, bumping into each other and grabbing hold of the prettiest, or the richest… no, that's being done too. All the time. What do you suggest?' She looked at Hester expectantly.
Hester could feel her face burning. 'Come home,' she said between her teeth, suddenly overtaken with fury at the senseless destruction of a reputation. 'Now!'
Rose was startled by the tone rather than the words. Reluctantly she obeyed.
Hester put an arm around her and grasped her wrist with her other hand. Awkwardly but efficiently she marched her to the edge of the dais. Rose, however, misjudged the step, tripped over her skirt, and pitched forwards, only just saving herself from serious hurt by dragging Hester with her, and at the last moment by putting out her hands to break her fall.
Hester landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs. This saved her from using a word that had not passed her lips since the days in the army that Rose had referred to. Struggling to disentangle herself from her skirts and stand up without treading on Rose and falling flat again, she rose with great difficulty to her feet. 'Get up!' she commanded furiously.
Rose rolled over slowly and sat up, looking stunned, then began to laugh again.
Hester leaned forward, caught Rose's hand, and jerked hard. Rose slid forward but remained on the floor.
It was Alan Argyll who came out of the crowd. Everyone else was milling around, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and either surreptitiously looking at the spectacle or studiously avoiding looking.
'For God's sake get her out of here!' he snarled at Hester. 'Don't just stand there! Lift!' He bent and hauled Rose to her feet, balancing her with some skill so that she would not buckle at the knees. Then, as she began to subside again, he picked her up, put her over his shoulder, and marched her towards the door. Hester could do nothing but follow behind.
Outside it was not a difficult matter to send for Rose's coachman. Ten minutes later Argyll assisted her, with considerable strength, into the coach.
'I assume you will go with her?' he said, looking at Hester with disdain. 'You seem to have arrived with her. Somebody needs to explain this to her husband. She can't make a habit of it, or she'll be locked up.'
'I shall manage very well,' Hester assured him tartly. 'I think she has gone to sleep. Her servants will help as soon as we get that far. Thank you for your assistance. Good night.' She was angry, embarrassed, and, now that it was over, a little frightened. What on earth was she going to say to Morgan Applegate? As Argyll had pointed out, his political career would never recover from this. It would be spoken of for years, even decades.
The ride was terrible, not for anything Rose did but for what Hester feared she would do. They sped through the lamplit streets in the rain, the cobbles glistening, the gutters spilling over, the constant sound of drumming on the roof, splashing beneath, and the clatter of hooves and hiss of wheels. They lurched from side to side because they were going too fast, as the coachman was afraid Rose was ill and needed help.
Hester was dreading what Applegate would say. No words had been exchanged, but she felt he had trusted her to care for Rose. From the first time they had met, Hester had seen a protectiveness in him, as if he was aware of a peculiar vulnerability in his wife, one he could not share with others. Now it seemed that Hester had quite extraordinarily let them both down.
Except that she had had no idea how it had happened.
The carriage came to an abrupt halt, but Rose did not seem to wake up. There was shouting outside and more lights, then the carriage door opened and a footman appeared. He leaned in without even glancing at Hester, lifted Rose with great care, and carried her across the mews and in through the back door of the house.
The coachman handed Hester out and accompanied her across the yard and through the scullery. Her skirts were sodden around her ankles; her shoulders and hair were wet. Nothing had been further from her mind on leaving the memorial reception than sending someone to fetch her cloak-or to be more exact, Rose s cloak.
Inside the warmth of the kitchen, she realized how very cold she was. Her body was shuddering, her feet numb. Her head was beginning to pound as if it were she who had drunk far too much.
The cook took pity on her and made her a hot cup of tea, but gave her nothing to go with it, no biscuit or slice of bread, as if Hester were to blame for Rose's condition.
It was half an hour before Morgan Applegate came to the kitchen door. He was in his shirtsleeves, his face flushed but white about the lips, his hair tangled.
