“So this is the good part?” Nick asked from beside her.
“The party piece is always saved for the second half,” Ellen explained, though it occurred to her belatedly, Nick had been to far more entertainments than she. “That way all the latecomers won’t miss it.”
“One wouldn’t want to miss this,” Nick murmured, only to be thumped on the arm by Darius.
She looked around one last time for Val, and then she spied him, his progress being marked by the growing hush of the audience as he strode across the stage.
Oh, he looked so handsome, so distinguished. He was too lean, maybe, though it was hard to tell when he was so far away, but how fortunate the lights caught his dark hair, his elegant, muscled form as he approached the conductor’s podium.
He tapped a baton on the music stand and signaled to the oboist, who offered the pitch. When the squeaks, toots, and honks of tuning up were silenced, Val turned to face the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice carried straight into the darkest corners of the hall and straight into Ellen’s heart. “There is a slight misprint on tonight’s program. We offer for our finale tonight my own debut effort, which is listed on the program as
“Ellen, I know you are with me tonight, seated with my parents and our friends, though I cannot see you. I can feel you, though, here.” He tapped the tip of the baton over his heart. “I can always feel you there, and hope I always will. Like its creator, this work is not perfect, but it is full of joy, gratitude, and love, because of you. Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this work to the woman who showed me what it means to be loved and love in return: Ellen, Baroness Roxbury, whom I hope soon to convince to be my lady wife. These modest tunes and all I have of value, Ellen, are dedicated to you.”
He turned in the ensuing beats of silence, raised his baton, and let the music begin.
Ellen was in tears before the first movement concluded. The piece began modestly, like an old-fashioned
But the second movement marched up right behind that opening, full of lovely, laughing melodies, like flowers bobbing in a summer breeze. This movement was full of song and sunshine; it got the toes tapping and left all manner of pretty themes humming around in the memory.
My gardens, Ellen thought. My beautiful sunny gardens, and Marmalade and birds singing and the Belmont brothers laughing and racing around.
The third movement was tranquil, like the sunshine on the still surface of the pond, like the peace after lovemaking. The third movement was napping entwined in the hammock, and strolling home hand in hand in the moonlight. She loved the third movement the best so far, until it romped into a little drinking song, that soon got away from itself and became a fourth movement full of the ebullient joy of creation at its most abundant and beautiful.
The joy of falling in love, Ellen thought, clutching her handkerchief hard. The joy of being in love and
Ah, it was too much, and it was just perfect as the music came to a stunning, joyous conclusion. There was a beat of profound silence and then a spontaneous roar of approval, a deafening wall of applause, cheers, foot stomping, whistling, and calls for an encore. Val stood to the side, looking dazed and pleased, until the first violinist rose and gestured with his bow toward the podium. Even Ellen could hear the concertmaster happily yelling at Val to bow, for the love of God, and the applause did not diminish until Val turned, said something to his musicians, and held up his baton again.
The little drinking song served wonderfully as an encore, and the orchestra had to play through it yet again before the audience let the musicians and their conductor go.
In the ducal box, Ellen sat dazed and so pleased for Valentine she could not stop laughing and crying and being glad she had been there to see it. Her exile was now worthwhile. Through years and even decades of gardening in solitude, she would recall this night and those lovely sentiments tossed to her before all of London as if she were the prima donna on the stage.
And she would not—she would
“Come along.” Nick took her arm when they left the box, and with his superior height, navigated her deftly through the crowds.
“Where are we going?” Ellen asked, for she did not recognize the path they were traveling.
“To meet your fate, my lady,” Nick said, but his eyes were sparkling, and Ellen didn’t realize the significance of his comment until she was being tugged backstage toward a growing buzz of voices. “The green room is this way”—Nick steered her along—“but for you, we will refer to it as the throne room. Ladies and gentlemen…” Nick bellowed as he gently pushed Ellen into a crowded, well-lit room. “Make way for the artist’s muse and for a large fellow bent on reaching that punch bowl.”
Applause burst forth, and the crowd parted, leaving Ellen staring across the room at Valentine where he stood, a glass in his hand, still in his formal attire. He’d never looked so handsome to her, or so tired and happy and uncertain. He set the glass down and held out his left hand to her.
“My Ellen,” he said, as if introducing her. She tried to make her steps dignified before all these strangers, but then she was walking very quickly, then, hang it, she pelted the rest of the distance right into his arms, holding on to him with every ounce of her strength. She did not leave his side when the duke and duchess were announced or when his various siblings and friends came to congratulate him. She was still right by his side when the duke approached.
“Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.”
“Your Grace?”
Ellen heard surprise in Val’s voice, and pleasure.
“I kept trying to haze you off in a different direction, afraid the peasants wouldn’t appreciate you for the virtuoso you are.” The duke sipped his drink, gaze roving the crowd until it lit on his wife standing beside Westhaven. “I was worrying for nothing all those years. Of course they’re going to love you—you are my son, after all.”
“I am that,” Val said softly, catching his father’s eye. “I always will be.”
“I think you’re going to be somebody’s husband too, eh, lad?” The duke winked very boldly at Ellen then sauntered off, having delivered a parting shot worthy of the ducal reputation.
“My papa is hell-bent on grandchildren. I hope you are not offended?”
Ellen shook her head. “Of course not, but Valentine, we do need to talk.”
“We do.” He signaled to Nick, where that worthy fellow stood guarding the punch bowl. Nick nodded imperceptibly in response and called some inane insult over the crowd to Westhaven, who quipped something equally pithy right back to the amusement of all onlookers, while Val and Ellen slipped out the door.
By the light of a single tallow candle, he led Ellen to a deserted practice room. He set the candle on the floor before tugging her down beside him on the piano bench.
“I can’t marry you,” Ellen said, wanting to make sure the words were said before she lost her resolve.
“Hear me out,” Val replied quietly. “I think you’ll change your mind. I hope and pray you’ll change your mind, or all my talent, all my music, all my art means nothing.”
Remember this, Ellen admonished herself. She ordered herself to recall the cedary scent of Val’s shaving soap, the feel of his arm embracing her where they sat on the hard bench, the reassuring heat of his body still warm from the exertion of conducting a major work. To recall the beloved sight of his face, so grave and tired now that the excitement of the debut was ebbing.
