Page 41 of How to Lose a Lord in Ten Days

‘Have you any music?’ Lady Phoebe asked. ‘Ought someone fetch it for you?’

‘I’m afraid I brought none,’ Lydia said, entirely truthfully – for not in a thousand years would she ever have thought it would come to this. ‘I shall have to play from memory.’

She stood and approached the pianoforte as if she were ascending the gallows, sat down before it and ran her hands over the keys in apology for what she was about to do. Pip, at the back of the room, slid out of the door. Ashford, placed in a chair quite near the pianoforte, had his eyes fixed politely on her face, entirely unaware of what was about to happen.

Lydia took in a deep, deep breath and opened her mouth …

To say the past few days had been trying for Ashford would be an egregious understatement. In truth, his cousin’s house party – previously an event he associated with good conversation, excellent food, and the promise of relaxation – had begun to assume the proportions of a nightmare.

Every ounce of forbearance, patience and politeness he possessed had been brought to bear – strained and taxed and challenged as Miss Hanworth, his affianced bride, had tested him in ways he had not known were possible. Indeed, Ashford’s nerves, a concept he had not previously believed in, might never recover, and yet he had remained outwardly calm throughout. He had retained a sense of positivity, weathering Sir Waldo’s disapproval and Lady Phoebe’s consternation, certain that the assessment of her character he had made those six weeks ago, could not have been so wrong, still sure that the Miss Hanworth he had previously known would soon re-emerge. She had not.

But the moment she began to sing, Ashford felt whatever vestiges of hope that remained leave his body in one fell swoop. It was not just the timing – a nervous young lady, performing in front of veritable strangers for the first time, could be forgiven for coming in a few beats ahead of where she ought – nor the inadequate mastery of the pianoforte, which had surely never known its keys to be jangled so aggressively in its lifetime. Those he might have explained away.

It was her voice. At turns a coarse rasp a full octave lower than the song required, punctuated by shrill screech whenever the song required a high C. And the song required many, many high Cs. In the second verse, some of Miss Hanworth’s nerves appeared to have dissipated, and she became louder, more assured. But volume held no virtue for her, and the audience pressed themselves back into their seats, as if this extra distance would provide respite. Even those with the hardiest constitutions among them looked faint.

By the time the song appeared to be entering its final verse – Ashford had never noticed it had quite so many before – he felt as if he had lived a thousand lives. It was quite possible, in fact, that he had already died, and this was hell – pure, unending hell.

But worse was still to come.

For the final chorus, Miss Hanworth – who had thus far kept her gaze fixed upon the keys of the piano, as if she was trying very hard to get each one correct (and wasn’t that a horrifying thought?) – lifted her head and looked straight at him.

Before today, Ashford wouldn’t have said he particularly believed in the power of music to convey meaning. He was much more struck, on the whole, by literature and he certainly wouldn’t have thought the simple country ballad Miss Hanworth was currently butchering – the tale of a country maid looking for her lost sheep – had any deeper meaning other than the literal. And yet, as he stared, almost mesmerized, into Miss Hanworth’s eyes – as still as if she had turned him to stone – he felt a vision come upon him.

I do so love to sing – I’d sing every day if I could, she had said, just minutes before. And she would. He could see his future, his entire life, lying ahead of him, with the certainty and clarity of a vision from God.

Every night they spent together, rain or shine, guests or no guests, she would sing. And he would no more be able to stop her than he had been able to stop any of her outlandish behaviour this whole week. He would have to sit there, suffering not only from the humiliation of his friends and family witnessing such a spectacle, but also from the very real pain of his soul to hear a deplorable noise. She would sing, and he would listen, song after song, night after night and year after year – until the final, sweet release of death.

At long, long last, the final searing note resounded, wrenched from Miss Hanworth’s mouth with all the subtlety of a plough oxen. In the silence it left behind, no one knew quite what to say, and, blinking their eyes in confusion, exchanged shocked glances with one another.

‘Music has … such a power does it not?’ Miss Hanworth said serenely, looking around at them with a gentle smile.

‘Certainly,’ Sir Waldo said. ‘Certainly, it … does.’

‘Shall I play another?’

‘No!’ Eight voices spoke over one another.

‘I think we are all feeling a little tired,’ Lady Phoebe said. ‘Can I offer anyone a cup of tea?’

Ashford’s recollection of the next hour was a little loose. He felt clammy, ill, as if he had caught a chill, and he fulfilled the duties of a guest to the very bare minimum. Fortunately, it was not long before everyone began to drift upstairs to bed.

‘Sleep well, my lord,’ Miss Hanworth said cheerfully to him, as she passed by him to fetch a taper from Reeves.

Ashford dipped his head in response – he could not trust himself to speak – and caught Mr Brandon firmly by the arm as that gentleman tried to pass him, frogmarching him towards the smoking room.

‘Everything all right, my dear chap?’ Mr Brandon asked, as Ashford shut the door behind them with a click. ‘You need me for something?’

Ashford did not answer, walking briskly over to the liquor cabinet, and pouring out two very large glasses of brandy.

‘Really, Ashford, I’m not sure I can manage a nightcap. It’s been a long day.’

‘No matter,’ Ashford said, tipping first one, then the other down his throat. The warmth blazed a path down his throat, chasing away some of the clamminess from his veins.

‘She’s a madwoman,’ he said at last. ‘She is. There is no other explanation.’

‘Who?’ Mr Brandon asked, with forced innocence.

Ashford turned to look at him, not in the least convinced. Mr Brandon dropped the act.