Pamela Sherwood (19 page)

The audience clapped more warmly at the close, and with the opening song behind her, Sophie found it possible now to smile and look more directly at them all. Glancing down from the dais, she saw Amy beaming at her from the front row, with Thomas beside her looking equally pleased. And just beyond them…

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw him: the tall, dark man with his air of restless energy, now gazing at her as if she were his hope of heaven.

He’d come tonight. Just as he’d said he would.

***

From his chair, Robin stared up into her eyes, those brilliant green eyes that always made him think of a sunlit summer sea. And for just a moment, as their gazes met, he thought he saw the young Sophie looking out of those eyes. All else faded into insignificance as the connection they’d shared since their first meeting vibrated between them like a plucked string, an echo that reached all the way down to his soul. One word, one gesture from her, would bring him to her side, to her feet, wherever she wanted him… anything to bridge the distance between them.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. Sophie turned her head and the girl was gone, leaving the composed, soignée singer back in command. Which was as it should be, Robin told himself, even as he struggled against an ache of loss. The last thing he wanted to do was to fluster her or mar her performance in any way. Sophia Tresilian was nothing if not professional.

All the same, watching her now, he couldn’t help the bittersweet pang that shot through him. Sitting this close to the stage, much closer than he’d been at the Albert Hall, he’d experienced a clearer understanding and appreciation of the skills she’d honed and polished to such dazzling effect. So poised, so confident, enrapturing the audience with every note and phrase… Despite his resolve, the old doubts assailed him once more. The spark between him and Sophie might still burn after all these years, but having tasted fame and success, would she truly be happy as the wife of a country hotelier? Might he have lost her, after all, to the very life he’d encouraged her to pursue?

If he had… well, he would just have to face it, Robin thought as he turned his attention back to the stage, where the accompanist was now eyeing Sophie with a touch of concern. She relaxed at Sophie’s quick smile of reassurance, turned the page of her sheet music, and played the introduction to the next song.

More Mozart, Robin observed, as Sophie began a melting rendition of “Deh, vieni, non tardar,” Susanna’s aria from the last act of
The
Marriage
of
Figaro
. According to critics, Sophie was fast becoming a consummate interpreter of the composer’s works. Robin was especially impressed by the genuine pathos that crept into the song. Sophie’s Susanna began by teasing her beloved—the eavesdropping Figaro who wrongly suspected her of infidelity—but ended her song with real tenderness, laced with an aching regret for the masquerade that necessitated his thinking the worst of her, even briefly. Robin had to remind himself that everything was happily resolved in the end, even for the couples estranged at the start of the opera.

He could only hope that matters between Sophie and himself turned out even half as well.

From Mozart, Sophie moved on to songs by Handel, Haydn, and Purcell, all of which had English lyrics—the better to engage the audience, Robin suspected. The strategy proved successful, and when Sophie followed Purcell’s “Music, for a while” with a lighthearted selection of Gilbert and Sullivan tunes, the wave of delight that rippled through the salon was almost palpable. Her interpretation of those was sprightly and beguiling, but the atmosphere grew electric when the accompanist played the opening of Sullivan’s famous solo composition, “The Lost Chord.” Her expression instantly shifting from gay to grave, Sophie began to sing, pitching her clear soprano almost to an alto’s range:

“Seated one day at the organ,

I was weary and ill at ease,

And my fingers wandered idly

Over the noisy keys.

I know not what I was playing,

Or what I was dreaming then;

But I struck one chord of music,

Like the sound of a great Amen!”

She sang it without irony or bombast, inviting the audience to share the momentous discovery with her, and mourn along with her the inability to find that angelic chord again. Robin had heard many moving renditions of the song, including one by Mrs. Ronalds, Sullivan’s particular companion, but Sophie’s sent a shiver down his spine. Perhaps only someone who was a born musician could do full justice to that song, he thought. Someone who understood the unexpected discoveries that went into making music: the joys, the frustrations, and the occasional blind luck that yielded the greatest rewards. Rewards that might prove fleeting, but were no less glorious for that.

The applause that greeted “The Lost Chord” was the loudest of the evening. Robin clapped until his hands tingled within his gloves, his chest tight with mingled pride and pain. This was what Sophie could give the world, what she was
meant
to give to it… How in God’s name could he possibly compete with that?

He forced back the pain until there was only the pride, and made himself look up again at the stage, determined to savor Sophie’s triumph.

She was gazing directly down at him, her eyes glowing, her lips softly parted in the way he remembered, the way he’d pictured time and again.

Robin swallowed, almost resenting the hope that her smile revived in him, but unable to resist it nonetheless. What more did he have, after all?

So he smiled back, trying to convey all the love and admiration he felt for her. The faith he’d always had in her talents, the pleasure he took in her success. Trying
not
to convey the fear that shadowed his heart—that he had lost her long ago, to this brilliant, glittering world she had made her own.

’Twere all one / That I should love a bright particular star / And think to wed it…

She
is
so
above
me.

***

Buoyed by the applause that greeted “The Lost Chord”—the last song on the programme—Sophie took the opportunity to catch her breath… and let herself dwell, for the first time since they’d locked eyes, on Robin’s presence here tonight.

He had come. With no guarantee of what answer she might give him tonight, he was here. The knowledge had sent a flood of warmth through her, melting away some of the doubts and anxieties that had plagued her before. A part of her had wanted to shriek with exultation and spin in circles like a giddy schoolgirl, but fortunately for her professional reputation, she’d managed to refrain from doing any such thing.

But
it
was
a
start
, the cool rational voice in her head had conceded.
A
step
in
the
right
direction.
Her mind and heart could agree upon that much at least. And then she’d put them both away—the rapture and the reason—for there was a performance to be given.

Now, she bowed, acknowledging the audience’s enthusiasm, and let her gaze drift almost casually down to a certain seat in the front row.

He was still sitting there, applauding like the rest, and in his eyes she saw everything she had ever dreamed of seeing: pride, tenderness, passion… and hope. The same hope that had sustained her five years ago, when she’d foolishly believed that love could conquer all. Seeing it reflected in his eyes now sent a shaft of pain through her heart.

Pain—and something more.

This was the man who had believed in her from the start, who had always striven to put her first, even when she hadn’t agreed with the ways he’d done so. The man who had encouraged her to pursue this dream, even at his own expense.

Why had he never understood that
he
was her dream too, that he mattered to her every bit as much as the music?

And with that acknowledgment, something shifted inside of her—and the rest of the world shifted along with it. Looking down at him, she felt again what she had not felt in four years: a sweet certainty that banished all the lingering doubts and fears.

Robin was her dream, her reality… and her love. Still. Forever.

Time she let him know that.

The applause was still ringing in her ears, interspersed now with calls of “Encore!” Recollecting herself, Sophie smiled again at the audience and turned to Mrs. Herbert. They had arranged for this eventuality—but the title Sophie now whispered to the accompanist was neither of the songs she had chosen earlier. Mrs. Herbert’s brows rose in surprise, but she recovered at once and began to play.

Another song the audience would recognize, though Sophie doubted whether many of them remembered it had come from an opera more than half a century old. But whatever its origin, this song embodied the message she wished to convey more clearly than any other.

Drawing herself up to her full height, she began to sing, her voice carrying to every corner of the salon but colored with an intimacy that suggested the song was meant for one person alone:

“I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

With vassals and serfs at my side,

And of all who assembled within those walls,

That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count,

Could boast of a high ancestral name;

But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,

That you lov’d me still the same

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.

I dreamt that suitors sought my hand;

That knights upon bended knee,

And with vows no maiden heart could withstand

They pledg’d their faith to me;

And I dreamt that one of that noble host

Came forth my hand to claim.

But I also dreamt, which charmed me most,

That you lov’d me still the same

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same,

That you lov’d me, you lov’d me still the same.”

She let her voice build to a crescendo on the last chorus, transforming the song into a triumphant paean to love that withstood any test, any change in circumstances.

Much to Sophie’s relief, the audience responded with as much pleasure as they’d shown before—one could never predict how encores might be received. As the applause swelled around her, she bowed her head, taking a moment to compose herself. The salon seemed almost unbearably warm, and her pulse raced as though she’d just run a mile—uphill and in bad weather.

At the same time, she felt as though she had shed an enormous burden. She’d sung her heart; all she could do now was hope that he’d heard her.

Raising her head, she risked another glance down at the front row—and found Robin, clapping almost mechanically as he stared up at her.

He looked… stunned. There was no other word for it. She could see the hope still in his eyes, but it was tempered with uncertainty—as though he were on the brink of understanding what she had sung, of grasping her deeper meaning, but feared to be wrong at the same time.

Her heart went out to him in a rush, and she sent him the faintest of smiles, along with a silent message.

Soon, my love.

***

Such a resolve proved easier to make than to carry out, however, as a number of Amy’s guests wished to meet Sophie at the conclusion of her programme. Introductions passed in a blur, as she smiled, answered questions, and accepted compliments as graciously as she could, even with every fiber of her being yearning toward Robin, wanting only to find and speak to him.

Casting a quick glance about the room, she located him in a far corner. Their gazes met for a split second, but it was enough. Anticipation shivered through her, like the wind through a grove of aspens
. Not long now…

Amy, who was performing the introductions, caught her eye just then, and Sophie sent her a look of entreaty. With a hostess’s unerring instincts, Amy caught on at once.

“I think we’d best let Miss Tresilian catch her breath now, Regina,” she said briskly to Sophie’s current well-wisher, a fashionable middle-aged matron. “Or to take some refreshment. Singing must be thirsty work, after all.”

“Of course,” her guest agreed, sounding immediately contrite. “You must be parched, my dear,” she added to Sophie. “I know
I
would be, after a performance like that! Thank you for giving us all such a delightful evening.”

Sophie smiled. “You’re very welcome, Mrs. Dalton. Singing always gives me great pleasure. But Mrs. Sheridan is right—I would be most glad of refreshment now.”

“Then, by all means, come and have some,” Amy invited. “A cold supper will be set out momentarily. And I’ve included the dressed crab you like so much, Regina,” she added, deftly steering Mrs. Dalton away and slipping Sophie a quick wink in the process.

Alone at last, Sophie exhaled thankfully.
Bless
Amy
for
understanding.

She turned to go in search of Robin—only to find someone else was standing directly in her path. Two someones, she amended: a tall, thin woman, perhaps in her late thirties, and a slight, fair-haired girl who might be seventeen.

“Miss Tresilian,” the woman began in a deep, rich contralto that sounded vaguely familiar. “I had hoped to have a word with you.”

Sophie bit back an unladylike oath and managed a smile instead, mindful of the courtesy she owed to Amy’s guests. “Of course, ma’am. And whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“I am Lady Charlotte Daventry.” She spoke with as much majesty as if she were Queen Victoria herself. “And this is my niece, Marianne Daventry,” she added, her tone a little more perfunctory this time. “My husband, Guy, is the member for Shenstone.”

The names, along with Lady Charlotte’s arresting voice, jarred Sophie’s memory. So this was the overbearing connection who plagued Sheridan’s sittings and whom Amy could tolerate only in small doses. Studying the woman more closely, Sophie could understand why she might have such an effect. Lady Charlotte’s features were too strong for beauty, and her figure spare and angular, but she had a presence any diva might have envied and she carried herself with the dignity of an empress. No wonder poor Miss Daventry was so intimidated! “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Charlotte,” she said politely. “And yours, Miss Daventry.”