“I think we’ve had enough music for this evening,” said Gideon.
Lady Lavinia looked hurt.
“Of course we would be delighted if you would honor us again,” Gideon was quick to add, giving me a dark look. I was so happily drunk that, for once, I couldn’t have cared less.
“You … you played wonderfully,” I said. “It made me cry! It really did.”
He grinned as if I’d told a joke and put the Stradivarius away in its case.
Lord Brompton came up, out of breath, bringing us two glasses of punch, and assured Gideon that he was absolutely delighted by his guest’s virtuoso performance. It was a shame, he added, that poor Alastair had missed what was undoubtedly the high point of the soirée.
“Do you think Alastair may yet find his way here this evening?” asked the count, with a touch of annoyance.
“I’m sure of it,” said Lord Brompton, handing me one of the glasses. I took a greedy gulp. Was this stuff good! I just had to sniff it, and I was on a high. Ready to snatch up a hairbrush, jump on a bed, and sing “Breaking Free” with or without Zac Efron!
“My lord, you really must persuade Miss Gray to offer us something from her repertory,” said Lady Lavinia. “She so likes to sing!”
There was an odd undertone in her voice that made me prick up my ears. In a way, she reminded me of Charlotte. She might not look like her, but there was another Charlotte somewhere deep inside that bright green dress, I felt sure of it. The kind of person who always wanted you to notice how absolutely wonderful and unique she herself was by comparison with you and your mediocre talents.
“Very well,” I said, trying to get up from the sofa again. This time it worked. I could even keep on my feet. “Then I’ll sing.”
“What?” said Gideon, shaking his head. “On no account will she sing—I’m afraid that the punch—”
“Miss Gray, it would be a great pleasure for us all if you would sing to us,” said Lord Brompton, winking at me so hard that his fifteen double chins wobbled like crazy. “And if we owe it to the punch, so much the better! Come up to the front with me and let me announce you.”
Gideon firmly held my arm. “This is not a good idea,” he said. “Lord Brompton, please—my foster sister has never before performed in public.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” said Lord Brompton, guiding me on. “We’re all friends together here. Don’t spoil sport for us!”
“Exactly. Don’t be such a spoilsport,” I said, shaking off Gideon’s hand. “Do you happen to have a hairbrush with you? I sing better holding a hairbrush.”
Gideon looked rather despairing. “Definitely not,” he said, following me and Lord Brompton over to the piano.
I heard the count laughing quietly behind us.
“Gwen,” whispered Gideon, “do please stop this nonsense.”
“Penelope,” I corrected him, draining the rest of my punch in one draft and handing him the empty glass. “Do you think they’d like ‘Over the Rainbow’? Or,” I added, with a giggle, ‘Hallelujah’?”
Gideon groaned. “You really can’t do this. Come back with me now!”
“No, ‘Hallelujah’ is too modern, isn’t it? Let’s see…” In my mind I went over my entire playlist, while Lord Brompton announced me in pompous terms. Mr. Merchant, the groper, came over to join us at the pianoforte. “Does the lady need a competent accompanist on the instrument?” he asked.
“No, the lady needs … needs something entirely different,” said Gideon, sitting down on the piano stool himself. “Please, Gwen…”
“Pen, if you must,” I said. “I know what to sing! ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina.’ I know all the words, and musicals are timeless, don’t you agree? But maybe they don’t know about Argentina.…”
“You’re not really going to make a fool of yourself in front of all these people, are you?”
It was a nice try at scaring me, but useless in the circumstances. “Listen,” I said in a confidential whisper. “I couldn’t care less about these people. First, they’ve been dead for two hundred years and, second, they’re also as good as dead drunk anyway—except for you, of course.”
Groaning, Gideon leaned his forehead on the palm of his hand, hitting a whole series of notes on the pianoforte keyboard in the process.
“Do you happen to know … yes, ‘Memory’?” I asked Mr. Merchant. “From Cats?”
“Oh—no, I’m sorry,” said Mr. Merchant.
“Never mind, then I’ll just sing it a capella,” I said confidently, turning to my audience. “This song is called ‘Memory,’ and it’s about … about a cat who’s unhappy in love, but basically it fits us humans as well. In the widest sense.”
Gideon had raised his head again and was looking at me incredulously. “Please,” he tried again.
“We just won’t tell anyone about it,” I said. “Okay? This will be our secret.”
“And now comes the great moment!” cried Lord Brompton. “The wonderful, unique, and beautiful Miss Gray will sing for us! Her first performance in public!”
I ought to have felt alarmed, because all the talk died down, and all eyes were on me, but I didn’t. That punch was just divine! I absolutely must get the recipe.
What was it I’d said I was going to sing?
Gideon struck a couple of notes on the keyboard, and I recognized the opening bars. “Memory.” Yes, right, that was it. I smiled gratefully at Gideon. How kind of him to prompt me and join in. I took a deep breath. The first note of this song was particularly important. If you got it wrong, you might just as well give up right away. The word midnight had to come out clear as glass and yet ring all around the room.
I was pleased, because I sounded just like Barbra Streisand singing it. “Not a sound from the pavement, has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.”
Guess what? Gideon could obviously play the piano, too. And not badly either. Oh, God, if I hadn’t been head over heels in love with him already, I’d have fallen in love with him now. He didn’t even have to look at the keys, he was just looking at me. And he seemed slightly surprised, like someone who has just made an unexpected discovery. Maybe that the moon was a she?
“All alone in the moonlight I can dream of the old days,” I sang, just for him. This salon had great acoustics; it was almost as if I were singing into a mike. Or else it was because no one was making a sound. “Let the memory live again.” This was much more fun than playing SingStar. It was really, really great. And even if the whole thing was just a lovely dream and Cynthia’s father was about to march into the room and kick up an almighty row, this moment was worth it.
No one would ever believe me.
Time ain’t nothin’ but time.
It’s a verse with no rhyme.
Man, it all comes down to you.
BON JOVI, “NEXT 100 YEARS”
ELEVEN
THE ONLY STUPID THING was that it’s such a short song. I was tempted to make up another verse of my own, but that might have just spoiled the general good impression, so I didn’t. Instead, a little regretfully, I sang my favorite lines—“If you touch me, you’ll understand what happiness is. Look, a new day has begun”—and thought, yet again, that the song couldn’t have been specially written for Cats. Maybe it was the punch—in fact it was certainly the punch—but the guests at this soirée seemed to like our performance just as much as the earlier Italian operatic arias. At least, they applauded enthusiastically, and while Lady Brompton hurried forward, I bent down to Gideon and said, meaning it, “Thank you! That was really nice of you! And you play so well!”
He leaned his head on his hand again, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just done.
Lady Brompton hugged me, and Mr. Merchant kissed me exuberantly on both cheeks, called me his “golden-voiced charmer,” and demanded an encore.
I was in such a good mood that I would have launched right into one, but at this point Gideon came back to life, stood up, and grabbed my wrist. “I’m sure Andrew Lloyd Webber would be delighted to know that you already appreciate his music here, but my sister has to rest. Until last week, she was suffering from a nasty throat infection, and now, on medical advice, she has to spare her voice—or she might lose it forever.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” cried Lady Brompton. “Why didn’t you say so before? The poor girl!”
I was happily humming “I Feel Pretty,” out of West Side Story.
“There certainly is something special about your punch,” said Gideon. “I think it tempts us to throw caution to the winds.”
“To be sure it does!” said Lady Brompton, beaming all over her face. Lowering her voice, she went on, “You’ve just revealed the secret of my success as a society hostess. All London envies us our famous parties. People scramble for invitations. But it took me years to perfect the recipe, and I don’t intend to give it away until I’m on my deathbed.”
“What a pity,” I said. “But you’re right. Your soirée is so much more fun than I expected! I was told it would be a boring, stiffly correct—”
“Her governess is rather conservative,” Gideon interrupted me. “And it can indeed be said that social life in Derbyshire is a little behind the times.”
Lady Brompton giggled. “Dear me, yes, I’m sure it is. Oh, here’s Lord Alastair at last!” She looked at the doorway, where Lord Brompton was welcoming a new arrival. His guest was probably middle-aged (difficult to be sure because of his snow-white wig), and he wore a frock coat so heavily embroidered with little stones and glittery thread that from a distance it seemed to sparkle. The glittery effect was enhanced by the contrast with his companion, a man dressed entirely in black who stood beside him. He was wrapped in a black cloak, he had pitch-black hair and an olive complexion, and even from some way off, I could see that his eyes, just like Rakoczy’s, resembled huge dark holes. He was like some foreign body in this colorful company flashing its jewels around.
“I was just thinking,” Lady Brompton told me, “that Alastair wasn’t going to give us the honor of his company today. Which wouldn’t have been entirely disastrous, if you ask me. His presence doesn’t usually contribute much to a relaxed, cheerful atmosphere. I’ll try to persuade him to take a glass of punch and then show him where they’re playing cards in the next room.…”
“And we will try to cheer him with a little singing,” said Mr. Merchant, sitting down at the piano again. “Would you do me the honor, Lady Lavinia? Something from Così Fan Tutte?”
Gideon placed my hand on his arm and led me a little way aside. “How much have you drunk, for heaven’s sake?”
“A couple of glasses,” I admitted. “I’m sure the secret ingredient isn’t alcohol. Absinthe, maybe? Like in that sad film Moulin Rouge with Nicole Kidman.” I sighed. “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. I bet you can play that, too.”
