Chapter Five

T he Winshire mansion was in one of the older squares of Mayfair. The largest building of any in the vicinity, it was lit from basement to attic, and so many carriages were attempting to access the front steps that the traffic was queued as far as the eye could see down the streets in every direction.

They bypassed the carriages and joined a second instance of traffic congestion on the footpath, as guests waited to ascend the steps of the house. This queue was short and swiftly moving. They soon reached the front door, where they showed their invitations to a footman. The entry hall was large enough to swallow the drawing room at Inneford House. The stairs rose up through the house, lit by a great chandelier, but the house was twice as high as Inneford House. Jowan could just make out a ceiling lantern high above.

They ascended the stairs step by step in the queue to the reception line on what in any less elegant house would have been the landing. If one could call a space as large as four tenant cottages a landing.

At last, it was their turn to be greeted by their hostess. The butler took their invitations and announced them to the Duke and Duchess of Winshire. The ducal couple were perhaps in their sixties but still vigorous. Jowan could see traces of Drew in the duke—or the other way around, he supposed. The duchess greeted them both with a smile. "You are Drew's guests," she said. "Go on into the drawing room, Sir Jowan, Mr. Hughes. Drew is waiting for you there."

The drawing room carried on the theme of the house. Jowan had seen assembly halls that were smaller, though to think of assembly halls in the same context as this richly appointed and elegant room seemed like a form of blasphemy.

"I'm feeling like a country mouse," whispered Bran.

"You are," Jowan pointed out, keeping his own voice low, "and so am I."

"There you are," Drew greeted them. He had a lady on his arm. "Margaret, may I make you known to friends of mine from my time at Oxford? Sir Jowan Trethewey and Branoc Hughes. Gentlemen, this lovely lady is Lady Snowden, wife to Snowy, whom you met yesterday. He is around here somewhere."

Lord Snowden came hurrying through the crowd, carrying an upright chair. "Here you are, my love," he said. "Oh, I see you have met our Cornishmen. Good evening, gentlemen."

"Hal," Lady Snowden protested. "Wherever did you steal that chair?"

"You needed an upright chair, darling," Lord Snowden said. "I found one." He placed it next to the arm of a small sofa. "Now sit down, please."

Lady Snowden laughed, but did as she was told, saying to Jowan and Bran, "I find it uncomfortable, at the moment, to use a low seat." Lord Snowden sat on the sofa at her elbow.

The poor lady. Jowan hoped it was nothing serious. Lord Snowden must have seen his concern, for he explained, "My wife is enceinte ." His pride and affection warmed his voice, and sent a pang of jealousy through Jowan, even as his eyes registered that yes, the lady was not merely plump, as he had assumed, but rather more rotund than the flesh on her arms and face would suggest.

"Congratulations," Bran said. "Your first?"

Had Jowan's father and the Earl of Coombe not interfered, would he and Tamsyn have a house full of children by now? His mind's eye could see them. Joyous imps with her dark curls and her wonderful voice.

He should make an effort to join Lord and Lady Snowden's conversation with Bran. It moved from babies to Society's expectation that pregnant women should be least in sight. Jowan couldn't muster a single comment that did not touch on his own personal grief.

"I usually stay at home to avoid ruffling the feathers of the biddies," Lady Snowden said, "but when I heard the name of the singer who is to perform for us tonight, I had to come."

"Margaret had not yet come to London when the singer left to tour Europe," Lord Snowden explained. "We had tickets for the opera Figaro , but the understudy took the part instead."

"Then Aunt Eleanor sent a note saying she had secured Miss Lind for her musicale this evening," Lady Snowden confided. "Of course, I had to come."

Jowan struggled to believe his own ears. "Miss Tammie Lind?"

"Yes, the Devon Songbird, as they call her. Have you heard her sing, Sir Jowan? But no, you would not have been on the Town when she was last in London."

"Not in London, and not for seven long years," Jowan replied, hardly knowing what he was saying or where he was.

"She and Jowan grew up together," Bran explained. "Her mother and our father were acquainted." He took Jowan's arm in a firm grip. "Jowan, do you need to sit down?"

There was not enough air in the room, but otherwise, Jowan was fine. He waved his brother off.

"You did not know the lady was singing tonight?" Drew guessed. "The news has flown around Town with the wind since my stepmother changed the program to accommodate Miss Lind."

"We are in a hotel," Bran commented. "We are, I daresay, handicapped in not having a housemaid whose aunt is the cook in a place where the lady's maid has a brother who is valet to an earl who employs a boot boy whose mother is housekeeper to a baron whose…"

God bless Bran. He was speaking nonsense to give Jowan time to recover his poise. Jowan continued in the same vein. "You are assuming that London is the same as our small village, where no one with any pretensions to gentility can do anything without a servant knowing and passing on the news, but only to their nearest and dearest, and in strictest confidence. And thus, gossip flies."

"It is the same here in London," Lady Snowden confirmed.

The tinkling of a bell attracted their attention. "Time to move through to the ballroom," Drew said. "Margaret, the chairs that have been set out for the concert are upright, so Snowy won't have to carry his stolen one for your comfort."

The lord so named stood to assist his wife to her feet. Jowan and Bran followed the pair through a wide-open double doorway, down a short flight of stairs, and into a cavernous ballroom that could easily have held a thousand guests and still left room for dancing.

Jowan gave the surroundings a glance, registering the quality of the appointments without paying them any attention. His attention was entirely focused on the stage that had been erected in the center of one long side of the room.

The stage held a piano, several rows of chairs arranged in a curve around a music stand, and a lectern. Long rows of chairs faced the stage, grouped into three columns by aisles that allowed easy access. Lord Snowden conducted his lady to a seat at one side of the middle column, in the middle of the third row back.

Drew followed, then Bran, with Jowan close behind. He was about to see Tamsyn! He could not focus on anything else. He held himself back from leaping to his feet and demanding to be taken to her. Her letter had said, "No". He couldn't forget that. But he would see her soon. He just had to wait.

And wait he did, though it was excruciating. First, people took their time coming to the ballroom and being seated. Lots of people. He wasn't going to count, though each group of seats was a score wide, so sixty in a row, and he'd guess at twenty rows.

When, at last, they were all seated, chattering away like a thousand monkeys or jackdaws rather than people, the duchess came up onto the stage. The noise diminished and then ceased when she tapped the lectern.

It was a formal welcome and an explanation of the charity hospital that the night was intended to benefit. They, the audience, would be helping the hospital through ticket sales, several raffles, and an auction.

In return, they would receive not just the pleasure of doing good—a comment that fetched a much bigger laugh than Jowan thought it deserved—but would also enjoy an evening of unparalleled musical excellence.

Jowan managed not to shout out an instruction to get on with it, but Bran must have guessed it was a possibility, for he put his hand back on his brother's arm.

The duchess was outlining the program for the evening, and doing so with a lot of description and a few jokes.

First, a pianist of whom even Jowan had heard. He had been mentioned quite a few times in the newspapers that made their way to Cornwall.

Next, a couple who must have been well-known in London. The audience's hum of appreciation indicated the couple was a popular choice, even if they weren't famous all the way to the western corner of south England. They would both sing while one of them played the harp-lute.

Following that, a short break would allow the assembly to see the items that were being raffled and to write their names and their donations on the paper by each item.

A gentleman whose name Jowan didn't catch would sing next, and would then sing a duet with Miss Lind before the pianist returned to accompany Miss Lind in further songs. Jowan sat up straighter.

Another short break would be followed by the last musical segment of the evening, this time all Miss Lind.

The duchess went on to talk about the auction that would end that part of the evening and the supper to follow, but Jowan now knew he was doomed to keep waiting. After seven years of waiting, another hour or so should not be a problem, but somehow it was.

He shifted in his seat, trying to make himself comfortable, and caught Bran watching him. His brother looked concerned. Jowan did his best to smile but must have failed, for Bran's worry deepened.

The duchess had finished speaking, for everyone began to clap, and Jowan joined in. A tall gentleman who looked remarkably like Drew offered his hand to help the duchess down the steps at one side of the stage, while another man bounced up the other side and took a seat at the piano.

He was good. Jowan had to give him that. If not for the anxious wait to see Tamsyn, Jowan might even have become lost in the music, as many of those around him were doing. Jowan did not recognize the two pieces he played, but the gentleman sitting just behind him named each one to the lady he was escorting.

The harp-lutist couple were good, too. The man's baritone voice complemented the contralto of his partner. Jowan knew what to call the voices because the helpful pundit behind him, who had obviously taken on the role of educating his lady, was speaking loudly enough to improve the knowledge of those around him.

Two songs for the harp-lutists, too. Ballads, and very pretty, though Jowan was hardly in the mood to hear about star-crossed love, betrayal, and dying lovers.

The applause for the harp-lutists was even more enthusiastic than for the pianist, poor man.

"We should buy a spot in a couple of the raffles," Bran murmured, as people around them began to get up and move along the rows to the aisles or the edges.

Jowan supposed Bran was right. He wanted to stay in his chair until Tamsyn sang, but he knew nothing he did would make the time go faster.

Footmen moved through the crowd with trays of drink and plates of tiny savory or sweet bite-sized treats. He ate something that tasted of salmon and Bran handed him a glass. Champagne. The wife of the viscount two villages over had it for her yearly harvest ball.

He put his name and his promise to pay against a raffle for a fine saddle, and Bran did the same for a twelve-place setting of fine china from Doulton, Jones, and Watt. "What?" he asked, when Jowan questioned the choice. "I'm sure it will be useful, and it is pretty. I like it."

Between them, they'd donated fifty pounds, but some of the other pledges were much higher. Without exchanging a word on the matter, Jowan and Bran headed back to the chairs where they had been sitting.

Lord and Lady Snowden were already there, and Lord Snowden must have been telling his lady about their need for investors in the new mine, for she asked, "Do you employ children in your mine, Sir Jowan?" The martial light in her eye hinted at her motive, but it wasn't a simple question.

"I don't allow children under the age of twelve below ground, my lady," Jowan told her. "I would like to see legislation to set the age at fourteen, but until we have that, all mines are competing under the same conditions. I have to let those twelve and over have jobs if their families demand them, or they will move to an employer who doesn't have the same rules and those children will end up below ground in the end."

And if that just lost him Lord Snowden as an investor, so be it. Jowan respected those who were against the use of children in mines and factories. He agreed, in principle. In fact, he'd prefer it if all children had only family chores, as happened in the wealthier working-class households, and were otherwise able to attend school.

The reality was that few turned up for the school he funded in St Tetha, both because their families saw no value in reading and writing and because their choice was not whether to work or to go to school, but whether to work or to starve.

Bran interrupted, leaning forward to look past Jowan and Lord Snowden so he could address the viscountess. "You cannot blame them, my lady. They need the money. And you can't blame Jowan. He pays as much as he can and still be competitive, and he gives work in the house and the stables to any family who does not have an adult breadwinner. Indeed, some of the locals have been most indignant that their ten and eleven-year-old children cannot work underground."

Lady Snowden was amused. "You are a good brother, Mr. Hughes. If I sounded critical, I apologize. I understand that child labor is not a simple question. You make a good point about legislation, Sir Jowan, does he not, Hal?" The last few words were addressed to her husband.

Lord Snowden said, "You shall have to come to dinner, gentlemen, so we can discuss this matter further." Like his wife, he appeared interested and sympathetic. Perhaps he would still invest after all.

He was interrupted by a rapid hammering sound from the lectern. The Duke of Winshire was calling the room to attention for the second segment of the entertainment.

Jowan leaned forward. Just one more act, and it would be Tamsyn's turn. The gentleman singer gave them an aria in Italian or a similar-sounding language. Since Jowan didn't understand Italian and knew nothing about Don Giovanni, the opera the aria was apparently from, all he could do was sit back and listen to the voice, which he enjoyed, even though in his own mind, he was just filling in time until Tamsyn appeared.

A round of applause for the singer, and at last she was there. Older, of course. More beautiful, too, though much thinner. He had wondered if the reported illness was true, or just an excuse to avoid him. He wondered no longer, for she was so thin he hurt for her. Her hair, though, was a dark cloud about her face, just as he remembered it.

He was close enough, too, to see her eyes—the dark grey he remembered so well. He had never seen that color in anyone else. The shape, too, was distinctive—an almost perfect almond.

Her gown was as rich and as fashionable as any in the room—a bright amethyst against which the fair skin of her throat and shoulders gleamed, creamy-white.

He waited, hardly breathing, as the duke introduced her and announced the next song. A duet from another opera written in Italian. This one was by Handel, whom Jowan had thought to be German. Or maybe English. Jowan was reasonably certain the man was buried at Westminster Cathedral, so why wasn't the song in German or English?

Jowan did his best to ignore the man in favor of allowing Tamsyn's voice to envelope him and carry him away, but beautiful though the sound was, he could not quite ignore the interaction of the couple. It was a love song, he supposed, from the way the male singer gazed fatuously into Tamsyn's eyes.

And she gazed back, but presumably, she was acting. Certainly, she showed no particular interest once the song was over, and the man turned away as soon as the final note was sung, to bat his eyelashes at the audience.

"I've no idea what the song was about," Jowan murmured as he clapped for Tamsyn.

Lady Snowden whispered, "It is called, Vivo en te, mio caro bene. I live for you, my dear heart."

As he thought. A love song.

Tamsyn now stood alone on the stage, smiling as her gaze skimmed over the audience. "I thought a change might be welcomed, Your Graces, my ladies, my lords, gentlemen. I wish to sing…" Her eyes caught on Jowan's and faltered, her voice stuttering to a stop. She recovered almost instantly, continuing, "to sing a folk song from the north of England. A simple story of former lovers, now at odds. First, the man."

She had been standing with her feet together and her hands folded at her waist, but as she finished her sentence, she changed her stance, legs astride, hands on hips, and chin lifted. Even as a half-trained girl, her voice had had exceptional voice range. As she sang, Jowan had no difficulty in seeing her as the youth who was demanding an impossible task from the girl who had once been his true love.

Once the lover had demanded a cambric shirt, made without needlework and washed in a dry well, Tamsyn changed both stance and voice to become the girl, asking for him to sow land below the high tide mark and to plow, seed, and reap with tools that would never work.

Her gaze had been moving over the audience as she sang, but on the last lines of the song, after the maiden had finished listing her demands, Tamsyn stared directly at Jowan.

"When he is done and finished his work," she caroled, "Ask him to come for his cambric shirt. Then, he'll be a true love of mine."

Was that a challenge? And if so, to do what? And why? Surely, she knew he would do anything for her? For old time's sake, if for no other reason, he owed her that.

After their separation in time, distance, and silence, he had no idea what else he owed this new Tamsyn. This stranger with Tamsyn's hair and eyes. His mind worried at the question as his body reacted to her loveliness and he joined the rest of the audience in showing his appreciation by standing and clapping.