Chapter 9

The ladies within the castle walls had gathered in the music room, where a grand piano held a place of honor beside the large windows. Ivy leaned her hip against the large instrument, the polished wood cool beneath her fingertips. Beside her, Lady Josephine flipped through a collection of sheet music, her brows drawn together in concentration.

“Ah, here’s the one,” Josephine exclaimed, pulling out a sheet adorned with intricate notes. She handed it to Ivy. “Do you remember this? Miss Bateman played it during that recital in London, though it felt more like a dirge than the beautiful piece it is.”

Ivy’s eyes studied the tune, her fingertips tapping the wood as though she played the melody as she read it. “Mrs. Beardmore’s Grand Sonata in F Major. Goodness, this is the same piece?”

“It is,” Josephine replied with a soft laugh. “Perhaps we ought to give this to you to play for our musical party, so we might hear how it is meant to sound.”

“I cannot claim mastery of the instrument,” she said with a little frown, studying the notes with greater interest.

“Ivy much prefers a clarinet,” Betony said, coming to peer over Ivy’s shoulder at the music. “Though I haven’t heard her play one in ages.”

Before Ivy could demur or do more than shoot a quick glare at her sister, another voice chimed through the room.

“We have one,” the duchess called out from her seat in a plush armchair across the room, her voice musical all on its own. “If you should like to try it, Lady Ivy, that is. Fetch it for her, won’t you, Sterling?”

The guard-acting-as-footman, and the only male in the room, swept from the corner where he had been successfully unobtrusive and took a case from one of the shelves along the wall. He was to Ivy’s side before she could form her protest.

The man bowed as he opened the case, then proffered it to her. Ivy’s eyes drank in the sight of the clarinet, and her fingertips touched the smooth instrument reverently before she caught herself and snatched her hand away. She sent a warning look to Betony, who stood smiling innocently at her side.

Heat stole into her cheeks. “I thank you, Your Grace. I will not need it. My skills will suit the piano, I think.” She hadn’t played the clarinet in three years. Not since her sister-in-law had caught her practicing the instrument. Her words, her disapproving tone, still echoed in Ivy’s memory.

“The clarinet? Really, Ivy? Such an instrument for a lady of your standing. It’s not exactly...fitting, is it? There are far more elegant choices, surely. Puffing your cheeks in and out like that, holding your arms at such graceless angles.”

The joy had gone from the instrument, though Ivy missed putting it to her lips. She had likely lost the ability to play well, given the amount of time that had passed since she’d last expanded her lungs to the extent required of an elegantly held note.

“Are you certain?” Josephine asked from Ivy’s other side, her voice soft. “We keep all the instruments maintained. If the family doesn’t play an instrument, a servant does, so nothing is ever out of use for long. We also have specialists in from London once a year who check everything and make necessary repairs.”

Sterling hadn’t moved, but remained still as a statue, holding the case.

Ivy shook her head. “No. Again, thank you. You may put it away, Sterling.” She gave her attention back to the papers scattered atop the piano and turned the sheet music over. “I prefer the piano.”

The guard withdrew, depositing the case on the shelf, then disappearing back into his corner.

“You needn’t fear censure here,” Betony said so quietly that Ivy barely heard her. She shook her head once, sharply.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Josephine’s eyebrows draw together, her lips parted for another probing question, but a new voice interrupted the conversation.

“Music is a joy in this place,” Lady Farleigh said as she approached on Ivy’s other side, the lilt of her Irish making her cheerful tone playful. “Even my husband sings on occasion while I accompany him on harp or piano.”

“Does your brother sing, too? I cannot think I have heard Lord Dunmore join in song before,” Betony asked, after a quick glance at Ivy.

At some point, Ivy would have to either gag her sister or lock her in a tower where she couldn’t get out to betray Ivy’s secrets with silly questions.

Lady Farleigh grinned, her expression turning quite gleeful. “Was there ever an Irishman who didn’t enjoy bellowing like a frog?” Then she waved a hand to dismiss her own words. “Though we tease him terribly, my brother has a fine voice. He could charm the fairy folk with the right song. Invite him to sing with us and he will certainly perform. I think he likes to make a spectacle of himself when he can.”

Josephine giggled. “No wonder he gets along so well with my husband. The two of them can be ridiculous together. Simon can remain the stoic one.”

Ivy couldn’t imagine a duke’s heir performing for anyone if he would be seen as ridiculous. But then, she didn’t know Lord Farleigh—Simon, as he’d asked to be called—all that well. If the musical party took place in his home, his standards might loosen enough to perform. But not to the point of silliness.

The dowager duchess, a woman who hadn’t shown much levity in Ivy’s company thus far, sat down at the instrument the younger women had surrounded. She put her hands on the keys and played a simple scale with a wince. “I still prefer the harpsichord.”

Josephine snorted. “Grandmama, you do not. What a falsehood! You told me when I was ten years old that you begged your father to replace your old harpsichord with a pianoforte.”

“Did I?” The dowager raised her eyebrows. Then she played a complicated piece, her eyes on her granddaughter throughout, and Ivy felt her mouth drop open in surprise. She didn’t know if her own fingers could fly across the piano keys with such speed as the older woman played. When she struck a final, emphatic note, she smiled benevolently at the younger women and folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, I suppose I do prefer this sound to the other.”

“That was astounding,” Ivy said, leaning over the instrument slightly to better smile at the woman. “Your Grace, what was that piece?”

“Something from France.” She waved the compliment away. “Have you each chosen pieces for the performance next week?”

“Not quite,” Lady Farleigh said, grinning at her grandmother-in-law. “Will I scandalize everyone if I sing something from the Irish Rebellion?”

“I doubt it, especially given the outcome of that particular point of history.” The dowager duchess’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “What were you thinking? The Boys of Wexford, perhaps? Or Irish Soldier Laddie?”

“Neither.” The Irishwoman grinned broadly. “The Wearing of the Green.”

“Isleen,” her mother warned from the other side of the room. “What would your brother think of you stirring up an argument with your in-laws’ neighbors? Sing something without politics tied to it, my girl.”

“If I Were a Blackbird?” Lady Farleigh batted her eyelashes at her mother, the picture of innocence.

Ivy nearly snorted as she tried to choke back her laugh. Every tune named by Lady Farleigh had a fair dose of Irish pride and a whisper of rebellion to it. But the last was a near tragic song, hardly appropriate for a night of gaiety and song.

“Only if you want to make all of us weep, mo stór,” her mother said. “You are that determined to be difficult today. How does your new husband put up with you?” Though Ivy winced at the critical words, she noted the tone didn’t sound like a censure at all. Instead, Lady Dunmore seemed teasing. Tender.

Lady Farleigh didn’t act the least bit as though she’d been chastised.

“I am difficult every day.” Lady Farleigh smiled brightly. “But I mention that song because I know it is your favorite. Let me sing it for you, Máthair.”

The baroness patted her daughter’s hand. “Very well. I would like to hear it, in truth. Thank you, Isleen.”

Juniper approached with sheet music in hand, standing across the instrument from Ivy and Betony. “I found a duet for us, Betony, if you’ll sing the refrain in soprano.” She passed Betony the sheet music, and Ivy wondered if she could join their selection to avoid doing a part on her own.

Her Grace came to the instrument, standing behind the dowager duchess, looking all of them over with a fondness that warmed Ivy’s heart when she found herself included in it.

“Music has a way of stirring the soul,” Her Grace said, the wrinkles deepening around her eyes as she smiled. “Whether it brings tears or smiles, I am happy for all of it. Thank you for the idea to have a musical party, Josephine. Will a week be long enough for everyone to practice?”

A murmur of ascent followed her question and the duchess gave a satisfied nod. “Excellent. I will send out invitations to our neighbors who will wish to attend and invite another performer or two.”

Lady Dunmore released a heavy sigh. “Back home, in Ireland, music is a thread that binds us. Teague still hums the melodies of our land. I’ve often thought if the Irish and English spent more time appreciating one another’s cultures, we would all get along better. Perhaps we could persuade my son to join us in song, too.”

“His Grace will have a few guests here who could benefit from such an evening.” The duchess shared a look first with her mother-in-law, then her daughter—the dowager duchess, the present duchess, and the future duchess. “An evening with music could be a meeting of our worlds, if we agreed on a blend of Irish and English tunes.”

Lady Farleigh, pausing in her perusal of the music spread atop the piano’s lid, looked up at her mother-in-law. “You wish to make a political evening of it then, Your Grace?”

Ivy’s ears perked up at that. Fanny insisted a woman had no place in the world of politics. The duchess, however, seemed amused by the question.

“There are many ways we women contribute to the running of this country,” the duchess murmured, a secretive smile turning her lips upward. “There are times when shouting turns to cannon fire, but there are others when a soft word of change follows a song.”

“Music in a drawing room isn’t where anyone would expect to find political change,” Ivy said out loud, without thinking first.

When all eyes turned to her, she immediately dropped her gaze. Betony tensed at her side. Her shoulders crept up toward her ears, waiting for a rebuke the likes of which her brother or Fanny would give any one of them for speaking upon a subject considered unladylike.

Ivy swallowed and apologized quickly. “I beg your pardon. I spoke out of turn.”

Silence met her apology and she wished to sink into the floor, or roll herself up in the ornate rug beneath the piano. Yet—a rush of excitement went through her blood, too. When was the last time she had expressed her thoughts so openly to more than a single sympathetic ear? Her throat closed and she clenched her hands at her side, waiting for the reproof.

“No, you didn’t, Ivy.” Josephine touched her arm, gently. “You mustn’t apologize. We have conversations like this all the time. I don’t think we realized you were unaware of such things, as your half-brother is a well-known voice in Parliament.”

William didn’t ever speak to Ivy or his other half-sisters about politics. He’d told them it wasn’t a woman’s place to discuss such heavy matters, even if their father had often spoken freely of such things in their presence.

“It took me some time to see what can be accomplished in drawing rooms and at dinner tables,” Lady Farleigh added from her place near Juniper. “When Teague joined the House of Lords, I didn’t realize how much of the politicking was done away from Parliament and London.”

“It is a secret not everyone learns,” the dowager said, her tone resolute. “For every man who stands and blusters about taxation and tariffs, there is a woman in his household who has complained about the cost of sugar. Or a farmer among his tenants who cannot sell his wheat.”

“Though our influence is subtle,” the duchess added. “We can still make it count.” She regarded Ivy with a soft look in her eyes. “You needn’t let the idea weigh on your heart, Ivy. I am afraid we forget ourselves at times. Two duchesses, a countess, a baroness.” She nodded to each of the women in turn. “Each of us tied to a man who can sway the nation.”

“I am most relieved I married a man with few political aspirations,” Lady Josephine murmured, turning her attention back to the music. “Though Sir Andrew and I help Simon and my father as often as we can, through whatever small influence we have.”

Ivy looked at the other women with a greater appreciation, and a rather new perspective, too. Things had changed as surely as if she had used another shade of glass to view them. Instead of seeing them tinted more blue or pink, they were tinted with a brighter shade of fortitude.

Envy crept out of one corner of her heart as she listened to them talk freely with one another. They were so easy in their speech, in their expression of thought and emotion. They acted as she had once thought family ought to act, though the only example she’d had of such a thing previously had been her own relationship with her father.

“What would you like to play, Ivy?” Josephine asked, turning her attention back to Ivy at last. “Or will you sing?”

“I…I am not certain.” Ivy picked up the sonata and carried it to the window, as though to use the light to better study the notes.

The duchess joined her there, eyes sharp and understanding. “Music, my dear, has many uses. It can make us feel things we resist. It can stir our hearts. It can also reveal to us truths we deny, such as who we are or who we want to be. It frees us. Perhaps that is a thing to consider while you make your choice.”

Ivy nodded thoughtfully, turning the duchess’s advice over in her mind. Who was she? Who did she want to be? What music could possibly go along with either of those things?

The conversation turned to the picnic and games planned for the next afternoon. The duke and duchess would invite most of their neighbors to the event as a way to open their home and mark the beginning of summer’s festivities. It sounded rather marvelous.

Hopefully, Ivy wouldn’t shame her hosts by acting strangely in front of their friends and neighbors. There would be enough people present that any poor behavior on her part would likely make its way back to William and Fanny. She had to be the perfect model of a lady—no matter how much she wished to act otherwise.