slightly, asthough surprised. ‘You are our neighbors, are you not? Common courtesy dictates a certain degree of social intercourse. Is that not so, Lindy?’
‘I fear I am not so well versed in these matters.’ The dragon refused to be swayed. ‘It seems a degree of courtesy not merely uncommon for us, but quite unnecessary as well.’
* * * *
Having got through the meal, the quartet repaired to themusic-room. By the standards of the abbey, it was a small chamber, perhaps twenty feet square, which contained both a lavishly carved harp and a pianoforte, as well as a number of comfortable chairs — presumably for the benefit of an audience it had never hosted. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting scenes of medieval minstrels entertaining richly garbed courtiers.
‘Do be seated,’ Miss Woodford instructed her two guests. ‘Rosalind and I could not let you leave without some form of entertainment. That would be most impolite.’
The gentlemen did as she bade them, prepared to endure their performance even if they did not actually enjoy it. Miss Woodford went to stand beside the pianoforte while Miss Powell seated herself at the instrument. After the briefest pause, their performance began.
Deep, dramatic chords sounded from the keys as Cassandra burst into song:
‘It was a winter’s evening, and fast came down the snow,
And keenly over the wide heath the bitter blast did blow ...’
This canzonet by Pinto, ‘The Distress’d Mother’, had been chosen specifically by Rosalind for its subject matter. Its tale of an unmarried woman and her child, abandoned by her lover and her family to wander the streets and watch her babe die in the cold, was both morally and emotionally affecting. Rosalind looked up occasionally from the music to watch the two listeners.
‘Oh! cruel was my father ... And cruel was my mother ... And cruel is the wint’ry wind ... But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold. ’
For once, Rosalind almost blessed Cassandra’s blindness. She had no notion how she might appear to her audience, with not a trace of the constraint of the trained professional. Her voice was clear and pleasing without being overpowering, but, as she imagined to herself the scene and felt in her heart the young girl’s pain, which the composer had so eloquently expressed, she almost seemed to become the victim which the song portrayed. Her face mirrored her sorrow, her hands clenched together as though chafed from the fictitious snowy night. The accompaniment — alternating from agitation to resignation — exactly suited the words. Finally, the last lines of the song died softly away:
‘She kissed her baby’s pale lips, and laid it by her side,
Then rais’d her eyes to heaven, then bow’d her head and died.’
There was a moment of absolute silence. Rosalind’s hands fell away from the pianoforte into her lap. Then, as if belatedly remembering their duty, the gentlemen broke into applause.
‘Remarkable, Miss Woodford!’ St George was the first to speak. ‘Quite remarkable.’
‘A most … unusual … choice of music,’ Julian contributed in a somewhat stilted tone.
‘And Miss Powell’s playing was as fine as ever I heard in any London salon.’
‘Do you think that a compliment, Lindy?’ Cassandra asked, the sombre mood of the music falling away from her.
‘I am sure our guests have slept through worse performances,’ Miss Powell said.
St George laughed. ‘I think I may speak for us both, ma’am,’ he responded, ‘when I say that you commanded our absolute attention from the very first note.’
‘Now,’ Cassandra said, turning her back on the men, ‘it is Rosalind’s turn to sing.’
‘I am burning with curiosity to learn with what she will choose to entertain us.’
Rosalind met his challenging look with an equally direct stare. Meanwhile, Cassandra glided over to the harp.
Julian reached out to guide her toward the instrument,
‘I fear I am not so well versed in these matters.’ The dragon refused to be swayed. ‘It seems a degree of courtesy not merely uncommon for us, but quite unnecessary as well.’
* * * *
Having got through the meal, the quartet repaired to themusic-room. By the standards of the abbey, it was a small chamber, perhaps twenty feet square, which contained both a lavishly carved harp and a pianoforte, as well as a number of comfortable chairs — presumably for the benefit of an audience it had never hosted. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting scenes of medieval minstrels entertaining richly garbed courtiers.
‘Do be seated,’ Miss Woodford instructed her two guests. ‘Rosalind and I could not let you leave without some form of entertainment. That would be most impolite.’
The gentlemen did as she bade them, prepared to endure their performance even if they did not actually enjoy it. Miss Woodford went to stand beside the pianoforte while Miss Powell seated herself at the instrument. After the briefest pause, their performance began.
Deep, dramatic chords sounded from the keys as Cassandra burst into song:
‘It was a winter’s evening, and fast came down the snow,
And keenly over the wide heath the bitter blast did blow ...’
This canzonet by Pinto, ‘The Distress’d Mother’, had been chosen specifically by Rosalind for its subject matter. Its tale of an unmarried woman and her child, abandoned by her lover and her family to wander the streets and watch her babe die in the cold, was both morally and emotionally affecting. Rosalind looked up occasionally from the music to watch the two listeners.
‘Oh! cruel was my father ... And cruel was my mother ... And cruel is the wint’ry wind ... But crueller than all, the lad that left my love for gold. ’
For once, Rosalind almost blessed Cassandra’s blindness. She had no notion how she might appear to her audience, with not a trace of the constraint of the trained professional. Her voice was clear and pleasing without being overpowering, but, as she imagined to herself the scene and felt in her heart the young girl’s pain, which the composer had so eloquently expressed, she almost seemed to become the victim which the song portrayed. Her face mirrored her sorrow, her hands clenched together as though chafed from the fictitious snowy night. The accompaniment — alternating from agitation to resignation — exactly suited the words. Finally, the last lines of the song died softly away:
‘She kissed her baby’s pale lips, and laid it by her side,
Then rais’d her eyes to heaven, then bow’d her head and died.’
There was a moment of absolute silence. Rosalind’s hands fell away from the pianoforte into her lap. Then, as if belatedly remembering their duty, the gentlemen broke into applause.
‘Remarkable, Miss Woodford!’ St George was the first to speak. ‘Quite remarkable.’
‘A most … unusual … choice of music,’ Julian contributed in a somewhat stilted tone.
‘And Miss Powell’s playing was as fine as ever I heard in any London salon.’
‘Do you think that a compliment, Lindy?’ Cassandra asked, the sombre mood of the music falling away from her.
‘I am sure our guests have slept through worse performances,’ Miss Powell said.
St George laughed. ‘I think I may speak for us both, ma’am,’ he responded, ‘when I say that you commanded our absolute attention from the very first note.’
‘Now,’ Cassandra said, turning her back on the men, ‘it is Rosalind’s turn to sing.’
‘I am burning with curiosity to learn with what she will choose to entertain us.’
Rosalind met his challenging look with an equally direct stare. Meanwhile, Cassandra glided over to the harp.
Julian reached out to guide her toward the instrument,
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