decided that the show must go forth. And then, after delivering a remarkably detailed seventeen-year history of the Smythe-Smith musicale, she had declared that Anne would take her daughter’s place.
“You told me once that you have played bits and pieces of Mozart’s Piano Quartet no. 1,” Lady Pleinsworth reminded her.
Anne now regretted this, deeply.
It did not seem to matter that Anne had not played the piece in question in over eight years, or that she had never played it in its entirety. Lady Pleinsworth would entertain no arguments, and Anne had been hauled over to Lady Pleinsworth’s sister-in-law’s house, where the concert was to be held, and given eight hours to practice.
practice.
It was ludicrous.
The only saving grace was that the rest of the quartet was so bad that Anne’s mistakes were hardly noticeable. Indeed, her only aim for the evening was that she not be noticeable. Because she realy didn’t want it. To be noticed. For any number of reasons.
“It’s almost time,” Daisy Smythe-Smith whispered excitedly.
Anne gave her a little smile. Daisy did not seem to realize that she made terrible music.
“Joy is mine,” came the flat, miserable voice of Daisy’s sister Iris. Who did realize.
“Come now,” said Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith, their cousin. “This shal be wonderful. We are a family.”
“Wel, not her,” Daisy pointed out, jolting her head toward Anne.
“She is tonight,” Honoria declared. “And again, thank you, Miss Wynter. You have truly saved the day.” Anne murmured a few nonsensical words, since she couldn’t quite bring herself to say that it was no trouble at al, or that it was her pleasure. She rather liked Lady Honoria. Unlike Daisy, she did realize how dreadful they were, but unlike Iris, she still wished to perform. It was all about family, Honoria insisted. Family and tradition. Seventeen sets of Smythe-Smith cousins had gone before them, and if Honoria had her way, seventeen more would folow. It didn’t matter what the music sounded like.
“Oh, it matters,” Iris muttered.
Honoria jabbed her cousin lightly with her violin bow. “Family and tradition,” she reminded her. “ That is what matters.” Family and tradition. Anne wouldn’t have minded some of those. Although, realy, it hadn’t gone so well for her the first time around.
“Can you see anything?” Daisy asked. She was hopping from foot to foot like a frenetic magpie, and Anne had already backed up twice, just to preserve her toes.
Honoria, who was closer to the spot from which they would make their entrance, nodded. “There are a few empty seats, but not many.” Iris groaned.
“Is it like this every year?” Anne could not quite refrain from asking.
“Like what?” Honoria replied.
“Wel, er . . .” There were some things one simply did not say to the nieces of one’s employer. One did not, for example, make any sort of explicit comment about the lack of another young lady’s musical skils. Or wonder aloud if the concerts were always this dreadful or if this year was particularly bad. And one definitely did not ask, If the concerts are always so horrific, why do people keep coming?
Just then fifteen-year-old Harriet Pleinsworth came skidding in through a side door. “Miss Wynter!” Anne turned, but before she could say anything, Harriet announced, “I am here to turn your pages.”
“Thank you, Harriet. That will be most helpful.”
Harriet grinned at Daisy, who gave her a disdainful stare.
Anne turned away so no one would see her roll her eyes. Those two had never gotten along. Daisy took herself too seriously, and Harriet took nothing seriously.
“It’s time!” Honoria announced.
Onto the stage they went, and after a brief introduction, they began to play.
Anne, on the other hand, began to pray.
Dear God, she had never worked so hard in her life. Her fingers raced across the keys, trying desperately to keep up with Daisy, who played the violin as if in a
“You told me once that you have played bits and pieces of Mozart’s Piano Quartet no. 1,” Lady Pleinsworth reminded her.
Anne now regretted this, deeply.
It did not seem to matter that Anne had not played the piece in question in over eight years, or that she had never played it in its entirety. Lady Pleinsworth would entertain no arguments, and Anne had been hauled over to Lady Pleinsworth’s sister-in-law’s house, where the concert was to be held, and given eight hours to practice.
practice.
It was ludicrous.
The only saving grace was that the rest of the quartet was so bad that Anne’s mistakes were hardly noticeable. Indeed, her only aim for the evening was that she not be noticeable. Because she realy didn’t want it. To be noticed. For any number of reasons.
“It’s almost time,” Daisy Smythe-Smith whispered excitedly.
Anne gave her a little smile. Daisy did not seem to realize that she made terrible music.
“Joy is mine,” came the flat, miserable voice of Daisy’s sister Iris. Who did realize.
“Come now,” said Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith, their cousin. “This shal be wonderful. We are a family.”
“Wel, not her,” Daisy pointed out, jolting her head toward Anne.
“She is tonight,” Honoria declared. “And again, thank you, Miss Wynter. You have truly saved the day.” Anne murmured a few nonsensical words, since she couldn’t quite bring herself to say that it was no trouble at al, or that it was her pleasure. She rather liked Lady Honoria. Unlike Daisy, she did realize how dreadful they were, but unlike Iris, she still wished to perform. It was all about family, Honoria insisted. Family and tradition. Seventeen sets of Smythe-Smith cousins had gone before them, and if Honoria had her way, seventeen more would folow. It didn’t matter what the music sounded like.
“Oh, it matters,” Iris muttered.
Honoria jabbed her cousin lightly with her violin bow. “Family and tradition,” she reminded her. “ That is what matters.” Family and tradition. Anne wouldn’t have minded some of those. Although, realy, it hadn’t gone so well for her the first time around.
“Can you see anything?” Daisy asked. She was hopping from foot to foot like a frenetic magpie, and Anne had already backed up twice, just to preserve her toes.
Honoria, who was closer to the spot from which they would make their entrance, nodded. “There are a few empty seats, but not many.” Iris groaned.
“Is it like this every year?” Anne could not quite refrain from asking.
“Like what?” Honoria replied.
“Wel, er . . .” There were some things one simply did not say to the nieces of one’s employer. One did not, for example, make any sort of explicit comment about the lack of another young lady’s musical skils. Or wonder aloud if the concerts were always this dreadful or if this year was particularly bad. And one definitely did not ask, If the concerts are always so horrific, why do people keep coming?
Just then fifteen-year-old Harriet Pleinsworth came skidding in through a side door. “Miss Wynter!” Anne turned, but before she could say anything, Harriet announced, “I am here to turn your pages.”
“Thank you, Harriet. That will be most helpful.”
Harriet grinned at Daisy, who gave her a disdainful stare.
Anne turned away so no one would see her roll her eyes. Those two had never gotten along. Daisy took herself too seriously, and Harriet took nothing seriously.
“It’s time!” Honoria announced.
Onto the stage they went, and after a brief introduction, they began to play.
Anne, on the other hand, began to pray.
Dear God, she had never worked so hard in her life. Her fingers raced across the keys, trying desperately to keep up with Daisy, who played the violin as if in a
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