Chapter One
Sarah reached for the final note. She sang it with all the clarity she had been taught and all the emotion of which she was capable. And she held it perfectly before letting it fade into silence.
Exhilarated, she glanced toward Signor Arcadi. To her delight, he did not merely nod his grudging approval. He beamed. And then the applause broke out. Her audience rose en masse in spontaneous acclaim, rather than merely polite appreciation.
At last, she thought with anticipation. At last, I am ready…
She curtseyed deeply in gratitude, first to her audience and then to Signor Arcadi, who had trained her voice beyond a mere ladylike accomplishment to this level of skill and power. To have reached the stage of capturing this audience of cultured and talented people almost overwhelmed her.
“Better. Much better,” Signor Arcadi murmured and placed her hand on his arm with gratifying pride. Together, they stepped forward to meet the adulation.
Sarah could almost imagine she had just sung at Covent Garden, instead of a tea-time recital in a small assembly room in the backwater town of Whitmore. Yet in many ways, these people congratulating her were her peers, and their opinion mattered nearly as much as Signor Arcadi’s.
She was smiling so much; she thought her face would split. Hammy, more properly Miss Hammond, once her governess and now her companion, held her hands clasped under her chin in almost motherly pride.
The crowd parted, and she saw that her performance had been honored indeed. Lady Whitmore stood before her—a tiny lady, white haired and yet not quite elderly, supremely elegant in her simple silk gown and diamonds. As Sarah curtsied, Lady Whitmore extended her hand. Another accolade.
“You have always had one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard,” Lady Whitmore said kindly. “And now you are a credit to Signor Arcadi. A moving and utterly charming performance, my dear.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Sarah said gratefully, taking her hand. “You are all kindness.”
“And I am all pride,” Signor Arcadi beamed. “My favorite pupil. Until tomorrow, at least, when we will go over your mistakes.”
Sarah laughed. “Couldn’t you leave it until then to take the wind out of my sails?”
“He is a hard taskmaster,” Lady Whitmore agreed. “Which is why we so appreciate him here! Now my dear, I have an invitation for you. Would you care to dine with me this evening? Bringing Miss Hammy, of course.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, dazed by this fresh honor. “I would love to.”
“I’m afraid it will not be a dinner party, merely a cozy supper with just the three of us.”
“I look forward to it,” Sarah murmured. And she did. If only to tell Lady Whitmore that it was time for her to leave this sanctuary of art and culture, for it was time to take all her talents to the real world.
***
Lady Whitmore was the undoubted queen of her domain. Her castle sat on top of the cliff overlooking the sea on one side and the town of Whitmore on the other. On a fine spring evening, it was a pleasant walk up the hill from Sarah’s cottage. As she and Hammy drew closer, the castle seemed to lose its fairy-tale quality and become, instead, the defensive stronghold it was designed to be.
“It is as if she defends us all from up here,” Sarah mused as they walked under the arch of the outer, thirteenth-century walls. “Only instead of violent raiders, she repels prying eyes and unwanted family.”
“Yes, well, you must not speculate,” Hammy warned her. “It was always part of the agreement when we took the cottage.”
“We promised not to speculate about our neighbors,” Sarah argued, “not about her ladyship.”
“She is a neighbor, too,” Hammy said firmly.
“Yes, but don’t you wonder about her just a little? One would think she must be lonely up here by herself, and that is why she has made her village a sanctuary of the arts and learning for those others who care to hide from the world for whatever reasons. But she only moves among us occasionally, and even more rarely invites anyone to dine.”
“You do not know how many people dine here,” Hammy pointed out. “Or how often.”
“Well, we have been here more than a year,” Sarah pointed out, “and this is our first invitation. Do you suppose she knows we are leaving?”
The conversation had taken them across the wide courtyard which had been covered in lawns and gardens, to the front door, where Hammy frowned her to silence. There had been a time when Sarah would have sung at the top of her voice just for the fun of defying her, and she was still tempted. But she had learned good manners among everything else, so she merely smiled wryly and inclined her head while her old governess raised the large, iron knocker.
Almost at once, the great door swung open. A liveried, middle-aged footman bowed them inside, and Sarah looked about her in wonder. The entrance hall was a seamless blend of ancient carved stone and modern luxury. An indecipherable coat of arms carved above doorways, carpets on the stone floors, and even leading up the massive, curving staircase. Wall sconces looked as if they were made for flaming torches but contained candles.
An elderly, dignified butler materialized before them and asked them with a bow to follow him. He led them up the staircase and along a picture-lined gallery to a set of double-doors, which he pushed open.
He bowed into the room. “Your Grace. Miss Sarah and Miss Hammy.”
Your Grace. Sarah’s curiosity burgeoned. Their hostess, the sole occupant of the room before they walked in, was Lady Whitmore. Why would her servant address her as Your Grace? A title once reserved for queens, and now only for duchesses—among the female sex at least.
“Ah, thank you, Saunders,” Lady Whitmore said. Smiling, she stood up from a massive desk at which she had been writing, and replaced her pen in the elegant stand. “Ladies, please join me in a glass of sherry. Or would you prefer ratafia?”
Sarah, dragging her gaze from the massive leather-bound books and what looked like parchment scrolls that lined the cabinets around the walls, curtseyed and asked for sherry.
Lady Whitmore served them herself from a Venetian glass decanter into matching glasses. “This is the center of my world,” she said, presenting the glasses, and waving her hand around the room. “My library.”
Sarah sat on the comfortable, velvet-covered sofa. “It is a beautiful room. Are you engaged upon a great work here?”
“Many minor works,” Lady Whitmore replied.
“You have a wonderful view,” Hammy said, gazing in awe toward the window that overlooked the sea.
“My inspiration and my reminder of a mere human’s limitations,” Lady Whitmore said, choosing a chair close to them.
“What are the subjects of your works?” asked Sarah, who had once believed women had no need of learning and that bluestockings were to be pitied.
“Genealogy,” Lady Whitmore replied unexpectedly. “Largely. Also, I study human nature, which I suppose makes me a philosopher. We shall talk more of that over dinner, if you wish. But I would like to hear about you, Miss Sarah. Your little recital this afternoon was…dazzling.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, blushing with gratitude. “I have worked hard over the last year.”
“So Signor Arcadi tells me. Of course, he is delighted to have such a naturally sweet voice to train. But I understand you have not limited yourself to his training. You also attend lectures in art and the classic texts, poetry readings, and even the political salons. Your interests are wide.”