“I’d be delighted to! I wouldn’t want to sing an aria—I’m very loud, you see, when I sing in full voice. It’s more pleasant to be at a bit of a distance from me.”
“You’ll get no argument here,” the duke murmured, from behind his newspaper.
She ignored him and sat down at the pianoforte. “But . . .” Inspiration struck. “One can turn anything into a song. For instance, I could sing a song about . . .” She glanced about the room. “Oh, I’ve a jolly idea! Would you play a C and G and E for me, Mrs. Durand? Make it a bit jaunty? Like this, perhaps.”
She demonstrated at the pianoforte, tapping out the keys. Angelique skillfully obliged her.
And as Angelique played a few bars, everyone save one person leaned forward in breathless anticipation. Her impulse was always to win over audiences no matter how large or small, and she knew just how to do it.
She clasped her hands, tapped her foot, then launched into her song:
In Mr. Delacorte’s case is quite an array
Of lotions and potions to make aches go away!
But if you take the wrong one
Or perhaps a too strong one
You might wake up next to a tiger one day!
Delighted shouts of laughter and applause erupted.
“COR!” Mr. Delacorte smacked the table over and over delightedly. Each time he did, the duke twitched. “I’ve never been a song before!” He was dazzled.
Mariana performed whimsical shallow curtsies to the room at large.
“We could write even more verses one day! Just like The Ballad of Colin Eversea! The story of Stanton Delacorte.”
Everyone beamed at her. What a pleasure it was to be beamed upon approvingly, and how perverse it was that she craved one particular smile in the room and she wasn’t going to get it.
The duke hadn’t even lowered his newspaper.
“Your voice is so pretty Miss Wylde,” Dot said shyly.
“You’re very kind, Dot,” Mariana said. “Thank you. I feel as though I’m simply fortunate.”
“Would that the rest of us were fortunate.” The duke scarcely spoke above a murmur, but she heard him as surely as if he were right next to her ear.
“But it’s what I do for a living,” Mariana added. “I should be pleased if everyone else would take a turn. I should like to be entertained, too! Mrs. Hardy, do you play?”
Delilah hesitated. “Yes . . . I’ve no gift, mind . . .”
Everyone good-naturedly protested.
She laughed. “Very well! I’d be delighted. Angelique, will you join me in this?” Delilah stood.
“Oh, why not!” Angelique agreed cheerfully.
They murmured together over the pianoforte, deciding upon a tune.
And then Angelique began to play.
“Oh, I love ‘Black-eyed Susan,’” Mariana sighed.
Delilah and Angelique did lovely justice to the long and aching song of a sailor and his woman saying goodbye to each other.
Oh Susan, Susan, lovely dear,
My heart shall ever true remain.
Let me kiss off that falling tear,
We only part to meet again.
Change as you list she wins, my heart shall be
A faithful compass that still points to thee.
And while Angelique and Delilah made eyes misty all over the room with their rendition, and even the duke seemed rather still, Mariana used the cover of John Gay’s many, many verses to compose in her head another little tune. The lyrics, born of pure simmering anger and raw inspiration and wicked, wicked, desperate mischief came to her so swiftly, so wholly, surely the angels must have been on her side. Or perhaps it was devils. At this point she thought she’d take any help she could get.
She applauded happily along with everyone else when Delilah and Angelique brought the song to an end, and waited a respectful moment.
Then she suggested: “Perhaps something lighter now? Another song has just come to me, and I believe we can all sing this one together! Would you like to hear it?”
“Oh, indeed!” Enthusiasm was unanimous, minus one.
Mariana went to the pianoforte again to pick out the tune, while Delilah watched to learn it.
“I think . . . C, G, and E . . . then C D F D E C D C, like so . . . yes, precisely.”
“Oh, that’s delightful.” Delilah was pleased as she tried it. “Quite sprightly!”
“Wonderful! Now when I bring my hands together like this”—Mariana clapped them—“I’d like you all to give a clap, too. So watch carefully. You’ll know why in a moment. Mrs. Hardy, shall we?”
Delilah launched into the tune, and Mariana waited two bars before she turned to the room full of happy, expectant faces and sang:
“Oh, I’m a lord of great valor and honor.”
At least that’s what he told her before he climbed on ’er . . .
. . . stairs to the ballroom to partake in a ball
But to the occasion he could not rise, only fall!
“What’s taking so long?” cried the maiden fair.
“Have pity,” he said, “and patience, I pray.
“I’ve a stick up me CLAP and gray in me hair!
“I’ve a stick up me CLAP and gray in me hair!”
Delilah’s delighted face slowly devolved into wide-eyed alarm while her fingers, seemingly independent of her horror, continued to move over the keyboard. Angelique had frozen, astounded, staring at Mariana.
Everyone else—save one person, of course—was thrilled. They cried out in delight. Mr. Delacorte slapped the table and hooted.
“Are you ready to sing with me?” Mariana enthused. “Everyone now!”
Mr. Delacorte, Dot, and Mrs. Pariseau joined her in such full voice that they didn’t notice Delilah stopped playing the pianoforte midway through.
“Oh, I’m a lord of great valor and honor.”
At least that’s what he told her before he climbed on ’er . . .
Stairs to the ballroom to partake in a ball
But to the occasion he could not rise, only fall!
“What’s taking so long?” cried the maiden fair.
“Have pity,” he said, “and patience, I pray.
“I’ve a stick up me CLAP and gray in me hair!
“I’ve a stick up me CLAP and gray in me hair!
“I’ve a stick up me CLAP and gray in me hair!”
Most of her audience fell about laughing and applauding.
Two of them were cautiously gauging the temperature of the room to see if everyone understood what had really just happened.
One of them was as still as if he’d been driven into the ground with a hammer, and he was studying her speculatively.
It felt wonderful. So wrong, and so wonderful. It was sex. It was the ball landing on your number on a roulette wheel after you’d wagered just a little too high, which she’d done only once in her life. She wouldn’t do it again, but she was glad she had done it.
What virtue had she just annihilated?
“Oh, Miss Wylde, that song is a delight! I shall be singing it whilst I go about my day,” Mrs. Pariseau said.
“What a happy song about dancing,” Dot said, wiping tears of laughter.
“Yes, there are so few happy songs about ‘dancing,’ Miss Wylde,” Mrs. Durand said dryly, rather pointedly. “So generous of you to add to the canon.”