Pamela Sherwood Read Online Free PDF Page A

embarking on a waltz with another of her many admirers.
    No right to think of her that way. No right at all.
    But her face was still before him, even after he’d left the house and was mounted on his horse, riding slowly back toward Pendarvis Hall in the darkness and cold.
    The spell had been cast, and he did not know how to break it. Nor, if he were being wholly honest with himself, was he sure he wanted to.

Three
    I attempt from love’s sickness to fly in vain,
    For I am myself my own fever
    For I am myself my own fever and pain.
    —Henry Purcell, The Indian Queen
    London, 1896
    The applause roared in her ears, thunderous as the sea at high tide as it rushed into the mouths of the caves. Sophie bowed her head in acknowledgment of the audience’s appreciation, feeling the triumph and euphoria fizzing through her veins like champagne. This was what it was all about: the joy that came from making music, and nothing, not the most grueling rehearsal, not the most exhausting schedule, ever diminished that joy. She prayed that nothing ever would.
    Beside her, David took her gloved hand, raising it to his lips in a gesture of mingled gallantry and solidarity. Sophie could feel his own exhilaration in the quiver of his fingers twined in hers. They exchanged a smile and bowed again, drawing renewed applause for their final piece, a soaring duet from Verdi’s La Traviata .
    Then they were making their exits, heading for the performers’ green room and the inevitable rush of admirers and aficionados that would follow.
    Not for the first time, Sophie found herself wishing she could just slip away unnoticed, surround herself with the stillness and quiet while she reveled in tonight’s achievement and the simple satisfaction that came of doing what one loved best. But her years on the concert circuit had taught her the impossibility of that following a performance. Not to mention the supper party afterward—to be held tonight at the Savoy Hotel—where there would be still more people to contend with. She stifled a sigh; while music could lift you to unimagined heights, inevitably you had to come back down to earth, and the descent always left her feeling rather flat. And for her, the glory seemed to dim all the faster the more people she had to talk to and the more questions she had to answer.
    She caught David’s eye and he sent her a commiserating shrug. Though more gregarious than she, he knew her humor in this but also understood its futility. They were professional singers at the start of their careers and could not afford to snub their audience. Temperamental prima donnas might think otherwise, but neither she nor David was that foolish.
    A dresser standing backstage handed them each a warm wrap. David, in full evening kit, accepted his only for form’s sake, but Sophie was glad enough to drape hers over her shoulders. It never failed to surprise her how quickly one cooled off after leaving the stage.
    They had a few minutes’ privacy and solitude in the green room, which Sophie put to good use, patting her face dry with a clean handkerchief and refreshing herself with a draught of cooled, lightly sweetened tea, brewed especially for her. Then, suddenly, voices and footsteps sounded in the passage, and the room filled up in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. All the best people, or so she’d been told repeatedly: elegant, fashionable people, some of whom wielded considerable influence in the music world.
    Sophie had just enough time to assume a bright social smile before the first visitors engulfed her: two splendidly dressed couples, one young, one of late middle age. A family, by the looks of it, and her guess was borne out when they introduced themselves to her as Viscount and Viscountess Ashby, their daughter Harriet, and her husband, Mr. Sutcliffe.
    “You were wonderful, Miss Tresilian,” Lady Ashby said warmly. “This concert has been one of the highlights of the Season.”
    “Thank you—I’m so