Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [69]
Vespasia and Lord Anstiss were there ahead of them. Anstiss rose as they came in and held Emily’s chair for her to seat herself at the front where she could see most easily. Charlotte was offered the chair in the center with Aunt Vespasia to her right. As soon as the gentlemen were seated also, Vespasia handed Charlotte her opera glasses to indulge in the beginning of the evening’s entertainment, which was to gaze at the occupants of the other boxes, observe who they were, who they were with, how they looked, what they wore, and above all who called upon them and how they deported themselves.
It was several minutes before she recognized anyone she knew. This was not to be wondered at since she had very seldom been to the opera before. It had not been an occasion her mother had considered likely to produce results in attracting a suitor fitting its expense. However, Pitt had taken her once or twice as a great treat to see Gilbert and Sullivan at the Savoy Theatre, but that was not quite the same.
“Who have you seen?” Vespasia said softly.
“Mr. Fitzherbert and Miss Morden,” Charlotte replied in a whisper. “He really is extraordinarily handsome.”
“Indeed,” Vespasia said dryly. “A deal too much so. And what of Miss Morden?”
“She looks very well too,” Charlotte said with less pleasure. “And I think she is aware of it, from the way she is sitting with her face in the light and a satisfied smile on it.”
“Do you think so?”
“That is the way I sit when I think I am at my best,” Charlotte admitted with candor. “I dislike women as ostentatiously pleased with themselves as she seems. She has the world on a string, and she contemplates it with some satisfaction.”
“Perhaps,” Vespasia agreed dubiously. “But not everyone who wears a brave face feels as certain underneath. I am surprised that you do not know that. Many a gay laugh hides loneliness or fear of all manner of things. A wild night does not mean a happy morrow.” Her voice softened. “I think perhaps, my dear, it is you, with Thomas to love you, who has grown a trifle complacent.”
Charlotte sat rigid, keeping the glasses to her eyes to hide her face, and hoped no one else saw the slow, hot color burn up her cheeks. Suddenly and quite overwhelmingly she knew Vespasia was right. She had grown very used to happiness, very certain of the things that mattered most. Involuntarily she turned around and looked at Pitt watching Jack and Lord Anstiss talking to each other. He smiled at her and pulled a face.
She turned back, crowded with emotion, and stared across at the box where Herbert Fitzherbert was looking down at the stage, and half behind him, Odelia Morden was smiling vacantly into the air, her thoughts obviously miles from the glittering crowd and the rising buzz of excitement.
Charlotte moved the glasses further around the arc of the balcony and saw Micah Drummond, his eyes on the vast, closed curtain, and three boxes beyond him Eleanor Byam, sitting forward, her hands on the velvet-padded edge of the box, fingers gripping tightly. For a moment she seemed to be looking at Drummond, then she saw someone she knew and raised her hand in a small, rather stiff salute. Beside her Lord Byam’s face was in the shadows and his expression hidden.
There was a sudden hush, the house lights dimmed and a spotlight blossomed on the stage. The prima donna appeared in front of the curtain, and the orchestra, which had been tuning their instruments under the hum of conversation, began to play the national anthem. At one stroke the chatter died. The prima donna’s glorious voice broke into the words, “God save our gracious Queen,” and as a single person every man and woman stood.
The evening had commenced.
The curtain rose on a magnificent scene, brilliantly lit, static, and the slow, magical story unfolded.
Charlotte found it strangely cold. The music was huge, full of great chords, grand passages, and sweeping gestures, but it had none of the personal