Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [107]
Jenny looked embarrassed. Several other people turned to look at Rose, then away again quickly.
A waiter passed, and Rose took another glass from his tray, but this time she took the wine. She drank it down in one long draught, then tossed the glass over her shoulder. It fell on the floor with a tinkle as it broke. She ignored it entirely and strode over towards the musicians. She made a magnificent figure, head high, skirts swaying, her handsome face bristling with life. She stood in front of the dais.
“For heaven’s sake, stop that awful screeching!” she commanded fiercely. “You on the violin, you sound like a cat wailing for a fish head. Unless you think the poor old sod went to dismal torment, which I admit is likely, try to sound as if you believed in the forgiveness of God, and some chance of heaven for him!”
The violinist clasped her hands to her bosom and let the violin slither down her dress and fall onto the floor.
Rose stooped and picked it up. She put it under her chin, seized the bow, and began to play astonishingly well. She began with the same music they had been playing, but she altered the tempo to that of the music hall, and then slid into one of the concert songs, swift and bawdy.
The pianist gave a little squawk of horror and sat stark still with her mouth open. The cellist burst into tears.
“Oh, stop it!” Rose commanded her. “Pull yourself together! And hold that thing properly!” She pointed to the cello. “Like a lover, not as if it just made you an indecent proposal!”
The cellist flung the instrument on the ground and fled, the bow trailing behind her.
Someone in the audience fainted, or pretended to. Another began to laugh hysterically. A man started to sing the words to the song. He had a rich baritone voice and—most unfortunately—knew all the words.
Hester stood frozen, aware of Jenny beside her and Alan Argyll a few feet away, paralyzed.
Rose did not hesitate a stroke but kept on playing in perfect time, swaying and tapping her feet.
Suddenly the pianist abandoned all propriety and joined in. Her face was fixed in a terrified smile, showing all her teeth.
Alan Argyll jerked to life, moving to stand at Hester’s elbow. “For heaven’s sake,” he hissed. “Can’t you do anything to stop her? This is appalling! Morgan Applegate will never live it down!”
Hester realized she was probably the only person who could do anything. She was Rose’s friend. Therefore it was an act of the utmost compassion and necessity that she intervene. She walked forward to the dais, picked up her borrowed and rather long skirts and stepped up. Rose was still playing very elegantly. She was on to a different song now, but no better.
“Rose!” Hester said quietly, but with as much authority as she could manage. “That’s enough now. Let the violinist have her instrument back. It’s time we went home.”
“Home, sweet home!” Rose said cheerfully, and loudly. “That’s a terrible song, Hester. Positively maudlin! We’re celebrating Sir what’s-hisname’s death. At least—I mean we’re remembering his life with…with regrets…I shouldn’t have said that!” She started to laugh. “Far too close to the truth. Should never speak the truth at funerals. If a man was a crashing bore like Lord Kinsdale, you say he was fearfully well-bred.”
There was a gasp of horror from the maid. “If a woman had a face like a burst boot, such as Lady Alcott,” she went on, “you say what a kind heart she had.” She laughed again, stepping back out of Hester’s reach and speaking even more loudly. “If he was a liar and a cheat, like Mr. Worthington, you praise his wit. If he betrayed his wife with half the neighborhood, you talk all about his generosity. Everyone keeps a straight face, and weeps a lot into their handkerchiefs to hide their laughter.” She hiccupped and ignored it. “You don’t understand,” she went on, looking a little dizzily at Hester. “You’ve spent too much time in the army.”
“Oh, God!” someone groaned.
Someone else began to