Shaken, Henrietta redirected her attention to Miss Grey, who was inexorably listing places at which Richard might have made inquiries — local inns where a stranger might have been noted, neighboring houses that might be hosting house parties, coaching inns for reports of travelers, and on and on and on. Listening to her litany was like fighting an avalanche of treacle; everyone's eyes glazed. Henrietta could only imagine what lessons with her must have been like, and felt relieved for Miss Grey's recently liberated charges.
"I have made inquiries wherever inquiries could be made," snapped Richard, breaking off the relentless assault of words. "There have been no strangers at the nearest inns and no unfamiliar equipages sighted in the vicinity."
"That's the problem with phantoms," commented Miles to no one in particular.
"There is not," replied Richard repressively, "a Phantom Monk."
"That's not what he said when I was five," whispered Henrietta to Amy.
"Have you asked — " began Mrs. Cathcart.
"Yes!" ground out Richard.
"I was going to ask," said Mrs. Cathcart calmly, "whether you had asked for more tea to be brought to us. If we do have a French spy peering through the windowpanes, the tea tray will lend a convincing air of normalcy."
Poised for argument, Richard just gaped at her. Amy squeezed her hand. "Mrs. Cathcart, you are an angel."
"A rather earthbound one," chuckled Mrs. Cathcart comfortably.
"What are we to do to pass the time?"
"I," put in Miles hopefully, "could go out and check on the sentries."
"Oh, no, you don't," said Richard darkly. "You're staying right here with the rest of us."
"But — "
"Right here," repeated Richard repressively.
"I have an idea," broke in Henrietta, trying not to refine too much on Miles's eagerness to leave. "What about charades? That way we could give the appearance of a normal party" — she stressed the word "normal" for the benefit of her agitated brother — "while practicing our impersonations."
"Capital idea!" exclaimed Fred Tholmondelay, looking at Henrietta with newfound respect.
"And a French spy won't find this the least bit suspicious?" countered Miles, glowering at Fred.
"Not unless he's in the room with us to hear the characters called out," protested Henrietta. "Surely all he'd see through the window would be a room full of people playing charades."
"What if…" Ned drew a deep breath, gazing around the assemblage in stunned horror. "What if the spy is in This Very Room?"
"Trust me," broke in Richard drily. "I explored that eventuality."
The words cast a pall over the assemblage. Confusion warred with indignation on Ned's freckled face.
"And well you should," put in Mrs. Cathcart peaceably. "You really can't be too careful in such matters, can you, my dear?"
"We have to appear normal," stressed Richard. "Normal. That means no practicing French dialect, no impromptu attempts at wall-climbing, and absolutely no midnight hunts." Richard looked very sharply at Fred Tholmondelay as he said that, failing to realize he was wasting his admonitory looks on the wrong brother.
"One of you young ladies must be musical," put in Mrs. Cathcart with a comfortable smile. "I am sure we could all do with a song to soothe our agitated spirits."
"Perfect!" exclaimed Amy. "Henrietta can sing. What could be more" — she smiled at her husband, who was glancing anxiously out the window at the dark grounds — "normal?"
"I'm not really in voice," Henrietta hedged.
"Don't be silly," chided Amy, who wasn't in the least bit musical. "Your voice sounds just fine to me."
With her usual energy, Amy chivvied everyone from the Rose Room to the music room, herding Miles back to the group when he showed a tendency to veer off towards the gardens.
"But I was just going to — "
"No," said Richard.
"Oh, all right," muttered Miles with no very good grace.
Henrietta sang an experimental scale, voice skipping lightly over the notes.
Miles turned to Richard, who was gazing moodily out the window. "Are you sure — " he began.
"Sit!" snapped Richard.
"Friend, dog, two different concepts," muttered Miles.
But he sat. He chose, noticed Henrietta, the chair farthest away from the pianoforte. Henrietta's eyes narrowed as she shuffled through a pile of sheet music. For goodness' sake, it wasn't as though she had contracted leprosy since last night! Was he afraid she would fling herself at him in a fit of lovelorn excess?
Of course, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time in as many minutes, she was the one who had sent him away. But she hadn't meant this. Blast it all, he could at least be civil. Was that too much to ask?
Miss Grey cleared her throat with ominous import.
Flushing, Henrietta grabbed a roll of music half at random and thrust it at Miss Grey. "It's 'Caro Mio Ben,'" she informed her.
"I am familiar with the piece," replied Miss Grey emotionlessly, propping the paper against its bracket, and adjusting a pair of pince-nez on the tip of her nose.
"Right," said Henrietta, taking her pose by the piano. "Let's get started, then, shall we?"
It was not the most receptive of audiences. Richard was gazing moodily out the window, as though expecting a spy to run by, wiggling his ears and thumbing his nose at him, at any moment. Amy had her "I'm pretending to listen, but really I'm thinking of ways to thwart the French" face on. Mrs. Cathcart, of course, was looking warm and supportive, because that was the sort of thing Mrs. Cathcart did; Henrietta knew it was no reflection of her own abilities. The Tholmondelay twins were gazing at her from twin settees with the expectant look of puppies who know they are behaving very, very well at the moment, but might bounce up and start chasing their tails at the least provocation. And then there was Miles. Henrietta tried not to look at Miles.
Miss Grey primly asked if she was ready. Nodding in assent, Henrietta closed her eyes, schooled her breathing as Signor Antonio had taught her, and let the opening bars of the music drift through her. Despite her protests about not being in voice, when she opened her mouth, her E flat was crisp and sure, rolling easily into D, C, and B flat. The aria was one of the first she had learnt, and the familiar notes and phrases unrolled easily through her throat.
But the words… why had she never noticed the words before? "Thou all my bliss," she sang, "believe but this: When thou art far, my heart is lorn." She had sung that same phrase a dozen, a hundred times, focusing all her attention on notes and diction, timing and dynamics, blithely oblivious to the plaintive recital of heartache. She had sung them, but never understood them.
Lorn. That was one way to describe the ache of Miles's absence, the utter dejection that had seized her every time they had passed each other in awkward silence. Would it be easier if he were far in more than spirit, if she packed her bags and fled back to London tomorrow? But that wouldn't be any use. London was haunted by a thousand memories of Miles. Miles in the park, teaching her to drive. Miles at Almack's, propping up pillars. Miles sprawled out on the sofa in the morning room, scattering biscuit crumbs all over the carpet. Even her bedroom provided no sanctuary, with Bunny propped reproachfully on her pillows like Banquo's ghost.
Determinedly turning her attention back to the music, Henrietta built up slowly through "thy lover true ever doth sigh." She didn't much feel like sighing. She would far rather throw things. Preferably at Miles. She released her ire into the music, singing out the first reprise of "do but forgo such cruel scorn" rather more forcefully than the score required. The music dwelt on scorn, lingering over the word, trilling it, offering it up again and again, flinging it back at Henrietta.
Despite herself, Henrietta's eyes flew past the sprawled forms of the Tholmondelays, over Mrs. Cathcart's lace cap, to Miles's chair at the back of the room.