Company Of Spears

At length came Monsieur Anton’s desserts – baskets of glacé fruit and plates of croquembouche, charlotte russe, Nesselrode pudding, moulded jellies, coffee custard, praline and orange ices, chocolate gâteaux. Kezia Lankester was not greatly tempted, nor seemingly very impressed. Hervey had noticed how sparingly she ate throughout (neither had she drunk more than half a glass of hock), and wondered if it were yet a feature somehow of her mourning. But when their conversation resumed, he found himself more and more attracted by both her appearance and spirit, and encouraged by her complete ease of manner. He was disappointed when the conversation opened up to the table: it was, besides anything else, much the duller, despite the wit of a dozen more. And then once the table as a whole was engaged she made no attempt at further vocal contact with him, nor with her eyes – not even when they rose to let the ladies retire. He was suddenly anxious once more. Was it true indifference on her part? He was sure it could not have been shyness. Or perhaps she had thought that she – or he – had spoken too freely? As he sat down again he was wholly uncertain of whether she had in fact dismissed him.

When the gentlemen were all done with cigars and the price of corn – close on half an hour – they rejoined the ladies. Chairs had been arranged meanwhile so that the drawing room was now an auditorium, with a forte-piano and a harp at one end. Lady Cockerell at once began ushering her guests to their seats. After announcing that her house guests would provide a little diversion, she herself – very gamely, thought Hervey – began the entertainment, playing two rondos (which he had heard before but could not put a name to) and then a composition of her own incorporating several popular songs that he knew quite well. She played skilfully, earning vigorous applause, and hearty appreciation from the squires. Next came her husband in a worthy, if reedy, rendering of two Neapolitan songs sung in Italian to Lady Cockerell’s accompaniment. There was again hearty applause, perhaps more in appreciation of hearing something so apparently out of character in their host as for any true appreciation of his voice; but there was no encore. Then it was the turn of the Reverend and the Honourable Mrs Castle (the advowson being Sir Charles’s, Mr Castle was deemed a permanent house guest). Mrs Castle played accompanying harp, and her husband sang something about virtue, and then about perseverance, and in a voice that Hervey recognized was capable though not to his mind attractive.

Next was Lady Lankester. An older man in a powdered wig and round spectacles came into the room, bowed and sat at the forte-piano.

‘Must have stayed from last night,’ said Somervile to Hervey, more or less sotto voce. ‘There was a regular band.’

Lady Lankester bowed to her hostess and announced: ‘“Se mai senti spirarti sul volto”, from La Clemenza di Tito, by Christoph Gluck.’

Hervey was at once all attention. He had heard of Gluck. He had no idea that Kezia Lankester possessed a voice that encompassed opera.

The forte-pianist began the introduction, a gentle melody in simple time, and Kezia Lankester entered confidently and with one of the clearest, sweetest voices Hervey thought he had ever heard. It was a slow aria, but with considerable range, and she sang it expressively. Hervey was charmed. He led the applause.

‘She’s been rehearsing all day,’ said Somervile, as if he thought it mildly bad form.

Hervey frowned. ‘I thought it enchanting.’

‘My dear Lady Lankester, we must press you to an encore,’ said their host.

Lady Lankester smiled indulgently. ‘Very well, Sir Charles.’ She turned to the forte-pianist.

He had already placed a new sheet of music on the rest.

She turned back to her audience. ‘“Di questa cetra in seno”, from Il Parnaso confuso, again by Christoph Gluck.’

It was, once more, a slow melody, but in triple time and with a range perhaps even greater than the first. As before she sang with real expression, and Hervey wished very much that he had been able to understand the Italian.

The applause was even stronger. ‘She can sing, I grant you that,’ said Somervile.

Hervey was now inclined to ascribe her earlier sudden indifference to nerves, in anticipation of these choice pieces – except that she sang so effortlessly he could see no reason for them. Perhaps it was mere … preoccupation?

The forte-pianist took his bow, Kezia Lankester took another, and they left the ‘stage’ to the final diversion.

‘Well, a cavallo,’ said Somervile, in a resigned but by no means apprehensive way, taking his wife’s hand and leading her forward.

Emma took her place at the forte-piano, while from behind a curtain her husband took a hunting whip and horn, sounding the latter to the immediate acclamation of the two squires.