distinct unease. “I’ve never hosted as much as a dinner party, let alone a ball!”
“It isn’t easy , planning something of that size,” Sophie admitted. “But neither is it impossible. Your staff would know what to do, and you could ask your friends and family for advice as well. Hotels do hold formal balls on occasion—there was one at the Newquay resort this past Easter Monday.”
“Yes, I heard something about that myself.” He paused, studying the room with new interest. “And that they have dances some afternoons, at teatime.”
“Good thinking,” Sophie approved. “And don’t forget receptions, concerts—maybe even plays!” Excitement began to kindle inside of her as she considered the possibilities. “You could mount a stage over there.” She gestured toward the far wall. “Nothing too huge, just a raised platform, and put down a carpet and rows of seats in front.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to see as she saw. “Perhaps. The concert idea may have some merit. I don’t know about plays—the theatre in Truro would be better equipped for that.”
“Dramatic recitals, then,” Sophie suggested. “Some of your guests might even be persuaded to take part themselves. You’d be amazed at how many frustrated thespians there are.” She struck a dramatic pose and declaimed with great fervor, “ A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, / There was lack of women’s nursing, there was dearth of women’s tears— ”
“Stop.” Mr. Pendarvis held up a hand. “My dear, I would much rather hear you sing.”
My dear . The words took her by surprise, and she glanced at him, suddenly hesitant. “What, now?”
He raised his brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown self-conscious about your voice, Miss Tresilian! I remember how poised you were at New Year’s. And I should like to hear just how your voice sounds in this great cavern. How else should I know if it’s suitable for those concerts you’ve suggested?”
“Well, if you’re certain—” Sophie wandered toward the center of the room and positioned herself below the highest point of the ceiling. The soft light of early afternoon rippled along the pale green walls, casting a watery pattern that made her think of undersea caves and grottos. Inspired, she cleared her throat, took a breath or two to steady herself and pitch her voice properly, then launched into “The Mermaid’s Song,” a Haydn canzonetta she had always loved:
“Now the dancing sunbeams play
On the green and glassy sea,
Come, and I will lead the way
Where the pearly treasures be.”
Her voice rose, gratifyingly clear even in this vast space. A faint echo resounded from the walls and ceiling, but not strongly enough to distort the sound. Encouraged, she sang on:
“Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me!
Follow, follow, follow me!”
She lowered her voice just a fraction, let it become confiding, even enticing. Mermaids were sirens, after all, eager to lure unsuspecting mortals beneath the waves. Enchanting creatures, but dangerous too—she added a note of cajolery as she embarked on the next verse:
“Come, behold what treasures lie
Far below the rolling waves,
Riches, hid from human eye,
Dimly shine in ocean’s caves.
Ebbing tides bear no delay,
Stormy winds are far away.
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me!
Follow, follow, follow me!”
She let her voice rise triumphantly on the last chorus and fell silent—only to find Mr. Pendarvis staring at her so intently that she began to feel self-conscious after all.
“Do you not care for the song, Mr. Pendarvis?” she ventured. “Or was I a trifle off-key?” She didn’t think she had been, but perhaps he had heard otherwise.
He shook his head almost absentmindedly, his gaze still upon her. “No, no—you were note-perfect, as far as I could tell. And the song was—quite pleasing. Fitting,
“It isn’t easy , planning something of that size,” Sophie admitted. “But neither is it impossible. Your staff would know what to do, and you could ask your friends and family for advice as well. Hotels do hold formal balls on occasion—there was one at the Newquay resort this past Easter Monday.”
“Yes, I heard something about that myself.” He paused, studying the room with new interest. “And that they have dances some afternoons, at teatime.”
“Good thinking,” Sophie approved. “And don’t forget receptions, concerts—maybe even plays!” Excitement began to kindle inside of her as she considered the possibilities. “You could mount a stage over there.” She gestured toward the far wall. “Nothing too huge, just a raised platform, and put down a carpet and rows of seats in front.”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to see as she saw. “Perhaps. The concert idea may have some merit. I don’t know about plays—the theatre in Truro would be better equipped for that.”
“Dramatic recitals, then,” Sophie suggested. “Some of your guests might even be persuaded to take part themselves. You’d be amazed at how many frustrated thespians there are.” She struck a dramatic pose and declaimed with great fervor, “ A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, / There was lack of women’s nursing, there was dearth of women’s tears— ”
“Stop.” Mr. Pendarvis held up a hand. “My dear, I would much rather hear you sing.”
My dear . The words took her by surprise, and she glanced at him, suddenly hesitant. “What, now?”
He raised his brows. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown self-conscious about your voice, Miss Tresilian! I remember how poised you were at New Year’s. And I should like to hear just how your voice sounds in this great cavern. How else should I know if it’s suitable for those concerts you’ve suggested?”
“Well, if you’re certain—” Sophie wandered toward the center of the room and positioned herself below the highest point of the ceiling. The soft light of early afternoon rippled along the pale green walls, casting a watery pattern that made her think of undersea caves and grottos. Inspired, she cleared her throat, took a breath or two to steady herself and pitch her voice properly, then launched into “The Mermaid’s Song,” a Haydn canzonetta she had always loved:
“Now the dancing sunbeams play
On the green and glassy sea,
Come, and I will lead the way
Where the pearly treasures be.”
Her voice rose, gratifyingly clear even in this vast space. A faint echo resounded from the walls and ceiling, but not strongly enough to distort the sound. Encouraged, she sang on:
“Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me!
Follow, follow, follow me!”
She lowered her voice just a fraction, let it become confiding, even enticing. Mermaids were sirens, after all, eager to lure unsuspecting mortals beneath the waves. Enchanting creatures, but dangerous too—she added a note of cajolery as she embarked on the next verse:
“Come, behold what treasures lie
Far below the rolling waves,
Riches, hid from human eye,
Dimly shine in ocean’s caves.
Ebbing tides bear no delay,
Stormy winds are far away.
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me!
Follow, follow, follow me!”
She let her voice rise triumphantly on the last chorus and fell silent—only to find Mr. Pendarvis staring at her so intently that she began to feel self-conscious after all.
“Do you not care for the song, Mr. Pendarvis?” she ventured. “Or was I a trifle off-key?” She didn’t think she had been, but perhaps he had heard otherwise.
He shook his head almost absentmindedly, his gaze still upon her. “No, no—you were note-perfect, as far as I could tell. And the song was—quite pleasing. Fitting,
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