Page 65 of A Well-Trained Lady

“Has Augustus sent word about when he is likely to return from Bath?”

I whipped my head to her. “Bath? Did he not go to London to aid his brother?”

There was uncertainty evident in her features. “Forgive me. I thought he would have …” Her words halted. “Perhaps it was I who was too bold for inquiring after his destination.”

I stared, unable to conceal my shock. “You spoke with him before he left?”

She nodded ever so slowly. “He stopped at Safford Park on his way out.”

My heart sank at her confirmation. Augustus had gone to see her before leaving? I was tempted to ask her what his purpose had been, but I knew that was not my place. And in truth, I wasn’t certain I wished to know. “I suppose he did not want to mention the details of his trip with Ruth present,” I said, more for myself than Miss Whitmore.

“He is very cautious when it comes to her. And rightfully so.” Her eyes settled on Ruth, and she released a quick breath. “I cannot fathom the suffering the dear girl must have endured to lose both parents, especially in the manner in which she lost them.”

I gave a vacant nod of agreement. It did not come as a surprise that Miss Whitmore should know of Ruth’s past; they were all dear friends, after all. Yet understanding why Augustus would take her into his confidence did little to ease my vexation at the image it conjured—the two of them alone together, speaking of such private matters. Had she cried as I had? Had he comforted her as he did me?

I looked again to Miss Whitmore, and it was then that I realized that despite any hopes of a friendship between us, we could never truly be close. Not when we desired the very same thing. I, too, desired Augustus. My heart hammered inside at the realization, and I glanced about, desperate for a diversion. “I believe Mrs. Brundage had hoped we both would agree to perform on the pianoforte this evening. Perhaps we should go see if that is still her wish?”

Miss Whitmore’s brow creased together, but she gave a slow nod. “Very well.”

“That does sound most pleasant,” Mrs. Brundage said when I reminded her of the notion, and our group made for the music room. The small rectangular shape of the space made for a cozy atmosphere, and, at Mrs. Brundage’s direction, I performed first at the pianoforte.

Miss Whitmore followed with a lovely piece she played to near perfection and, because Ruth insisted she played very ill and Sarah was not among us, I performed yet again, this time singing as well. The group offered their polite applause when I finished, and I moved back to my seat.

“That was absolutely lovely, Miss Godwin.” Mrs. Brundage stood, her hands cupped before her. She looked to Miss Whitmore. “Would you care to delight us a second time, Candace, or shall we reconvene in the drawing room?”

“I have no intention of playing again, unless Ruth wishes for me to accompany her.” Miss Whitmore smiled and looked to Mr. Treynor. “She has the voice of an angel.”

Ruth’s blush was apparent even in the dim light. Could she truly sing as well as Miss Whitmore proclaimed? And if so, how had I not known of it?

Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t really know many songs.”

“Then why don’t you sing the song your mother used to sing to you?” Mrs. Brundage said. “It doesn’t require the pianoforte, and you know it well enough.”

Ruth bit at her lip.

“I would love to hear it,” Mr. Treynor said, offering her the most influential form of encouragement a girl could receive.

She looked to me, and I nodded.

“Very well.” Ruth stood, crossing her wrists in front of her and intertwining her fingers. “Mother sang this song to me each night before bed. And though I will attempt to do it justice, my own voice is not equal to hers.” Ruth closed her eyes and drew in a quivering breath. Then, ever so quietly, a pure note sounded, stilling me. More followed, and her voice flowed through the melody with little effort, creating a sad tune.

Love is a rose bud, my dear one

Love is a rose bud when it’s found

Lost in the frost or burnt in the sun

Hold it tight while it’s around

Her expression grew distant as she sang, and I wondered what image she conjured in her mind as her rich alto voice enveloped us. Was it her mother she visualized?

Love is a rose branch, my dear girl

Love is a rose branch when it’s yours

But ever growin’ thorn and burl

When held too tightly, blood and sores