By the time the silver tea service was rolled in, along with a fruit basket, cakes, lemon bread, and a pair of French cheeses, awkwardness had arrived as well.
“Mr. Everhart,” Iris said, “won’t you tell us of your latest composition.”
“Please do,” Lily added. “I thought your airs for the harp inspired.”
Everhart, another dark-haired blue-eyed fellow, though not as tall as the duke, looked pleased. “The harp is a beautiful instrument, and in its quiet grace, it commands attention more effectively than does a brass quintet. I’m working on a piano sonata now, though the slow movement has me rather confounded.”
“Play it for us,” Lily said, when Iris would have asked the duke if he’d like more cakes.
Mr. Everhart took the piano bench and folded back the cover from the keys. “You needn’t pretend we’re at the Philharmonic concerts. I’m happiest making music, but I don’t expect the company to cease conversing because I’m twiddling about on the keyboard.”
“If you’re twiddling, that’s more cakes for me,” Clonmere said, holding his plate out to Iris. “I prefer the raspberry flavored sweets.”
Holly and Hyacinth hadn’t said two words so far. They sat side by side on the love seat, like a pair of school girls goggling at the new art teacher.
“Hyacinth is fond of raspberry jam,” Iris said, adding three cakes to the duke’s plate. “Holly is fond of plum tarts.”
Clonmere took the plate and offered it to Hyacinth. “You must join me, my lady.”
She took a tea cake and set it on her saucer.
Mr. Everhart began his slow movement, a lyrical, dolorous offering that made the lack of conversation more painful. Lily was clearly riveted by the music, so Iris sent the twins a visual plea:
Holly was munching on the tea cake, Hyacinth was staring straight ahead.
“You prefer Mr. Burns as I recall,” Iris said.
“The
“The very one,” Clonmere replied. “I find his airs memorable and pleasant, for the most part. An entire symphony is too much work for my untrained ears.”
Lily sent him reproachful glance, as if nobody ought to be talking while Mr. Everhart’s sonata was plodding along.
“I’d think an English duke would prefer an English composer,” Hyacinth said.
“I am an English duke,” Clonmere replied, “also a Scottish earl, though perhaps it’s more relevant to say I’m a simple duke when it comes to music, and thus simple tunes appeal to me. Have you a favorite composer, Lady Hyacinth?”
He could tell them apart. While one was blond and the other brunette, people did confuse them. They were the same height, had the same figure, used the same turns of phrase, and moved alike.
Hyacinth had an answer prepared—Haydn, who, she assured the duke, was English in all but place of birth.
“If you like him so much, Hy, why don’t you learn any of his sonatas?” Holly asked. “And you’ve never told
“You never asked. That is
Holly’s expression went blank. She
“What is your full name?” Iris asked the duke. The question was inane and personal, but it stopped the twins from bickering. And Iris wanted to know this, wanted to collect this fact to store beside the duke’s admission that he preferred raspberry tea cakes.
She also wanted him to leave before Holly and Hyacinth resumed their spat.
“My name is Henning Perseus Mendel St. John Dunning Quayle Whitcomb. Quite a mouthful for a small boy. I tried to adopt Perseus as my given name, but my sisters refused to accord me any heroic associations.”
Another awkward beat of silence went by,while Mr. Everhart fumbled for his melody.
“Do you enjoy mythology?” Iris asked.
“I was made to study the myths in detail,” Clonmere replied. “A subject to which a fellow’s attention is forced will usually fail to inspire his passion.”
Oh…
“I agree,” Hyacinth said, a little desperately. “Better to read as your interests lead you, and let curiosity inspire your imagination.”
Clonmere stuffed another tea cake in his mouth.
Would this slow movement never end?
“I’m glad Iris made me study Voltaire,” Holly said. “I thought him silly at first, but he’s not.”
Clonmere stirred his tea. “Lady Iris suggested you read him?”
“She taught us French,” Hyacinth said. “We had to speak French at breakfast, then at lunch. We learned the names of every dish ever served at an English table. Then we had to speak French when we went shopping, and I nearly gave up shopping.”
“It was terrible,” Holly said, nodding gravely. “All summer this went on. Iris is very firm in her opinions—”
“And very fluent in her French,” Hyacinth added. “Then we were to speak French at
“Then,” Holly said, “she added Thursdays
