She’d scarcely touched her food; she hadn’t dared look at Lady Patsworth, lest her questioning gaze give everything away to her husband. The closer they came to success, the sicker Mary felt. Luckily, as a mere companion, there was no need for her to join in the conversation. She let it swirl around her, and she waited. The salon was grandly appointed. The walls were a mix of moss-green and gold, clever carved moldings around the edge telling a story about a nymph and a harp. Windows looked out over the night-shrouded valley, dotted by little flashes of lamplight where there were settlements. Easier to look out the window than to focus on what stood before it: a pianoforte. That would be Mary’s contribution this evening. She’d never been nervous about performing before. This crowd—just Lord and Lady Northword, John, the Beauregards, Sir Walter and his wife, and two other families—would hardly have flustered her a few years ago. Then again, she’d never had a performance this important.
