Chapter 10
Soon after introducing her to the various members of the orchestra, who all greeted him with much affection, he consulted the maestro, "Monsieur Lefarge, my friend here," he motioned to Tiffany, "is fully adept at the flute. It would give me the greatest pleasure if she were to perform a duet of Symphonie du Romantisme during our next shift. Do you think it possible?"
"Monsieur Leveré, I have no doubt you are fully aware of the confidence I put in you. If you deem her skill worthy, I have no reason to see why she shall not contribute to the music."
Sébastien put his arm around the maestro's shoulders and assured him. They both laughed heartily, with Monsieur Lefarge patting his round pot-belly, and complimenting him on his previous performance.
Tiffany could feel her lips curving into a smile as she watched them. There was no decent method in which she could express her gratitude toward Sébastien for placing so much trust in her. Worry nagged at her though. In the face of Sébastien's unreserved trust, she felt unsure of her ability, although music was her passion, it was a hobby, and she considered herself much of an amateur. As her heart was struggling, he bid the maestro farewell, and returned to her side. "Now, mademoiselle, let's get you your flûte."
Intricately engraved on light gold, Sébastien's flute was no doubt the most exquisite flute she had laid her eyes upon—until he produced another. The metal shone silvery—almost white, and the keypads were fashioned in the shape of leaves. Thin, delicate 'vines' wrapped around the barrel and trimmed the end. "Platinum," he provided her curiosity, amused by her unconcealed awe, and then shyly added, "For you."
A zip through a couple of scales, some chromatics, and a brief tuning were all they could manage before running through the sonata once. Initially, Tiffany had tensed up, rendering her unable to play even the most simple of scales in Sébastien's presence. Her internal feelings were lashing of humiliation and insecurity. Face and hands white as a sheet, she reprimanded herself in frustration—G major! She couldn't play G major! What was wrong with her!
Once through the piece was all they had, before the limelight called upon them. Shaking visibly, she took a deep breath—in vain. The nauseating sensation in the pit of the stomach weighed down with every click of her delicate stilettos up the parquet stage. Taking her place beside Sébastien adjacent to the front edge, she gazed down at her bustling audience. She spotted her Father at the far side, corresponding with two other important-looking men of a similar age. Jared was busy entertaining a very pretty and very young French lady, the Duchess was giggling with a tight group of loose women, and Lawrence was still submerged in his polo conversation.
The spotlight found them, and she heaved an enormous sigh. She wasn't sure why she turned slightly toward Sébastien, but when she did, he gave her the most reassuring smile, so that as the maestro's hands raised and they took in their breaths, she noticed that stomach-wrenching feeling was gone.
Tiffany's former skills resumed to normal with the departure of her nervousness. The music she made, she felt, and so did the audience. During the waltzes and the minuets, the dance floor was so crowded the skirts of ladies were brushing against each other as the swayed past. Younger, available girls stood around, watching the stage with shining awe. Everyone was enjoying the music, everyone except four—her dear family, and Lawrence.
Despite how occupied she had been delighted to see them, as soon as she put the gorgeous flute to her mouth, they all simultaneously looked up, with creases on their foreheads. For some (namely the Duke), this frown quickly turned into rage as the warm blood rushed to their faces, illuminating their faces in the crowd, so Tiffany noticed it well and clear. How considerate, she mused gloomily, and dully felt a sudden urge to kill herself for forgetting her place and to be led on stage.