Between Wolves & Doves

Chapter 9 Taste

No one in a possession of a sane mind attended the Elton musicale, without a stout idea of the horrors that lay ahead of them, all evening. Tonight. Iris was one such girl. She had not been forewarned.

She'd taken her seat. Folded the programme elegantly in her lap. Politely discussed the weather with Hux whilst she waited.

Then parted the red velvet curtains on the painted Greek scene of one wall, showing them the stage, lit with lanterns. And in turn revealed their maestro's for the evening. Poised on their chairs. Gold music stands erect. Fingers ready to descend and begin their tune.

Iris had heard some rumours over the years. Whisperings here and there, snatched words, spoken quick, like perfume escaping onto the breeze, of the sheer torture that was the two hours of the four unwed Elton daughters, taking to their instruments apiece, to play for their gathered audience. She never gave much stock to rumours.

She wished she had.

No one had told her the, noises - for lack of a kinder remark - that erupted from that makeshift stage tonight, would be similar to that of a cluster of tone deaf stampeding sheep, let loose on a cello, two violins, and a pianoforte.

From the first moment the Elton girls bows or fingers touched their instruments, Iris had wished she had never been born- matter of fact, she wished her great grandfather had never set eyes on her great grandmother. That's how vehemently she felt.

Furthermore, Iris wishes to go back in time and thoroughly beat to death with her fan, the person who decided that mankind should evolve to have ears. She'd make that poor soul regret it.

They hosted this Musicale every year. Apparently. Annually. And no one had yet declared to inform the ladies they were all terribly horrifically and pointedly unaccomplished at music.

No one had the temerity to suggest such a thing. So, they played on with such stalwart determination, it was almost admirable.

Almost being the optimum word.

Iris tries not to let her face crinkle into too many obvious winces as the pianists hands slip to yet another flat and wrong key. Or when the violin bow strangles out the whining sound of the wrong note.

When the eldest Elton started to open her mouth to sing along to the Handel piece they were slaughtering and stomping their way through, Iris distinctly thought she heard all the glass in the room whine as if ready to hum and shatter.

The chandelier above ready to hail like daggers of icy stinging rain. It was tumultuous to hazard that her voice may indeed shatter the champagne glasses on the end table to shards.

Matter of fact she's sure the entire audience collectively winced at the intimation of singing that was screeching out Eunice Elton's mouth like the worst sort of banshee. It was a slight comfort to her, that she wasn't alone in this cruel regard.

She tried to think charitable thoughts. Really she did. She herself is not the most accomplished girl on the pianoforte. She can just about bluff her way through a Mozart piece well enough. And she's not a terrible song bird. A couple of chorus's of 'Let No Man Steal Your Thyme' was her one master stroke as far as music is concerned. She knew her limits.

The poor Elton girls had not yet been fed the bitter truth of how terrible they were.

Lady Elton declares she rarely heard any music, not finer playing, that awarded her such thrilling delight.

Iris felt Lady Elton's use of the word 'playing' was indeed applied far too liberally. Butchery seemed more fitting. Her now bleeding ears were certainly inclined to agree.