those.”
There’s a murmur of agreement among the contestants. Mrs. Watson is not swayed. She twists her face with annoyance. With her weird shower cap on top of her head she looks like Smurfette in a bad mood. Only she’s not blue. Clearly.
“There will be no autotune microphones, no six-piece bands, no backing vocals,” she replies tersely. “Just you, your voice, and the piano, if you can play it. And Miss Kennedy and Miss Emma? I suggest you put your efforts into your performance rather than into asking questions in order to entertain your fellow contestants.” She shoots us a look that states very clearly that she’s in charge and we need to stay in our place.
Have I mentioned already how much I love being here?
Undeterred, Mrs. Watson continues. “Singing is the cornerstone of every young lady’s accomplishments in Regency society. The men of the day would fully expect to be entertained by ladies of their acquaintance at soirées.”
“I bet they would,” I mumble under my breath to Kennedy.
“Now, you have two hours in which to practice, after which you will return and perform for Mr. Darcy. Go and find a quiet spot. We will meet back here at six.”
When no one moves, she adds, “What are you waiting for? Go!”
As she turns and leaves with a swoosh of her long skirt, the room erupts into chatter around us.
“What were you thinking of performing with an electric guitar and a harmonica?” I ask Kennedy as we make our way from the room.
“Tom Petty. I thought that was pretty appropriate for 1813 England.”
“Refugee?” I ask, naming one of his hit songs.
“Obviously.”
“Tom Petty totally screams Regency parlor music to me.”
“You get it.” She grins at me before she adds, “I cannot believe we’ve got to do this. I mean, can any of us even sing?”
“I bet Sebastian doesn’t care whether we can sing, anyway.”
“I’m not sure many people list ‘parlor singing’ on their online dating profile.”
I snort with laughter. “As if being paraded around in these clothes isn’t undignified enough.”
“I like wearing these clothes,” says someone behind us.
We look back to see Phoebe. Of course.
“Don’t you think it makes this all feel like we’ve stepped back in time by two hundred years?” she asks.
Kennedy cocks an eyebrow. “Sure, if in 1813 people were being incessantly filmed for all of America to see.”
“And don’t forget that we are all competing for one man’s attentions,” I add.
“You two are so negative,” Phoebe replies with a shake of her head. “Why not let yourselves enjoy this amazing experience?”
“You’re right, Phoebe. I’ll drop Tom Petty and go for some heavy rock instead,” Kennedy says.
“Much more appropriate,” I agree.
“You two,” Phoebe gently scolds with a shake of her head.
We walk through the double doors and out onto the patio. The hot Texan sun is beating down, and in our layers and restrictive stays we don’t want to get anywhere near that, so the three of us find some shade on the grass below a tree and flop down.
“Who knows what they’re going to perform?” Phoebe asks.
“I bet you already do,” I say without a trace of malice. With her positive approach to all this Regency insanity, she probably worked out her song before Mrs. Watson had even finished bossing us around.
Her face lights up in excitement, just as I thought it would. “I’m going to sing Loving You.”
“Loving You?”
“It’s a classic. It was sung by Minnie Riperton back in the ’70s. Big hit. My mom used to sing it to me when I was little and it always made me smile.”
“Wait. Is that the really high one?” I’ve got a vague memory of the song.
Phoebe gives an enthusiastic nod. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, that is one super high song. I hope she can actually sing, or we’re all in for an eardrum splitting experience.
“What about you, Emma?”
“Nothing, if I have my way. Me and singing are not well acquainted. Well, other than in my car. I do my best work there.”
“What do you sing in your car?” Kennedy asks.
“Rihanna, Katy, Beyoncé, Taylor. Maybe a touch of Miley, if I’m in a crappy mood.” I raise my hands in the air. “I know, I’m a total pop diva wannabe, but I’ve made my peace with it, so you should too.”
“I think they’re great choices, Emma,” Phoebe says. “Not exactly Regency, but that doesn’t matter.”
I shake my head. “I’m not going to sing any of them.”
“Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to, babe,” Kennedy points