‘What I did was nothing,’ she whispered, as unused to compliments as she was to embraces.
‘It was everything. I’ve seen men sacrifice themselves for their fellow sailors, hold down their best friends while I sawed off a mangled limb. I’ve also watched cowards leave their comrades to suffer while they steal provisions, or hide in the darkness of the surgeon’s deck with a minor wound to avoid fighting. I doubt Lady Cartwright or any of her other guests would have done half as much as you did for your friend.’
She stared at him, amazed by this near stranger’s faith in her and how freely he offered it to her. It frightened her more than her belief in her own weakness. If it was easily given, it might easily be revoked. She eyed the door to the music room, wanting to be through it and at the keys of the piano and away from this uncertain familiarity. She’d revealed too much already, foolishly making herself vulnerable. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to play now.’
‘Of course.’ He pulled open the door, revealing the stately black instrument dominating the area in front of the large, bowed window at the far end of the room.
She strode to it, relief washing through her. Music was her one constant and comfort, though even this had threatened to leave her once. ‘It’s beautiful.’
She slid on to the bench and raised the cover on the keys. Flexing her fingers over the brilliant white ivory, she began the first chord. The pianoforte was as well tuned as it was grand and each note rang true and deep. They vibrated through her and with each stanza she played, her past, her concerns, Sir Warren and everything faded away until there was nothing but the notes. In them the only true happiness she’d ever known.
* * *
Warren didn’t follow her into the room. He leaned against the door jamb and watched as she drew from the long-silent instrument beautiful music laced with a strange, almost effervescent melancholy. Lancelot came to his side and leaned against Warren’s leg as Warren scratched behind the dog’s ears.
The pianoforte faced the window overlooking the garden. She sat with her back to him so he couldn’t see her face, but the languid way she moved in front of the keys, her arms losing their stiffness for the first time since she’d happened into his study, didn’t escape his notice. The intensity of her focus and the graceful sway of her body in time to the music told him she was no longer here, but carried off by the piece to the same place he drifted to whenever a story fully gripped him. He was glad. She was too young to frown so much or to take in the world, or his compliments, with such distrustful eyes. He wished he could have brought her as much peace as her playing but, like him, her past still troubled her and she had yet to conquer it.
It wasn’t the past facing him today, but the future. No matter how much he wanted to stand here and listen to her, he had to return to work. He needed the money. He left the door open to allow the notes to fill the study. As Warren settled in at his desk, Lancelot stretched out on the hearthrug and returned to his nap. Warren picked up his pen, dipped the nib in the inkwell and settled it over the last word, ready to write, to create, to weave his tale.
Nothing.
The deep notes of the piano boomed before sliding up the scale into the softer, higher octaves.
He read the last paragraph, hoping to regain the thread of the story. It wasn’t so much a thread as a jumble of sentences as dull as the minutes of Parliament.
The higher notes wavered, then settled into the smooth mid-tones like water in the bottom of a bowl.
He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Today wasn’t going any better than yesterday, or last week or the past year.
He glanced over the top of the pages to where the medieval book lay open. Lady Matilda’s sad yet determined stare met his from the vellum. He reached out and ran one finger over the black lines of her face and eyes. The pensive notes of the pianoforte slid beneath the image, the despair in the lower octaves contradicted by the hope ringing in the brief tinkle of the higher ones.
He chewed the end of his pen as he listened to Miss Domville playing, his teeth finding the familiar grooves as a new story began to separate itself in his mind from his worries and frustration. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The image of a regal lady wearing a fine blue kirtle over a red-velvet dress slid through the mist blanketing a thick forest. Lady Matilda, one slender hand on a damp and knotted oak, paused as if finally ready to reveal what she’d been keeping from him. He rolled the scarred wood of his pen between his thumb and forefinger as he watched the elusive lady threatening to vanish into the mist-covered trees.
‘Come on, out with it,’ he growled, frustrated by her coquetry. He needed her to guide him and help release the steady stream of ideas being held back by this interminable block.
Behind the teasing curve of Lady Matilda’s smile, the melody of Miss Domville’s playing curled like smoke around him and the woman. In the vibrating notes, Lady Matilda’s tale suddenly revealed itself.
He opened his eyes, slid a clean sheet of paper on to the blotter and began to write. The words flowed as fast as the notes of first one piece and then another as page after page took shape beneath his pen. He was so engrossed in the story, an hour later he failed to notice when the music faded into nothingness, the cover pulled down over the keys and soft footsteps left the music room.
The only things which remained were his story and the faint scent of peonies.
Marianne played the section again and frowned. The last note wasn’t right. She tried the C instead of the D, then nodded. Taking up her pen, she dipped the nib in the inkwell next to the stand and drew a quarter note on the staff. She played the section again, smiling as the stanza fell into place, the first half of her composition nearly complete. Reaching the end of it, she held her foot down on the pedal, allowing the chords to resonate off into the air.
Lady Ellington’s Broadwood was a gorgeous instrument, but not as grand as Sir Warren’s Érard. She wondered how rich and full the piece would sound on his instrument.
Excellent, I’m sure. She picked up the pen and changed the half note at the end to a whole one. She wasn’t likely to play at Priorton Abbey again. Her skin prickled beneath the netting of the fichu covering her chest as the memory of Sir Warren listening to her story about Madame de Badeau came rushing back. She shouldn’t have confided in him. She’d been in a panic for days over her mistake, waiting for any hint of the truth of her parentage to make the rounds. There’d been nothing but silence on the matter. The only gossip she’d heard had concerned Lord Malvern’s near indiscretion with a maid at Lord Cartwright’s hunting party.
She replayed the stanza, holding the end longer to reflect her correction, contemplating Sir Warren’s silence more than her music. With no word from anyone at Priorton since their visit, it was plain the incidents from two weeks ago had been forgotten. It irritated her as much as a missed note, even though she should be glad. She’d allowed his kindness to trick her into revealing her ugly secret. Heaven knew what other mistakes, or deeper weakness, might have been revealed if she’d had the chance to know Sir Warren better.
‘Beautiful, as always, my dear.’ Lady Ellington applauded as Marianne ended the piece. The pianoforte didn’t face the window at Welton Place as it did at Priorton Abbey, preventing the blooming roses in the garden from distracting Marianne while she worked. ‘It’s a shame I’m the only one who ever gets to hear it.’
Marianne closed the red composition book, leaving it on the stand. ‘You’re not the only one. Lady St Onge used to listen to me play before she decided to return to London for the winter.’
‘You know what I mean.’ She sat down on the bench beside her. ‘A letter from Theresa arrived for you.’
Marianne took the missive and flicked the