Georgie Lee – Miss Marianne's Disgrace (страница 10)
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 edge with her fingernail, in no mood to read about her friend’s happiness. It only made her lack of it more obvious. Theresa was at Hallington Hall, the estate on the other side of Falconbridge Manor, with her young son, husband and his family. It wasn’t far to travel yet Marianne had barely seen her this summer. She shouldn’t have stayed away. As much as she loved Lady Ellington’s she’d been restless lately for no good reason. The shortening days and cooler weather and the isolation of Welton Place added to her disquiet.
‘This also came for you.’ Lady Ellington handed her a package wrapped in brown paper. A prong holding a diamond in place on one of her rings snagged the securing twine before she freed it. ‘It’s from Priorton Abbey.’
Marianne gripped the package tight, crinkling the smooth paper. He hasn’t forgotten about me. She eased her hold on the slender package, refusing to get her hopes up about Sir Warren’s interest in her or to pine after a man. Her mother had obsessed about Lord Falconbridge and look how that had ended. ‘It must be from Mrs Stevens. Sir Warren wouldn’t send me anything.’
‘Perhaps you charmed him with your playing.’
‘It would be a change from what my presence usually inspires in people.’ The knot came loose and she tugged off the twine.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You inspire more than gossip in many people.’ She squeezed Marianne’s arm. ‘Now open it. I want to see what it is.’
Marianne tore off the paper to reveal the back of a journal. She turned it over and read the handwritten title on the white cover plate. ‘Lady Matilda’s Trials, by Sir Warren Stevens.’
She opened the front cover and a note slipped out from between the pages. She plucked it off the rug then unfolded the card and read aloud the words printed on the thick paper.
Dear Miss Domville,
Enclosed is a copy of my latest manuscript. Your lovely piano-playing was invaluable to the creation of this story. I hope it’s to your liking and I would very much appreciate your thoughts on it before I send it to my publisher.
Your faithful scribe,
Sir Warren
‘My goodness.’ Lady Ellington laid one sparkling hand on her ample bosom, rainbows from her diamonds spraying out over her dark blue dress. ‘I didn’t think the two of you were so well acquainted.’
‘We aren’t. I spent more time with his Érard than I did with him when we visited.’ The spine cracked as she opened the journal. She tapped her toes against the floor, as puzzled as she was flattered by his gift.
Lady Ellington rose. ‘Hurry and read it so you can give him your thoughts on it when we visit them tomorrow.’
Marianne brought her toes down hard against the parquet, leery of another meeting with him. ‘Can’t I simply send him a note?’
‘Not for something like this.’ A wicked twinkle lit up her pale blue eyes before she strode to the door. ‘You’ll have to play for him again and see what else you might inspire.’
Marianne frowned, not quite as amused by the situation as Lady Ellington, but certainly intrigued. She ran her finger over the title on the front of the journal, the one written by Sir Warren. He was asking her, a person he barely knew, to critique his work. It would be like her giving him one of her compositions to play. For all the flowers and stupid poems Lord Bolton had sent her, none had touched her as much as Sir Warren’s simple request.
Leaving the pianoforte, Marianne wandered through the double French doors overlooking the garden, past where the aged gardener, Walker, knelt in front of the rose beds. The heady scent of the summer blooms no longer hung in the air. It had been replaced by the crisp chill of autumn and wet dirt. She strolled along the gravel path, passing the fountain in the middle of Zeus and a nymph in an evocative embrace.