by Megan Walker
I turned to Clara. “Did you know of Sir Ronald’s debts?”
Clara shook her head. “He has said nothing of debts. Only that he and his family live modestly and do not often travel, which has never bothered me. I’ve never questioned it.”
“Have you told him of Lord Gray? That we likely will get very little, if anything at all, as a dowry?”
“Are you certain Mother and Father accounted for nothing?”
“I am sure. I’ve spoken with the solicitor myself several times.” I groaned inwardly, loosening Clara’s dress as she let down her hair. Why had no one thought of our futures?
Clara sighed. “No, I have not spoken with Sir Ronald. How terribly awkward. To speak of it would assume that he is thinking of a match, and I can make no such assumption yet. But to be honest, if it is true that he is poor, at least he and I have one more thing in common.”
My sweet Clara. I gave her much less credit for handling bad news than she deserved. But if she stood any chance against Georgiana’s dowry, we needed to try a different approach. “Perhaps you should find a moment to tell him. I think it is time he knew our circumstances fully. Then we shall see how he reacts.”
“Very well,” Clara said dejectedly as we dressed in our nightclothes. When our hair was finally in curling papers, we settled into bed. My mind instantly turned to Peter and a crushing pain replaced the glow that had been in my chest. Though nothing had passed between us, I could not shake the feeling that I’d already been rejected by him.
Thank heavens I had Mr. Pendleton. I should have sent my acceptance of him right away. Even if Clara did make a match with Sir Ronald, we’d need another source of security.
What would happen in these next few days? We had less than a week to sway Sir Ronald fully into Clara’s favor and to secure my match with Mr. Pendleton.
I curled into myself. We were running out of time.
Chapter Eighteen
When I descended the staircase the next morning, company was lacking.
“Miss Moore,” Beatrice said with a kind smile, embroidery in hand. “Your sister is out, and the men gone. It appears it is just you and I until the others awake.”
I sat across from her in the drawing room, sighing as I searched out the window. It was a beautiful morning, and I wondered where Clara was, and if she planned to speak to Sir Ronald today.
“How is your morning?” My hands were still compared to hers, so I fingered through a book of architecture on the side table.
“It is well. I am more rested than I thought after our late evening. I suppose the men retired early. I am told Mr. Bratten, Sir Ronald, and Lieutenant Rawles left early with the gamekeeper to set traps this morning.”
“Well, I hope they felt our absence last night,” I said, shooting her a laughing grin, which she returned.
“It is clear they did, as well they should’ve. Have you seen Mr. Wood yet today?” Beatrice broke from her stitching, raising a playful eyebrow at me.
“I have not.” And I was not sure I wanted to.
Beatrice studied my face. “Do not tell Georgiana I said this, but you two Moore sisters have given the men here quite a stir. She wouldn’t admit as much, but I have never seen Mr. Wood pay more attention to a lady than he has paid to you this past fortnight.”
A strange laugh bubbled out of me. “No, no. Mr. Wood and I are good friends, but we are ill-suited for anything more than that.”
Beatrice suppressed a smile. “Your secret is safe with me, Miss Moore.” She took back up her stitching, and I sat in stunned silence.
Did I have a secret about Peter? He was handsome and charming and delightfully funny. And I’d been thinking of him much too often. Certainly more than Mr. Pendleton, and he was as good as my intended. More than I thought about Sir Ronald or Mr. Bratten or Lieutenant Rawles, and those men were my friends. But I did not wish to spend all day with them like I did with Peter. Our time together was never enough. And those moments I’d imagined kissing him . . .
Oh, no. I did have a secret about Peter.
A knock sounded on the door, and Mr. Gregory stepped in. “Miss Moore, Lady Demsworth would like to see you in her sitting room.”
“Of course,” I said, rising and following him from the room. How could I have opened my heart so willingly to Peter? If he had any intention of courting me, his mind would be swayed by my lack of dowry. Indeed, it was only a matter of time before he found out the dire truth of my circumstances.
Moments later I stood in Lady Demsworth’s doorway, and she ushered me in with a girlish squeal.
“Miss Moore, I’ve received a response from David! He is eager to meet you and will arrive in four days’ time. Business nearby requires his attention, so unfortunately we will only have him for dinner, but before he leaves, I am confident you will have your engagement and the security you need.”
My mouth fell open, and I quickly closed it. “Th-that is . . . wonderful news. I . . . hardly know what to say. Thank you.” The last was nearly a question. Why was I surprised? Of course Mr. Pendleton would come. That had been the plan all along.
“I am so pleased. So very pleased,” she continued. “I just know the two of you will be a perfect match.”
“Yes,” I breathed. A perfect match.
Loveless.
Risk-free.
Easy.
Chapter Nineteen
Closed away in my room, I successfully avoided the company for the rest of the afternoon, knowing Peter would be after me to claim my indebted time. His words from last night filled my thoughts, fighting against those spoken by Georgiana. What would he say if he knew I had no dowry? Would he think me a fortune hunter? Would he look at me differently? Would he look at me at all? I could not bear to see a change in him. I could never tell him. Especially since I would be meeting David Pendleton in a few days’ time. Soon, it wouldn’t matter if Peter loved me, dowry or not, at all.
Mary begged some lavender vinaigrette from Lady Demsworth’s maid, and I stayed in bed for an hour sniffing it in hopes it would bring relief from what I assumed were the early symptoms of a heart attack.
“Are you in pain? Shall I call a doctor?” Mary asked, fanning me with the biggest fan she could find.
“No pain,” I said on an exhale.
“I think I should call on Miss Clara,” Mary said.
“You musn’t. She cannot know.” I tried to stand, but Mary held my shoulders down.
“Has something more happened since the letters?” Mary looked at me, worried.
If I did not tell someone my secret, I feared I might burst. Mary listened intently as I relayed my conversation with Lady Demsworth and explained that Mr. Pendleton was actually coming to meet me for an arrangement of marriage.
“Oh, Miss Moore.” She shook her head. “How can you keep all of this to yourself?” She fanned harder. “For what it’s worth, belowstairs I hear Lady Demsworth’s nephew is quite the catch. Amiable, kind, wealthy. You could do far worse.”
“It’s not that.” I waved away her fan, sitting up. “This is all so fast, Mary. Before, I thought we had weeks, not days. I hoped for a month before Lord Gray died. Then I made this arrangement, because what choice did I have? And yes, I’d felt rushed, but not entirely so. Now I am days from engagement . . . to a stranger . . .” I clutched my chest, and Mary hastily started fanning again.
“Do not think of it as only marriage, Miss Moore. Think of it as a saving grace. This match will give you everything you need.”
Yes, but what will I lose?
The door creaked open, and Clara stepped in. “There you are. Where have you been all day, Amelia? We’ve all wondered after you. Beatrice said something about Lady Demsworth needing to see you?”
Clara strode to the armoire, fingering through her evening gowns. Mary and I exchanged a worried glance. I knew I should tell Clara the who
le of it. But how would she respond? Would it devastate her beyond repair to hear how close we truly were to poverty? Or that I’d spoken in secret with Lady Demsworth and agreed to marry a stranger? Her knowledge of either of those things would change nothing, only cause more pain. I could bear it all for us for a few days more.
“Oh, that was nothing. She was only being a good hostess. Checking on our stay.” I motioned to Mary to help me change for dinner.
Clara looked over her shoulder at me. “Thank heavens. I had the strangest idea that Lord Gray was calling us home early.”
“No, of course not,” I said quickly. The truth was just the opposite. I bit at my finger, hating to keep the truth from my sister. “Never mind. What shall you wear tonight?”
Clara chose a pretty pink gown, and I wore lavender. I had Mary let my hair down, rearranging it to hang softly down my back. I feared a headache was coming on despite my vinaigrette.
At dinner, Lady Demsworth shot me a knowing smile, which I returned with as much gratitude as my nerves would allow.
“Miss Moore,” Peter called from the opposite end of the table. His attention stung, now that I knew how incompatible we really were. “Your absence was noted this afternoon. Are you quite well?”
His hint at our bargain was as subtle as a yellow rose. Lady Demsworth looked at me curiously, as though anticipating my answer with equal interest. I knew she’d judge my response as a reaction to our earlier conversation. I needed to choose my words carefully. “Quite. I trust this evening will make up for this afternoon’s lost time.”
Peter smiled through a bite of beefsteak. “Indeed.”
“Will you play this evening, Miss Moore?” Beatrice asked.
Clara straightened. “Forgive me, Amelia. I did not have a chance to tell you. Sir Ronald requested a display of our talents this evening. Each of the ladies are to pick a song to play or sing.”
My gaze flicked to Sir Ronald, who smiled and said, “I’m afraid you have no choice. A musicale is a tradition at my house.”
“To play or to sing?” Peter tilted his head. “Which will you choose?”
“Neither will fall well on your ears,” I warned seriously. “But I suppose I shall embarrass myself less on the pianoforte.”
“So modest,” Georgiana goaded. “That is what all women say when their confidence is lacking.”
“Indeed,” I replied without hesitation. “I hope it is very clear that I know my own capabilities well.”
“She speaks such only because she compares herself so harshly to Mozart himself,” Clara said defensively. She pursed her lips and shot Georgiana a fiery look as though she desired nothing more than to wring the girl’s neck.
Plates of baked custard distracted us, and all too soon Lady Demsworth rose, leading us to the music room on the second floor.
I had peeked into the room a few times during our stay, but tonight the space was lit with dozens of candles, their light reflecting in mirrors that lined each wall. In the middle of the large, open room was a grand mahogany pianoforte, glossy and detailed with beautiful craftsmanship. Four tall windows behind it spanned nearly the entire length of the front wall, their curtains drawn open to reveal a breathtaking view of the moon and stars.
Gliding my hand along the ornate carvings on the grand pianoforte, I found myself twirling from wall to wall, taking in the grandeur of the vaulted ceiling and floating along the smooth tile floor beneath my shoes.
“I think I want this room all to myself,” Clara said beside me, breathless. “This pianoforte, and this chair.”
I squeezed the arm of a cushiony purple velvet chair as I walked toward the windows. “And this view.”
Servants had lined chairs in rows a few paces away from the pianoforte, facing the windows. Georgiana fingered a harp. Beatrice presented two separate pieces of piano music to her mother to choose between, and Clara looked over her own sheet music. Was she going to sing? And then I realized I had nothing that would display what little musical talent I possessed. Not to mention the fact that I’d scarcely played the pianoforte since arriving here.
I knew only one song from memory. One song I’d forced myself to learn by heart.
Father brought the pages home after a weekend in London. He said he’d bought them from a poor composer on the streets. When at first I attempted to play the song, the notes did not make sense. Half of them looked partially erased, and I was sure Father had been swindled by the composer. But he forced me to practice the pages hours on end to make sense of the music he was sure was a masterpiece.
It took me weeks to riddle out the chords, until one afternoon, I realized the partially erased notes were not meant to be erased at all. Played in tandem with the others, the music fell into place, like an orchestra of the most heavenly sounds.
The first time I played it, I wept at its beauty. Whoever this composer was, he was a genius. And Father, when he heard it, could not speak for an entire minute. He made me play it multiple times a day. He tried going back to find the composer, but to no avail.
After Father died, I took to the pianoforte to play his song. But Mama could not abide it. She stole the pages from their ledge and cast them into the fire. The change in her had already begun to surface.
Since that day, I copied down Father’s song from notes in my memory and played it as often as I could at Gray House. Now more than ever I needed to free the notes, the music that both uplifted and broke me.
Settling on the bench, I loosened my fingers with a few scales, stretching out the joints and muscles that had grown stiff from the absence of practice. Pushing all thoughts of marriage aside, I let myself feel. Music had a way of healing, and I was in desperate need of it.
The men arrived too soon. I knew I was not ready, and thankfully Georgiana offered to play first, so I took a seat beside Mr. Bratten in the back of the room. She held the harp delicately but firmly, and despite our disagreements, I could not help but admire her. Her flawless performance earned great applause from the room.
Clara stood next, accompanied by Lady Demsworth on the pianoforte. She sang an angelic rendition of a French song from our youth. My courageous sister had blossomed here at Lakeshire Park. Sir Ronald hardly blinked as he watched her in clear admiration.
Clara curtseyed when she finished, and Lady Demsworth beckoned me. It was my turn. As I made my way empty-
handed toward the pianoforte, I heard Georgiana remark disdainfully to Peter about my playing from memory.
Performing for a small group was almost worse than for a crowd. Knowing each of member of the audience personally, I felt self-conscious playing something so meaningful in front of them. But Clara would know the piece, so I would play for her.
I closed my eyes, picturing the music before me, and slowly struck the first soft note.
The immediate rise and fall of the notes lifted me from the room, a melody that transcended the stars, and I escaped reality as I always did when playing Father’s song. One scale followed by another lifted me higher, until my chest was on fire, and I felt a yearning within my soul to never land.
As my fingers flew across the keys, I thought of Peter and how it felt to be so close to freedom and yet so confined to circumstance. I let the notes speak my sorrows and pains, feelings that no words could describe. To have so much in front of me, but to be so afraid, so alone, and so inept at reaching for it raged like an old familiar storm within my soul. Why could life not be like this song? Inspiring, hopeful, brave? I wanted to be as consumed by life, by love, as I was by the notes I played. I wanted my heart to burst with longing. I wanted my soul to sing.
But as the notes softened and descended, rising again only briefly and then slowing, falling, I felt my feet upon the floor again. Grounded, where I belonged. My breath caught, and tears pricked my eyes.
The air was alive with clapping and hushed praise. I rose, and my eyes found Pe
ter, his cheeks flushed, his gaze serious. Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball were standing in appreciation beside the men, and Clara stood off to the side with a hand to her chest. Only she could truly understand.
I suddenly felt very exposed, pushed into a corner like a museum display, and shut the lid of the pianoforte.
Lady Demsworth reached out to me. “That was the loveliest sound I have ever heard, dear girl.”
“It was beautiful, Miss Moore.” Mrs. Turnball breathed with feeling. “So beautiful.”
I looked to Peter, whose expression was unreadable. He studied me, much like he had last night, only now I felt like he was seeing me for the very first time. I needed to escape, to take a moment to recover.
When Beatrice took my seat on the bench and all eyes were on her, I slipped out through the back door, tiptoeing down the stairs and out into the darkness of night.
Chapter Twenty
Two glowing lanterns lit the veranda. I stole one from its perch, using it to light the stone stairs leading to the darkened expanse in front of me. Sitting on the lowest step, I set the lantern beside me as I took in three deep breaths, clasping my shaking hands together. I focused on the open fields that surrounded the estate, painted black and hilly and lush with crops.
I could not calm my mind, the melody of Father’s song haunting the silence of night. Rubbing my eyes with my palms, I pressed hard against my face as though to eradicate all feeling with sheer will.
“There you are.”
I froze as Peter’s steps stopped beside me.
I watched him settle beside me on the step, torn between the necessity of his absence and longing for him to move closer. “Peter, you should not have followed me.”
“Your music . . .” he said earnestly. “Why did you never tell me you could play so well?”
His voice alone calmed my tensed muscles, easing my fears. “I have played that song no fewer than a thousand times, but put a page of any other music in front of me and I assure you I will disappoint.”
