by Olivia Waite
“Let me talk to Miss Harriet,” Sophie said after a long moment. “If she’s willing to learn, I’m sure we can find someone to instruct her.”
Mrs. Muchelney beamed as though Sophie had offered an unqualified yes, and led the way into the parlor.
Harriet was indeed at the piano, slouching with her head almost on the keyboard, pressing individual notes one by one in no good order. When the door opened her head whipped around and she spread her fingers protectively over the keys, as though guarding her treasure from pillage.
Sophie smiled. She knew that jealous feeling. “Hello, Miss Harriet,” she said. “I’ve come to finish the repairs to your piano.”
A shout came from Susan down below, and a squawk from the singing teacher. Mrs. Muchelney slipped back out to deal with this new crisis, and Sophie began the repair work under Harriet’s suspicious eye.
She explained every step as she performed it, until the new panels were in place and the shell shape of the fallboard gleamed whole and unblemished again. Sophie glanced at the young would-be pianist. “Is the instrument holding its tune?” she asked.
Harriet blinked in surprise. “How should I know?”
“The sound will tell you, if you know what to listen for.” Sophie reached out and played a few light notes, then a few chords, and a few bars of a waltz. She nodded. “It sounds steady to me.”
Harriet was staring at her hands, the envy on her face so plain Sophie felt almost embarrassed to witness it. “I never realized it was out of tune before,” the girl said. “I like it a great deal more like this.”
“Would you like to learn how to play?” Sophie asked.
Harriet lit up as though someone had turned up the wick in her soul.
God, Sophie could remember feeling that way. How long ago was it? She missed it, all at once, utterly and fiercely.
Sophie pulled over an ottoman and topped it with a cushion—it wasn’t perfect, but for someone Harriet’s size it was a better seat than the stool had offered. She sat the girl on this and stood to one side. “This is called middle C,” she began, and struck the note, clear and ringing in the quiet of the room. She showed the girl how to hold her hands—sitting up straight, elbows low, wrists loose—and taught her a very short, very simple melody with one hand, singing the name of each note as its key was struck.
Harriet soaked it all in like a plant being watered. Sophie was so intent on her teaching that half an hour passed before she thought of Mr. Verrinder at all.
Of course, as soon as she did, her hands were like dead weights at the ends of her arms.
But it was something—more time with the piano than she’d had since London. And thoughts of Mr. Verrinder had reminded her that not all piano teachers were honest—or patient, or kind. Would she trust eager, sensitive Harriet to the mercy of a stranger?
There was only one acceptable answer. Sophie left Harriet happily repeating the simple tune, and went to talk to Mrs. Muchelney about instruction rates.
The widow was so delighted she agreed to the first number Sophie named—a crown per lesson!—and then Mrs. Muchelney insisted that today had counted as the first lesson, and paid Sophie on the spot.
This was the first money of her own Sophie had seen in months. And for once, there was nothing more urgent to spend it on. She held it for a while as she walked home, her hand wrapped around it in her coat pocket, just enjoying the weight of it as the metal warmed from cool to skin temperature.
On a whim, Sophie decided to stop by Mrs. Narayan’s and see if the green dress was still available. If she were to be teaching regularly, she could use something more presentable than the gowns she wore for repair work like today’s, where she feared oil stains and tool marks.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with looking her best in case she encountered Miss Crewe again.
The green dress was still there, but when she slipped behind a screen to try it on, it was a little longer and grander than Sophie’s short frame could fill.
Miss Narayan told her not to worry: “It’s easy enough to take in. I could do it in my sleep.” The rates were reasonable and Sophie was no great seamstress, so she threw prudence to the wind and soon found herself on a stepstool with arms stretched out, barely breathing, as Miss Narayan set new seams with pins like so many thorns around the rosebud embroidery. Her aunt watched the proceedings with a judge’s eagle eye.
The shop bell chimed. “That will be Mr. Samson,” Mrs. Narayan said. She flicked a glance at her niece. “Go and see what he has for us today, won’t you, Gita?”
“I am sure Mr. Samson won’t mind dealing with someone else, just this once,” she said stiffly.
Mrs. Narayan only waited, her expectant silence blooming louder and louder until even Sophie was tempted to yield to it.
Miss Narayan gave in and sighed, brushing her hands down her skirts to smooth them. She sent Sophie a considering look and said, “I shouldn’t be long.” She slipped past the screen and out into the main part of the shop. “Good afternoon, Mr. Samson,” she said, clear and strong.
“And to you, Miss Narayan,” came the reply. Now that she was able to listen, Sophie had to admit Mr. Samson’s voice was as appealing as his person: a solid tenor with a warm timbre that put her in mind of good lacquer on the back of a violin. It rippled beautifully. “I’ve saved a few things especially for you to look at today.”
“All the way from London?” Miss Narayan asked.
“All the best,” came the soft reply, followed by the soft shush of fabric being spread out.
Mrs. Narayan moved closer to Sophie and took up the pinning where her niece had left off. Her hands moved just as swiftly and surely, with a slightly more insistent grip; Sophie kept her breathing slow and smooth as the seamstress slipped a pin into the seam that ran under her arms and along her ribs.
Past the screen, Miss Narayan spoke again: “We’ve just sold the green linen you brought us, I’m happy to say. Miss Roseingrave is being fitted for it right now, in fact.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know Miss Roseingrave,” Mr. Samson replied, after a pause.
“She’s new to Carrisford,” Miss Narayan went on, “but you might ask Madeleine Crewe to introduce you.”
The silence was exquisite and complete.
“Oh,” Miss Narayan went on, “this velvet is gorgeous.”
“Isn’t it?” Mr. Samson said at once. Almost as though he were eager to talk about anything else. “I thought of you especially when I found that one. Velvet is so difficult to alter, it requires a very skilled hand. And the amber color would suit you beautifully.”
Miss Narayan’s voice was tense as a wire. “I have to buy for the shop, not for myself, Mr. Samson.”
“You don’t think Miss Roseingrave would be interested in the velvet?”
“I think she’d be more interested in asking why a seller of secondhand clothes would be talking to a silk weaver.”
Sophie gasped in surprise at Miss Narayan’s frankness.
Mrs. Narayan’s hands stopped. “Did you get stuck, dear?”
“My own fault,” Sophie breathed, and attempted a smile. “I will do better at holding still, I promise.”
Mr. Samson’s voice was tight now too, a violin just before the string snapped. “Miss Roseingrave sounds very . . . inquisitive.”
“Oh, one has to ask questions when one is in a new town,” Miss Narayan continued. “Everyone is a stranger, and one doesn’t know everyone’s alliances and enemies. One has to find out who one can trust, and who is best given a wide berth. Like you, Mr. Samson.”
Mr. Samson made a wordless noise.
Miss Narayan went on, ruthlessly cheerful. “When I moved here last autumn, I came to depend on you as someone reliable, and observant, and—and kind. Do you have anything more in printed cotton?”
“Nothing worth your looking at,” Mr. Samson replied. His voice shook a little. “I’m going to London again next week, though—I will put it at the top of my list.” A percussive
sound, as if someone were drumming anxious fingertips upon a countertop. Then Mr. Samson rushed forward, headlong: “Listen, Miss Narayan—whatever business I have with Miss Crewe, you must know it’s only that. Business.” More drumming. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course,” Miss Narayan said, her cheer pitch-perfect—but Sophie’s ear was good, and she heard the soft harmonics of relief shimmering in the air. “Though you must admit, it is a little odd. Usually you are rather on opposite sides of the industry, aren’t you?”
“I’m a trader, Miss Narayan. I follow the opportunities I find. And with that,” he sighed, that lovely voice ringing with regret, “I’m afraid I must be going. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the amber velvet?”
“Do you know,” Miss Narayan said, after a moment, “I find I rather have. It feels quite special, doesn’t it? As though it has been waiting a long time to be found by just the right person.”
“That’s worth any amount of waiting,” Mr. Samson replied, low and sure.
By Sophie’s elbow, Mrs. Narayan muttered something under her breath, and rolled her eyes.
Miss Narayan and Mr. Samson settled up for the clothes she had purchased, as her aunt stuck the last pin into Sophie and helped her out of the green frock, which now bristled like a hedgehog, waiting for the hand that would transform it back into something safely wearable. The plain brown dress felt even plainer than before—Sophie thought of princesses disguised as kitchen maids, and gossamer gowns that turned back to rags at the stroke of twelve.
Miss Narayan poked her head back behind the screen and looked at Sophie with knowing eyes. “I hope that answered at least some of your questions.”
“About Mr. Samson, certainly,” Sophie replied. But now she had even more things to ask Miss Crewe the next time she—the next time they—
Sophie’s face flamed and she yanked her thoughts away from that precipice.
Miss Narayan cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you are interested in the velvet? It’s lovely.”
As Sophie shook her head, Mrs. Narayan’s patience ran out. “Gitanjali, if you like that boy as much as I think you do, I wish you would let him know it. He brought that dress for you, it was clear as anything.”
“It’s a rare suitor indeed who brings gifts that must be paid for,” Miss Narayan said tartly.
Mrs. Narayan snorted. “They all do that, beti, one way or another.”
“I didn’t leave London and Bapuji just to toss my heart at the first person who comes along,” her niece shot back. “I’m here to prove to you I deserve to be part owner of this shop. A husband will only get in the way.”
Mrs. Narayan snickered. “Who said anything about a husband?”
Her niece looked scandalized. “Aunty Noureen!”
Sophie, at the counter, gave a little cough.
Miss Narayan’s cheeks glowed with embarrassment; her aunt only laughed again. “Youth fades, my dear, and beauty with it—you have both, and you should be getting more use out of them.” She winked at Sophie, and took the green dress to the workroom in the back.
Miss Narayan gave a long-suffering sigh and tallied up Sophie’s purchase.
“You do like Mr. Samson, though?” Sophie asked hesitantly.
Miss Narayan snorted. “What’s not to like?”
Sophie cocked her head. “I suppose a person can be too handsome,” she said.
Miss Narayan sputtered a laugh at that, and some of the tension in her posture eased. “He is far too handsome, and too kind, and—and I find him far too distracting.” She sighed, as her eyes met Sophie’s curiosity with a wry and wistful confession. “And well-off, to boot. His family supply all the best secondhand shops between Carrisford and London, and if they move into manufacturing like the rumors say, they’ll make more money still. All in all, he’s a very eligible young man.” She handed back Sophie’s change and noted the payment in a book. “Either his intentions are less than honorable—in which case, I want no part of him—or his intentions are honorable—and I have no time for him.”
“Why are the prettiest ones always the least convenient?”
Miss Narayan’s lips tilted at the corners. “Maybe if they were convenient they wouldn’t be so pretty?”
Sophie laughed. She left Miss Narayan staring wistfully at the amber velvet, and walked home trying to think of anything but a lying pair of rosebud lips.
Chapter Six
The alterations to the green linen were finished within the week—but the first time Sophie wore the dress was not to Harriet’s next lesson, or to any confrontation with Miss Crewe.
She wore it when Mr. Frampton and his father asked the Roseingraves to tea. Mrs. Roseingrave had to decline, as the ringing in her ears was giving her more trouble than usual; when Sophie and her father left, she was lying down upstairs while Robbie took charge of the shop with solemn sixteen-year-old dignity.
Mr. Augustus Frampton had the same rich brown skin and kindly eyes as his son. Last spring he had retired from King George’s orchestra, but he still wore the eye-catching silk robes in the Turkish style that had brought him so much attention as a young musician new at court. They were less fashionable now than they had been in days past, but they still gleamed with jewel-bright colors and lush embroidery.
Sophie was pleased to see that Miss Mary Slight was also present, chatting with the elder Mr. Frampton with the ease of long acquaintance. Mr. Roseingrave came entirely alive when Mr. William Frampton introduced Miss Slight as the most gifted builder of clockwork mechanisms in Carrisford; the mechanical talk soon overflowed the bounds of all but their own enthusiasm, and the three went out to William’s workshop to see how his latest design for a calculating engine was meant to work.
Sophie poured herself and the elder Mr. Frampton each another cup of tea.
“I am truly sorry your mother could not join us. I heard her sing Susanna at the peak of her career—her expression was wonderfully moving. I should have enjoyed thanking her for the joy she brought to her listeners.”
Sophie’s hands fussed anxiously with her teacup. “Mother often finds it hard to catch conversation, even in small gatherings,” she explained. “She told me once that the sounds get so muddied and jumbled together, it’s as though she were completely, not partially deaf.”
Mr. Frampton nodded in sad sympathy. “It is hard to have a talent and lose the full enjoyment of it. I speak from experience.” He held out his hands, the knuckles knobbled and stiff. “For five years I attempted to play through the pain, but at last I was compelled to choose between loving the violin and losing the use of my hands completely. Every morning I wake up and wonder if I made the right choice.” He sighed, then wrapped both hands around his teacup. His motions were slow, but they still showed some of the fluency of long years of practice and study. The violinist took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat. “My son tells me you teach piano, Miss Roseingrave.”
“Oh yes,” Sophie said, “though I only have the one pupil, really.”
“But is teaching the sum of your ambition?” Mr. Frampton pressed. “Do you compose? Do you perform?”
Sophie flushed. These were topics she rarely spoke of, even among her own family. But he was looking at her so kindly, and had spoken so well of her mother, and her sympathy for his loss of the violin was still chiming in her heart. “I have only given one concert, Mr. Frampton. It . . . was not a success.”
It had, in fact, been interrupted almost as soon as it had begun.
She held tight to the teacup, letting the heat seep soothingly into her bones.
“As for composing,” she went on, “I have never dared to call myself a composer. But I do write music. Some études, a few waltzes and variations here and there. Half a sonata, once, when Mr. Keats died. But nothing—nothing I’d be bold enough to perform in public, or even send in to a publisher.” She shifted on the sofa, squirming beneath the weight of his silent, steady attention. “I haven’t written anything this year—what wi
th the move, and—and what came before. Perhaps it was only a whim I have outgrown.”
“Could you play one of your études from memory?” Mr. Frampton asked, and gestured at the piano Sophie had been diligently not looking at. “I keep it in very good tune.”
Sophie could have demurred, except she felt it would be rude. So she steeled herself, set down her teacup, and walked to the piano.
It was a Delaval, with an older style of action, but well maintained and tuned, as promised. She spread her green skirts over the bench and wiped her damp palms on them surreptitiously. Before her nerve could fail her, she launched into the first piece she’d ever composed. It was meant to evoke raindrops: the way they’d met and melted into one another on the panes of the parlor window in London. She still could never see rain without humming it, even if only to herself. Over the years she’d refined the melody and added flourishes, ornaments she could put in or leave off as the mood struck her.
She had never played it for another person before, not outside her family. And Mr. Frampton had been a court musician, accustomed to royal standards of performance. He’d spent years with a prince in a place that existed to nourish musical genius and reward accomplishment and endeavor.
Sophie didn’t know what she was thinking, playing her childish tunes before such an expert critic. Nevertheless, when she reached the end—it was an extremely short piece, after all—she went back and played it a second time through with a different set of ornaments.
It was far from a perfect performance—her hands were stiff and cold still. She was not able to lose herself in the melody as she always sought to. But she got through it without crying, without shivering, and without that sick feeling of regret that had haunted her for so many months.
Mr. Verrinder’s harm was healing.
It was such a relief she went a little breathless, and giddily she put a few extra impromptu flourishes on the final crescendo, then brought the melody gently back to earth at the finish. The notes faded away into the silence like water being soaked into thirsty earth.
