by Music Box
“I’m sure I would.” Anticipation shimmered through Gaby, an anticipation she had learned to squelch. “I often try to imagine what it would be like, hearing the collective beauty of the piano, the strings, the wind instruments.”
“You’ve never been to a concert?” Bryce’s brows shot up in surprise. “Why? Do you prefer the ballet?”
“I’ve never been to the ballet, either.”
At this point Bryce looked thoroughly stunned. “Why in heaven’s name not? London is only a few hours’ carriage ride from here.”
“That’s what Aunt Hermione says. She keeps insisting that we go. But thus far I’ve managed to discourage her.”
“Why would you discourage her?”
Silence.
“Is it because of her weakness?” Concern tightened Bryce’s hard masculine features. “Is Hermione so depleted that a mere trip to the ballet or the symphony would exhaust her?”
“No.” Hastily Gaby dispelled his worry. “It’s not that.” She hesitated, trying to find the most tactful way to explain. “Aunt Hermione is needed here. Many of the staff members become … upset when she disappears for too many hours at a time. She’s the foundation of our family, a family that thrives on constancy.”
“Are you implying that Nevon Manor’s residents never leave the estate?”
A small smile played about Gaby’s lips. “It’s not nearly as ominous as you make it sound, Mr. Lyndley. The truth is. they don’t choose to leave, not when everything that’s dear and familiar—and safe—is right here.”
“Safe,” Bryce repeated reflectively. “Odd, neither you nor Hermione strikes me as someone who would be intimidated by venturing into the world. In fact, I’d have guessed quite the opposite.”
His perceptiveness is uncanny, Gaby thought, studying his keen, appraising expression.
“Your presence here is necessary.” He verified her assessment by supplying his own answer, and Gaby felt a peculiar tightening in her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Not only my presence but, more importantly, Aunt Hermione’s. Although she does make occasional visits to Whitshire,” Gaby added quickly, lest Mr. Lyndley think they were totally reclusive. “That’s Aunt Hermione’s brother’s estate—pardon me, her late brother. The duke recently passed away. Whitshire now belongs to his son, Aunt Hermione’s nephew, Thane. She’s always made periodic visits there, so the staff is used to it. Besides, Whitshire is a mere five or six miles ride from Nevon Manor. So her jaunts there take her away from us for only a few hours at a time.”
“ ‘Us’—don’t you go with her?”
A more familiar tightening, this time in Gaby’s stomach. “No. I haven’t been able to bring myself to—at least not yet.”
Realizing how odd her answer sounded, Gaby half expected Bryce to grill her further. But he surprised her, merely studying her pensively and murmuring, “I see,” before clearing his throat and addressing the original subject: “Perhaps I can conjure up a way for you to attend a concert without upsetting the staff. Let me mull it over for a while and see if I can devise an acceptable solution.”
Gaby felt a wave of gratitude—and a surge of hope. “Thank you, Mr. Lyndley. With your brilliant legal mind, I haven’t a doubt you’ll find a way. I can practically hear the first strains of the music.”
“ ‘My brilliant legal mind’?” Amusement laced Bryce’s tone. “That sounds like one of Hermione’s biased assessments. Let’s just say I’m resourceful.” He adjusted his frock coat, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles before turning back to Gaby. “Hermione says you’ve lived at Nevon Manor for thirteen years.”
“I have.” Gaby recognized that he was again trying to understand her, and she resolved that this time she would not attempt to evade him. After all, he had no way of knowing how painful the incident was that had brought her to Nevon Manor. Besides, he’d been so kind; she owed him her honesty. Very well, she’d merely answer his question, then put the subject to rest. “My parents were killed in a fire when I was five,” she stated, keeping her voice even, her gaze fixed on Bryce’s silk necktie. “The fire occurred at Whitshire, destroying the servants’ quarters and everyone in them. My father was the duke’s head groom; he and my mother were trapped in their quarters when the blaze tore through. Its cause was never determined. It could have been anything: an overturned lantern, a smoldering cheroot—Lord only knows. I haven’t returned to Whitshire since the day my parents died—which is why I’ve never visited the estate with Aunt Hermione.”
“Dear God.” Bryce’s voice sounded strangled, and Gaby could feel her composure slip.
She pushed on, determined to have done with it. “The important thing is, Aunt Hermione took me in, gave me a whole new life and a deluge of love. When I first arrived at Nevon Manor, I was devastated; I had no one and nothing. Now I have a family. Despite my loss, I feel incredibly blessed.”
There, she’d said it.
“I’m so terribly sorry.” Sympathy—and something more—rumbled through Bryce’s deep voice. “Hermione told me you were orphaned, but she never mentioned how … or where.” He sucked in his breath, jumping to his feet and pacing restlessly about, surprising Gaby with the intensity of his reaction. “I didn’t mean to pry or to make you recall difficult memories.” He came to an abrupt halt, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring broodingly down at her.
To Gaby’s mortification, hot tears sprang to her eyes. “You didn’t pry; you asked. Nor did you make me recall difficult memories. I think about Mama and Papa all the time, with no instigation from anyone.” Self-consciously, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. “But after all these years I generally think about them with a full heart and dry eyes. I haven’t a clue as to why I’m crying now. I suppose pondering something and giving voice to it are two different things.” She inhaled, brought herself under control. “Honestly, I’m quite recovered, thanks to Aunt Hermione.”
“There are some things from which one never fully recovers.”
Startled by his fervent proclamation, Gaby raised her chin, her gaze darting back to his as a glimmer of realization sparked. “You’re right,” she replied softly. “What’s more, you’re speaking from firsthand experience, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I am.”
“You were orphaned at a young age as well, were you not?”
“When I was ten, yes. But my situation was far less traumatic than yours. My parents, like so many other people, died of influenza. I mourned their loss—deeply—but it didn’t destroy my life. I wasn’t even living at home when they died. I was at Eton.”
“Being on one’s own and being alone are two entirely different things,” Gaby inserted quietly. “Before your parents’ death, you’d been on your own. Afterward you were alone.”
Silently Bryce ingested her words, a veiled expression crossing his face. “You’re right,” he agreed at length. “I was alone.”
“Then why didn’t Aunt Hermione—” Gaby bit her lip to silence the unwelcome question. “Never mind. I won’t ask.”
“Thank you.”
She inclined her head. “You’re an intriguing man, Mr. Lyndley. I know so much about you and, at the same time, so little.”
“You’re far less in the dark than I,” he reminded her, resting his elbow atop the piano. “And you did promise to answer all my questions.”
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” Gaby’s smile returned, impish and teasing. “And I shall—if you’ll do the same for me.”
Bryce’s lips twitched, although his expression became guarded. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“Everything. Your experiences at school, in court, in society—everything but the secrets you clearly choose not to discuss.”
To her surprise, he began to laugh. “I’ve never met anyone quite as direct as you, Gabrielle.”
“Does my candor offend you?”
“Not in the least. I find it incredibly refreshing. Very well, I’ll accept your terms. Your
revelations in exchange for mine. Now, who shall begin?”
“I shall,” Gaby said at once. “After all, my answers to your questions are far more essential than yours to mine. I’m suffering only from an excessive bout of curiosity, while you’re suffering from a lack of information that will obviously affect your life, given the inner peace you’re seeking.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Therefore, Mr. Lyndley, what would you like to know?”
An odd light flickered in his eyes. “You’re very insightful. And before we begin, please call me Bryce. After all, we’re practically related, if only through our love for Hermione.”
“I’d like that … Bryce.” Gaby rather enjoyed the sound of his name as she spoke it. “Shall I begin by explaining the makeup of our little family?”
“That would be ideal. It’s unmistakable that Hermione cares deeply for everyone at Nevon Manor. It’s also clear that …” He broke off, seeking a subtle choice of words.
“That everyone is in some way impaired?” Gaby supplied. “That’s equally true, although I don’t think any of us notices the others’ limitations anymore. We simply see the person within.”
“That’s as it should be.” Bryce frowned. “I don’t want you to misunderstand my concerns. It’s not an issue of judgment; if anything I was extremely impressed by the loyalty and unity I witnessed in the library this morning. I’m simply trying to assess the situation. Suffice it to say I have a decision to make—a decision that will affect not only me but all the residents of Nevon Manor. In order to make the right determination, I need to know all I can about the staff. Their limitations—and my abilities to handle them correctly—will have a direct impact on what I decide.”
“Aunt Hermione wants to leave Nevon Manor to you,” Gaby realized aloud. “Of course. It makes perfect sense. You have just the right combination of strength, insight, compassion, and, of course, humor, without which life, here or anywhere else, would be unbearable. Bequeathing Nevon Manor to you is the only way for Aunt Hermione to ensure that things stay as they are.”
Bryce didn’t even attempt to deny it. “Why? Why is it the only way to ensure things stay as they are?”
“The very fact that you’re asking me that is answer enough.” Gaby watched his brows knit in puzzlement. “Mr. Lynd … Bryce,” she amended, “how many people do you know who would keep on a stable manager who can scarcely walk? A maid who’s too unsteady to carry a tray? A footman who can scarcely hear or scarcely see? A gardener who views his shovel as a dear friend? Not to mention children who are far too skinny and weak to do a significant number of chores?”
“Only one,” Bryce replied. “Hermione Nevon.”
“Two,” Gaby corrected. “Aunt Hermione—and you.” She leaned forward, unconsciously gripping Bryce’s forearm. “Here, those fine people are accepted, loved, given a sense of purpose and belonging. Out there, in the real world, they’d be scorned, discarded like broken playthings. Aunt Hermione won’t allow that to happen. Neither will you.”
“Nevon Manor seems to be running very smoothly, limitations or not.” A gentle note crept into Bryce’s tone. “Then again, I have a feeling you, Chaunce, and Hermione are always on hand to smooth out any wrinkles that might occur.”
“They don’t occur that often. It’s amazing how effective people become when someone believes in them. Just look at Peter. His limp was all but gone when he left your quarters today. Why? Because his soul had been nourished. I’m willing to bet there was nothing he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish at that moment, lame or not.”
“I agree.” Bryce shifted, making Gaby aware of her grasp on his forearm.
Awkwardly she released him, interlacing her fingers in her lap. “If you’d like, I can provide you with the background of each and every servant at Nevon Manor. Most of them were discharged from other jobs by dissatisfied employers who demanded perfection and refused to accept less. As for the children, Peter, of course, is Cook’s son. The others are orphans like me. No,” she amended softly. “Their circumstances when Aunt Hermione took them in were far more dire than mine. Their mothers were unwed, cast into the streets where they died of starvation or illness, leaving behind children who were little more than infants. Lily, Jane, Henry, Charles—they have no memories to sustain them, nothing to hold on to at night to help keep their parents alive. I, thankfully, have both—memories and my music box.”
“Music box?”
Gaby nodded. “Mama told me that Papa gave it to her the day I was born. He used nearly all his savings to purchase it—as you can guess, head grooms didn’t make very much money. Anyway, she’d admired the box in a shop window, and Papa was determined that she should have it. So he had the shopkeeper put it aside until I arrived, and that very day he rushed down and bought it. I vividly recall how deeply Mama cherished that box; she kept it nearby all the time, sitting on her nightstand. Except on those nights when I had a bad dream. Then she’d bring the box to my room and open it, letting me listen to its beautiful melody—ʻFür Elise,’ my very first taste of Beethoven. Sometimes Mama would leave the box beside me when she tiptoed back to bed. Those times were my favorites. I could listen until the melody lulled me to sleep.” Gaby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It’s the only possession of theirs that wasn’t lost in the fire.”
This time it was Bryce who reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder. “The music box sounds lovely.”
“It is. It’s made entirely of mother-of-pearl with gilt trim and a delicate stone in the center.” Feeling the reassuring pressure of his hand, Gaby gave Bryce a tentative look. “Perhaps, if you have time during your stay, I could show it to you.”
“I’d be honored.” Bryce withdrew his palm, his expression pensive. “You’ve certainly given me a great deal to contemplate.”
“Does that mean it’s time for you to answer my questions?” Gaby saw the perfect opportunity to lighten the mood—and to accomplish her goal, that being to learn more about Bryce Lyndley.
He grinned, making a wide sweep with his arm.
“Ask away. Where shall we begin, with my experiences in school or in court?”
“What about in society?”
A shrug. “Those are distinctly unexciting.”
Gaby’s eyes widened in surprise. “I should think just the opposite would be true, especially of late.”
“Of late?”
“Yes. Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I thought your previous companions sounded charming,” Gaby hurriedly clarified. “But judging from the glowing accounts we’ve received, Miss Talbot is uncommonly poised and intelligent, not to mention incredibly beautiful. Why, one newspaper description likened her to a golden-haired fairy-tale princess. She’s always on hand to herald your accomplishments and to share your pastimes. You’ve escorted her all about London—to the theater, the balls, and of course the symphonies we just discussed. Then there are those carriage rides through the park, the sailing jaunts along the Thames. … Your courtship sounds exhilarating.”
Bryce’s jaw dropped. “I don’t recall seeing such a comprehensive portrayal of my activities recounted in the papers. Who have you been talking to? What’s more, why in the name of heaven have you been collecting information on my friendship with Lucinda? Wait—never mind.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I needn’t ask: Hermione. Lord, is there anything about my life she hasn’t delved into?”
“I’ve upset you.” Gaby felt more puzzled than remorseful. “But why? And why would Aunt Hermione’s knowledge of your courtship suggest to you that she’d pried? You’ve hardly kept your relationship with Miss Talbot a secret. Let the truth be known, Aunt Hermione’s investigators provided her with very little information she hadn’t already gleaned from Chaunce. Or rather from his butler associates, most of whom work for prominent members of society and are therefore privy to all the latest gossip, most particularly during the Season, when the gossip flows so freely. Why, nearly every butler in Hertford passes tidbits on to Chaunce, and you’d be
stunned to learn how many of those tidbits have, of late, pertained to you and Miss Talbot. You obviously don’t read the newspapers too carefully; items about you two have appeared regularly, complete with details and descriptions. Just as they appeared when you were seeing Miss Chatham, Miss Dods, Miss Wells, Miss—”
“You’ve made your point,” Bryce interrupted, his expression growing more and more incredulous with each passing word of Gaby’s elaborate explanation. “And I’m sure all those ‘items’ you’re referring to line the pages of Hermione’s scrapbook. Given that fact, together with the findings provided by Hermione’s investigators and the reports provided by Chaunce’s contacts, I don’t know what possible questions I can answer. Clearly you know more about me than I do.”
“I know this particular courtship has gone on much longer than the others.” Gaby ignored Bryce’s wry assessment, seeking something far more crucial. “Are you in love?” she demanded eagerly.
Bryce blinked. “In love?”
“Yes—with Miss Talbot. And if so, is it everything the poets claim it to be?” Even as she asked the question, Gaby could actually feel Bryce withdraw, retreat behind his earlier wall of reserve.
“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person,” he replied, sounding more dispassionate than angry. “I’m not a big believer in what you’re describing.”
It was Gaby’s turn to blink. “What I’m describing is what you and I have just spent the past hour discussing—love.”
“We were discussing compassion, not love.”
“We were discussing both. You yourself used the word ‘love’ when you spoke of our feelings for Aunt Hermione.”
“That’s hardly the same emotion you’re referring to now.” Folding his arms across his chest, Bryce challenged her words, delivering his argument as if he were in court. “Love, as in the ability to feel benevolence or devotion, and love, as in the ability to lose oneself in a fantasy, are two entirely different things. One is simple decency or regard. The other is consuming, romantic, involving far more than mere respect and affection. That kind of emotion is one I can’t understand, much less subscribe to, for no poet has yet to explain it in a way I can fathom.”
