The Music of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “Can I help you with your dress, ma’am?”

  “Thank you, Daisy, but I shall manage.” She waited until the door closed behind the maid before unbuttoning the row of fasteners that ran down the side of her worn, brown traveling costume.

  Portia glanced around the room as she undressed. A lovely Chippendale cabinet stood against one wall, rich brown velvet drapes flanked floor-to-ceiling windows, and a massive four-poster bed dominated the bedchamber.

  She absently ran a hand over the blue silk counterpane, which felt like a cloud when she pressed her hand into it. A sharp pang shot through her as she considered her surroundings. The housemaid was sweet, the rooms were lovely, and the simple meal had been delicious—what a pity she would most likely have to leave all this tomorrow.

  Portia had never received such grand treatment before, not even when she and Ivo had stayed in some of the finest houses in Europe. Her husband had been hailed as a great artist and had been much feted before the accident which had ended his career. Men had paid generous sums to have Ivo Stefani play for their peers, and women had fawned over his olive-skinned good looks and warm bedroom eyes.

  But the wife of the great artist had not received the same treatment. For the most part, Portia had stayed in tiny garrets and endured the grudging, slighting treatment of servants while Ivo had bedded the mistress of the house, spent a fortune on expensive frippery, and gambled away most of the money he’d earned.

  Portia realized she was gritting her teeth.

  Relax, she told herself. Relax and enjoy the unexpected splendor, because the local magistrate will probably be waiting for you in the morning.

  She pushed away the thought and added a generous splash of lavender-scented bath oil to the steaming water before lowering her tired body into sheer heaven.

  By the time she finished washing her hair, her eyelids were heavy with fatigue and she lay back against the warm copper and closed her eyes.

  I will rest my eyes. Just for a minute…

  Portia woke with a start to cold bathwater, pruned fingers, and pebbled skin. It was all she could do to pull her stiff, aching body from the tub and dry herself. She barely had enough strength left to drag a comb through her damp hair and don her threadbare nightgown before burrowing into the decadent bed. She closed her eyes and was immediately in the grip of a tedious half-dream that revolved around an unending carriage ride.

  She was drifting in a deep, dreamless sleep when something awakened her. She pushed aside a tangled mass of curls and squinted at the candle she’d left burning across the room. The clock on her nightstand showed it was just past two.

  Portia groaned and dropped her head onto the pillow. In addition to leaving the candle burning, she’d forgotten to draw the curtains, and moonlight flooded the room. She would need to extinguish the candle and close the drapes if she hoped to get any sleep.

  Grumbling, she pushed off the blankets, heaved herself out of bed, and padded across the thick carpet to the window. She was about to pull the drapes shut when she noticed a small stone balcony beyond the rippled glass. The well-oiled window latch turned without a sound and she opened the casement and stepped out into a wonderland.

  A cool breeze stirred her nightgown and the moon cast a magical glow, illuminating the countryside for miles around. It was one of those moons that hung so low in the sky you felt you could reach out and touch it. Even more light came from a series of lanterns that ran from the corner of the house half-way down the drive.

  Portia wondered who would need such a brilliant display of light in the middle of the night but shrugged the thought away. Who knew what country folk did, and why?

  Although the night was chilly, it was too beautiful to resist. Portia leaned against the cold stone and filled her lungs with crisp, non-London air, a temporary queen of her moonlit kingdom.

  To the west lay a sliver of ocean; the shimmering waves were visible, but too far away to hear them crashing against the shore. Formal gardens surrounded the house to the west and south and beyond them lay a wood large enough to be called a forest.

  Portia closed her eyes and drank in the quiet of the night. What a lovely, lovely place this was. And what a terrible shame this would probably be her only night to enjoy it. Her regret was so bitter it left a bad taste in her mouth; she never should have lied. She should’ve written to Mr. Harrington using her own name. She could’ve provided him with proof of her training, which was every bit as impressive as Ivo’s, not to mention her experience operating a school—not that a closed school was a ringing endorsement.

  She’d done them both a disservice by not giving him the truth and allowing him to make his decision. Now her deception would stand between them, and rightly so.

  Portia gnawed at her lower lip until it was raw, furious at her impetuosity. She was almost nine-and-twenty, would she never learn to think before she acted? She must have been mad to think this would work, and even if—

  A slight sound intruded on her misery and Portia opened her eyes. Something white and ghostly flickered in the trees at the edge of the woods. She took a step back and stood in the shroud of the heavy velvet drapes, pulling them closer around her body. A figure emerged from the woods and Portia caught her breath as the white blur solidified: It was not a ghost, but a person on a large white horse.

  Horse and rider picked their way past the line of trees before exploding into a gallop and blazing across the rolling parkland like a shooting star, closing the distance between the woods and the house in a matter of moments.

  The spectral pair slowed as they approached the drive, the bright lanterns affording Portia a better look. No, most certainly not a ghost, but a very substantial-looking man. He wore no coat or waistcoat, only a white shirt that must have become damp from his exertions and now adhered to his torso like a second skin. He controlled his mount with long, muscular thighs encased in breeches and tucked into dark boots. The moonlight turned both horse and man and an eerie silver white.

  Portia inched closer to the balcony as he approached, hoping to catch a glimpse of his face as he passed beneath the lantern that hung nearby. The drapes moved with her and the light from the candle behind her escaped and cast a dim line across the cobble drive that was like an arrow pointing toward her window.

  Horse and rider swung around as one toward the balcony.

  Portia gasped, stumbled back into the room and slammed the casement shut, fumbling with the lock. She pulled the drapes and collapsed against them, her heart pounding as if she’d been running.

  Good Lord! How was that possible?

  Chapter Two

  It was after eleven o’clock by the time a servant arrived to escort Portia to her interview with the master of the house.

  She’d been awake, dressed, and waiting for hours—in spite of the fact she’d not had much sleep. She’d tried, but every time she’d closed her eyes a haunting ivory face had flashed into her mind.

  And those eyes . . .

  Of course she knew it had been a man on the horse and not a ghost or demon. Even so, sleep had evaded her. She’d stared into the darkness above her bed, where phantom images formed and dissolved endlessly.

  She’d tried to count sheep or think of other more pleasant things. Like the friends she’d left behind, the five women and one man who’d once been her employees but were now her family. Now her friends were scattered to the four winds, each forced to scratch out an existence on society’s fringes. It was probable—likely, in fact—that Portia might never see some of them again.

  So here she was; alone, once more.

  The thought left her morose, restless, and full of self-pity, and she tossed and turned until the pink fingers of dawn crept over the horizon. Only then had she fallen into a shallow, fitful sleep.

  Splinters of bright sunlight penetrated the gap between the velvet drapes and woke her just before eight o’clock. The face that greeted her in the mirror had blood-shot eyes with bags beneath them. Portia wanted to cry when she sa
w her reflection, but that would have made her nose red, too.

  So she’d dressed herself and combed out the frightful mess that was her hair, pulling it back into a knot that was so tight it actually seemed to diminish the bags beneath her eyes.

  And then she’d placed a cool cloth on her forehead and fretted until a knock jarred her from her worries.

  It was the butler, Soames.

  “Mr. Harrington will see you in the library, ma’am.” In contrast to last night, when the old man had appeared almost frantic, this morning his wrinkled face and rheumy blue eyes were the epitome of butleresque impassivity.

  They descended a different set of stairs than the one she’d come up the night before. Soames turned right when they reached the bottom and led her down a wide, dimly lit hall before stopping in front of a set of double doors.

  He flung open the door on the right and motioned her inside. “The library, ma’am.”

  Portia peered into the room, the interior of which was hardly visible. The only light came from a single candle on the far side.

  “Thank you, Soames.” The deep voice came from the same direction as the light. “Please, come in and take a seat, Signora Stefani.”

  Portia took a hesitant step inside the room and jumped when the door snapped shut behind her.

  “I suppose you find it rather dark.” A flare of light followed his words and a pale hand lit three more candles. The nimbus of light grew until a skull with two black eye sockets materialized beside it. Portia gasped and the skull shifted into a mask of scorn.

  “Please, don’t be alarmed. I’m not dangerous and won’t harm you.”

  Her face flamed, both at her foolish reaction and his mocking tone. She could see now that the two black spots were merely dark spectacles and the skull was just a very pale face—the same face she’d seen last night. The moonlight hadn’t been playing tricks: Eustace Harrington’s hair and skin were as white as freshly fallen snow. Only his frowning lips had any color.

  “I have albinism, Signora Stefani. That means I suffer from a lack of pigment. You needn’t worry, it’s not contagious.”

  Portia laughed and his expression shifted from scornful to haughty.

  “I’m not laughing at you, Mr. Harrington,” she hastened to assure him. “I’m laughing because I’m perfectly aware you’re not a contagion. I’ve heard of your condition before.” Portia didn’t tell him the only other person she’d heard of had been stoned to death by superstitious peasants in a village outside Rome.

  “Then I don’t have to worry you will faint or scream?” he asked, his tone caustic.

  “Not unless you give me good reason to do either, sir.”

  He ignored her attempt at levity. “Why have you come to Whitethorn Manor?”

  Portia took a deep breath and commenced the speech she’d rehearsed all the way from London.

  “You wished to engage a music tutor with superior talent—I am such a person. I trained at the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, the most respected music school in the world. My father was an instructor there for many years and I was one of his pupils.” She paused. When he didn’t speak, she continued. “The Accademia doesn’t admit women, but I am, nevertheless, a classically trained pianist. I’m not Ivo Stefani, but I’m good. Very good.” Portia stopped before her crushing anxiety got the better of her and leaked through her carefully constructed façade.

  The white face across from her remained motionless. Had he expected her to apologize? To beg? Something very close to terror spread through her chest, making it difficult to breathe. Perhaps she should—

  “When did your husband die?” he asked the question coolly, much as he might ask what time it was or whether she preferred tea to coffee.

  Portia swallowed her irritation at his calm, deliberate manner—which made her feel like a recalcitrant schoolgirl standing before a headmistress. She reminded herself that he was the injured party in this transaction; she deserved cool treatment, at the very least.

  “A little less than a year ago.”

  “So it was you who responded to my original advertisement and then sent me a letter, signing your husband’s name.”

  Her hot face became even hotter. “Yes.”

  “If you are so highly qualified, why did you not apply under your own name instead of lying?”

  The word lying was like a spark on dry tinder.

  Portia opened her mouth, but the shrill voice of reason stopped her. Be humble, Portia! Grovel! Only last night you promised no more impetuous behavior and—Portia shoved the voice aside. After all—what did she have to lose by speaking her mind? The man was obviously not going to hire her.

  “Tell me, Mr. Harrington, would you have engaged a woman tutor?”

  He leaned back in his chair, his mouth pulling into a slight smile. “That’s hardly the point, is it?”

  The man was toying with her and feeding off her humiliation and fear. She shot to her feet and he stood with her.

  “Are you leaving, Signora Stefani?”

  “Why should I stay? You’ve made your opinion of female musicians quite clear.”

  “Oh? I thought we were speaking of your deception rather than your musical abilities.”

  Portia ground her teeth, furious that he was correct. Again.

  He gestured to her chair. “Please, won’t you be seated? I’ve gone to a great deal of effort and expense to bring you here. Won’t you extend me the courtesy of a few minutes of your time and perhaps some answers?”

  Everything he said was fair—maddeningly so—but for some reason that did nothing to mollify her unreasonable anger.

  “And what will you do if I refuse, Mr. Harrington? Summon the local magistrate?’

  He sighed. “I am the local magistrate, Signora Stefani.”

  Portia gave a short, mirthless laugh and dropped into her chair. “Ask whatever you like.”

  He resumed his seat, ignoring both her rude behavior and angry words. “I’m curious why there was no mention of your husband’s death in the papers, Signora?”

  She’d expected this question much sooner, but that didn’t mean she was eager to begin telling even more lies.

  “My husband did not die in England.” She paused, “Perhaps you heard of his accident?”

  “Yes, his arm was badly crushed and he could no longer play. I assumed that was why he responded to my advertisement.”

  “I’m afraid my husband found teaching an unbearable reminder of everything he’d lost.” That much was true. “He needed to get away from the memories of his past and do something meaningful with his life. He decided the best way to do that was to join the army.” Lies, lies, lies. Luckily her face couldn’t get any hotter.

  Pale eyebrows shot up above his dark glasses, a reaction that could mean surprise, disbelief, or some other emotion. Portia assumed it was surprise. After all, he hadn’t known Ivo. If he had, he’d be doubled over with laughter right now: Ivo Stefani had not entertained an altruistic thought in his entire life.

  “Please continue.”

  “There’s not much more to tell. He went to Naples and died shortly afterward in the Battle of Tolentino.” Would he dare to ask which side her husband fought with? Or would he assume the worst and dismiss her on the spot for being the widow of a man some in England might consider a traitor?

  “Tell me, Signora,” he said, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward, the action bringing his fascinating face closer to the light. “What did you think would happen when you presented yourself to me under false pretenses?”

  She’d asked herself the same thing—but in more brutal words—countless times. Why, then, was she so angry when he asked her a question he had every right to ask?

  Because you’re ashamed of what you’ve done and nothing is more agonizing than knowing one is in the wrong.

  The annoying little voice was correct, but that didn’t mean Portia had to like it. Still, she could control her behavior better.

  “I’m s
orry for my deception and I apologize.” She clamped her lips shut. But then her mouth opened and more words tumbled out. “If you tell me what you spent to bring me here, I will gladly repay you.” She stunned herself with the foolish words; just where would she get the money?

  Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

  Portia ground her teeth at the smug, but apt, observation.

  Mr. Harrington’s features shifted into an expression of mild distaste. “We could haggle like costermongers over repayment for your journey or you could give me a demonstration of your musical ability.” His pale lips twisted into a mocking smile. “I know which I would prefer.”

  Portia bristled at his sarcasm but hope surged in her breast. Would he consider engaging her? Or was this some petty form of revenge?

  She studied his unreadable face. He reminded her of the famous stone she’d seen in the British Museum—the one named after the Egyptian port city of Rosetta. He bore no physical resemblance to the black chunk of rock, but he emanated the same inscrutable quality. Was he toying with her? Raising her hopes just so he could—

  Portia seized control of her whirling thoughts. The truth was, she didn’t care what his motivations were. Playing the piano was far better than answering questions for which she had no answers or at least none that were palatable.

  She inclined her head with hauteur to match his. “You are entitled to a demonstration of my abilities. What would you like me to play?”

  “I will leave that to your discretion. You are, after all, the expert,” he added wryly. “Shall I take you to the music room right now or do you need time to prepare?”

  Portia heard the challenge beneath his taunting question and smiled; what a pleasure it would be to shove his scornful words down his throat. She stood. “There is no time like the present, Mr. Harrington.”

  Chapter Three

  Portia stole glances at Eustace Harrington as he led her down the long hall. His aquiline nose, shapely lips, and chiseled jaw were the stuff of classical sculpture and his skin and fashionably cut hair were whiter even than alabaster. Only his glasses disturbed the vision of a male version of Galatea come to life: Eustace Harrington was the most fascinating-looking man she’d ever seen.