Henry placed his right hand on the keys. Pressed one note. Another. Hesitated. Then he tried the little measure he hadplayed for Miss Edgewood. It faltered, but only for a heartbeat. The sound quivered in the quiet room.
Henry looked up, hopeful. “Did it stay?”
Marcus lowered himself beside him. “Yes,” he said softly. “Play it again.”
Henry did. This time, surer, even if imperfect.
Marcus listened. Truly listened. The fragile notes tightened his chest with something both painful and profoundly alive.
When the measure ended, Henry lifted his shoulders, pride edged with uncertainty. “It doesn’t sound like Miss Edgewood.”
“It sounds like you,” Marcus said. “That is better.”
Henry blinked, stunned by the idea.
They sat together, father and son, side by side on a bench Marcus had once avoided as if it might wound him.
Henry spoke again, voice quieter. “Do you think Mama would have liked the music?”
Something in Marcus went still. He did not answer at once. He drew Henry closer.
“Your mother loved anything you touched,” he said quietly. “She would be proud.”
Henry leaned into him. Not heavily. Trustingly.
A carriage rattled past outside, sharp enough to startle Henry. Marcus rested a steadying hand against his back until the tension eased.
“You are home,” he murmured. “You are safe.”
Henry nodded and slipped from the bench. “I should wash,” he said. “Mrs. Pritchard said crumbs are not polite.”
Marcus watched him go.
Only when Henry disappeared down the corridor did Marcus turn back to the pianoforte. He stood before it, one hand resting on the lid.
A room had been silent too long. A house resigned to quiet. A man who had forgotten where music belonged.
He lifted the lid. Just an inch. Then, lowered it again.
Not yet.
He left the drawing room and climbed the stairs. The quiet felt different now. Not oppressive. Expectant.
Halfway up, he stopped. The realization arrived without warning, without mercy.
He wanted to see her again. Not only for Henry. That unsettled him. He remained where he was, one hand on the banister.
Chapter Fourteen
By the timeLila reached Dover Street, the day had settled into that thin blue light between afternoon and night. The lamplighter moved along the row of houses across the way, his pole lifting, flame blooming, glass chiming softly as he lowered each lantern back into place.
Rosehaven House watched from its narrow frontage, three stories of respectable brick and a routine tightly held.
Lila adjusted her grip on the portfolio under her arm and climbed the steps.
Mrs. Denning liked the residents to use the front door whenever possible. Ladies did not creep in by tradesmen’s entrances. Not if they wished to keep their names clear of kitchen gossip.
The bell had barely finished its modest ring before the door opened.
