Tessa’s spine straightened and Verity’s smile became a thinline.
“I, too, am pleased,” Tessa said and meant it.
“I find Mr. Tilbury quite pleasing,” her mother said, looking across the room where that man stood with the earl, Lord Brawly, and Tessa’s papa.
Remmy’s playing grew louder, a bit off-key.
Lady Crossvale winced. “Remmy! Pianissimo, my dear.”
He played more softly.
Lady Chattaway set her teacup on her saucer with a jarring clash. “I must tell you, Mrs. King, how much of a blessing your daughter has been these six years.”
“I am glad she was not a burden,” her mother answered.
Tessa wanted to melt through the floorboards. “I was grateful to have you, Lady Chattaway.”
Tessa’s mother considered Tessa over the rim of her cup. “I do have fond memories of early mornings. We would sit in the east parlor and write letters.”
Tessa clutched her hands in her lap. “I remember those mornings fondly, too.”
“Do not speak so softly,” her mother said. “Mr. Tilbury needs a clear-spoken wife.”
Silence, thick and awkward, broken only be a series of discordant notes as Remmy’s fingers slipped on the keys of the pianoforte.
Lady Crossvale cleared her throat then said, “I did not know, Tessa, that you had accepted a proposal.”
“I… I…” She could feel the heat of her mother’s gaze, the weight of her expectations. Then there was this:What do you want?“I… I…”
“She will,” her mother said. “Do not worry, Mr. Tilbury. She’s a good girl.”
An elbow must have hit the pianoforte keys because the instrument produced a sound of utter destruction.
“He’s not very good, is he?” Tilbury laughed, and that seemedto fill the room with air again.
“Usually he’s much better,” Tessa said, rushing toward him. “He must be out of sorts.”
“Verity should play instead.” Her mother pushed Verity toward the pianoforte.
Verity dug in her heels. “No, no. I’m not?—”
“Go.”
Verity slumped, but she obeyed, and Remmy helped her choose music and situate herself. He was grinning and charming and set Verity at ease so she was smiling again. Verity began to play with wobbly notes and Remmy’s encouragement.
Tessa’s mother said, “Tessa could never play. She never wanted to.”
Tessa braced for further insult.
“But,” her mother continued, “I still have a little song she wrote when she was about Verity’s age. About a nest of eggs, one of them cracked.” She met Tessa’s gaze with a wistful smile that made Tessa’s heart too big for the ribs that caged it.
Verity missed a note.
“Really, Verity,” her mother snapped, “You were better yesterday.”
Tessa’s heart shrank back to size, practically withered, and she joined Verity at the pianoforte with Remmy. Tilbury followed.
“You’re doing wonderfully well,” she assured her sister.
