Page 24 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

He wished he could interpret that as a confession. His wayward brain was mapping out the steps that would lead to their kissing, and a breathy admission that she preferred to be alone with him brought them halfway there. But her worried expression stopped those thoughts as effectively as a slap.

“Is Dessie all right?”

“She’s fine.” Miss Delancey’s entire face flushed pink. “Just tired.”

“She seems overly tired.”

She pursed her lips, clearly weighing her words, and said, “That’s why she needs to rest.”

Lynch was neglecting her. It wasn’t Trentham’s place to say so, but… “I hope she isn’t un…well.” He had nearly said unhappy.

“Of course not.” Miss Delancey fiddled with the edges of her shawl. Then she changed the subject abruptly. “I am glad you stopped by. I’m desperate to hear the story behind ‘the flowery thing’. Is it really the only piece you’ve composed?”

“Yes.”

She lifted her eyebrows, waiting. When he said nothing more, she said, “Well, then, tell me how you came to compose it.”

He had known he would eventually be asked to explain this to her, so he had come prepared. After clearing his throat, he began. “I’m not a composer. I am hardly even a competent musician. The harp was my mother’s. She was very talented and, as a young boy, I naturally wanted to be with her every moment and share in whatever she loved. I mimicked her on the harp, which displeased my father so much that he bought me a piano. She taught me to play a little of both.”

He paused, but Miss Delancey asked no questions, so he forged ahead.

“When I went off to school at Harrow’s, my father hoped I would lose any musical inclination, but I did not. I was allowed a music tutor, who taught me the rudiments of theory and composition. I met Eli there, by the by. We had the same tutor. It didn’t take long for me to realize, comparing myself to Eli, that I was wasting my time. But I would not admit it to my father, so I kept up with the lessons, though I didn’t apply myself much.”

“You didn’t resent El—Mr. Cameron?”

He nearly laughed. How frank she was. “No. That would not have been possible.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated to explain. There was something a bit awful about the truth. “Remember, I was just a schoolboy.” She cocked an eyebrow, so he continued, “But I was also a duke’s son. Eli was on scholarship. He was too far beneath my touch to resent.”

“Oh.”

This had nothing to do with anything, but he went on. “He was also pasty-skinned, underfed, and singularly focused. His grades were poor. The teachers did not like him. He avoided sports. He was bullied unmercifully.”

“By you?”

“No. Though not because of any moral superiority. It was solely the result of having had the same music tutor. I’d heard him play. I admired him. At any rate, what started as nasty words grew into nastier pranks. I told Eli one day”—he shook his head at the memory—“to bloody a few noses and they would leave him alone. He stared at me, horrified, and said, ‘But my hands!’ And then I realized he would take any abuse, escalating abuse, so long as he might spare his hands.”

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. What did you do?”

“I bloodied a few noses and they left him alone.”

“Oh!” She sounded indignant. “I shouldn’t be glad of it, but I am.” Unexpectedly, she added, “And you’re still looking out for him, aren’t you?”

Even more unexpectedly, it embarrassed him that she saw it.

“He doesn’t hang on my sleeve. But everyone needs a home to come back to now and again.”

The soft look she gave him made putting up with all Eli’s annoying habits worthwhile. But then, she smacked her hands together. “Very well. You’ve buttered me up, but I have not forgotten. Your duet, sir.”

He had detoured from the way he’d intended to tell the story. It took a moment for him to remember what he’d planned to say.

“Ah, yes. The duet. We move on now to Oxford. I had, by then, given up on music tutors. I read law and modern history. But I wasn’t there for a full term before my mother passed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her face fell. He recalled that she and Dessie had also lost their mother early.

“I was…angry.” This was the part he needed to touch lightly upon, without appearing unfeeling. “I did not go back for the next term. She’d left her harp to me, and I started to play it again.”