Page 25 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“She left it to you? Not to your sister?”

He heard the implied men do not play harps.

“No. You see, Felicity was born to my father’s first wife. Felicity and my mother were cordial, but not particularly fond of one another. And Felicity married very young, so they hadn’t time to become close.”

“I’m sorry. Go on.”

“Rather than returning to Oxford, I went to Canada and took the Queen’s shilling—joined the army—which truly horrified my father.”

“Were you estranged?”

“Not estranged. I—I was angry, still.” And his father, angrier. Estranged was the right word.

“You were grieving.”

“And he remarried rather more quickly than I thought he should. Which was terribly unsporting of me. I thought he just wanted his ‘spare,’ you see. And Foster’s birth, after what seemed to me an indecently short period of time, proved it. So I continued on with my tantrum until Foster’s mother died, too. Then I grew a bit remorseful. Then my father sickened.”

“Oh, how awful.”

She pressed his arm so tenderly he felt guilty, as though he was manipulating her emotions for his nefarious purposes.

“I am getting to the music,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“I hope so.” She gave him a wan, understanding smile.

“He arranged for me to come home. I scrambled to remember what he had taught me about ducal affairs, my responsibilities, my duties. I had to prepare to take guardianship of Foster. It was a busy few months. I was trying hard to make amends, to reassure him that he was leaving it all in competent hands. But the last fortnight, the only thing he asked of me was that I play the harp for him.”

She made a small, sad noise, deep in her throat.

Good Lord. He’d made her tear up.

“For God’s sake, don’t cry. Here is the end of it. I played my rather limited repertoire over and over, but I kept hearing, in the back of my mind, that tune, that phrase. I don’t know if it was something my mother used to play, or sing to me at night. I tried to find the piece elsewhere but never did. So I marked it down. Eli helped me smooth out some of the rougher spots. But I couldn’t quite find what was missing until I heard you play it the other night. There. Finis. The story of the flowery thing. And of me, I suppose.”

She wiped her teary eyes with the back of her hand.

“Is she supposed to kiss you now?” Dessie called out.

His heart skipped a beat. He scraped his chair away from Miss Delancey so quickly it could be taken as an admission of guilt.

“Well, not now.” He said it grumbling enough that he hoped Dessie would laugh. She did not. But Miss Delancey did. Shakily.

“No,” she said. “Now I find a window to throw myself through.”

“Did you catch the whole story, Dessie?” Was his voice unnaturally loud? “Or should I start over?”

“I heard enough. Ophelia looked ready to start bawling, so I thought you were confessing to something awful.”

“Ah.” He stood. Dessie’s perceptiveness, and her timing, were impeccable. “And now, fair ladies, having entertained you with my tale, I must away.”

They exchanged the necessary pleasantries. He said he would see himself out and pulled the library door almost closed behind him. But there, he paused. Waiting. Listening.

“What?” Miss Delancey demanded.

“You said you would be careful.”

Careful? That implied he was dangerous. Which stung.

“I am!”