Page 50 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

Ophelia tried walking side-by-side with him to the music room, but he seemed determined to remain two steps behind. And when they entered the room, he directed her to the piano without so much as a smile.

He set his case on a chair near the piano. “Sit on the bench and show me your posture, Miss Delancey.”

He’d seen her play before. He knew how she held herself. But she did as he said.

“Very good. Now play a D Major scale. Keep playing until I tell you to stop.”

Milly walked in with a basket of sewing. A momentary distraction only. She seated herself quietly in the back of the room.

“Go on, Miss Delancey,” Mr. Cameron said, without acknowledging their chaperone.

Over and over she played, until he stopped her and assigned another scale. And another. Her fingers began to ache, then grew clumsy.

Mr. Cameron tsked. “You may stop.” He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat and frowned. He stuffed it back. “How often do you practice your scales?”

Her face heated. “Not—not very often.”

“It shows.”

She was miffed, but he was right.

“Every morning, every morning, do these exercises for at least half an hour before you play anything else.”

Ophelia nodded. Scales bored her to tears, but she understood their importance. In theory. She wanted to ask if he still warmed up like this, but the new version of Mr. Cameron intimidated her. Besides, his answer would be of course.

“Now,” he said, a pensive frown on his face. “One minute.” He retrieved his case and fished out two pieces of sheet music, untitled. He set them before her. “I’d like to see you sightread.”

She scanned the score. When he cleared his throat impatiently, she began to play. It was a moderately difficult piece that she did not recognize. Still, she made very few mistakes as she plowed through it. When she reached the end of the second page, she glanced up, expecting his nod. Not his grimace.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked.

“You played with your eyes, your brain, and your fingers. Where was your heart?”

“My…?”

“Stand up. Step aside.”

She slid from the bench and moved away, taking note, as she did so, that he did not simply sit down beside her.

“Now, pay attention,” he commanded. He commenced to play. Her eyes jumped from his fingers to the score and back again. He missed a few notes and struck one wrong chord. But it didn’t matter. She heard the beauty of the piece. The raw emotion. By the time he finished, she felt breathless. Had he held out his arms, she would have collapsed into them.

“But you’ve played this before,” she complained weakly.

“No. I have not.” He stood. “That would be cheating.” A hint of a smile softened his mouth; then he grew stern again. “And it would not have made my point. Which is that technical proficiency is one thing, Miss Delancey. But talent is something else.”

Ophelia’s face fell. She was used to people praising her talent.

He sighed. “I can teach technical proficiency. You will improve. But I can’t teach passion.” The little smile appeared again. “Fortunately, I have heard you play the harp. I know what you are capable of. I need you to bring that passion to the piano.”

She nodded, although she still felt defensive. “But don’t I need to play correctly before I—”

“No. Although I have no doubt that is what you’ve been taught. But it’s wrong. Play with passion. Feel the music. Then, with repetition, the right notes will come.”

Maybe it worked that way for him. She had always been told to learn the piece and then infuse the feeling. The only emotion she would be capable of displaying while hitting the wrong keys would be embarrassment.

“Let us play a duet to finish today’s lesson. Shall we?” Mr. Cameron said, his tone kinder. “You take the lead on your harp. We’ll play Trentham’s piece.”

Chapter Eighteen