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“It’s nothing. My father played that song for me often…” I can’t continue. I lost my parents so suddenly. Sometimes still I forget and pick up my phone to text my mom. Even after four years.

“He played the violin?” Mr. Allen asks gently.

“Yes. As beautifully as you did just now, and The Sleeping Beauty was my favorite, particularly that waltz because—” I bite my lip and draw the handkerchief to my eyes again, buying time. I can’t tell him about a motion picture that won’t be made for another fifty years or so. “Because the story is romantic, you know.”

He smiles at me. “Have you seen the ballet?”

“No. My da—father wished to take me, but…” I shrug again, unwilling to burst into tears by putting it into words. We put it off too many times until it was too late.

“We should arrange to see it soon.”

“That would be lovely.” To see it staged so soon after it had been written? I can only imagine the experience that might be—but it would require much more time in the past than I hope to spend and a trip to a larger city than San Francisco. My heart stutters thinking about taking the mirror on a train across the country. “Thank you, Mr. Allen, for your understanding. Forgive me for my intrusion into your playing.”

“You are welcome to intrude, Miss Granville. I would be happy to play the waltz for you anytime.” He gestures toward the still-open door of the music room. “Perhaps I could play more for you now?”

“I would like that.” I move to follow him, thinking how wonderful it would be to sit and listen to the violin again, to close my eyes and picture my father playing. Digital versions of my dad’s beloved favorites aren’t the same.

“Miss Granville?” A maid hurries down the hallway toward us, stopping my entry into the room. “You’re needed upstairs for a fitting.”

Mr. Allen casts me a commiserating smile. “Another time?”

“I sincerely hope so.” I follow the maid back upstairs, trying to commit Mr. Allen’s playing to memory.

Chapter Seven

We have dinner early that night so we can attend a Civil War Veterans reception at Pioneer Hall and hear President McKinley speak. As I sit in the carriage across from Ben while it carries us through the crowded streets, his enthusiasm infects me. I haven’t seen him this intent on anything since those first moments after I arrived when he desperately tried to get me to open the passage.

“You’re lucky you came in time to see him,” he tells me. “He was supposed to have continued on his tour of the country by now—a celebration of his second inauguration—but Mrs. McKinley fell ill.” His voice holds all the eagerness of a newly minted teacher ready to bless their students with knowledge.

“Poor woman.” Mrs. Guthrie clucks her tongue. “And the president is so devoted to her.”

“Quite,” Ben agrees with a twinkle in his eyes. This is his element, his knowledge of history. He goes on telling us about McKinley’s visit—things he’s presumably read in newspapers—and I bask in his intensity. This is the real Ben. I hope going home will help him shed some of his emotional mask. I want to get to know the man underneath.

“Tell me, Miss Granville,” Mr. Allen interrupts my thoughts, “was Tchaikovsky all of your music education at the hand of your father?”

I chuckle before casting a quick glance at Ben and Mrs. Guthrie again. He’s telling her how Mrs. McKinley is the first incumbent First Lady to visit a foreign country.

“My father’s range of musical taste was vast,” I say in answer to Mr. Allen’s question. “He encouraged me to appreciate a wide range of styles.” He had had an ear for everything from classical to religious to pop music, so that’s the closest I can come to the truth, and I understand what Ben immediately enjoyed about my company. Though I can see the beginnings of a friendship with Mr. Allen and enjoy sharing memories of my father with him—thanks to their similarities—it’s difficult not discussing something as simple as his musical tastes in full. My father’s violin playing was such a deep part of him, and I ache to tell Mr. Allen about the funny way my dad would dance around when he played Taylor Swift songs. Especially when a feeling pricks at the edge of my conscience that says I know Mr. Allen better than I do.

“And did you cultivate a broader taste?” Mr. Allen teases.

“Of course.” Another smile comes as I remember my father. “Nearly every evening, he roamed our house, playing whatever came to his mind.”

“It’s no wonder you miss him. There is little music at The Villa unless it has been arranged as entertainment.”

“I do miss it,” I say with a sigh. I stopped listening to music after my parents died since every song brought on some kind of memory, and by the time it was easier, the habit had been broken. “I think yesterday was the first time I’d heard the Sleeping Beauty waltz since he died.”

“And your mother, was she a musician as well?” Mr. Allen asks.

“Not at all. Neither of us had the ability he had.”

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow in surprise, and I realize my mistake. My social station is presumably high enough that both I and my mother should have been forced into some kind of musical talent, considering my father’s ability.

“Well—” I rack my brain for something to fix my slip. “My mother learned to play the piano, of course, and sing.” That’s an absolute lie. “But I’m sorry to say she was quite terrible at both, and so was I. My father didn’t press it.”

Mr. Allen laughs with me over the story, and in my relief, more memories of my family wash over me. My mom humming along to the tunes my dad played the most, or singing off-key if she knew the words. He would keep on playing, changing the key of the music to fit her if he could. They had been some of the most awful performances, but they had laughed all the way through them.

“Life has certainly been different without them,” I finish wistfully. I don’t realize until silence greets my words that Ben and Mrs. Guthrie have paused their conversation to listen as well.