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“Perhaps. But I do.”
“As do I. As I lovethis.”
As she began playing, James walked around the piano. Though her hands moved over the keys with impressive alacrity, he wanted to see her face.
The piece opened with a placid rhythm, a tenor note delicately but consistently repeated like rain. Eyes closed, Clara’s body swayed back and forth slightly as she imparted the music to the instrument.
Suddenly, she leaned wholly over the keys, pressing gently. The piece took on a tentative, quiet feeling, yet still he heard the continuation of the tenor note, trickling relentlessly.
Slowly, very slowly, the volume and the tempo increased. He held his breath as the storm built. Clara’s head fell back when a playful breeze swept through, then she leaned over the keys again.
James breathed rapidly through his nose, his body responding to the mood shift. The melody shifted ominously to the low notes; Clara’s body tensed, the expression on her face that of near pain or pleasure.
She obviously loved this part of the piece, so he did, too. She unleashed more brooding energy, and the persistent tenor note strengthened. James imagined charcoal-colored clouds merging their power, but still only releasing a light, steady rain.
Clara’s fingers rose up suddenly to attack the keys in a release of energy, and the storm crashed down, its intensity stealing James’s breath. Throughout the rolling thunder, that inexorable background note of rain pounded faster now.
Despite the massive release, James wasn’t ready for it to be finished. The mood returned to that of a steady, light rain for a brief time. Though lovely, it felt right when force gathered again; portentous, heavy notes built to another crescendo of thunder and pounding rain.
Afterwards, Clara returned to the quiet and soft fingering she employed for the gentle build up.
James trembled at the magnificence of the piece—of Clara’s performance—as the last notes haunted the room.
Neither of them spoke.
Eventually, she stood, looking exhilarated. “Your piano is splendid.”
He scoffed. “It’syouwho’s splendid.”
“Until my time with you, playing like that was the closest I’d been to ecstasy.”
He shook his head. “I’m torn. I want to gather all of London to hear you play, to be as enthralled as I. But I’m gratified, lass, that it’s with me you’re sharing this. I want to stab the eyes of any man witnessing your head falling back in pleasure like that.”
Clara laughed, then shook her head. “You’ll be glad to hear, then, that I struggled with that piece with Mr. Chopin. He was in London only a matter of months. I’m sorry to say, it was after he returned to France that I progressed.”
James stepped closer to her, wanting to dispel the sadness that returned suddenly. “I won’t lie, lass. My jealousy is more than jest. But I’d never interfere with your lessons, even with some Frenchman.”
She swallowed. “Those lessons probably saved me from deep melancholy. It was difficult after Aunt Violet died. I can’t even begin to imagine how much time I spent practicing. I suppose it was the distraction I needed.” She shook her head ruefully. “My servants’ poor ears.”
“Your aunt must have loved to hear you play.”
Her eyes dropped.
“Did she not enjoy it?”
“Shedid. But I could never have played such a…disruptive piece for Violet. She’d have said I was experiencing hysteria! She approved so long as I selectedvirtuouspieces.” Clara smiled painfully, guilt on her face. “I played her favorites when she was near. But her hearing was so poor that if I played quietly, I could practice whatever I wished.”
She turned away, and he knew that her renewed inspection of the piano was to cover her tears. Without making her turn around, he pulled her back into him, wrapping his arms around her.
Her body was rigid at first, but she sighed and leaned back into him.
“You miss her,” he said quietly.
“I do.AndI feel terribly guilty. Studying with Mr. Chopin was one of the greatest privileges I’ll ever know. Never could I have done that when Violet was alive—and not only because of time. Perhaps I’d have gone secretly, I don’t know. But I know she wouldn’t have approved. Just as she wouldn’t approve of…how I’ve lived since she died.”
James bit his tongue against spurning the wishes of someone like Violet. He hadn’t even met the woman—not to mention, she was passed—and he felt her disapproval.
Clara’s pain now was compounded by the unspoken—her brother’s wrath should he learn of their affair.
