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“To each her own secrets. Yours make you. Don’t forget that Mr. Vogel, your Frederick, has his own! Yes, of course he has! When you become better acquainted, your task shall be to explore each other’s armor, including the dents. His might not be to your liking. Yours might not be to his.”
Her nails dug into her palms, hands down stiffly by her side. “It’s what’s under my armor that I don’t want him to see. I’m ugly there.”
“Ah,” Lady Clara breathed. “Yes. Well, aren’t we all? You have nothing to be ashamed of, Molly. Come what may, whatever Mr. Vogel concludes, all will be well.”
It won’t! You’re leaving me, my lady. I could be too much for Mr. Vogel, too!
Molly had swallowed down the self-pity, just as she stiffened her resolve now to apply the same dedication to the piano tuner’s visit as she did in caring for the trees in the orangery.
“Can I `elp you next time, too, miss?” Thomas asked. With no one else around, he didn’t bother to hide his eagerness.
“Yes, please. I’llespeciallyneed your help when the stove is required. It’s almost October, isn’t it? These poor trees aren’t suited to an English autumn and winter. We must trick them into believing that they’re still in Portugal.”
Blowing his dark blonde hair out of his eyes, the boy looked up at the closest tree, his face a study of concentration. “Do they feel, do you think?”
“Trees?” She stepped closer to the nearest pot and ran her knuckle under a stiff leaf. “Most would say not. They’re objects, and objects don’t have feelings.
“Most `d say that I’m a’ object. I `ave feelings.”
“Do you see why we must take care of them, then? It’s not only our responsibility to her ladyship. These are living creatures who depend on us. It was a bother to fetch all that water, but without it, they’d wither and die. Without the warmth of the stove in the winter…”
“We won’t let that happen, miss. Iwon’t.”
“We’ll care for them together, then. Oh, my! Do you hear that?” Molly cupped a hand to her ear, a look of concentration on her face.
As if seeing a ghost, Thomas’s eyes widened, his mouth slack. “Is it…the trees?”
She shook her head solemnly. “It’s the chamberpots!”
His snorting laughter was as beautiful to Molly as her ladyship’s sonatas, though he soon threw a look of utter disgust toward the house.
“You can’t finish the task until you start.”
Her advice to Thomas was so sensible that it’s what she repeated to herself within the hour. The music room needed setting up for Frederick, who was due shortly to begin the major job of refurbishing Lady Clara’s old piano. She had brought it from the townhouse in Mayfair, and Molly suspected she hoped her own children would eventually learn to play on it.
After adjusting the draperies, clearing what was needed, and gathering the supplies Frederick had requested in advance, Molly had nothing to do but fret until he arrived.
