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Her heart raced when his face, serious to the point of stark, softened momentarily as soon as his eyes found her. Even when she stood behind and to the side of Lady Clara, he looked at Molly first, even if briefly, before greeting her ladyship.
Today, Molly stood alone in the foyer, changing their pattern. Instead of stepping forward, he stood rooted to the spot, his brown eyes locked on hers. Except for his mouth, his features were decidedly handsome and masculine, with a sharp nose, chiseled jawline, and thick eyebrows. His shapely lips, however, were generous, a hint of sensuousness in an otherwise austere appearance.
She stepped forward, and color suffused the top of his cheekbones. “Good afternoon, Mr. Vogel.”
“Good afternoon, miss.”
He looked so genuine that Molly accepted his characterization of her as a miss with pleasure. She guessed she was at least a few, perhaps five, years older than he was.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vogel. Lady Clara will join us in the music room when she is available.”
Clutching his heavy satchel with a gentle grip, he didn’t move, not until one side of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. Molly turned and led him to the grand room which housed the Broadwood grand piano. Aware of his gaze on her the entire way, her own cheeks were burning when they entered the music room.
As ever, he set down his satchel on the floor next to the gleaming, carved walnut piano, but this time, their routine was changed yet again. He turned to her rather than begin his work. “I’m glad to see you, miss.”
“I’m glad to see you,” Molly whispered.
His eyes sparkled now. “How fare you today?”
“Me? I—I’m well, thank you, sir. How do you fare?”
“Very well at the moment, I thank you.”
She cleared her throat, suddenly aware that she stood in the room like an unseasoned lass, not a practical spinster and dutiful lady’s maid. Gripping her hands in front of her, she raised her chin. “The lady of the house being occupied is no excuse to shun our work, Mr. Vogel.”
“No. No, of course it isn’t.”
After lifting the piano cabinet’s heavy lid and propping it open, he settled onto the bench and played. Molly likewise turned to the familiar action of moving the candelabra from the top of the piano case. He played a few measures from the middle of the piece—three times in a row, his face intent.
He stood abruptly, nodding to himself.
“You always play the same piece at the beginning.”
“Yes. It’s not bombastic; neither too soft nor too loud. Moderate in tempo.”
“You don’t care for lively music?”
“My preferences in what I play for myself or enjoy hearing do not inform what I play before tuning. For this task, I require a piece that covers as many of the keys as possible so that I may hear the greatest range of notes.”
Indeed, his fingers had moved across and up and down the keyboard with ease, leaving almost no key untouched. Molly swallowed, removing her ladyship’s scores from the music board and trying not to stare at his masculine hands while he removed the board, his movements unhurried but authoritative.
He crouched next to his satchel. The previous tuners flipped open their tool cases, but Mr. Vogel always lifted his gently, peeling it open as if with reverence, then smoothing his careful fingers over the inside of the flap, spreading it flat. If ever a corner creased or a fold puckered in the leather, he ran his fingertips over the spot, soothing it into submission.
Secure in their loops were a variety of tools of his trade—tuning forks, hammers, hooks, pliers, and so forth. The wooden handles shone and while the metal showed use, the tools were impeccably maintained, all nestled in the case with predictable order.
Molly’s shoulders relaxed at the familiar arrangement.
A ruse, clearly! You have your own, don’t you? Dusting is not in your duties, yet you set yourself to the task nearby when poor Mr. Vogel has run through his list of excuses to retain your attention.
Remembering her ladyship’s observation, she surprised herself and Mr. Vogel by sitting down on the settee facing the piano. It was usually used by spectators visiting the Robertson household. After settling her skirts and smoothing out her starched white apron, she looked up and met his gaze as calmly as she could.
Her heartbeat fluttered wildly in her throat, but his eyes stayed on hers, and he smiled before getting to work.
She knew the answer but asked anyway. “Do you always begin by tuning A?”
“I do. I first tune every A on the piano, setting those octaves to perfection. I then proceed to the other notes, each in turn.”
Over the next hour, he paused every so often to ask her opinion or share information. By the time Lady Clara joined them, all the tools were nestled in their rightful spots, and the sheet music was returned to the music board above the keyboard.
