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“I am glad,” Marion said sheepishly, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Music has always been a pleasure of mine.”
“I suppose your mother taught you?” Simon asked, gently stroking the black keys fondly.
“She did.” Marion smiled wistfully. Simon could tell that she, too, was wandering down memory lane and hoped she would take him with her.
“Eleanor and I both had the same education, but whilst Ellie always excelled at art and drawing, I would struggle.” Marion spoke softly, but Simon hung on every word. “Yet I could always play piano naturally. It was somethingMamanand I would do together at the end of the day. We would play duets for Eleanor’s parents, orMamanwould compose and sing for us.”
“It is strange, isn’t it, how music can draw such powerful memories for us?” Simon wondered aloud. “My father was not a very open man. He was a true lord and master and very austere. But when he played the piano, it was as if I was hearing the truth of his soul.”
“That is beautiful,” Marion murmured. “I like that very much, the idea that music can reveal the truth of the soul.”
“Yes,” Simon nodded, surprised at his own unexpected poetry. Yet he was not sorry that he had said it. “And this piece, this concerto, really brings the memory of the power of his music back to me. I have heard you play other things in the house, of course, but this is the first time I have…”Simon was unsure how to finish his sentence, unsure what word adequately summed up what had happened to him when he had heard this piece of music from his childhood played from his father’s old instrument.
“…felt something,” he finished lamely. He hoped she was not disappointed by his inability to find the right words, but she smiled softly.
“I understand what you mean,” she sighed gently. “Sometimes, I struggle with self-expression. But when I play, I feel as if all of my thoughts and feelings are being expressed through the notes.”
Simon considered her words. He had never thought that a woman as poised and lovely as Marion would struggle with self-expression, but then he considered how much of her life must have been spent holding back, not saying certain things, not having the luxury of free-speech all the time like young ladies of society did. Sometimes life could make people guarded; Simon knew from his own experience that it was true for him. He wanted Marion to know that he understood.
“Sometimes, the trials of life can…stifle our self-expression,” Simon said quietly, not wanting to suggest that losing her mother or the abandonment of her father would naturally cause this, though he did have an inkling that both events would unsurprisingly lead to a little stifling.
“Has that been your experience?” Marion asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the notes. She was very astute. He liked that about her, although it did feel a little like he couldn’t hide from her.
“It has,” he said quietly. “With my father.”
“And your wife,” Marion supplied, equally quietly.
“Yes.”
He had not wanted to mention Stella, but at the same time he was grateful the truth of his feelings was out in the open. Marion didn’t seem surprised. She nodded sagely and then said, “Sometimes, we need art to express the pain and longing we cannot express ourselves.”
Simon nodded, unable to speak for a moment with the perceptiveness of her comments. She seemed to notice that he was moved by her words and sat quietly, fingering out the gentle melody of the piece until he was ready to speak again.
“I am glad that I have been able to share this with you,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” she said, and even though she kept her voice light he could feel the slight tension in her shoulders as she spoke. She was surprised by his openness, that much was clear, but he didn’t think she was uncomfortable. He could see the slight tilt of a smile on her dark, full lips.
“What piece of music reminds you of your mother?” Simon asked, pulling his eyes away from her lips, trying to distract himself from the strange twinge of desire he felt inside.
“Hmmm.” Marion thought carefully, her finger stroking middle-C reflectively. “Mamanused to play and sing to me. It would perhaps be one of the songs she wrote herself.”
“What kind of song was it?” Simon asked interestedly.
“Oh, nothing more than a simple lullaby.” Marion shook her head, smiling. “But it is the type of thing that belongs only to her. I have not heard it in such a long time.”
“Well…might you sing it for me?” Simon asked tentatively.
“Oh, I am not a great singer,” Marion deferred, looking uncomfortable. “You would laugh at me.”
“I promise that I would not,” Simon said, nobly placing his hand on his heart. “I swear it. But I should like to hear it.”
Marion looked at him carefully, considering whether or not to share this intimacy with him. Simon felt strangely vulnerable, as if he was asking her to meet him in a shared, unguarded moment and she might very well decline. He held his breath.
“Very well,” Marion said, setting her fingers to the keys, “I shall only sing softly, though, I should not want the servants to hear.”
She took a deep breath and began to sing and play.
“Ma petite fille, ma petite rose, c’est l’amour infini…”
