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The butler bowed and went about his business.
“She is in much better spirits today,” Lady Thurlby said. “The surgeon’s words were so encouraging. She must still be careful, of course”—she glanced at Ben—“but all in all, the news was excellent.” She stopped outside a door, and Ben could hear pianoforte music coming from within the room. “I will leave you here, Mr. Fortescue,” Lady Thurlby said. “Isodislike interrupting her once she has begun, but some of her pieces are quite long, and I must be on my way.”
“Not to worry, Lady Thurlby,” Ben said, “and thank you.”
She nodded, then hurried back down the corridor to the entry hall. Once she disappeared from sight, Ben quietly opened the door a few inches without knocking, not wishing to interrupt Miss Rebecca while she played. Luckily for him, he could see that a few chairs bordered the wall just inside the door, so he slipped inside the room and quietly shut the door, careful not to let the latch make any noise, before seating himself on the nearest chair.
And then he concentrated on the music—and the musician herself.
Other than watching her trip and fall at the stile, this was the first time he’d actually witnessed herdoingsomething beyond reclining passively on the chaise longue or attempting a few steps with the crutches.
Her back was angled mostly to him, her face in partial profile. She finished the piece she was playing, shut the music, and set it aside. Ben wondered if she’d heard him enter after all, and he almost spoke, but she proceeded to rummage through a stack of music on a small table next to her bench and place a new piece of music on the stand.
Ben decided to remain silent. He would wait and listen before making himself known to her, reluctant to interrupt her and the moods she was creating as she performed. She was exceedingly talented, and it had been some time since he’d heard any music, let alone such fine music as he’d already heard her play.
The piece she had chosen from the stack was not a light and delicate minuet like the one she’d been playing when he’d entered the room. This piece was deeper in nature and full of pathos. That alone made it an interesting choice, but it was thepassionin her performance that captivated him. Here, in this room, believing herself to be alone, she seemed to be pouring out her heart through her fingers, the keyboard giving voice to emotions beyond mortal words.
Giving voice to emotions he understood only too well.
The intensity of the chords and rapid scale passages she was playing eventually ended and gave way to an inexpressibly beautiful melody, hauntingly poignant and heartbreaking. He remained completely still, enraptured by what he was hearing, somewhat taken aback that such a modest young lady playing the pianoforte should affect him so deeply.
Her back was slender and straight, he noticed, realizing that it was the entire tableau that was having an impact on him. Her hair, which appeared to have a slight tendency to curl, was piled in a loose knot that still managed to look tidy atop her head. She was bent slightly toward the keyboard in concentration and occasionally—but only occasionally—glanced upward at the music on the stand, and Ben understood perfectly what he was witnessing.
She was fully acquainted with the music, which allowed her to let her soul be free to express the composer’s intent or, perhaps, overlay her own intent on that of the composer.
Devil take it, he was beginning to sound like a confounded philosopher!
The thought made him huff out a self-deprecating breath—and he realized his mistake the moment the air escaped his lips. Miss Rebecca’s hands immediately lifted from the keyboard, and she spun around on the bench.
“Mr. Fortescue!” she cried, and Ben watched, fascinated, as her cheeks turned rosy pink and then progressed to fully red before she snatched up her crutches propped nearby and rose to her feet. “You have been eavesdropping on me!” she exclaimed in a none-too-friendly tone.
He supposed he was in the wrong for not making his presence known earlier, but he was not the least bit sorry for it, for how else would he have experienced such a performance? She most certainly wouldn’t have expressed the same level of emotion in her playing had she known he was there listening. “Not precisely,” he said, responding to her accusation. “I believe a person must be listening to people’sconversationsto be considered eavesdropping. Furthermore, I was invited to listen by your mother.” More or less, that was. Lady Thurlby hadn’t exactly invited him to slip inside and listen without saying anything, but she hadn’t felt the need to announce his presence or interrupt Miss Rebecca’s performance either.
Miss Rebecca huffed out a few breaths in apparent frustration. Or was it embarrassment?
He stood as she made her way toward him, stamping her crutches forcefully on the parquet floor with each step she took.
“You think yourself clever, do you?” she said when she reached him, standing mere inches in front of him. She lifted her chin and glared at him, her bosom heaving from exertion and emotion.
“I was merely listening to a musical performance,” he said, knowing as he said it that he was lying. “A glorious performance, in truth. You are gifted, Miss Rebecca. You should be flattered.”
“It wasnota performance,” she cried, her eyes blazing like blue fire now. “You infringed on my privacy, andyou know it.”
Something inside Ben snapped. She was forthright and fiery, and the cynicism he’d clung to, his guilt, and the raw emotion in her music that he himself had felt suddenly burst within him. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, press his lips to hers, and drink in the passion he’d heard at the keyboard and that had been missing from his life until it filled the empty well that was his soul. He had felt bereft for such a long, long time.
It took every ounce of his strength to stay where he was, hands held rigidly at his side to keep from reaching for her. He fairly vibrated from the effort it required of him. “My apologies, Miss Rebecca,” he said as formally as he could. “I will not bother you with my presence any longer. Good afternoon.” He offered a curt bow and turned to leave.
“Mr. Fortescue!” she cried. “Stop for a moment. Please.”
* * *
Rebecca had witnessed a powerful, unnamed emotion flicker hotly across Mr. Fortescue’s face and then vanish. She was still angry at him, entirely frustrated with him; she knew nothing about him other than he was a widower and had inherited Mr. Arnold’s property. She didn’t understand him at all.
Even so . . .
“Mr. Fortescue,” she repeated. He paused at the door but stayed turned away from her.
What to say? She struggled to find words, knowing she couldn’t let him leave after what she’d just seen in his expression, despite the fact that she’d been mortified to discover he’d invaded her privacy. “I was caught unawares by your presence here, Mr. Fortescue, when I thought I was alone. That is all.”
