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Rafe did as he was told and strolled over to the row of chairs. Mrs. Crawford immediately noticed his approach, but Miss Sparrow was distracted. “Is this seat taken?”
She glanced up at the question and broke into a smile. Rafe had addressed her, but Mrs. Crawford answered: “Sit, sit, Mr. Davies,” she urged with a wave of her fan.
Rafe hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. He slid into the chair and immediately inhaled that wonderful scent of lavender and fresh linen. “Do you enjoy the piano, Miss Sparrow?”
She nodded, then seemed to consider something. “I took lessons when I was younger,” she said after a moment. “My father hired a rather exacting German man to teach me, though he never deemed my talent anything more than ‘tolerable.’”
“Then you were far more successful than me. I spent most of my music lessons playing pranks on my teacher. The poor chap finally quit after I hid a frog in his satchel.”
“Oh, that is awful.” She laughed. “I wasterrifiedof Herr Becker. I used to tremble during the first few minutes of every lesson.”
“Do you still play?”
“Only when I am called upon. But nothing more advanced than Beethoven’s middle period. I do love the Impressionist composers though.”
Rafe nodded in agreement. “I saw a wonderful program that included a piece by Mr. Debussy at the Proms in London this summer. Have you ever been?”
She hesitated again, the movement so tiny that he almost didn’t catch it, but then she shook her head. “No. I’ve never had the privilege. I’ve only been to London briefly, once I was hired by Mrs. Crawford. And we left for Scotland shortly after.”
“I have great plans for her once we return, though,” Mrs. Crawford cut in, giving Rafe a significant look. He could have sworn she was hard of hearing, but it was a good reminder that she was sharper-eyed than most. “I think my young companion will be particularly interested in the British Museum’s Egyptian collections, especially before our trip. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Rafe nodded. “Unfortunately, much of the country’s greatest treasures are housed there.”
Miss Sparrow raised an eyebrow. “You disapprove of the practice?”
“Well, yes. Those items are invaluable cultural artifacts stolen by tomb raiders. If someone had come to England and taken off with the crown jewels, there would be a war.”
“Oh, but it is hardly the same!” Mrs. Crawford insisted. “If it were not for the valiant efforts of men like Sir Petrie, much of those artifacts would be lost to the desert.”
“Those efforts were aided by the native Egyptians, madam,” Rafe gently reminded her. “Most of whom were deceived by those very same explorers. I don’t call that valiant.”
Mrs. Crawford looked like she had a great deal more to say about that, but Lady Arlington, who had been busy discussing the program with the other performers, took her seat at the piano, and the audience went quiet. The old woman huffed and sat back in her chair, but Miss Sparrow was looking at him with a delightful little smile of approval. Rafe gave her a wink, just in case she (or he) forgot his libertine ways, and turned toward the front.
Chapter Seven
Sylvia had had very few opportunities over the last few years to hear live music, aside from Sunday church service. Unfortunately, Herr Becker would have declared the organist in her little village intolerable, as old Mrs. Morrow’s repertoire seemed to consist of the same three hymns. One could hear “Nearer, My God, to Thee” only so many times without screaming. When Sylvia had first arrived in London, she had taken every available opportunity to see concerts, including a particularly memorable outing with Bernard to the Queen’s Hall. She had been so dazzled by both the concert and his attentions that she’d ended the evening in his bed for the first time.
But after she’d returned home to Hawthorne Cottage, she had been restricted to the piddling entertainments available in the village and church on Sundays.
Listening to Georgiana, however, was an even rarer treat. At school she had been widely regarded as an excellent musician who played with an undeniable joyfulness. But all that had ended after her marriage, as the viscount didn’t approve of his wife performing for an audience. Usually Georgiana never questioned him, but he was hundreds of miles away now. And they were all the better for it.
As soon as Georgiana pressed her hands to the gleaming white keys and released the opening notes of a Chopin nocturne, Sylvia was transported. The music seemed to pulse through her body, racing across every inch, every limb until she was filled with nothing but pure sound. How she had forgotten what it felt like to get lost in something that went beyond herself. To revel in one of life’s true pleasures. Sylvia would never understand why Georgiana had given up so much of herself for a husband, and during her first Season. The longer she played, the more she seemed to emit a glow. With every note her blue eyes grew more vibrant, while the furrow between her brows deepened in a look of single-minded focus. Where had this Georgiana gone to? A bittersweet ache moved harshly through Sylvia, and she closed her eyes. A Mozart sonata followed, along with a newer piece Sylvia didn’t recognize. But every note was full of Georgiana’s passion, her talent, her determination. The things she tried so very hard to hide behind her serene smile and cool exterior. All too soon the music ended, and the pulsing sensation slowly faded into the echoing silence.
When she opened her eyes, Georgiana was perfectly calm and collected once again. All traces of her impassioned display had been carefully smoothed away, as if they had never surfaced—though she looked slightly embarrassed by the audience’s enthusiastic applause. Sylvia felt a sudden, sharp pang of regret. She wished she knew how to help her dear friend, but Georgiana refused to even admit anything was wrong. Refused to see just how much she had given up. And Sylvia wasn’t in any position to push her further. They were both trapped by their lies. Mr. Davies wordlessly handed her his handkerchief. To Sylvia’s utter embarrassment, a tear had slipped down her cheek.
“Thank you,” she said softly, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him just yet. She felt too raw to be seen by anyone at the moment, as if the very notes themselves had stripped her bare.
“Of course,” he murmured with a gentleness that washed over her like a warm embrace, and she turned to him then, drawn by something even stronger than her embarrassment. But his voice was nothing compared to the kindness in his eyes, and Sylvia’s heart twisted so hard that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.
Mr. Davies noticed her distress and grew alarmed. “Are you all right?”
She inhaled deeply as the precious organ skittered, searching for the right beat. “Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“You were affected. By the music,” he offered as his gaze darkened. The penetrating look sank even more deeply than the music had.
Sylvia turned away, unable to articulate her true feelings. It wasn’t only the music that had affected her. “I haven’t heard anything so beautiful in a very long time,” she admitted, then shook her head and tried to give him back his handkerchief. “I’m sorry. I feel so silly––”
“Please don’t,” he urged in a rough voice. “It was quite…moving.”
