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“And don’t call her Miss Bedlam,” said Bernadette.
“And tell her she has pretty dimples and you should like to see them.” That from Birdie. “I do miss her dimples. Her smile is so bright and cheery.”
West hated to admit it, but he’d noticed that without Miss Beaton there was a decided lack of cheeriness in this house. It seemed she was the source of all sunshine. Always a smile on her lips, always a bright look in her eyes. Without her, the entire house felt colder, as though the sun had gone behind the clouds and the house was in perpetual shadow.
“I’m going to rehire Miss Beaton and then I’m going to have some peace and quiet. Away from this house.”
Away from females.
He’d go and gamble with some of this hard-won new money in a dark room filled with men who had no agenda other than to shake the dice and have a good time.
“We’ll be waiting,” said Blanche.
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back.”
He must have her back. His sanity depended upon it.
Chapter Seven
“Father, I have the most wonderful news!” Viola ran into the music room, waving the letter they’d just received. Sometimes she still forgot that he couldn’t hear her clearly. His condition had worsened gradually, and no physician had been able to offer a satisfactory explanation.
She approached the table where he was bent over an ink-covered symphonic score. She placed her hand gently on his shoulder.
“Eh? Viola?” He lifted his metal ear trumpet.
“Good news, Papa,” she said, speaking directly into the trumpet. She gave him the letter that could be the answer to her prayers. She’d had no luck finding another position this last week. And her appeals to the duke for her back wages had gone unanswered.
The memory of the heated words they’d exchanged still stung. And she hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye to the ladies. She’d have to find a way to see them, to explain that she’d quit her employ because the duke had insinuated that he would sack her.
The blusterous jug-bitten blunderbuss!
She’d read that in a novel by her favorite author, Daphne Villeneuve, and had decided to appropriate it for use should she ever have the occasion to speak with the duke again. It described him perfectly. He was arrogant, frequently inebriated, and insensitive in the extreme.
Her father read the invitation quickly, impatient to return to his work.
“Isn’t it a stroke of good fortune?” she asked.
“I should say not.”
“Why? I thought you’d be pleased.”
Reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote her a note. Sometimes he preferred to communicate in writing.
I don’t compose trivial tunes for yuletide galas. I’m working on the world’s greatest symphony. I’ve no time for anything else. This is my legacy. The culmination of my life’s work.
Viola sighed and wrote her reply.
This is an invitation from the Royal Society of Musicians. You can’t refuse. It’s only been sent to five composers in England. These Christmas carols will be published in a volume and sent to choirs across the realm. Your name will be on everyone’s lips once again. This is your chance to be restored to favor with the Monarchy and with your Public.
Another vehement head shake and a frown. Her father’s reply was brief:I’m not a trained monkey. They don’t have me on a lead.
We need the money. And the future royalties, she replied. She’d tried to shield him from the worst of their financial woes. Perhaps that had been a mistake.
You set a yuletide poem to music, was his reply.I know you’ve published under my name before.
Viola dropped her pen, splattering ink across the page. She had accepted a small number of commissions in her father’s name, penning an oratorio for the dedication of a new library, or setting poetry to music for chamber ensembles and vocalists. She’d had no choice. Every commission helped. She hadn’t thought her father was aware of her harmless endeavors.
You knew?she wrote.
