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Her gaze softened and he detected a hint of dimple. “I haven’t yet heard an apology, Your Grace. Three little words.” She held up her thumb. “I.” Then her forefinger. “Am.” And finally her middle finger. “Sorry.” She cocked her head. “Now it’s your turn.”
“What am I sorry for?”
Her gaze narrowed.
He laughed. “Very well, Miss Beaton. I’m sorry your salary was delayed. And I’m sorry I goaded you into an unbecoming fit of rage in the library. I promise not to provoke your passions in future.”
Even though the thought of provoking her to a different sort of passion had crossed his mind at least a dozen times in the last few minutes.
“That’s not much of an apology,” she huffed.
“I’ll send my man round to collect your things tomorrow morning. Think of it this way, Miss Beaton, when you think of a truly cutting insult, I’ll be just next door.”
Chapter Nine
Westbury sent not one, but five servants to move their small household the next day. Viola could have managed it herself. They had very few possessions. Her father’s manuscripts were the bulk of it, boxes and trunks filled with music. They wouldn’t be taking the butchered pianoforte. Lord Sprague could keep his ruined gift.
She’d explained to her father that he had a new noble patron who wanted to commission a wedding march. Her father had been delighted with the patronage and temporary living arrangements, and curtly dismissive of the commission. He’d requested that Viola compose any “wedding marches, military marches, operettas, and all such trivial balderdash” on his behalf while he finished his symphonic masterwork.
This afternoon she was visiting The Boadicea Club on the Strand where she went as often as possible to use the music study where she played pianoforte and composed music in peace, without fear of anyone overhearing her working on her father’s commissions. She must embark immediately upon the Christmas carol.
The building used to be an antiquarian bookshop and still had a vast collection of books for use by the ladies of the club. Viola always felt a rush of pride when she saw the gray stone facade and the sparkling leaded glass windows. The idea for an all-female club that she and her friend India had hatched years ago had become such a solid and welcoming reality.
Her friends Isobel Mayberry and Ardella Finchley were taking tea in the cozy front sitting room.
“Viola,” Della called. “Come and join us.”
Viola stuck her head in the door. “I wish I had time for tea, but I’ve work to do and only a few free hours.”
“Well, at least come in and tell us what you’re working on,” Isobel urged. “I can tell by the intense light in your eyes that it’s a new composition.”
Viola smiled and joined her friends. “I’ve accepted an invitation in Papa’s name to compose a new Christmas carol for a gala celebration. The music and lyrics will be distributed to choirs throughout England. This could be a way for my father to regain favor and restore our fortunes. I’m going to search through the library for a suitable poem by a female poet to set to music.”
“It sounds like a spectacular opportunity,” said Della enthusiastically, her blue eyes bright and lively and her gestures animated. “We’ll all have to go and listen to it performed.”
“And we’ll know it was the daughter, not the father, who composed it,” said Isobel.
Viola smiled. “That’s all the recognition I require.”
Isobel was one of the more daring members of their club, as she had attended a school of law and accepted a clerkship at a law firm in the guise of her invalid brother—with his permission. Her tall, thin frame and sharp-featured face made the deception easier.
“That reminds me.” Della opened her reticule and searched through it, pulling out various glass vials, a magnifying glass, and several eye droppers. She assisted her father at his perfumery and was a devoted chemist. “Oh, where is that clipping? Ah! Here it is.” She smoothed the wrinkles from a page of newsprint and held it to the light. “‘If anyone has information as to the whereabouts of one Mr. Vincent Beam whose composition won second place in the Royal Society of Musicians’ contest for new symphonic works, please contact the publishing house of Atwater and Herrick...’ It goes on to give more details and offers a monetary reward.”
“Why do they want to contact Mr. Beam?” Viola asked.
“That’s the exciting part. They want to publish your work, Viola! They’ll pay you for it.”
Viola sat down in a chair. “But I can’t reveal myself as Mr. Beam.”
“And why not? There are dozens of female composers of note,” said Isobel indignantly.
“I can’t have people scrutinizing the work I did as Mr. Beam. Someone could discover that I’ve been publishing more music using my father’s name. They might uncover the role I’ve beenplaying and discredit my father’s compositions. I must keep it a closely guarded secret. Especially with his final symphony nearly complete.”
Della placed a hand on her arm. “That’s a shame. It seems that you should be able to take credit for your work.”
“Winning second place in the competition was enough for me, even if I never collected my prize. I was gratified to know that they judged me fairly, and not with the bias they would have shown if they’d known it had been composed by a woman.”
“But the prize money, the payment for publication, and the royalties. I know how much those would mean to you,” Isobel insisted. “You earned them, Viola. You deserve to be paid for your accomplishment.”
