Bryony wasn’t certain which was the greater achievement: that Mother had indeed managed to coax Father down from his office to the dinner table, or that every member of her extended family was present, Grenvilles and honorary Grenvilles alike.
Heath, Simon, and Lord Wainwright were at the refreshment table, valiantly attempting to choke down Bryony’s latest batch of marginally more edible biscuits.
Frances and Bryony’s mother were side-by-side on the sofa, heads bent over fashion plates as they planned everyone’s wardrobes for the upcoming wedding.
Dahlia, along with her co-headmistress Faith and her family, were jostling amid a tornado of fluttering playing-cards.
Heath’s wife Nora sat in the corner with a sketchbook, capturing the entirety of the scene with her pencil. A small pug slept in a basket at her feet.
Bryony slipped her fingers into Max’s hand for a quick squeeze. “What’ll it be? Fashion plates or the refreshment table?”
“Brandy?” Max asked hopefully.
She snorted. “You don’t imbibe.”
“This seems a logical time to start,” he muttered. “Your father is heading this way.”
Bryony straightened her spine.
Father had finished his obligatory post-supper glass of port and was clearly on his way to the stairs leading back up to his office. But first, he paused briefly in front of Bryony and Max.
With his empty wineglass, he gestured toward a box in the corner. “Wedding gift.”
“For us?” Bryony stammered. She wasn’t certain her father had ever noticed her long enough to gift her anything before.
“For your mother,” he said with a shake of his head. “Perhaps now she’ll cease complaining.”
With that, he continued on up the stairs.
Bryony exchanged baffled glances with Max.
“Open it,” he whispered. “Maybe it contains someone who knows how to make better biscuits.”
She elbowed him in the ribs.
Together, they walked over to the box and lifted the lid. Bryony gasped in wonder.
Inside was a new Stradivarius.
“Music is an excellent gift.” Max’s gaze softened. “I might come to like your father after all.”
Bryony ran her finger down along the delicate curves of the violin’s body. “It’s beautiful.”
“You are beautiful.” Max stepped away from the instrument. “Do you want to play it?”
She did, actually. It had been so long since she’d created music. She plucked lightly at the strings and grinned at the realization that the instrument was in tune. Perfect in every way. Practically begging for her touch.
Now that the musicales had been canceled, she could play because shewishedto. Not out of duty, but because she loved music.
As soon as her bow touched the strings, her family and friends leapt to their feet and came together in a lively country-dance.
Everyone except Max. He had eyes only for her.
When the song came to an end, she reverently placed the Stradivarius back into its case. It was like the final piece had been returned to her heart.
“No more music?” asked the Hawkridge’s ward, Christina.
Heath immediately seated himself at the pianoforte. “A waltz, in honor of the upcoming bride and groom!”
