But this was no time to let her thoughts wander. Viscount Dirkson, still holding his grandson, was telling everyone that Gabriel had kindly agreed to play for them—beginning with Bach’s “Jesus bleibet meine Freude,” roughly translated to meanJesus shall remain my joy, with which he had enthralled the Westcott family some weeks ago.
There were some smatterings of applause and a buzz of interest as Gabriel took his seat on the bench, arranged the tails of his evening coat behind him, and looked down at the keyboard as he flexed his fingers in his lap. He was still horribly nervous, Jessica thought, resisting the urge to rub her sweating palms over her skirt. She was sitting quite close to him. The movement might distract him. Her heart was pounding in her ears. He looked really quite, quite gorgeous—a totally irrelevant thought to be having at the moment. His hair needed cutting. It was curling all over his head. She was glad he had not yet had it cut.
Oh please. Please, please start.
And he did. And he had been right. The music he produced was nothing like it had been the last time. And everything like it. For it was not a performance of something that had been written down and memorized. Yet it was Bach, surely as Bach was meant to be played. And it was music that seemed to come from a deep well of beauty and creativity andrightness. As he had done at Elizabeth and Colin’s, he closed his eyes soon after he started playing and tipped back his head slightly, a frown of concentration between his brows—until toward the end he bowed his head over the keys, his eyes still closed.
Jessica found herself swallowing repeatedly so that she would not disgrace herself either by sobbing aloud or by allowing tears to spill from her eyes down her cheeks.
When he was finished, he lifted his hands from the keyboard and made no other movement for a while. Neither did anyone else. Until Avery of all people got to his feet to applaud and everyone else followed. Except, for a few moments, Jessica.
Oh dear God, she loved him.
Not for his looks. Not for his sense of duty and honor. Not for the music that was in him. Not because he was still bringing her a rose each day. Not because he had hurried to that tearoom, knowing she would be beside herself with worry. Not even because his frequent lovemaking made her deliriously happy. Not because ofanything.
She just loved him.
He was back in his surroundings, she could see, and looked acutely embarrassed as he acknowledged the applause with a smile and a curt nod of the head. His eyes met Jessica’s and there was something in his, something far back within them, that caught at her breathing and surely stopped her heart for a moment before it resumed its beating, audible to her ears again.
He next played a short piece by Mozart and something else Jessica could not identify. Then he got to his feet and moved away from the pianoforte even though someone at the back of the room—the same person as last time?—begged for an encore.
And the party continued.
Aunt Matilda hugged Gabriel tightly, seemingly unconcerned about the tears that trickled down her cheeks. “Thank you, Gabriel,” she said. “Thank you for playing just because I asked you to. If you want, I will adopt you. Charles will not mind.”
And they both laughed as they hugged, and Jessica lost the battle with two tears.
It was only the start of an emotional hour, of course.
It was never easy to say goodbye.
Even though, as Uncle Thomas pointed out with cheerful gruffness,goodbyevery rarely meant forever.
Twenty-three
The goodbyes had been said—inevitably a small crowd had gathered outside the hotel to see them on their way—and Gabriel’s carriage had left London and taken the road north.
They had not spoken since leaving the hotel behind. Gabriel had left Jessica to her thoughts, going only so far as to take her hand in his and hold it on his thigh. Her shoulder was leaning against his. It had been an emotional leave-taking, of course. Even he had been a bit choked over the hugs and backslappings and good wishes of people he had never even heard of a mere few weeks ago. And of those from Sir Trevor and Lady Vickers. It was understandable that Jessica needed a little time to compose herself. It must be some consolation to her, though, that her mother and brother and sister-in-law had promised to pay them a visit sometime during the summer.
He looked into her face at last. “I am sorry,” he said.
“Sorry?” She gazed back at him.
“For taking you away,” he said. “Life is sometimes cruel to women.”
“But you were taken away from your life in Boston,” she said. “It was a choice you made, Gabriel. Just as it was my choice to marry you.”
“I do not know quite what we are facing at Brierley,” he told her. “It is a long time since I was there. And I was never happy there, you know.”
“I do know,” she said. “Are you fearing that your memories and perhaps the collective memories of your neighbors will wear us down and make it impossible for us to be happy there?”
He had been fearing just that, but hearing it put into words made him sound very weak. He just could not think of Brierley with any sort of joyful anticipation, though.
“I want so much to make you happy,” he told her.
“Then do it.”
“Very well.” He smiled and glanced at the pink rosebud that lay on the seat opposite. “I may not be able to find you a rose tomorrow.”
