“Where the blazes did you get the piano?” Philip winced at his own tone. It came out harsher than he’d intended.
The children looked up, surprised, and Miss Weston, blast her, looked at him with that adorably confused look on her face that she sometimes had when he did something unusual.
Katy jumped up. “Isn’t it a beauty? Miss Weston organised it for us, and Mr Argus brought it from town in his cart. It didn’t cost us a penny. Widow Woodhouse lent it to us in return for us visiting her. Didn’t you notice it standing here since yesterday?”
Philip had to admit that he hadn’t.
“I know I should’ve asked your permission first. But things developed rather faster than anticipated.” Arabella looked apologetic.
He shook his head. “You are a miracle, Miss Weston. I was only joking the other day when I told you to procure a piano.”
“Yes, well, it isn’t entirely free. I shall have to spend every Friday afternoon with the Widow. Will that be acceptable to you?”
She tucked a strand of blonde hair that had escaped from a bun that seemed like it didn’t hold very well. If he untucked that pin that half-peeked out from her hair, would it tumble down to her waist, or lower?
“Mr Merivale?”
“Play something.” He waved his hand. “Something proper.”
Arabella hesitated. “Very well.” She sat down, spread her fingers over the keys and closed her eyes. Philip sat down next to Joy on the sofa.
Then she played. Dear God. How she played. He did not know much about music, but even his unschooled ears could recognise music of quality when he heard it. It must be Beethoven, or Mozart, or something of the sort. It was deeply powerful. Her slim fingers danced over the keys, and he saw the little golden hairs curl in her graceful, swanlike neck as she bent over the piano, with eyes half-closed. When was it the last time he’d heard such magic? Powerful feelings surged in him. He swallowed.
Then she came to an end, and the children clapped, delighted.
“I want to be able to play like you, Miss Weston,” Katy proclaimed.
Philip cleared his throat. “That was well done,” he said gruffly. She was a bloody miracle.
A faint pink sheen spread over her cheeks. “Thank you. But we ought to continue with our classes now. Unless there was something particular that you wanted?”
Yes. Why had he come here again? He could hardly remember.
“Have you come to teach us arithmetic, Papa? Miss Weston’s problems are easy as pie.” Robin yawned to underscore his point.
“Another time. I wanted to ask whether —” Blast it, what was he that he wanted to say? He scratched his neck. “Have you all eaten properly?” he blurted out. He’d been sitting with them at the same table an hour ago, and he knew very well they’d all stuffed themselves with Peggy’s roast chicken.
“Yes, Mr Merivale. Dinner was very good.” She kept looking at him, and his heart started to beat away in an unusual fashion.
“No burned pancake with blueberry jam for a change.” He grinned to play over his awkwardness.
“No.” She set her jaw. “If there’s nothing else, I hope you won’t mind if we continue our lessons?”
“Lake,” he blurted out. Blast it if he didn’t feel like a schoolboy himself. “Let’s go to the lake,” he clarified, almost sighing with relief when he saw their faces brighten.
The children dropped their studies and rushed outside.
“There’s a small lake nearby that is perfect for swimming with children. It’s warmer than the ocean,” Philip explained.
When the sound of rushing footsteps abated, Miss Weston said with a frown, “Mr Merivale, this won’t do at all.” Now she did look all starchy and governess-like.
“You can continue your studies later. No one can think in this heat, and the children need to cool down.” It wasn’t that warm outside, but it was tolerably sunny, and the water would be bloody cold.
“Very well.” She set the book down. “They did have trouble concentrating today.”
“You’re not coming?”
She shook her head.
