That was her first mistake.
She nodded, moving to sit in front of the instrument. But before she passed him, she caught his half-smile. It sent another shiver through her, momentarily pushing back the fear.
Once seated, she chose a new melody. She had not played it in some time, and it was, in truth, a very simple piece, but it had always held an air of barely-out-of-reach happiness. The notes jumped about merrily, building to a conclusion she knew would not satisfy. And it did not. She often wondered if the composer intended such—if he intended to leave the listener confused and not quite content. Or if, perhaps, he had never felt true happiness and therefore could not transpose it.
She had thought it would calm her to play this song, that it would feel relieving to know that there had, at some time, been an individual who understood her feeling of beingalmostthere. Of almostfindinglasting delight in her circumstances. Of coming so,soclose.
But it left her empty.
The last note reverberated about the room, and Amelia’s hands hovered above the keys, considering playing a new song to chase away the last. But a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned at precisely the moment Edward swiped a hand beneath his eye.
When he looked up at her, she saw the moisture, and it was alarming. Edward was hardly ever anything but composed, and even when he briefly lowered his mask, she had never seen this emotion. This... sadness.
“I have wondered after that melody for a while now,” he said with a sad chuckle, as if that explained his reaction.
“Why?” She turned in her seat so she was fully facing him.
“It was, I believe, the last my mother ever played.”
Amelia waited, anticipating there was more.
“I always assumed it ended differently and that she could not find it in her to finish. Could not find the elusive happiness that song keeps at bay its entire length. But now.” He rubbed his jaw. “Now I see that perhaps she simply felt that way. That she could never find happiness with my father. Or with me.”
The clear pain reached across the space and beckoned her closer, but she did not move. “I am certain that is not true. Surely she loved you.”
“Oh, I am sure she did. She always wrote to me at school, always had Cook send hampers of my favorite treats. She even used to sneak into the nursery at night and sit by my bedside when I was young. I don’t think she knew I was awake, but I would wait for her to come most nights.” He pushed out a breath, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “That is a rather pathetic admission, is it not?”
“Not at all.”
Edward met her eyes, and this time, Amelia did not ignore the pull. She came to a seat beside him, watching him all the while.
“It is natural to wish to feel a parent’s love.” Amelia paused, her hands coming together in her lap. “My mother was similar, you know. She would come into the nursery nearly every night and kiss us each. She would always whisper something to me and my sisters. I do not know what she said to them, but she always told me, ‘You matter, Amelia. More than the stars and the moon and the sun. You matter to me, and you matter to this world—do not forget that.’” Amelia felt moisture gathering in her own eyes and quickly blinked it away. She laughed. “Funnily enough, I did forget it. Until now.”
“She was not wrong.” Edward’s eyes seared into her own as if wishing to tell her something his mouth could not. Would not.
She gave a wan smile. “So, your mother played often, did she?”
“No. Well, yes.”
Amelia tilted her head.
“She played only when she was upset. Perhaps at some point in her life she played out of a place of joy, but not by the time I was old enough to remember her songs.”
“And that was often, then?” Amelia asked, sadly.
“Yes. It was.” He paused, his legs uncrossing and planting firmly on the ground. His hand rubbed his jaw again. “You are certain you are well? Just yesterday you hardly woke. Even the physician was growing concerned.”
She nodded. “My limbs feel a bit like lead, and at times it is hard to catch my breath. But that is all.”
He eyed her. “Neither of those things seem good. I will call for the physician.”
“Mary says he is to come this afternoon. And you are avoiding telling me of your mother.” How had they fallen into their easy way of talking with all the confusion surrounding them? How could half their relationship be easy and incredible and the other shrouded in secrets?
Edward sighed. “You caught me. Very well. Living with my father was not easy, as I’ve told you. Theirs was an arranged marriage, and from what the servants and mother’s friends tell me, they never suited, though they perhaps seemed to at the beginning. My mother was soft and caring, full of energy, and my father was ruthless, hard, and detached. The marriage was made to successfully align two families, but as for my parents, they were set up to fail. Mother believed my father loved her, and perhaps he did in his way. But once they’d married and I was born, it was as if his duty to her was complete. They had an heir, and he was then free to... seek his pleasures elsewhere. Mother grew softer, quieter. withdrawn, and unhappy. Father became harder, unappeasable. When she fell sick, I believe a part of her was relieved for the escape. Or else, perhaps, she would have fought harder to remain with us.”
“I am sorry, Edward.”
“As am I.” His head angled to the ground, and Amelia ached to reach out a comforting hand. But then he spoke again, looking up at her with a gaze so intense, she would have stepped back were she standing. “But then you brought the music back to this room. You broke the spell of misery that blanketed this instrument and this home. You...” He trailed off, watching her.
