Lucasta had no siblings, and while she would claim the girls of Miss Gregoire’s as being as close as sisters, and Cici was growing dear to her as well, she had never had a brother to demonstrate such protectiveness and solicitude. What a marvelous thing it must be to have a man like Jeremiah Falstead so dedicated to one’s well-being.
Judith smiled sadly. “But who would have the patience to teach me?”
“I would,” Lucasta said. “If your brother permits it.”
It was unadvisable to offer such a thing, she realized at once. Having no command of transportation, how was she to get herself to Little Chelsea for regular instruction? Rudyard had brought her to meet his family, not insinuate herself into their lives. But she would find a way, if just to see the joy spreading over Judith’s face.
“And me?” Bertie ventured. “I would adore lessons as well, Miss Lithwick, but my mother is deathly afraid that a male music master would press an advantage. She has heard too much gossip to that effect, I’m afraid.”
“I should leap at the opportunity,” Lucasta said. “If Rudyard does not disapprove.”
Offering to give Bertie lessons was even less wise, for then she would be frequenting Arendale House and risking too much contact with Rudyard, whose power to unsettle her would only grow with each exposure. Even now her eyes could not stop straying to him, noting that bold-featured face that grew more handsome each time she looked upon it, the leashed strength and grace of his powerful form.
She recognized the tendrils of infatuation taking root and knew she must stand guard against them. She might be in needof funds and self-sufficiency, two problems giving music lessons could remedy, but she could not afford to be a fool.
“That is,” she added belatedly, “if you think I might be of any use as a teacher.”
“Perhaps,” Rudyard said in a seemingly idle tone, looking out the window instead of into the room, “you might entertain us with some music, Miss Lithwick. It would be a treat for the children.”
She recognized his casualness was forced. The man was becoming as easy to read as a musical score.
He wanted to hear her perform. And she wanted him to hear her.
“Are you certain it would be a treat?” Lucasta could not resist teasing him, hoping to poke past that veil of assumed indifference. “You have not heard me play, Lord Rudyard. In fact you persuaded the governors of the Foundling Hospital to give over their precious concert to a musician whose skill you have never heard tested.”
His eyes glowed with an answering challenge. “Do you think I was sleeping that afternoon at the Hospital, like your maid? I assure you I was listening.”
Judith paused, her head tilted as she listened to the exchange. “Do play for us, Miss Lithwick.”
“And sing,” Rudyard prompted.
There went those bubbles again, rising in her like champagne. “Perhaps a song or two.” Lucasta eagerly approached the spinet tucked in the corner. “This is a Baker Harris,” she said in surprise, glancing at Rudyard. “Did you visit his workshop?”
“Will it do?” Judith sounded anxious.
“It’s a lovely little bentside.” Lucasta pushed back the cover of polished mahogany and ran her fingers over the keyboard. “Practical for a small space, and very useful to learn on.” Sheplayed a quick scale and leaned close to listen to the pitch. “It’s perfectly tuned. I do love the sound of the spinet. It’s richer, deeper than the harpsichord. Gloomier, one might say.”
“You prefer gloomy?” Rudyard regarded her with a curious expression.
“I prefer rich and textured,” Lucasta replied. She shook back her sleeves and warmed her fingers with a few more scales, testing the weight of the keys. “Shall I play a Welsh song, in honor of Mrs. Cadogan? I know an old love song that a friend at school taught me. It translates to ‘Watching the White Wheat,’ or something like that.”
She launched into the song, a melancholy, resonant tune that suited her range and allowed for full-throated expression. The rest of the room drifted to the fringes of her awareness. For the first time that day, she was in her element, no longer plain Lucasta Lithwick but a vibrating chord of sound, a hollow reed for the air to move through.
Mrs. Cadogan sniffled from the doorway when the song ended. “Aye, but I love that air.Bugeilio’r Gwenith Gwyn.” She dabbed her eyes with the hem of her apron. “I haven’t heard that in an age, Miss Lithwick, and never sung so lovely as you did.”
“It’s a sad story, I believe, about a girl who dies of a broken heart when she cannot marry her love,” Lucasta said. “But I quite like the tune.”
“Ann Thomas, the Maid of Cefn Ydfa, and her Wil,” Mrs. Cadogan confirmed. “They’re buried together at Llangynwyd, rest their souls.”
“More,” Starria demanded, inching her chair closer to the spinet. “Don’t stop now, Miss Lithwick.”
Lucasta moved on to some familiar tunes, “Soft Flowing Avon” and “The Trees They Grow So High,” hoping her audience might sing with her, but they appeared content to listen. “Is there a song we all might sing?” she asked finally, turning abouton the stool. The faces regarding her were rapt, Bertie’s eyes filled with tears, Judith’s face dreamy and far away.
Lucasta regarded the younger children, who stared back at her with wide eyes. “Do you have a favorite nursery tune, or a lullaby?”
“Our nurse will only sing hymns to us,” Hannibal explained. “She’s a Methodist.”
“Jem, I wish you would sing with Miss Lithwick,” Judith said softly. “We rarely hear your voice anymore.”
