Tessa gasped, her lips parting in wonder. “Oh,” she whispered, the whole word shaped in reverence. “I made a sound.”
“A lovely one,” Madeline said, warmth threading through her voice. “Now try the next note.”
Tessa pressed another key, then another, her confidence growing with each small success. The notes did not line up evenly; some chimed too deeply, some too faintly, yet each one rang with unfiltered eagerness. Her face lit with each new sound, her brows lifting in triumph every time the pianoforte answered her touch.
Madeline’s chest ached sweetly. She would have traded every polished performance she had ever played for the simple joy shining on the little girl’s face beside her.
“Again,” Madeline instructed, lowering her own fingers beside Tessa’s for guidance. The warmth of the child’s hand brushed her knuckles, a fleeting contact that felt tender in its innocence. “Slowly this time. Feel the key before you press it. Think of the note as something you’re coaxing, not forcing.”
Tessa inhaled softly, as though preparing for a grand performance, then placed her fingers with careful delicacy. Shebrushed the first key with the gentlest touch, as if fearing it might vanish beneath her hand.
Then she repeated the sequence, biting her lip in concentration, her brows scrunched tight. Madeline resisted the urge to smooth them with her thumb.
She did, however, reach out and guide the girl’s wrist gently. “Not so tense. Music needs breath, even from the hands.”
Tessa looked up. “Did your governess teach you to play?”
“No.”
“Did you have a tutor?”
Madeline shook her head softly. “My father taught me.”
Tessa’s hands fell away from the keys and she stared at Madeline in wonder. “Really?”
“Yes.” Madeline’s breath caught in her throat. “He taught me many things.”
“Was he nice?” The innocence of it struck her harder than it should have.
Madeline’s gaze drifted to the far window. For a moment, her father’s smiling face flickered in her memory.
Warm eyes, gentle hands turning pages of books, his voice filling the house with laughter and reassurance. The kind of love that never made a girl feel lacking.
“He was very nice,” Madeline murmured. “He made everything feel… safe.”
Tessa leaned her cheek against her raised shoulder. “Did you lose him?”
“Yes,” Madeline whispered. “A long time ago.”
“I lost my mama a long time ago, too,” Tessa said quietly.
Madeline’s throat tightened.
“What do you remember about your mama?” she asked gently.
Tessa nodded, her small fingers pressing absently on a key that chimed a mournful note.
“Papa says I was only a few minutes old,” the girl continued. “She died after giving birth to me. I never got to know her.” Tessa plucked another key that carried in its tone a high sweetness. “Maybe she liked to play the piano or sing. What do you think, Miss Watton?”
Madeline felt the ache deep in her chest. An ache for a child never given what was hers by right.
“I’m certain she would have sung to you,” Madeline said softly, her voice warming with an ache she could not hide. “And held you close every day.”
She brushed a gentle finger across the edge of the sheet music, shoving away the gloom that was forming.
Tessa shifted on the bench, her small shoulders lifting as she leaned closer, curiosity brightening her eyes.
“What about your mama?” she asked suddenly, the question tumbling out with innocent boldness, unaware of the storm it could summon.
