Chapter One
Arthur
January 1893
Flames flickered in the nearby fireplace while Arthur Hughes sat on the yellow-and-brown-striped sofa, one foot resting on top of its opposite knee, his right thumb tap-tap-tapping his thigh. Musical notes filled the room. Arthur flinched at each of the occasional mistakes in the familiar sonata. Dammit, how many more times would Emma have to play this piece before he could evenpretendthat her performance had been satisfactory? He let his eyes wander to the mantel clock. Noon. Arthur was scheduled to meet with Harry Putnam in less than one hour’s time. He couldn’t keep listening to Emma’s half-hearted, unpracticed performances for much longer.
Returning his focus to the piano, Arthur caught the eye of Emma’s tutor, Charlotte, and forced a tight-lipped smile. Charlotte simply crooked an eyebrow in response. Arthur had to then purse his lips to try to contain a veryrealsmile that was threatening to burst forth.
Charlotte placed a hand on Emma’s shoulder, signaling her to stop playing.
“I think your father is running short on time,” she said. “We’ll practice more later.”
Emma heaved a sigh. Arthur could practicallyhearher eyes rolling. Biting back the urge to reprimand her, Arthur uncrossed his legs and stood.
“Your playing is better,” he said simply, straightening his jacket. “Definitely better.”
Still terrible. But better.
Emma swung her legs over the bench, her fast movement so inelegant it had to have been purposeful. Arthur held back from commenting. Again.
“I have no ear for music,” Emma said, with the overinflated sense of self that most other sixteen-year-olds possessed but typically kept better contained. “I keep telling you.”
Arthur replied, “I know piano isn’t yourfavorite—”
“No, it’s not,” Emma clipped.
“Emma,” Arthur said, leveling a look. “Your mother loved to play the piano. And I know for certain that she would have liked for you to learn. Can’t you at leasttryto share this with her?”
“It’s not like she’s here,” Emma said bluntly.
Arthur fought back a wince. Even though her callousness pained him, he tried to tell himself that his wife was more of a folktale or a specter to Emma than a mother figure, as hard as that was to believe.
It took Arthur an extra moment to collect himself enough to respond.
“No, she’s not,” he finally said. “But I like to think that she—”
Before Arthur could finish his sentence, Emma hopped to her feet. Rather than try to stop her, Arthur watched her skulk off. Charlotte came up beside him and touched his forearm.
“I’ll talk to her,” she said.
“Don’t bother,” Arthur said wearily. “I had a temper myself when I was her age. It’ll pass. Eventually.”
“I’m sure you were more respectful to your parents.”
“Only to their faces. Did you forget the reason why Ella and I had to marry so young? And in such haste?”
Charlotte had been friends with Ella. It was how Arthur had met her. He had even liked Charlotte a little before that ball where Ella hadreallycaught his eye. Thinking back on his exploits, Arthur ran a hand over the lower half of his face.
“I was a master manipulator,” Arthur said. “Deceitful. I was so cavalier, too. Eager to be the opposite of whom my parents wanted me to be. But I realized, eventually, that I needed to change.” His face fell as the weight of that statement settled into his brain. “Now I’m exactly like my father, only I’m more miserable.”
“You’re nothing like him,” Charlotte said. “Trust me.”
“How am I not? I live for my work. If you can even call my pitiful investments that. I have no real friends, either.” Charlotte reeled back, prompting Arthur to correct himself. “Alright, I haveonereal friend. But I pay her to be my friend so I’m not sure if it counts.”
“It counts. I’m not your friend because I work for you. Frankly, I could probably be paid better elsewhere.”
Arthur huffed a barely-there laugh. “I pay my staff poorly. Add that to the list.”
