“My talents are staggering. Modesty would only obscure them.”
Despite herself, she felt the corner of her mouth pull upward. He noticed, because of course he did, and the smile he offered in return was so unexpectedly genuine that she had to look away.
He helped her sit up carefully, straightening her skirts with an efficiency that was somehow less embarrassing than she might have expected, smoothing down the fabric with brisk, practical hands. He did not make it feel stranger than anything he had done to her that night, and she was grateful.
“Go back to your room,” he said, stepping back to give her space to stand. “Sleep, if you can.”
“And if I cannot?”
He tilted his head, that familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Then you will have something pleasant to occupy your thoughts.”
Penelope straightened her spine, gathered the last shreds of her dignity, and walked toward the door without looking back. Only at the threshold did she pause.
She could feel him watching her.
She did not turn around. She simply pulled the door open and stepped out into the dark corridor, letting it close softly behind her, and stood alone in the quiet hallway with her hand pressed flat against her torso.
Her heart was still not behaving itself, it seemed.
Perhaps in the morning, she could go on another ride, alone as she had originally wanted to, until she had regained her senses.
The following day at breakfast, Nora announced that she had arranged for guests to enjoy a special performance later in the day. In the afternoon, Nora's quartet arrived.
They were four young musicians of evident talent, setting up in the ballroom with quiet, focused energy while the guests filteredin and found their seats. The chairs had been arranged in loose, comfortable arcs before the performance space, and someone had thought to open the tall windows at the far end of the room, so the afternoon light came in, filling the space with golden and warm rays.
Penelope had taken a seat randomly, noticing only when the person by her side claimed her attention that she was seated beside Matthias.
He smiled when he noticed her as well, bowing his head slightly.
“Good day, Lady Penelope. I must admit, I am quite pleased to have none other than you by my side for such an event. I believe the quality of one’s company increases the quality of enjoyment to be had. This might be the best musical performance I’ve ever witnessed.”
“You are quite the flatterer, my lord. The performance has not even started yet. There is not telling whether or not you will like their music.” She told him, amused.
Still, she was glad to be seated by a familiar face, as opposed to a stranger or worse — a strange man with poor social etiquette. Better the angel she knew than the snake she did not.
“The mere sight of you has greatly increased the possibility everything having a remarkable finish today.” He insisted with a nod.
The man was an odd one, but Penelope found that it suited him, made him appear more earnest and honest. And truthfully, from the times she had spoken to him, she found him rather interesting to interact with.
Matthias glanced around suddenly, a look of unease crossing his face. He tried to keep his composure, but he looked ready to burst.
“What is it?” she asked.
He blinked at her in surprise. “Is it so obvious?”
“You have the look of someone who would very much like to argue a point and is only waiting for the invitation.”
He laughed at that; the ease of it surprised her pleasantly.
“I was thinking about the quartet,” he admitted. “About art generally. About why it continues to be treated as a lesser pursuit, as though a man who plays the violin in a drawing room is somehow less worthy of serious consideration than one who manages accounts.”
“Society does preferably favor its hierarchies,” Penelope said.
“It does. And I find it rather a shame.” He glanced toward the musicians, who were nearly ready to begin. “I think people misunderstand what art is for. They think it belongs to the artist – that it is simply an expression of the creator's interior life,which one may or may not find interesting depending on one's taste.”
He paused, inhaling sharply, as though he wished to steady his emotions before they spun out of control.
“But… that is only half of it. The other half belongs entirely to the person receiving it. A painting, a sonata, a poem – it does not only express something. It interprets something back to the one looking. Or listening. It holds up a mirror and says, here – this is something about your life. This is something you have felt and never had the language for.”
