She hid a snicker behind her hand.
“At least it will keep them outside for a while,” their mother said firmly, as if insisting could make it true. “I’m afraid you’ll find Harriet rather underfoot today—she’s been banging away on the piano for days now.”
“Has she ever had any lessons?” Sophie asked.
“We had someone in to tutor Susan for a while—but she didn’t take to it, and I’m sorry to say she rather rebelled against her teacher. And Harriet is always happy to follow where Susan leads.” They’d reached the parlor door, and Mrs. Muchelney stopped with her hand on the handle. “I don’t suppose—Miss Roseingrave, does your father teach piano?”
“He does not,” Sophie said. “But I do. Or at least,” she amended, “I used to.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Muchelney brightened. “Would you be willing to teach Harriet?”
Sophie hesitated. “I am rather out of practice as a teacher, Mrs. Muchelney.”
The widow waved this aside. “I am not asking you for miracles, of course not—it just seems better than letting the poor girl try and figure it all out on her own. She’s barely left the parlor for days, and I swear we’re lucky if there’s anything recognizable as a tune in there.” She clasped her hands against her bosom. “Please, Miss Roseingrave, have mercy—teach her something before she drives the rest of us barking mad.”
“Let me talk to Miss Harriet,” Sophie said after a long moment. “If she’s willing to learn, I’m sure we can find someone to instruct her.”
Mrs. Muchelney beamed as though Sophie had offered an unqualified yes, and led the way into the parlor.
Harriet was indeed at the piano, slouching with her head almost on the keyboard, pressing individual notes one by one in no good order. When the door opened her head whipped around and she spread her fingers protectively over the keys, as though guarding her treasure from pillage.
Sophie smiled. She knew that jealous feeling. “Hello, Miss Harriet,” she said. “I’ve come to finish the repairs to your piano.”
A shout came from Susan down below, and a squawk from the singing teacher. Mrs. Muchelney slipped back out to deal with this new crisis, and Sophie began the repair work under Harriet’s suspicious eye.
She explained every step as she performed it, until the new panels were in place and the shell shape of the fallboard gleamed whole and unblemished again. Sophie glanced at the young would-be pianist. “Is the instrument holding its tune?” she asked.
Harriet blinked in surprise. “How should I know?”
“The sound will tell you, if you know what to listen for.” Sophie reached out and played a few light notes, then a few chords, and a few bars of a waltz. She nodded. “It sounds steady to me.”
Harriet was staring at her hands, the envy on her face so plain Sophie felt almost embarrassed to witness it. “I never realized it was out of tune before,” the girl said. “I like it a great deal more like this.”
“Would you like to learn how to play?” Sophie asked.
Harriet lit up as though someone had turned up the wick in her soul.
God, Sophie could remember feeling that way. How long ago was it? She missed it, all at once, utterly and fiercely.
Sophie pulled over an ottoman and topped it with a cushion—it wasn’t perfect, but for someone Harriet’s size it was a better seat than the stool had offered. She sat the girl on this and stood to one side. “This is called middle C,” she began, and struck the note, clear and ringing in the quiet of the room. She showed the girl how to hold her hands—sitting up straight, elbows low, wrists loose—and taught her a very short, very simple melody with one hand, singing the name of each note as its key was struck.
Harriet soaked it all in like a plant being watered. Sophie was so intent on her teaching that half an hour passed before she thought of Mr. Verrinder at all.
Of course, as soon as she did, her hands were like dead weights at the ends of her arms.
But it was something—more time with the piano than she’d had since London. And thoughts of Mr. Verrinder had reminded her that not all piano teachers were honest—or patient, or kind. Would she trust eager, sensitive Harriet to the mercy of a stranger?
There was only one acceptable answer. Sophie left Harriet happily repeating the simple tune, and went to talk to Mrs. Muchelney about instruction rates.
The widow was so delighted she agreed to the first number Sophie named—a crown per lesson!—and then Mrs. Muchelney insisted that today had counted as the first lesson, and paid Sophie on the spot.
This was the first money of her own Sophie had seen in months. And for once, there was nothing more urgent to spend it on. She held it for a while as she walked home, her hand wrapped around it in her coat pocket, just enjoying the weight of it as the metal warmed from cool to skin temperature.
On a whim, Sophie decided to stop by Mrs. Narayan’s and see if the green dress was still available. If she were to be teaching regularly, she could use something more presentable than the gowns she wore for repair work like today’s, where she feared oil stains and tool marks.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with looking her best in case she encountered Miss Crewe again.
The green dress was still there, but when she slipped behind a screen to try it on, it was a little longer and grander than Sophie’s short frame could fill.
