Mr. Frampton nodded in sad sympathy. “It is hard to have a talent and lose the full enjoyment of it. I speak from experience.” He held out his hands, the knuckles knobbled and stiff. “For five years I attempted to play through the pain, but at last I was compelled to choose between loving the violin and losing the use of my hands completely. Every morning I wake up and wonder if I made the right choice.” He sighed, then wrapped both hands around his teacup. His motions were slow, but they still showed some of the fluency of long years of practice and study. The violinist took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat. “My son tells me you teach piano, Miss Roseingrave.”
“Oh yes,” Sophie said, “though I only have the one pupil, really.”
“But is teaching the sum of your ambition?” Mr. Frampton pressed. “Do you compose? Do you perform?”
Sophie flushed. These were topics she rarely spoke of, even among her own family. But he was looking at her so kindly, and had spoken so well of her mother, and her sympathy for his loss of the violin was still chiming in her heart. “I have only given one concert, Mr. Frampton. It... was not a success.”
It had, in fact, been interrupted almost as soon as it had begun.
She held tight to the teacup, letting the heat seep soothingly into her bones.
“As for composing,” she went on, “I have never dared to call myself a composer. But I do write music. Some études, a few waltzes and variations here and there. Half a sonata, once, when Mr. Keats died. But nothing—nothing I’d be bold enough to perform in public, or even send in to a publisher.” She shifted on the sofa, squirming beneath the weight of his silent, steady attention. “I haven’t written anything this year—what with the move, and—and what came before. Perhaps it was only a whim I have outgrown.”
“Could you play one of your études from memory?” Mr. Frampton asked, and gestured at the piano Sophie had been diligently not looking at. “I keep it in very good tune.”
Sophie could have demurred, except she felt it would be rude. So she steeled herself, set down her teacup, and walked to the piano.
It was a Delaval, with an older style of action, but well maintained and tuned, as promised. She spread her green skirts over the bench and wiped her damp palms on them surreptitiously. Before her nerve could fail her, she launched into the first piece she’d ever composed. It was meant to evoke raindrops: the way they’d met and melted into one another on the panes of the parlor window in London. She still could never see rain without humming it, even if only to herself. Over the years she’d refined the melody and added flourishes, ornaments she could put in or leave off as the mood struck her.
She had never played it for another person before, not outside her family. And Mr. Frampton had been a court musician, accustomed to royal standards of performance. He’d spent years with a prince in a place that existed to nourish musical genius and reward accomplishment and endeavor.
Sophie didn’t knowwhatshe was thinking, playing her childish tunes before such an expert critic. Nevertheless, when she reached the end—it was an extremely short piece, after all—she went back and played it a second time through with a different set of ornaments.
It was far from a perfect performance—her hands were stiff and cold still. She was not able to lose herself in the melody as she always sought to. But she got through it without crying, without shivering, and without that sick feeling of regret that had haunted her for so many months.
Mr. Verrinder’s harm was healing.
It was such a relief she went a little breathless, and giddily she put a few extra impromptu flourishes on the final crescendo, then brought the melody gently back to earth at the finish. The notes faded away into the silence like water being soaked into thirsty earth.
Mr. Frampton the elder nodded decisively at her as if she’d confirmed a theory. “The next time someone asks if you are a composer, Miss Roseingrave, I gently encourage you to reply:Yes, I am.” Sophie blushed in mixed embarrassment and pleasure and he continued: “I know composers when I hear one, my girl—I played with Beethoven, once.”
Sophie’s self-consciousness fled, and she leaned forward eagerly on the piano bench. “What is he like?”
Mr. Frampton stared off into the distance. “He seemed to bend the world around him; good or bad, everyone was affected. We were friends, until we suddenly weren’t—and even that proved a useful lesson for me in the end. Sometimes I think the truest proof of genius is not just what one great mind produces with it, but what it draws out of the others who encounter it.” That keen gaze cut back to Sophie and his mouth curved in a wry half smile. “Or perhaps it only looks that way to my lonely eyes—since my retirement, I find what I miss more than anything is the company of other musicians. Performing and practicing. Living and breathing harmonies and counterpoints.” He shook his head. “I once hoped my son would follow in my footsteps and surpass my own accomplishments on the violin.”
“Every father’s wish,” Sophie murmured.
“He has the talent and the ear,” Mr. Frampton went on, “but his heart lies elsewhere, and so his genius follows. I encourage him, of course—every fathershouldencourage his child in their proper sphere—but I remain a little wistful for my own sake. I spent a lifetime as a professional musician, and I had hoped to be able to use my experience and connections to further William’s career. The great temptation is to want to beusefulto him, and at times it led me to press him toward music more than I believe he wished.” He uncrossed and crossed his legs, flicking the bright silk of his robes out of the way before settling back in his seat. “I have spent my months here looking for other talents where my acquaintance might offer some scope.” His eyes gleamed meaningfully.
Sophie was surprised into a laugh. “Are you offering to send me to perform at court, sir?”
“Should I?”
Sophie stopped laughing, as ambition welled up and shoved every atom of air from her lungs. It was an enormous idea, so big she’d never dared to dream it on her own. To play before the king and his courtiers—to perform her own pieces, and take students of her choice, at rates that were enough to support herself—to be part of a society of knowledge and talent and passion for music...
To hold nothing back. And to have what she wanted most in the world.
She looked up at Mr. Frampton, whose eyes were still watching her so closely. “I do not believe I am ready for that yet, sir. But I—I think I would like to be.” She caught her hands fussing with the fabric of her skirts, and clasped her fingers to still and soothe them. Then she looked up, and straightened her shoulders. “I should warn you, I have not proven to be an easy student in the past.” So Mr. Verrinder had said, anyway—but it suddenly struck Sophie as odd that she should still believe him in this, when she knew so well how he’d lied.
Mr. Frampton shrugged. “That is of no consequence: I have no intention of being your teacher. My aim is to guide you, to polish you—if it suits you—into a jewel I may present to my old friends and rivals.” He leaned forward, his smile sly and a bit fierce. “To prove that whatever may have happened to my hands, my mind and my taste are as sound as ever.”
Sophie nodded once, sharply. She had always enjoyed a challenge. “Where do we start?”
Mr. Frampton settled back against the sofa, and nodded at the piano. “Play me something else of yours.”
“I think I still recall the first theme of the sonata,” Sophie offered. She turned back to the keyboard, and began.
It was worse than the étude—she had to start and stop a few times, until she gave up on resurrecting the actual notes she’d written and just improvised the melody until she got back to the bit she did remember. Mr. Frampton asked a few questions, and offered some suggestions, and Sophie played it once more, incorporating his criticism as best she could.
