Maddie’s mouth went dry, and even Miss Slight couldn’t repress a quick gasp of shock.
Mr. Giles’s mouth went agape, before he got hold of himself. “Done. But in return...” He took a breath. “I would expect to know every step of the method, from start to finish. You show me how it works—and you relinquish all rights to the process thereafter.”
Mrs. Money pretended to consider—but of course she couldn’t agree. Therewasno process, nothing beyond the tricks in this room. Maddie ground her teeth together in anguish. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t what they’d planned.
This was supposed to be their moment of victory!
Mrs. Money held out a hand. “Very well, Mr. Giles. We have a deal.”
They shook on it.
Mrs. Money went on: “It may take me at least a week to reassemble the production line Horace established. Particularly since one wants to be discreet.”
“Of course—discretion is an absolute watchword,” Mr. Giles answered.
I’ll bet,Maddie thought grimly.
He bowed, and his eyes when they met Maddie’s flickered with reflected flames. “I will look forward to our next meeting,” he said.
Maddie curtsied, cursing inwardly.
This was adisaster.
Chapter Nine
The shop bell chimed a welcome. Mr. Roseingrave peeked up from the keyboard of the now-repaired Dewhurst and Ffolkes as Sophie entered. “Hello, my dear—you’re looking cheery. I take it Miss Muchelney’s second lesson went well?”
Sophie nodded, still warm in the glow of success. “The girl is a natural. And enthusiastic—she barely leaves off practicing to eat, her mother tells me. Harriet’s even asked if we have any simple pieces for both piano and violin so she and her brothers can play something together.”
“God help Mrs. Muchelney,” Mr. Roseingrave laughed.
Sophie sat beside her father on the piano bench, her green skirts looking even greener against the new varnish. “I think Harriet has a real gift,” she said softly. “She’s quick and she already seems to understand how the piano wants to be played.” She stroked the repaired keys, enjoying the sleekness of them. “She’s been composing, too—she calls it ‘fiddling,’ but it’s more than just childish noise.”
“It is a joy and a wonder to see such talent in one so young. Reminds me of another brilliant young woman I know.” Mr. Roseingrave set his hands to the keys and began the first bars of his favorite piece, an adagio by Haydn. His voice was much softer when he spoke next: “I never apologized properly for putting you in Mr. Verrinder’s path, did I, child?”
Sophie glanced up, startled.
Her father always smiled; he was not smiling now. Without that happy curve his face fell into deeper lines and shadows, the worn stone portrait of a king in exile. His hair used to be gray streaked with white: somehow while Sophie wasn’t paying attention it had become white streaked with gray. His fingers trilled over an ornament, a brief bit of birdsong in the melody. “I ought to have protected you better,” he said. “Instead I let my own hunger for renown lead me astray—and lead you into danger. I regret that more than I can say.”
“You did nothing wrong,” Sophie insisted staunchly, despite the guilt that hung around her throat and threatened to choke her. “It was all Mr. Verrinder’s crime.”
Mr. Roseingrave shook his head, white hair bouncing insistently. “He could not have led me so far down that bad road without some fault in me to latch on to. My love of well-built systems and machinery, my desire for praise, for wealth... These were my weaknesses, but they were used against all of us. You, your mother, your siblings—you did not deserve to suffer for my failings.” His hands faltered, dropping the rhythm, stumbling over wrong notes that interrupted the smooth flow of the song.
Sophie reached out at once and picked up the thread of the adagio. Soft bass notes and the light clear tune on top. Her voice still felt thick when she replied: “We lost money and a little pride, that’s all. We can recover from that. We still have each other.”
Mr. Roseingrave sighed. “I’ve missed hearing you play, you know. I’ve missed hearing the songs you create.”
Sophie’s hands slowed.
Her father took over the left hand of the piece while Sophie played the melody to match. They’d played solo works as duets like this when Sophie was learning—it had helped to break down difficult compositions into manageable halves. Together they could play much more ambitious things than either could play separately.
They brought the movement to a close, notes fading away. Sophie pulled her hands from the keyboard and into her lap.
If anything, she should be the one apologizing. Mr. Verrinder might have deceived her father—but he had not deceived Sophie. At least, not entirely.
“Six months between London and here,” Mr. Roseingrave said into the silence. “I think it’s the longest I’ve ever seen you go without touching a piano. And I was so wrapped up in my own guilt and shame that I didn’t even notice—until I walked in and heard you playing for Mr. Frampton the other day.”
Sophie flushed. She felt as though she had betrayed him somehow. Piano had always been the thing they shared with each other. “I didn’t mean—”
