Her mother and father exchanged a knowing glance when Sophie arrived just as they were opening up. Her cheeks heated but she kept her head high and her dignity intact. She hurried off to change clothes and took her usual place in the shop.
Mrs. Roseingrave made one last note in the account book and kissed her daughter good morning. “So nice to meet your young friend last night,” she said. “She certainly is a pretty one, isn’t she?”
“She is.” Sophie’s blush became a bonfire. Scrabbling for a change of topic, she looked down at the columns of numbers. “How have we been doing on the profits?”
“Not bad at all, considering we’re so new. And look.” Mrs. Roseingrave placed one slender finger next to a new column at the end of the row. “I’ve started to track your teaching wages.” The first couple numbers were already penciled in.
Sophie chewed her lip. “Not very impressive, are they?”
“Not yet.” When Celia Roseingrave’s eyes glinted, Sophie caught a flash of the ambition and fire that had made her such a celebrated performer.
Her father moved closer so his wife could see his face as he spoke. “You just need more pupils, Soph—that needs time, same as the shop does.”
“It needs more than time,” Mrs. Roseingrave countered. “She needs a bit of displaying, too. People will be more ready to hire a teacher if they think she is impressively talented.”
Mr. Roseingrave chuckled. “You already have an idea, don’t you?”
“It’s quite simple,” his wife said. “We should put on a concert.”
“Me?” Sophie was appalled. “Perform?”
“Why not? You’ve done it before.”
“And it was a disaster for all of us!”
Mrs. Roseingrave waved this aside with a flick of one graceful wrist. “That goes on Mr. Verrinder’s account—it had nothing whatsoever to do with your talent or skill.”
Mr. Roseingrave stroked his side-whiskers thoughtfully. “I like it. We could raise funds for some charitable concern or other.”
“And improve the shop’s reputation in Carrisford,” Mrs. Roseingrave pointed out.
Her husband grinned. “Naturally.” He cocked his head at his daughter. “You know a few other musicians in town from that club, don’t you? I remember you mentioning a harpist—and of course Mr. William Frampton might grace us with a piece on his violin. His father might be able to secure some attention from his connections in the court...”
One Roseingrave alone could be stubborn enough for three ordinary people—but when they banded together in favor of something, that stubbornness became truly vast and overpowering. You might as well try to soothe the storm by shouting into the gale.
If Sophie didn’t put a stop to this, they’d have her on a stage by the end of the week—only to be humiliated when she broke down in tears of embarrassment at her own incapability. It was one thing to play for the elder Mr. Frampton, or to imagine performing before a throng of admiring aristocrats in all their grace and glitter. That was a dream, insubstantial and perfect.
It was quite another to stand up in front of people who already knew her and attempt to demand their approval. She could already feel the burden of expectation pressing down on her—all those eyes, all those tongues so willing to wag. Even if she played well, the praise would sting:Who would have thought she had it in her, the little sparrow...
Desperate, she threw out a lifeline. “How about this: I will put a placard in the window advertising my services as a teacher. Once I get five pupils, I willthinkabout giving a concert.”
Her parents mirrored one another’s dubious expressions. “That certainly seems like a slower approach,” her father said.
“It seems like a waste of time,” her mother said bluntly.
“It will be a verygoodplacard,” Sophie said.
Judging by their faces, the inadequacy of this argument was as plain to Mr. and Mrs. Roseingrave as it was to Sophie herself.
She spent the rest of the morning making the placard: clear black letters, a border of musical notes, some splashes of watercolor to catch the eye.Piano Lessons, it read.Inquire Within. She put it in the front window, trying to ignore how small it looked within the window frame. Rectangles within rectangles: the sign contained within the pane, the pane within the window, the window within the shop, the shop within the street, the street within the town. The letters that had seemed to take so long for her hand to trace were but a minuscule speck in the scope of the wide, wide world.
As small and insignificant as Sophie herself.
The shop bell chimed; she sighed and put on her most helpful smile.
Maddie’s stepmother and sisters arrived two days later. Their belongings were meager and their clothes dusty and worn from the strain of the journey. The girls were solemn and shy as introductions were made, then Maddie showed them to Cat’s room.
Her stepmother nodded her silver head just once, leaning on the wooden cane she used, she said, on account of a tubercular hip. “It will do.” She reached into her pocket and extracted a few coins. “Bridget, take Susanna and find you both pinafores from the pawnshop down the way. Plain ones, mind—you can always embroider them later if Mr. Prickett doesn’t look askance at that sort of thing.”
