“Yes—and then she’ll be in the center of that web of rumor,” Emma said. “Nobody gossips like a lace maker.”
“If she’s listening to any gossip, she’ll hear plenty about Mr. Giles,” Maddie said firmly. “I can’t imagine any world in which my stepmother would approve of anything he’s done.”
“Having only just met her, I agree,” Emma replied.
Chapter Twelve
Winter was showing no signs of yielding to the tender onslaught of spring. Icicles still hung from eaves and branches, and buds still hid beneath the dark earth. The whole world felt like it was in a long, enchanted sleep.
And yet Sophie felt spring-like. Sometimes she felt so restlessly joyful she was surprised it didn’t come climbing out of her skin like leaves or feathers. Part of it was Maddie Crewe, who had become a frequent visitor at the Roseingrave house.
Part of it was feeling like she was finally getting music back. She had no idea how she’d done without it for those six months. She hadn’t realized how deep that shadowy place had been until she found herself slowly emerging from it.
She and her mother had made several subsequent visits to the Framptons. The violinist wore powder in his hair, and Cecilia Roseingrave put on the one best gown she’d kept, in which she’d performed before crowned heads and admiring courtiers. The two musicians had a great many acquaintances in common, all of whom were distant or deceased—both conditions which made them well worth talking about. Sophie lost track of the names in the wealth of anecdotes. In Mr. Frampton’s company, Mrs. Roseingrave bloomed like a cut rose given water.
It gave Sophie a queer feeling in the core of her, as though she were trying to remember tomorrow night’s dream. She spent most of the conversations silently listening, trying to puzzle herself out.
Sophie had learned the art of silence from her mother, who used her voice more strategically than the other, noisier Roseingraves. Her confused hearing was an impediment in a crowd, but it was much less trouble in quiet conversation with only two people who knew to speak clearly. She had stopped even bringing her ear trumpet after the second visit, as Mr. Frampton learned how to pitch his voice to suit the strongest range of her hearing. And when Mrs. Roseingrave talked with Mr. Frampton—reminiscing over past concerts, discussing shared friendships, turning over old pieces of gossip like heirloom gems—Sophie heard the echoes of an extraordinary career. She’d known this, of course, ever since she was little. But it was one thing to have heard of it; tofeelit now as it unfolded in story after story was something of a revelation. It illuminated the shape of the world, the way a sound from two streets over could make one newly aware of the geography of houses and buildings.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother sing. Properly sing, for an audience, not just hum a tune under her breath. She was still trying to remember when Mr. Frampton waved her over to the piano.
These weekly private performances were also now a habit—and, since Sophie was still thinking of her mother, she played one of the few pieces she’d written with a sung accompaniment. Sophie’s voice would never fill an opera house to the rafters, but she could decorate a sitting room prettily enough. The lyrics had been printed by Griffin and Brinkworth’s in Melliton, but Sophie had changed the traditional tune out for one of her own devising.
Mr. Frampton thumped approval with his cane when she was finished, in lieu of hurting his hands with applause. “I particularly enjoyed the flourish at the end,” he said. “But I have to ask: How is the waltz coming along?”
Sophie had played him parts of the waltz she was writing for Maddie. “I’m still working on that second section,” she said. “It’s improving, but I’m not sure it’s ready for you to hear more just yet.”
“You are aiming for perfection,” Mr. Frampton said sympathetically. “It’s understandable. What musician worthy of the gift doesn’t wish to be perfect? But it’s unattainable. Either you’re on the upward slope and still learning how to achieve your designs, or you’re past the peak and tumbling down into overanalysis—forms without feeling.”
“So then how do you stay at the top of the hill?” Sophie asked.
“You can’t,” her mother replied, setting her biscuit on the side of her saucer. “You have to pick yourself up and keep going, try again. A musician gets only so many chances to stand in that place and give everything she has.”
“Only so many perfect moments,” Mr. Frampton agreed. “The trick is to recognize them when they’re upon you.”
“They’re worth it,” Mrs. Roseingrave sighed. A wistful smile curled the corners of her mouth.
Sophie suddenly wanted to give her mother more than wistfulness. “Will you sing for us, Mama?”
Mr. Frampton sucked in a breath.
Mrs. Roseingrave looked into her teacup for a long moment, then set it aside with a click. “Perhaps just a little something,” she said.
“My music library is entirely at your service,” Mr. Frampton said at once.
Sophie rifled through the sheet music under her mother’s eye. “This one,” her mother said, snagging the corner of a piece for voice and piano.
Die Alte,the title read.The Old Woman.Sophie cast an eye over the lyrics and their translation: the first verse was all about older, better days and maidens not provoking their mothers. She raised an eyebrow. “A little pointed, don’t you think?”
“Who is singing it—me or you?” Mrs. Roseingrave’s lips pursed teasingly.
Sophie snorted, and spread the music out on the piano. Her mother rested one hand on the case, the better to feel the rhythm.
Mr. Frampton laughed in surprised delight as soon as she struck the first notes. Cecilia Roseingrave’s voice was a little rusty at the start, as she sank into her character’s delicious grumpiness to complain about controlling husbands, indiscreet youth, and a comet that threatened the whole social order. But once warmed up and fluid, there was such a wealth of stodgy offendedness in her tone that Sophie was giggling outright by the time she brought her hands down on the closing chords.
Mr. Frampton pounded approval on the floor as Mrs. Roseingrave curtsied. “Brava!” he cried, using his cuffs to wipe away tears of mirth. “I should like to see any new young soprano do half so much justice to that piece.”
“The young sopranos are too busy filling the opera stages and concert halls, I’m sure,” Mrs. Roseingrave said. “Getting up at dawn for rehearsals, staying up past midnight for performances, charming the composers so they’ll write an aria specially for you.” She resumed her seat on the sofa and put her hands round her teacup again. “What is youth for, if not to be used up?”
