It made Sophie feel quite angelic, which was both gratifying and pricked at her conscience.
Julia was in white, with a spattering of small gold wings like bees, and very proud of them she was. Jasper had a waistcoat made of the same material, and had been strutting about in it all afternoon until Mrs. Roseingrave made him change to a less imperiled one to eat supper in. “Are you ready?” Julia asked.
Sophie took one last breath and braced herself. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Mr. Roseingrave had hired a carriage for the night, and a wagon had taken Sophie’s piano over earlier that afternoon. Once the Roseingraves arrived—a noisy group, as the twins and Freddy were near bursting with excitement, with only Robbie silent and ashen-faced—she hurried to test her instrument was in tune and make her final anxious adjustments.
The Carrisford Moot Hall was an old building lately refurbished: the room a long rectangle with the organ at one end, rows of pillars down either wall, and a sky-blue arch of ceiling above. It was so precise a match for the hue of Sophie’s gown that she almost wished she could fly up and disappear into it.
But that was her nerves talking. They jangled like overstretched wires down her arms and in her belly, and there was no way of putting them in better tune.
The hall blazed with light, most of it by the old Gothic window where the piano had been situated along one of the long walls, rows of chairs facing it. At the back of the rows were tables with bowls of punch and trays of sweets. The members of the Weavers’ Library were serving, bright and lively in various hues. At one of these tables, Alice sold silk souvenir programs and accepted donations for the Weavers’ Library. Sophie and the other performers clustered at the back, many holding instruments with damp hands and murmuring softly to one another.
And there, sitting in the second row, tapping one foot on the floorboards, was Mr. Giles.
Sophie estimated the tempo of his agitation by the speed at which he tapped. She knew, because she’d helped write the note, that Mrs. Money had sent word to him this afternoon that one of his investors, on the side, had made her an offer for the formula of the color-changing dye.
I knew we couldn’t trustthem,the note had said.
They have betrayed you. Horace’s rivals must have found out: they have long been looking to steal his secrets and claim the credit. They must not get hold of his formula! Horace’s legacy must not be so tarnished!
I cannot linger here past tomorrow—but nor do I dare meet you anywhere quiet, where they might ambush me before I have a chance to deliver Horace’s notes to you. If you have the thousand pounds—even if it must be in banknotes—bring it to the concert at the Moot Hall tonight.
I will be wearing green, my mourning year being past. Find two seats in the front row, and I will join you once the music has begun. One last act for my Horace’s honor, and I will shake the dust of this town from my feet.
Mr. Giles’s coat, Sophie noticed, was bulging a little on one side. As though he had a second heart hidden there. He would occasionally reach one hand up to touch it, defensively, as he waited with ill grace.
Slowly, the hands on the clock crept forward, and the chairs in the hall filled with people both new and familiar. Every carrying laugh and cough wound Sophie tighter, until she worried her joints might actually burst with the strain.
Miss Narayan wore an amber velvet that made her brown skin glow as if lit from within. She and her aunt were in the precise center of the chairs, with Mr. Samson a tall figure in between. Mrs. Roseingrave was wearing deep blue satin; she walked slowly to the front row with the elder Mr. Frampton and spoke to Mr. Giles. While Sophie watched closely, Mr. Giles moved over at her request, so that Mr. Frampton with his cane could settle into the aisle seat, with Mrs. Roseingrave beside him. Two empty seats separated Mrs. Roseingrave from Mr. Giles: the spaces reserved for Mr. Roseingrave, and Mrs. Money.
Sophie saw Mr. Giles touch his coat again, and felt her heartbeat skip double-time.
Sophie’s mother rose from her chair and murmured something to her friend. Moments later she was giving Sophie an encouraging maternal kiss on the cheek. “Feeling brave, my dear?”
“Only if bravery feels precisely like nausea,” Sophie murmured back in a burst of frankness.
Her mother smiled. “Old performer’s secret: if you’re going to be sick,” Mrs. Roseingrave whispered, “be sick and get it out of the way.” She embraced Sophie hard, kissed her husband, then returned to her seat.
Sophie shook out her hands at the wrist and flexed her fingers. She wouldn’t be playing for a while yet, but she worried if she ran away to retch somewhere she’d just keep running and never come back.
She couldn’t even think it. Too much depended on her.
Restless, she made her way over to where Harriet Muchelney stood. The girl’s sheet music was fluttering in her shaking hand, and her eyes were so big they glowed white even back here where the light was dim. “My cousins Lucy and Stephen came up from London,” she said faintly. “It’s a very long way to travel. And they brought acountesswith them.”
A lot of expectation there.Sophie cold sympathize. She put a steadying hand on her student’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”
“Terrified,” Harriet whispered.
Sophie leaned down and whispered: “Me too.”
Harriet’s surprise was clear; her eyes widened further. “But you’ve done this before?”
“Not quite like this,” Sophie said. “But I do know: it’s a little terrifying every time. And now you know something about performing—this is just how it feels before you begin.” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “It doesn’t mean anything about how you’re going to do. That’s entirely up to you.”
The girl swallowed audibly. “What if I hit a wrong note?”
“You might,” Sophie allowed. “But you just keep going.”
