Clara stood next, accompanied by Lady Demsworth on the pianoforte. She sang an angelic rendition of a French song from our youth. My courageous sister had blossomed here at Lakeshire Park. Sir Ronald hardly blinked as he watched her in clear admiration.
Clara curtseyed when she finished, and Lady Demsworth beckoned me. It was my turn. As I made my way empty-
handed toward the pianoforte, I heard Georgiana remark disdainfully to Peter about my playing from memory.
Performing for a small group was almost worse than for a crowd. Knowing each of member of the audience personally, I felt self-conscious playing something so meaningful in front of them. But Clara would know the piece, so I would play for her.
I closed my eyes, picturing the music before me, and slowly struck the first soft note.
The immediate rise and fall of the notes lifted me from the room, a melody that transcended the stars, and I escaped reality as I always did when playing Father’s song. One scale followed by another lifted me higher, until my chest was on fire, and I felt a yearning within my soul to never land.
As my fingers flew across the keys, I thought of Peter and how it felt to be so close to freedom and yet so confined to circumstance. I let the notes speak my sorrows and pains, feelings that no words could describe. To have so much in front of me, but to be so afraid, so alone, and so inept at reaching for it raged like an old familiar storm within my soul. Why could life not be like this song? Inspiring, hopeful, brave? I wanted to be as consumed by life, by love, as I was by the notes I played. I wanted my heart to burst with longing. I wanted my soul to sing.
But as the notes softened and descended, rising again only briefly and then slowing, falling, I felt my feet upon the floor again. Grounded, where I belonged. My breath caught, and tears pricked my eyes.
The air was alive with clapping and hushed praise. I rose, and my eyes found Peter, his cheeks flushed, his gaze serious. Lady Demsworth and Mrs. Turnball were standing in appreciation beside the men, and Clara stood off to the side with a hand to her chest. Only she could truly understand.
I suddenly felt very exposed, pushed into a corner like a museum display, and shut the lid of the pianoforte.
Lady Demsworth reached out to me. “That was the loveliest sound I have ever heard, dear girl.”
“It was beautiful, Miss Moore.” Mrs. Turnball breathed with feeling. “So beautiful.”
I looked to Peter, whose expression was unreadable. He studied me, much like he had last night, only now I felt like he was seeing me for the very first time. I needed to escape, to take a moment to recover.
When Beatrice took my seat on the bench and all eyes were on her, I slipped out through the back door, tiptoeing down the stairs and out into the darkness of night.
Chapter Twenty
Two glowing lanterns lit the veranda. I stole one from its perch, using it to light the stone stairs leading to the darkened expanse in front of me. Sitting on the lowest step, I set the lantern beside me as I took in three deep breaths, clasping my shaking hands together. I focused on the open fields that surrounded the estate, painted black and hilly and lush with crops.
I could not calm my mind, the melody of Father’s song haunting the silence of night. Rubbing my eyes with my palms, I pressed hard against my face as though to eradicate all feeling with sheer will.
“There you are.”
I froze as Peter’s steps stopped beside me.
I watched him settle beside me on the step, torn between the necessity of his absence and longing for him to move closer. “Peter, you should not have followed me.”
“Your music ...” he said earnestly. “Why did you never tell me you could play so well?”
His voice alone calmed my tensed muscles, easing my fears. “I have played that song no fewer than a thousand times, but put a page of any other music in front of me and I assure you I will disappoint.”
Peter laughed softly, leaning near enough to radiate warmth. We sat together in amiable silence, two friends on a stone step lit by a lantern’s glow.
I gazed up into the golden-spotted sky, so serene and magnificent. And so very far away.
When Peter finally spoke again, his voice was soft, full of compassion. “Tell me what has you so out of sorts.”
I swallowed. How could he know me so well? Were my secrets written so plainly in my countenance? “It is nothing. I am only worried for my sister. I fear I am not doing a very good job at securing a future for her.”
“I do not understand. Why must you be responsible for your sister’s match? Is that not your stepfather’s responsibility? You should be free to live as you wish.”
Should be. Yes, he was right, I should be free. But I was not. This fortnight was about securing our futures, and the surest way to do that was for me to marry Mr. Pendleton. The deed was nearly done. “You cannot possibly understand.” My words were weak, flat.
“Then tell me, and I shall.”
I gave him a half-hearted smile. “My circumstances are not your concern.”
