And perhaps—I looked heavenward at the sun—I should not be thinking about Mr. Winston at all.
ChapterNine
All morning and through calls, I felt full of secrets. Had someone seen me out there in the grove? Had they passed by on the road with eyes that could see through the trees?
No, we’d been too far within, too hidden.
I stretched out my hand, the one I’d used to strike Mr. Winston. My forearm ached, and my knuckles, though they’d been padded with a muffler, felt tingly and sore.
“Why did you stop playing?” Mama asked, looking up from her writing desk set in the corner of the drawing room.
My fingers settled back on the pianoforte keys, striking a chord near the end of Mozart’sFantasia No. 3in D Minorand gliding along with effortless precision.
But before I could finish the song, Mama stood, shaking out her page. “Well done. I did not notice any flaws, Rosalind. I think you are ready.”
Ready?I miscalculated and hit a sour chord right at the end. “I would not say that by any means.”
Mama set down her page and strode to the pianoforte, her red floral open robe following. She took my music and organized the pages. “A perfect piece. Marlow will be pleased. As will his mother, the duchess, I am certain of it.”
Her compliments mixed with that same strange, unsettled feeling in my stomach, and I sat on the stool with my hands in my lap.
“Now,” Mama said, examining me like a teacher inspecting her student, “have you practiced a vocal performance?”
“No,” I said with a sour face. I could sing, but I enjoyed it about as much as I enjoyed a headache. I much preferred playing. And Mama knew that.
“Do you need my assistance choosing a song?” Her tight smile gave little room to argue the matter. I wanted to groan and topple over the keys, but I’d worked so hard on my posture all day. I would not sag now.
But, honestly, was all this polishing necessary? Would I not be the same girl with Marlow as I was now?
“Actually, I know just the song.” I tilted my head and smiled innocently. “How about ‘The Irishman’?”
Mama practically flinched and grasped her neck as though to protect herself from all ungodliness. “I am trying tohelpyou prepare. Once they hear you play, they will expect to hear you sing, and you cannot sing ‘The Irishman’ in front of Her Grace and expect a warm acceptance.”
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing at the terror still evident on her face. “What, then, would you have me prepare?”
Her expression relaxed. “An Italian aria. From an opera.”
She likely already had the exact piece picked out. “Mama, you know I cannot bear the opera. If Marlow wishes to hear me sing, he can do so in the privacy of my personal sitting room after we are married.”
“Rosalind,” she said my name in warning. “You were blessed with a beautiful singing voice. Go to the library and pick an aria and practice.”
“I have already seen what we have.”
“Then the choice should be easy for you.”
We stared at each other down our respective noses. Any other time, I would stand my ground. But I had better manners than she clearly thought, and our time together seeped away like sand in an hourglass. I wanted to please her. But I also did not want to sing.
“Can I notpainthim an aria?” I finally asked.
Poor Mama looked as though her nerves would burst through her ears. “Rosalind.”
I raised my hands in a show of surrender. “Very well. I will choose an aria. But not for Marlow. For you, dear Mama.”
Her entire body seemed to exhale. “Thank you.”
I stood up from the pianoforte, wishing I could escape the house like I always used to after calls. Then the grandest idea came upon me. “But in truth, Idoknow every page in our library.”
Mama stared.
