‘Well, Miss Heather,’ he said with a charming smile, ‘you promised us a song.’
Heather needed no further encouragement. She took her place at the pianoforte and began to play. Her voice was sweet, though she faltered at first due to lack of practice.
Grace soon became flustered when she realised Mr Stone’s eyes were on her again.
Why is he always looking at me?
She adjusted her cap, fiddled with her glasses, and pulled her shawl tighter. To avoid conversation, she picked up a book, pretending to be deeply engrossed.
It worked.
Meanwhile, Heather launched into one of her endless stories—this time about her beloved cat, Ginger.
‘And then he started bringing in slugs and dropping them on my lap! Now he’s moved on to bigger creatures—just the other day, he brought in a live mouse! The nasty thing made a dash for it and climbed into my sleeve!’
She barely paused for breath before beginning another anecdote, but Mr Stone, looking both amused and desperate, handed her a slice of cake.
‘Ooh! Thank you, Mr Stone,’ Heather exclaimed, immediately taking a large bite.
Mr Stone exhaled in relief and caught Grace’s eye, mouthing a silent ‘thank you’.
Grace suppressed a smile and remained tight-lipped. Mr Stone looked deflated and turned to Mrs Merriweather instead.
Good.
The conversation soon turned to India. ‘I wish I could go back,’ sighed Mrs Merriweather. ‘I do miss the place—the people, the food, the beauty—but not the heat.’
To everyone’s astonishment, Mr Stone responded in fluent Hindi. Mrs Merriweather’s face lit up as they engaged in an animated discussion.
Grace, fascinated, forgot her book entirely. She had never seen Mrs Merriweather look so lively. Heather, eager to join in, attempted a few phrases but failed spectacularly.
Mrs Merriweather giggled. ‘Perhaps we should stick with English, Mr Stone. We can practise Hindi later.’
Mr Stone inclined his head. ‘Perhaps now we might have the pleasure of hearing Miss Skye sing?’
Grace froze. He glanced at Heather with a knowing smile. ‘A little bird told me she has the voice of an angel.’
Grace shot a glare at her sister. ‘I... my cough, you see—’ But she was drowned out by protests. Cornered, she reluctantly took her place at the pianoforte.
As she sang, she relaxed... until she noticed Mr Stone. He had moved to the mantel, watching her with an unreadable expression. A slow, peculiar smile curved his lips.
Her heart stumbled.
‘If you have come all this way, you might as well join me,’ she called out playfully.
To her shock, he did.
His rich baritone blended seamlessly with her own voice, sending an unexpected thrill through her. When the song ended, he chuckled—a rare, boyish sound.
Her heart stumbled again.
‘Another duet!’ Heather cheered.
Flustered, Grace declined, retreating to the fireplace and, the ever-unruffled Mr Stone, for once, looked slightly embarrassed himself.
Feeling sorry for him slightly, she relented, ‘It seems as though India left its mark on you,’ Grace murmured. For the first time, Mr Stone’s composure wavered. His jaw tensed, his fingers tightening around his cup.
‘It did,’ he admitted. ‘Not all marks are visible.’
