To comfort him . . .
To stand by him . . .
It’s what I wanted to do.
Yet, how could I? Our love would only draw me back to the place I’d run from—insecurity about our future, the harm his powerful family could do to mine.
I had to succeed where Katherine had failed. Mr. Carew made perfect sense.
“You sounded wonderful today. You will be brilliant at the ball. Bravo, Georgie. Bravo. Mr. Carew cannot help but love you as I do. And he will give you the best life. It’s what you deserve.”
My elation burst. Mark had said he loved me before, but this time it sounded like goodbye.
A woman in love should say nothing matters. She should run and catch her heart.
My feet were stone. I couldn’t move, not now.
He ripped his hands from the keys. “I’m sorry, Georgina. I’ve made you feel bad. I didn’t mean to. I understand about practical marriages.”
“Practical? I suppose there are some that are impractical. What do you count as such?”
“I’ve missed your questions.” He began packing up his papers. “Carew is well-off. Your backgrounds are similar. It must be a better match.”
“Because he’s a Blackamoor like me. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No. Yes. Maybe.” He shook his head. “His family will support and admire you. Mine will not. It will take years for them to come around, if ever.”
I walked away to the painting of the cousins. “Do you think Dido had support from all her family?”
“Her uncle loved her very much. Her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton, did too. Lady Elizabeth still lives, and her husband too. It was a love match.”
“What of Dido?”
“I believe she married a Frenchman and bore him twin sons, three boys in total. I’d like to think they were happy. That she was happy in her short life.”
Mark left the pianoforte. He stood behind me. I smelled ink, crisp and tart, and notes of sandalwood.
The sound of his breathing fell on my neck. If I turned now, like I readied to dance, I would be in his arms.
“She’s beautiful, like you.” His palm cupped my elbow. He started me turning. Eye to eye, he gazed at me. “Carew is the best man in the duke’s parade. If you accept him, he will be the luckiest of men.”
He said these words, yet his arms went about my waist. “Goodbye, Georgina Wilcox.”
The pressure of his hands fell away. I wanted him to hold me tightly, but I watched him walk away.
Mark slung his satchel to his back and I listened to his boots clicking on the floorboards as he exited the music room.
The man I loved would be out of Anya House in minutes. I should move. I should run after him.
But I didn’t. I let him go and surrendered to loss.
My frustration at Mark turned to respect. He was brave enough to say he loved me and strong enough to want me to have what I needed even if that was not the composer.
The sooner this scandal and ball and bet were over, the better off we’d all be.
Readying to leave, I saw a piece of paper on the floor.
Wedged between the pianoforte and the wall, I wiggled it free. It was music. I sat and played a few notes.
