“Georgina? I have a friend who complains I don’t listen. I think I understand now.”
“I heard you, but I don’t know what to say. What if I meet her and like her? Won’t I feel awful begging off. And what if she doesn’t like me? Well, then there will be hard feelings. I don’t think we should create more hate for the world. What say you?”
A puzzled look shadowed his face.
“Well, my lord, you might not know what I mean. Or maybe I’ve asked too many questions. Forgive me.”
His mouth opened then closed, but no words came out.
“Please, start playing again. I’m ready.”
He did but this time it was a song I did not know—something slow and haunting. “Your singing is good.”
“From a waste to good? What do I owe the change in your assessment?”
He lifted one hand and tapped his temple. “You’re purposely trying to distract me. Is something wrong? Or is this the reason you don’t exhibit, no one has the patience to play for you?”
“Very simple, my lord. Fear. Crowds looking at me make feel very chilly. You can’t sing cold.” I listened to how he played, the command he had on the pianoforte. “And you have no fear of the public?”
“I have fears. I fear beauty being spoiled, of not creating beautiful work.”
I offered him a smile. “Those are greater fears than I’ve known. How do you withstand?”
He flipped through sheets of music. “At least I summon courage. Talent isn’t a torture.”
“You’re neither a torment nor a torture, Mark.”
“That is good. For kissing you is the thing that creates fantasies. I’d not want you to regret that moment or any moment I perform for you.”
Closing my eyes, willing my cheeks not to become fire, I turned about the room. The hymn Mark played was by some man named Pleyel. “This composer wrote songs of worship and vanity.”
“Sort of the same thing, Georgina. I suppose some worship an intelligent woman. Others think it vanity.”
“Did you just call me vain?”
“No. Helen Maria Williams wrote the words you half-heartedly sing. She is to blame for exposing you.”
He laughed and smiled at me and loosened his cravat. “You are a wonder. So bold with your questions, but timid when you sing. I’m sure practice could change things.”
Perhaps the frustrations he’d shown at me, at himself, even the smidgeon of jealousy of the duke, were the things that kept him from writing his music.
He tapped his finger. “Enough of a rest. On the third count, let’s begin.”
Trying to get that breathing thing right, I sang.
“While Thee I seek, protecting Pow’r,
Be my vain wishes stilled,
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled.”
“What is the hour, sir? We’ve been at this a while.”
“Barely two hours. But that was better, Georgina.”
Going to the window, I looked at the empty street. The sun poured through the glass.
