Dido’s stare had taken it away.
In the middle of the chaos with the ill little girl, the duke had done some decorating. He’d arranged to have the portrait of the Mansfield cousins on display for his ball.
Her poise and pose, readying to dance, reminded me of the many days I stared at her. Why this painting? Why now when I hadn’t thought of her since Georgina and I had been practicing?
Obsession over a painting was ridiculous.
Yet it was here at Torrance’s request to torture me.
Putting my fingers to the keys, I began to play my melody. And I tried hard to ignore the portrait, a set of mere brushstrokes on a canvas of a woman gone from the earth.
Why wonder about her thoughts as she stood before the artist?
How many hours had I labored over the song Dido must’ve had in her head the moment she twirled from her cousin?
I started playing again from the beginning of my composition, getting the beat right, the nice three-quarter measure. This piece was intricate and swift and right in its crescendo.
Then nothing. It was gone again.
Was this Dido’s doing or my fears for Georgina? The horror on her face when Torrance took the unresponsive Lydia upstairs chilled the marrow in my bones.
I wanted to be upstairs comforting Georgina, waiting with her for news. Lady Katherine didn’t want the duke there. She definitely didn’t want me there either.
Fingering a key, I started playing Pleyel’s Hymn 143. I swept my hands across the ivory and played it by heart.
When I closed my eyes, I saw my Georgie. She was my future, but how could I reach for her without a new song?
Humming, masculine and deep, sounded in the hall. Torrance stepped inside.
I lifted from the bench. “Any news?”
“No, but Mr. Carew is trying a new tactic. We have more waiting.”
Rubbing his chin, he looked at me. “You seemed disturbed. Has Steele shown you more gossip rags?”
“No. I just feel helpless.” I sat back down and began playing the hymn.
Torrance came fully inside. His cravat was gone, as was mine. The fastidious burgundy waistcoat that I’d admired days ago was wrinkled and open, hanging about his drooping shoulders.
He went to the portrait of Dido and Elizabeth. Standing in front of it, he touched the gilded frame as if Mr. Steele had hung it improperly.
“What happens if you do not finish your piece for the competition? It’s weeks away. Right after my ball.”
“Your Grace, I will finish. I have no choice.”
“There’s always a choice.” He walked over and put his hands on the pianoforte. “This tune is dull but good.”
“It’s not mine. It’s Pleyel. It’s meant to be sung. When Miss Wilcox sings and I play, it will be divine.”
“Do you have another plan, sir? The scandalmongers are still brewing. Since we’ve not done any more public events, Miss Wilcox’s reputation might be too damaged to save with merely a good performance. We can’t let her or the Wilcoxes be more defamed.”
“I don’t have any plan. The one we are doing now is yours, Torrance.”
“I see. I thought as much. That’s why I asked Georgina Wilcox to marry me.”
My ears popped.
The music died.
