Page 21 of Miss Devon’s Choice

“Which piece is it you wished to discuss, Aunt Jacqueline?”

The music room was large enough that the instrument, placed beside a tall window, was a fair distance from the door. On either side of the door from the hall were shelves, full of books about music and musical selections. Besides the door to the hall, there was another set of doors along the wall to the right, opening into a sitting room which could be employed to sit more chairs for a musical concert. Opposite those doors was a smooth wall, with paintings of people busy in their musical pursuits.

Members of the family knew that the wall of artwork also concealed a secret passageway, leading from the music room to the servants’ stair.

“I most wish to discuss your inability to refrain from acting like an ill-bred country miss instead of the sophisticated lady I expect you to be.” Aunt Jacqueline’s frosty words chilled Rebecca, despite the warm sunlight coming in from the window. “It is difficult enough to present you as a woman of refinement, given your upbringing, without you flouting the expectations of society.”

Rebecca swallowed. Given her only recent affront was speaking before Lady Felicity in conversation, this was a severe dressing-down. Unwarranted, too.

“I am sorry, Aunt Jacqueline, for disappointing you. I will endeavor not to do so again.”

It wasn’t good enough. An apology never was. Perhaps because her aunt could sense Rebecca didn’t really mean it.

“I have learned of your visit to the seamstress yesterday.” Aunt Jacqueline’s nostrils flared. “Your wardrobe is more than adequate. I have seen to it myself that you dress in the very height of fashion. You will not accept whatever quaint gown you commissioned.”

Hettie. Rebecca thought she had concealed the purpose of her trip to the village, but apparently her maid had discovered it and presented the information to the dowager countess.

“Christine paid for the gown,” Rebecca said, keeping her tone soft, though her blood pounded in her ears. “It is absolutely lovely and modest. Virginia has similar dresses—”

“My daughter is a matron and may dress how she pleases. You are an unmarried young woman who remains under my care.” Aunt Jacqueline tipped her nose into the air, remaining hard and unmoving. Rebecca’s father had the same air quite often. “You will do as I say.”

Rebecca rarely even tried to argue such matters. Her aunt would hold power over her until she married. That date might be weeks away, but it was enough time for Jacqueline to make her life miserable. Biting the insides of her cheeks, Rebecca bowed her head in submission, saying nothing.

“The piece you will play is on the instrument. Take the next half hour to practice. I will fetch you after.” Aunt Jacqueline’s tone wasn’t gentle or understanding. Ever. “Sit, Rebecca. Begin.”

Rebecca moved to the instrument and raised her hands to the keys. She looked over the sheet of music in front of her. Nothing too complicated. Her aunt didn’t want to show her ward’s failings to a crowd which included Rebecca’s betrothed, after all.

After she made her way through the first few measures, her aunt left, closing the door behind her.

Rebecca played in the empty room, trying not to think of the lovely day dress she had commissioned from Mrs. Chandler, of the beautiful fabric, the elegant lines. Her life was not her own to control, even in so simple a thing as her garments. She glared at the music notes on the paper, her fingers hitting each key. She played a wrong note, began the measure again. Missed another. Then two. Then three.

The notes on the paper blurred. Rebecca kept playing, her fingers slipping to strike two keys at once. What would’ve been a beautiful, simple melody she rendered a complete mess.

Like everything else she attempted.

Chapter Eight

Pain manifested itself in many ways. Christian knew this. The sounds coming from the music room, on the other side of the parlor doors, were born of pain. That, or someone truly wished to mutilate a light Scottish air.

He went to the doors separating him from the player. He’d been shown to the parlor by the earl, needing the quiet room to write a letter to his grandfather, to make his first report. He’d heard a woman’s voice, stern and disapproving in tone, though he couldn’t make out the words being said. He tried not to. It wasn’t any of his business what the other occupants of the house said or did, after all.

But the music had broken into his thoughts. Each wrong note sounded like a cry of despair.

He’d made sounds like that before. With his violin. In his heart. Slips of fingers on an instrument were often manifestations of sharp stabs of emotion.

He rose without knowing what he would do. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle to the music room. Whoever was on the other side might not appreciate his intrusion. But how could he not look in? What if he could help?

The emotional mess of a stranger is hardly your affair, he told himself.

It sounded too much like his grandfather.

Christian opened the door. She sat at the instrument, her head and shoulders bowed over it. The sunlight illuminated her form, her chestnut hair shone with gold highlights in the sun. Rebecca Devon.

His chest grew tight and his brows drew down. He’d been in her presence not a quarter of an hour before, and she’d been well. Truly, she’d been radiant, cooing at the child in her arms. She’d even spoken to him, confiding her odd thoughts about societal scavengers. What could’ve shaken her so terribly in such a short span of time?

What do I do? Christian stood helpless, watching her, listening as the notes jangled inharmonious around them. He ought to walk away. Ought to pretend he didn’t see or hear a thing. She hadn’t noticed him. He might escape from the tangle of her pain.

That would be the coward’s way out. This woman, though not his yet wife, had become tied to him. Her concerns must become his soon enough. Why not make an attempt to comfort her?