Page 17 of A Symphony for the Earl

“My mother tutored me in literature, art, and music. She was an excellent pianist and studied in Europe before meeting my father.”

“You mean you didn’t have to learn French?” Octavia bounced in her seat with excitement. “Mama, Miss Fiona didn’t need to study French. Why must I? I hate French.”

“Octavia, you seem to hate many things,” Lady Amelia objected. “It is a word that a lady never uses.”

“Oh, but French is important,” Fiona confided. “Every day I regret that I didn’t learn to speak French. I’m also sadly lacking in needlework and my sketches are completely unrecognizable. I hope you’re mastering those things, Octavia.”

“I’m already a cracking good artist. I can draw and paint. What happened next, Miss Fiona?”

“My mháthair contracted cholera and died when I was your age. Athair took me back to Dublin to live with my aunt. He thought it was time for me to learn about society and become a young lady.”

“How terrible to lose your mother so young.” Valentina sighed. “I don’t think I could go on without Mama.”

“I think it was terrible you had to become a lady,” Octavia sympathized. “I’d want to stay on my island. Were there pirates?”

Lady Amelia frowned. “What do you know of pirates?”

“Richard gave me Robinson Crusoe for my birthday, and Miss Ernest and I have been reading it together. He also has a book called The History of Pirates in the South Seas. Those pirates ruled the seas and if they didn’t like you, they made you walk the plank!”

Her mother shuddered. “Isn’t piracy rather bloodthirsty? Such reading would give me nightmares. I wonder at your brother’s influence sometimes.”

“He has promised to teach me to swashbuckle with his foil!”

“Oh, my. That sounds very dangerous, Octavia. I must speak to Richard before it goes further.”

Octavia’s eyes became stormy at her mother’s words and Fiona could see a battle of wills on the horizon.

“I’m afraid pirate attacks rarely happen in the Caribbean these days,” she said hastily. “And I did miss Barbados, Octavia, very much.”

Valentina set down her cup. “You must have been very lonely, Fiona.”

“I was at first. But I had lived in Dublin as a child, so I soon felt at home. Then that spring, I was accepted at the music conservatory, which is a rare thing for a woman. So, I had to practice constantly, and that took all my time.”

“Speaking of music, Fiona,” Lady Amelia smiled, “Hansen said the piano tuner came while we were at Madame Brigitte’s. He told Hansen it was a fine instrument and in perfect condition now. We are excited to hear you play.”

“That’s wonderful news. Thank you, Lady Amelia, for your seeing to that so quickly.” She brushed a few stray crumbs from her skirt. “Shall we go to the piano? I’d be happy to play something.”

*

Richard entered Merrick House in a fine mood, having bested Denys in eight rounds of sparring at Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. His abdomen was bruised where Denys had connected with a few well-placed body shots, but his friend’s jaw would ache far more. After they had luncheon, the earl won a substantial amount of money playing hazard at White’s, where he received a message to postpone the carriage ride.

“Where is my mother?” He handed his hat to Hansen.

“In the small drawing room, sir, with Misses Valentina and Octavia, and Miss Rafferty. Should I order tea?”

He preferred the library, a glass of brandy, a good book, and a warm fire, but there was a guest to consider. Pausing by the mirror hanging above the Greek marble credenza, he adjusted the complicated folds of his cravat and steeled himself to face the women of his family. There were now four under his care, five including Octavia’s governess.

As he reached the end of the hall, he heard the plaintive chords of an adagio. The exquisite tempo of the playing and the utter clarity of the notes stopped him in his tracks. No one in his family played, so it would have to be Miss Rafferty, and the music was sublime.

It had been a long time since music was present in his home. A childhood scene came to mind. It was late summer, and he sat at the piano, painstakingly fingering the notes to a Bach cantata. The beautiful melody always took him to a place of singular peace far from the tension always present in his home.

Then the next day, the piano was gone—like his favorite chestnut pony that had been sold in May, or the sailboat he had enjoyed piloting along the Thames that disappeared the month before. All to pay his father’s gambling debts.

He remembered Creighton Merrick’s words as clearly as yesterday when the instrument was carried away. “Quit sniveling, my lad. There is no place for such feminine pursuits in my son’s life. You might as well be doing needlework.”

Richard had not touched a piano since.

He had hoped Valentina or Octavia might fall in love with music, as he had in his boyhood, and surprised them with the Brentwood, an exquisite instrument. It must have been tuned, for no one had touched it in years.