However, as Leah began to play the first notes of a familiar song, the room stilled as though even the air was holding its breath. Abigail sat up a little straighter, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to remember the song. Nathaniel knew it: Sonata No. 14—a piece that could bring grown men to tears and make ladies weep for the lost loves they had never had.
Leah closed her eyes, her hands dancing a smooth waltz across the keys, the notes fluid and mesmerizing, rising and falling, playing softly one moment and with ferocity the next, the light and shadow of the music revealed by the storytelling of her fingertips as she weaved it into the air. A sorrowful tale to some. A hopeful tale to others. A peaceful tale to many more.
As Nathaniel watched the music travel up her arms and into her body, making her sway and rise and fall with the ebb and flow of the song, he longed to know what story was playing inherhead. She seemed sad yet at peace, but when she pushed herself into the darker, more desperate notes, there was an anger in her that bristled up her spine and curved her shoulders, driving her hands harder into the keys. If Abigail was worried about her pianoforte, she did not show it. Instead, out of the corner of his eye, Nathaniel saw her swallow uncomfortably as she discreetly slipped a handkerchief out of her sleeve. A moment later, she turned her head and dabbed the silk against her eyes.
She is crying.Nathaniel’s heart ached though he could not be sure if it was his mother’s tears or the music or the sadness upon Leah’s face or all three together.
As the notes softened once more, so did every fiber of Leah’s being, her fingertips barely touching the keys as her body swayed like a reed in a gentle summer breeze. But the breeze appeared to be bringing a storm with it as the music swelled one final time, and Leah poured her heart and soul into every note, her eyes still closed as she played. She had not needed her mother there at all, for she had it all safely in her memory, dredged up from the lonely days after her wedding day abandonment where the pianoforte had been her only sanctuary—just as she had said.
Nathaniel might not have known how she played before her fruitless wedding day, but if this was her “much improved,” she was being far too modest. She was… exceptional. Indeed, he did not have the words to describe how she was moving him, for though he liked music well enough, he could not remember ever having such a visceral reaction.
Touching his cheek, he realized there were tears upon it—tears that she had coaxed from eyes that had not cried in almost twenty years. The last time he had wept was the first time he was thrown into a boxing ring. After that, his eyes had dried up entirely, never daring to shed another tear. Yet, here they were, running down his face… and he was not alone. His mother had ceased trying to dab away the evidence, her shoulders shaking as she released whatever pain she had been holding onto, pain that Leah’s music, Beethoven’s music, had given Abigail permission to relinquish.
And sitting upon the bench, Sarah’s eyes shone with tears as she gazed at her daughter in wonder as though she had never heard her play before. Perhaps, she had not.
At last, and all too soon, Leah played the final, gentle notes of the piece and let her fingertips fall from the keys and into her lap. There, she sat for a few moments, her eyes still closed, lost in the magic she had just conjured, oblivious to the fact that the rest of the room had crumbled.
Hesitantly, she cracked open one eye and searched the music room. It took Nathaniel a moment too long to realize why—no one had applauded her talent. Indeed, he realized she must have been thinking she had played awfully if no one could offer a single round of applause.
“A masterpiece!” Nathaniel shot up, clapping as loudly as he could, hoping she could not see the tears upon his cheeks. “My goodness, Leah, you said you loved to play, but you did not say that the pianoforte loves you in return! If I had known, I would have demanded to hear you play at the Dibney’s party.”
He blinked in surprise as Abigail also got to her feet, smacking her palms together with gusto. “You are… very good, Lady Leah,” she conceded tearfully. “I have never heard that played so… beautifully. I fear you have… stolen my breath away with your talents, for I cannot… speak.” She blew her nose on her handkerchief, shaking her head as though she could shake away her feelings. “Goodness, how foolish of me. I must powder my nose at once. Please, excuse me.”
Before Nathaniel could think to stop her, his mother hurried from the room, leaving Leah looking more perplexed than before.
“Is she well?” Leah asked, chewing her lip.
Nathaniel smiled. “She will be. She is unaccustomed to showing emotion in public, but it will be a swift recovery, I am sure.” He paused, the room too hot, his own emotions too wild. “Leah, might I interest you in a walk in the gardens? I find myself in need of fresh air, but I would enjoy your company if you are not averse?”
“Mama?” Leah said as if asking permission.
Sarah, in the midst of dabbing her own eyes, wafted a hand. “Go and enjoy the garden. I shall watch from here while I tend to this leak that has sprung from my very heart.” She sighed, smiling. “I had no notion you were so talented, Leah. When we return to Druidstone, I will insist upon you playing the pianoforte in the Grand Drawing Room every day.”
“No, Mama, forthatis why no one has heard me,” Leah explained, her demeanor adorably bashful. “I am not allowed into the Grand Drawing Room, and Father certainly would not allow me to play his pianoforte. I have been using the smaller one in the old chapel so as not to disturb anyone.”
Sarah pulled a face. “Nonsense. From now on, that pianoforte is yours.”
“Well, you shall have to be the one to persuade him,” Leah said, rising to her feet, and she took Nathaniel’s proffered arm.
With that, Nathaniel led her to the French doors at the rear of the music room which opened out into the long, lawned garden of the Mayfair townhouse. It was not nearly as beautiful as the gardens at Bergfield Manor, and certainly not the gardens at Druidstone Abbey, but it was pleasant enough for a stroll to clear his mind and dry the tears on his cheeks.
Leah leaned as far into Nathaniel’s side as she dared, wishing she had paused to request her pelisse and fur tippet, for it was bitterly cold out in the shadowed gardens, especially after the heat of the music room and the warmth that always came when she played the pianoforte.
“Are you cold?” he asked, covering her hand with his.
She shrugged. “A little.”
“Come this way,” he urged, guiding her across the dew-soaked lawn to a structure at the far end. A pavilion of sorts with glass windows and what appeared to be a brazier glowing in the darkness. “The footmen like to come out here after they have served dinner. My mother demands that the townhouse be as hot as a furnace, but it is too toasty for everyone else.”
Leah hesitated. “Will the footmen not be annoyed that we have taken their spot?”
“They will be retiring for the night,” Nathaniel promised, holding her hand until she was settled upon the steps of the pavilion, right in front of the heat of the brazier. Only then did he sit beside her, bringing his palms up to the glowing heat as he murmured, “It seems you really meant it when you said you had secrets.”
She shook her head. “I did not say I had secrets. You did.”
“Did I?”
She nodded, noting that dark shadow under his eye. “I imagine you meant your clumsiness.”
