Sophia was dying of curiosity but held her tongue.When she tried to put a roll in her pocket for Mildred, Henry sat at her feet, thumping his tail on the floor, and licked his chops as he looked up at her expectantly.
“Henry!”Mrs.Royston admonished.“You naughty boy!You know better than to beg at the table.”
Henry slunk away, tail down, and Sophia felt awful.Later she would make it up to him, and get food for Mildred.Somehow.
* * *
As soon as Vincent recognized Nonna Vincenza’s bold writing on the packet Xavier had handed him after breakfast, he went to his room to open it.Seated at the table by the window, he reverently untied the strings and opened the paper.Inside was a thick sheaf of vellum containing a musical score, and a note in Italian.
My dearest Vincenzo,
A new opera by Gioachino Rossini premiered in Rome last month.The crowds jeered at first, led by jealousGiovanni Paisiello, who thinks everyone should prefer his opera by the same name.But now Rossini’s version is much the rage and the crowds love thebasso buffo.Until you can attend a performance in person, I thought you would like to play it.
Vincent thumbed through the pages, his pulse speeding up.He’d heard nothing aboutIl Barbiere di Siviglia, ossia L’inutile Precauzionein the London papers yet.What lengths must his grandmother have gone through to procure the score for him so soon after the comic opera premiered?
He recognized her subtle plea for him to come to her.And he didn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary under the same roof as his younger brothers.Before he could board a ship to Italy, though, he needed to solve the mystery of Miss Walden.
But first, the pianoforte called him, demanding he play Rossini’s score.
Chapter 13
Sophia kept her face tilted down toward the paper she wrote upon and tried to swallow her rising bile.Mrs.Digby spared no detail in recounting the fierce battle in summer 1777 near Fort Ticonderoga.Lieutenant Digby had been promoted to captain after his commanding officer had died from a bayonet wound.Unable to stop the bleeding, Mrs.Digby had bathed the captain’s brow and held his hand as he breathed his last in the hospital tent.
Caught up in transcribing the narrative, Sophia finally glanced at Mrs.Digby when she continued to stare out the window.“Do you need to stop?”
“I wonder if this is worthwhile.”She turned her gaze on Sophia.“Does anyone truly need to know this?”She gestured at her journal that now lay closed on her lap.
Sophia tapped her pencil against her bottom lip.“People need to know more than the glamorized account they read in the newspapers.Publishers sensationalize things to sell more copies.And the men who write history texts tend to discount or ignore any contribution from women since you’re not the person who was leading the charge into battle.”She thought back to the textbooks they had used at the Academy, and the struggle to find any that did more than acknowledge that women existed, never mind their contributions to humanity.“I think there is value in first-hand accounts of historic events from everyone who was present.”
Before Mrs.Digby could reply, Mrs.Nelson arrived with a tea tray, and by unspoken accord Mrs.Digby set aside her journal to fill a cup, and Sophia moved to the sofa.
“Cook remembered that your nephews are especially fond of the rout cakes,” the housekeeper said.“She made a double batch.”
Sophia had time to eat three of the tiny, delicious cakes between sips of tea before the door opened again, and Wallace and Mrs.Royston burst in.
“Gert, may we borrow Miss Walden for a bit?We’re having a disagreement and need someone impartial.”Mrs.Royston wore a canvas smock splashed with paint smears, and her dress sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
“I would be most appreciative,” Wallace added, with a bow and a charming smile aimed at Sophia.He also wore a paint-stained smock, no coat, and his shirtsleeves rolled up.
“I have no objections if you don’t,” Mrs.Digby said.
Sophia snagged two more cakes from the tray as she stood.“How may I be of assistance?”
“It’s this way,” Mrs.Royston said.Moving faster than Sophia expected of the septuagenarian, she led the way up the stairs, with Wallace following after Sophia.
They passed the landing for the floor with the bedchambers and kept going past the floor with the servants’ quarters until they reached the attic.Light spilled from an open door.
“I don’t think I’ve been up here before,” Sophia couldn’t help murmuring.
“When the light is good and my hands don’t ache too much, I could stay up here for days if Gert didn’t drag me down for meals and to sleep in my bed,” Mrs.Royston said as she crossed the threshold.
Sunlight streamed in from windows on three sides, lighting up an artist’s studio.Unframed paintings on the floor rested against each other along the walls, while others sat on easels in various stages of completion.A stack of fresh, blank canvases leaned against the leg of a table littered with jars of paint and dozens of brushes and other tools.So many completed canvases hung on the walls, most without frames, that she could hardly tell if the room was painted or wallpapered.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about art,” Sophia said, struggling to take in the maelstrom of color from the collection of landscapes and portraits on display, in sizes ranging from the palm of her hand to bigger than a doorway.“What kind of disagreement do you think I could I possibly help you settle?”
“It’s time to change which painting hangs above the fireplace in the drawing room,” Wallace said.“Aunt Agnes wants to put up another seascape, and I think it should be a portrait.”He gestured at a row of six canvases lined up on the wall beside the door—three paintings of ships at sea in various weather conditions, and three portraits.
Sophia leaned in close.The first portrait was of a gentleman in full army uniform she recognized as Captain Horatio Digby.The second was a group of boys playing on a sandy beach.The third was a gentleman in uniform whom she guessed was Mrs.Royston’s husband, George.
