Page 63 of A Secret Correspondence
Chapter Twenty-Two
Marguerite had learned to play the pianoforte in her youth, but when she came to England, her lessons ceased, and with them, the majority of her knowledge. Now she had no skill on the instrument, and the only songs she knew were hymns they sang in church. For these reasons, she had politely refused the invitation to participate in the musicale. But as someone who enjoyed music, she appreciated each new piece that was played.
She would have enjoyed them far more if she was not seated beside a man who was bent on torturing her, but that could not be helped. Indeed, Marguerite had spent the better part of the evening searching her brain for a way to prove to him that she did not have the diamonds. Short of explaining that they had been buried with her mother, she did not know how to do that—and that was something she would never do. Her mother’s body and memory did not deserve to be disturbed.
If others knew about the diamonds’ location, that would certainly happen.
Armand leaned closer, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke. “That would have been a beautiful song to dance to.”
“Yes, I agree,” she said, fighting a shiver. She lifted her armsand clapped politely as Ruth stood from the pianoforte and curtsied to the room.
Without the ability to inform her friends of the most recent letter she had received, Marguerite was lost. She’d hardly slept the previous two nights, and her body was fatigued, her movements heavy and sluggish.
At this rate, if Armand arrived in her shop and attempted to overpower her, he would likely find success. She was a veritable ghost of a woman.
Marguerite drew in a deep breath and rearranged her position on the seat. Miss Kimball took her place at the harp and waited for full silence before she began to play. A soothing, sweet melody filled the room, the tones somehow sharp and soft in tandem. They lulled Marguerite, making her eyelids heavy. She drew in a yawn, covering her mouth and forcing her eyes to waken.
This was not the place tofinallyfall asleep.
Armand leaned close again. “You seem tired, madame.”
“I am.”
“You are not sleeping well?”
She glanced at him. That was a forward question, indeed.
He seemed to understand her expression and sat straighter in his seat, but his eyes were on her.
A wisp of unease slithered down Marguerite’s spine. She trained her gaze on Miss Kimball, breathing through her nose and clasping her hands together tightly in her lap. She made it through the remainder of the song, then clapped along with the group. People began to rise, and Marguerite joined them to show her appreciation for the song they had just heard. It had been beautiful and heartbreaking.
Miss Kimball dipped a curtsy and returned to her mother’s side, nestled between the matron and Miss Farrow. Marguerite’s gaze skittered to the man one seat beyond, whose attention was on her. Samuel. His blue eyes pierced her even from thisdistance, a question on his brow. Could he see her struggle from so far? She was exhausted, yes, but not only in body. In spirit as well. She was fairly tempted to do as Armand had asked and go to the Locksley churchyard on Friday and wait for him to arrive so they could speak.
She had no diamonds to leave, after all. Not even fraudulent ones made of glass.
“May I procure a drink for you, Madame Perreau?” Armand asked.
Marguerite jerked slightly, her attention snapping back to her seatmate. What had he asked? To fetch her a drink? She did not want to prolong their time together, but it was important to keep the man her friend. “Yes, thank you.”
When he walked away, Miss Delacour frowned at Marguerite, looking decidedly down her nose. She sniffed lightly and turned away to speak to Miss Harrelson, putting her back to Marguerite.
Well, that was interesting. Did the woman have an interest in Armand? She was welcome to him.
“You did not play,” Ruth said, approaching her with a friendly smile, her brown hair immaculate and her gown showing off her figure to advantage. Was the woman incapable of appearing unhappy? She seemed to radiate goodness.
“It is not a skill of mine. Were we to show our needlework, I would have many examples.” She gestured to Ruth’s gown. “Plenty in the room, in fact.”
Ruth laughed. “True. Now, tell me. Any progress?”
“None at all.” Marguerite covered another yawn. “I do believe I will have trouble remaining much longer.”
“Yet I am tasked with keeping you here as long as possible,” she muttered, before turning her smile over Marguerite’s shoulder. “Good evening, Mr. Leclair. How did you enjoy the entertainment?”
“You played beautifully.”
“Thank you. Would you be terribly angry if I stole my friend? I was hoping for her company. We have much to speak of.” Ruth drew her arm through Marguerite’s for emphasis.
Armand held the glass forward until Marguerite took it. “I will leave you.”
