Page 29 of How to Ruin a Duke
Once dressed for the day, she sealed the letter and placed it with other post, then tried not to think of it anymore.It was easy enough to distract herself with work, plunging into the accumulated tasks of the week.Tuning pianofortes, repairing violins, poring over her account books to calculate where margins could be increased and where pennies could be pinched.Counting her coins, studying her bank books.
This was dull work, though worthwhile.If she did more of it, she just might be able to afford the new lease.Three guineas and a shilling…if Lifford would accept the offered rate, she could match it.
She could save the shop.She coulddothis.
She could succeed.She would keep the address thetonhad visited for a century.She’d keep her workroom, built specifically for luthiery, and the shop window that so recently had taken on its own personality.
It was a relief, sort of.She had expected to feel more relief.But as she whipped in and out of the workroom, to and from tuning pianofortes, untouched violins sprawled reproachfully on the worktable.The violoncello without its fingerboard looked like a strangled maiden, its poor neck askew.Simon had teased her once that she talked of instruments as if they were alive.She knew they were nothing but wood and varnish and string, of course, but she still felt in danger of failing them.
But she wouldn’t.Numbers didn’t lie.She wouldn’t fail.
So passed the remaining days of May.Simon changed the shop window every day, lettering a new card each time.Rowena rebuilt the violin on display a bit at a time.When customers called with bookings, Rowena or Simon accepted the most lucrative jobs.For the first time in Rowena’s memory, she turned aside work.
It was good to be busy.Right?It ought to have made everything easier, feeling as if she wasn’t alone.She had only to repair and tune, and Simon managed the rest.
But it wasn’t easier, because he wouldn’t stay.He referred to his plans more than once.“Before I go…” or “After I leave…” So lightly, he spoke these words, as if they weren’t weapons that slashed her heart.
So be it.She wouldn’t ask him to stay, lest he say yes without wanting to.Each day, the coin mounted up, twenty pounds of it to be his—and then he’d be off again.
She tuned her pianofortes; she did not take him to bed again.He watched her narrowly, probably wanting her to ask, but she couldn’t.She just couldn’t.
Do you ever do something just because you want to?
It was a question of privilege, coming from someone who was sure of always taking more than he left behind.
She wouldn’t give up—she’d learned that much from him.She wouldn’t give up her body without attaching her heart to it.She was a parcel all wrapped in gut strings, all out of tune and craving his touch.And when he left, after he left, she’d be hopelessly jangled.
As it was, she was fine.Everything was fine.
On the last day of the month—a fine Monday, perfect for a new start—Lifford called at the shop.
Rowena made herself smile as she greeted the landlord.“I am ready to sign a new lease.Shall it be for another ninety-nine years, or something more moderate?”
Lifford did not smile back.“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss Fairweather.”
The sturdy wooden floors beneath Rowena’s feet seemed to wobble.“I am of age and single, with no man in charge of my affairs.It’s possible.”
Lifford’s mournful clerk’s face looked regretful.“I’ve come to let you know that I’ve just been offered four guineas a week for this building.I can’t turn it down.”
“Four guineas…” She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut.“Who can afford such a rate?”
“Bond Street is more expensive each year.All of London wants to shop here, so all of London’s merchants want to keep shop here.”
“Yes, I know,” she said faintly.“I’ve always thought it the perfect address.”
“Yours is one of the finest buildings on the street.I’ve had interest for years, and I’ve put off the potential tenants while your lease held.But now…” Lifford trailed off, then asked, “I don’t suppose you could match the offer?”
Four guineas?She would have laughed if she’d had air enough.“I could barely manage three guineas and a shilling,” she choked.
Lifford nodded.“I thought that might be the case.I can give you a few days to vacate the premises, but I will need you out of the building by the end of the week.”His expression was not unkind as he added, “I’m sorry for it, Miss Fairweather.But it’s business.”
It was indeed, as was her shop.And businesses rose and fell based on demand.One’s skill.One’s courage.
This shop was never intended to be run alone.It was a family establishment, and it was all Rowena had left of her family.For a century and more, people had come to this address to make their lives more musical.Now she would lose it.The address Simon had promoted.The building they’d carefully dressed to draw every eye.
It wasn’t only business to her; it was her home.The only one she’d ever known.It was a refuge for an old woman who could scarcely move from her parlor.It was a haven for the beetles that kept a hedgehog plump and content.It was perfectly arranged, from the compartments built into the workroom to hold every type of wood to the racks for holding her tools.
And it wasn’t hers anymore; it was all out of her grasp.
