Page 62 of Hold Me Fast
“Oh, I hope not,” Patricia agreed. “We do not want the Duchess of Kent as regent. Or that man.”
Tamsyn agreed. Everyone in the realm knew that the king was not long for the world, but they would all be better off if he lived until the princess, and his heir, Victoria, turned eighteen. But they would not have long to wait to find out. She could hear them talking as they approached the open door, the two boys cheerfully bickering.
“You got there first, Joe. You tell her.” That was Tamsyn’s older child, her darling Tom, bending over backward to be fair. An image of her beloved Jowan, he patterned himself on his father in all things. He could not do better, in Tamsyn’s estimation.
“She is your mother, Tom. I think you should do the honors.” Joe, after the triumph of victory, was prone to give away any spoils to please his friends. Jowan Artos Hughes had been born to Evangeline five days before Tamsyn gave birth to Thomas Branoc Trethewey, and they had been dearest companions ever since.
“Do it together,” suggested Jowan, following the boys through the doorway, and ruffling the hair of his namesake.
Tamsyn waited, smiling as Bran and Rick entered to join the rest of the family. The little parlor where the women had been sewing and chatting seemed suddenly even smaller, but there were seats enough to go around, and Tamsyn would ring for tea and the food that the growing children seemed to need in huge quantities.
“Mama,” Tom said, after a look at his cousin and best friend, “we have collected the mail and you have a letter.”
He nodded to Joe, who continued, “It is from London, Auntie Tamsyn. From your publisher.”
“It is a thick one,” Tom commented, handing it over. “We think it must have a contract in it, Mama.”
“Of course, it does,” Joe said, stoutly. “Auntie Tamsyn’s music is beautiful.”
“Your concertos are wonderful, Mama,” Tom agreed.
Tamsyn read the envelope and confirmed it was from the publisher in London who printed and distributed her music. Was it what she hoped?
“Open it, Mama,” Janet said.
“Yes, Auntie Tamsyn, open it,” agreed Eva.
“Girls,” warned Evangeline, but her eyes said, “Open it.”
Jowan came to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. “Shall I put it away and give it to you later? Or not at all?” he offered. His grin hinted that he made the offer to tease the children, who rewarded him with a groan.
Tamsyn appreciated the effort to distract her from her uncertainties. She had started writing music for her students years ago—simple but pretty tunes that a beginning pianist would find pleasurable to play. Jowan had suggested other people would enjoy them and find them useful, and his friends in London had found her a publisher and distributor.
One book after another had followed, as she wrote for more and more accomplished students. Different types of music: etudes, preludes, polonaises, nocturnes, waltzes, ballades. Music for the piano and the harpsichord. Music for instruments and for singers. Music by T. Trethewey was being used all over Britain and its foreign territories.
Then three months ago, she had finally sent the man her concertos, scored for a piano and all the other instruments of a typical orchestra. She had received a letter enclosing a draft contract and saying he was sharing them with other musicians to get their assessment. Then nothing. Until now.
“I will open it,” she told her anxious family, and they all beamed, but stayed silent as she used the letter opener Jowan offered her. It took her a moment to realize what she was seeing. A covering letter. A bundle of printed copies of what proved to be her concertos. And two more documents on thick paper, folded and tied with ribbon. She opened one. It looked like a contract.
Her family were all waiting to find out what she had received. She passed out the copies of the music. “He has printed the concertos,” she said.
Tom led a cheer, and even the adults joined in.
Tamsyn barely noticed. She was reading the letter. “Jowan?” She put out a hand, and her beloved husband was right there, ready to offer his support, as he always had.
“What is it, Tamsyn?”
“A contract,” she told him.
“For the concertos,” he said.
“Yes, but a second one.” She handed him the letter.
He managed to read both pages without letting go of her hand, and he looked up, his eyes bright with pride and love. “The United States of America, Tamsyn. They have sent you a contract to have your music published in the United States of America.”
Tamsyn nodded. She could hardly believe it.
Tom let out another cheer, and Joe said to Tamara, “Play us a triumphal march, Tam. Come on everyone! A march in honor of Auntie Tamsyn.”
