Page 60 of The Spinster's Stolen Hear
She gave herself a tiny shake, and before the audience could start to shift and fidget – or worse, glance over their shoulders to see what she was looking at – she lifted her violin to her shoulder, wedging it under her chin, and began to play.
The piece she chose was one she had composed years ago. Lavinia had said it was Pippa’s own composition, and that was notentirelytrue.
She had composed it with her father.
Lord Randall had often said that he was not as keen a composer as Pippa, but he had some talents in that respect. They had spent hours playing music together, hunched over untidy sheets of written music, exchanging ideas and engaging in experiments.
They had been some of the happiest hours of Pippa’s life.
Closing her eyes, she found herself back there again, in the corner of the parlour where she and Papa had gone over their compositions. Bridget had used to sit by the fire and sew, snorting and making derisive comments about their ‘nonsense’. Papa had only laughed at her, though, saying that she could never give a straight compliment.
And to Pippa’s amazement, her mother had smiled to herself, shaking her head. She had put down her sewing, as if unconsciously, and closed her eyes, listening to the music.
When was the last time I felt as though I were part of a family? When was the last time I felt as though I were not embarrassing my mother, and myself?
The music swelled, and Pippa felt almost disconnected from it, as if somebody else was moving her fingers and angling the bow, teasing long, mournful notes out of the instrument. Her eyes were still closed, and she wondered, just for an instant, how she must look to the rest, a woman standing so still with her eyes closed, the only movement the dancing of her fingers and the slide of the bow.
It was a short piece. Pippa had never wanted to bore the captive guests with a long song – virtue and talent wasn’t to be found in minutes and seconds, but in the notes she played – and it quickly came to its end.
There was no bold flourish, no sweeping climax. The notes filtered away, fading, like the last drops of water shaken out of an empty bucket.
She opened her eyes, letting her bow-hand drop to her side.
For an instant, there was silence, but only for one heartbeat. Then the applause broke out, several guests rising to their feet. Pippa blinked, amazed. She could see Lord Whitmore’s mother wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye.
Lord Whitmore was looking at her, of course, his expression still unreadable.Hewas on his feet, clapping as hard as he could.
Clearing her throat, Pippa dropped a curtsey and scurried off the stage. She was intercepted by Lavinia herself, who was going to play next.
“Oh, marvellously done!” she whispered. “What a beautiful piece of music! Everybody will want you to play at their musicales. You have a rare talent, cousin.”
“Th-Thank you. I’m sorry, Lavinia, but I need a breath of fresh air,” Pippa did not know that she was going to say that until the words exited her mouth. Suddenly, the space was too crowded, too stuffy.
Lavinia’s expression changed to one of concern. “Oh, my dear, are you well?”
“Yes, quite well, just a little too hot.”
“Go out onto the balcony then, to take some air. Nobody will notice you’re gone, not while the musicale continues. Be careful, won’t you?”
Pippa gave a smile of relief. She realised a moment too late that she was still holding her violin, but of course she could not go and replace it on top of the pianoforte now, not with Lavinia moving to take her seat at the instrument.
She hurried along the rows of seats, heading for the balcony. No doubt her mother was staring balefully after her, but there was nothing she could do. Bridget sat in the middle of a row, and her departure would be most certainly noticed. She wouldmake a scene, and Bridget hated to do so.
Pippa estimated that she had at least ten minutes, perhaps more, to enjoy her solitude and the cool night air.
Propping her violin up against a wall, she slid open the French doors tucked away behind a curtain and stepped out onto a narrow stone balcony.
Cold air rushed over her, soothing her flushed skin and lifting her curls from her neck. Pippa stood still for a moment, closing her eyes and lifting her hands from her sides, breathing in the fresh air. She placed her hands, palms down, on the damp-cold rock of the balcony wall, feeling her heart slowly return to its normal rhythm of beating. She could hear the faint swells of pianoforte music drifting out, a jovial and happy song in contrast to her mournful dirge.
Itwasa dirge, Pippa knew that now. A song she’d been longing to play for two years. A dirge for her father.
I did it. It’s over. Safe. I’m safe. For now, at least. These ten minutes are mine, to do with as I please. This is my domain.
And then the French door behind her slid open.
Chapter Twenty
“What a talent,” Rose whispered, over and over again. She was wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, sniffing loudly. “Whata talent. I must give Miss Randall a compliment. Such beautiful music, and her own composition, no less!”
