Page 6 of Haunted
“Of course. But playing was already difficult by then.”
“Why?” he asked.
Her body jerked, very slightly, as though she would turn away from him, and he knew he had been too blunt. But before he could apologize, she said in a rush, “War. Guns and panic that cleared the concert hall. Soldiers on the rampage, shooting everywhere. Now I need peace in order to play.” She stared at him, clearly appalled by her own words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that, and you didn’t wish to hear it. Your honesty is catching.”
She snatched her hand off the piano, as though afraid it would shake, and from impulse he caught it, holding it lightly but firmly, wishing only to comfort, because he too had been lonely and frightened in his life. Her fingers were soft and slender. They jumped in his, and then, before he could release her and apologize, they gripped his hand hard while thunder rumbled off into the distance.
“I have met soldiers who can longer bear the sound of guns,” he said. “Or thunder. What happened to you?”
“Nothing. I hid beneath a harpsicord in a store cupboard until they were gone. Percival found me there. But I never forgot the fear, or the grief, because I thought I would never see him again. And now I never will.”
“Does Mark see him? Or is he really just playing?”
Her eyes widened. She seemed to have forgotten her hand resting in his. Her mouth, curiously vulnerable, opened to speak and then closed again.
Slowly, she drew her hand free. “He imagines he does. As though wishing would make it true.” She moved toward the sofa and sat down, almost exactly where Mark had been staring.
“Can he still remember what he looks like?” George asked.
“He seems to. He knew you were not Percival as soon as he saw you clearly, but he hopes. He is lonely.”
He was not, George thought sadly, the only one. “Because the villagers are cruel?”
She nodded once.
“What is their problem with you? Just because you aredifferentto them?”
“That and…the vicar’s wife cut me when she realized I had played in public for money.On the stage like a common actress,I believe were her precise words.” She shrugged. “Often, the ordinary people take their cues from those they imagine are their betters. While Percival was alive, it was not so bad, but after his death, their hostility grew more open. Now I hear words likeforeign whorespoken quite openly when I walk into the village. For myself, I don’t really care, but what if Mark hears and understands?”
George was appalled. “Intolerable!” He threw himself down on the sofa beside her. “Who is the magistrate?”
“I will not involve the law and allow such accusations to be official.”
He closed his mouth, swallowing down his objections. He saw her dilemma, whatever the injustice. “So whatwillyou do?”
“Pretend I do not hear or care. Show that they will never frighten me.”
He met her gaze. “Do they?”
“Not when I do not care. I do not want to care.”
“Not to care is not to be alive.”
A frown flickered across her face and vanished, but he thought he had irritated her. “What or who do you care about, Sir Arthur, called George?”
He could not help smiling. “Many things now—many people that I once did not even know about.”
She studied him until his eyes slid away. He liked her too much already to be comfortable with her displeasure.
But she did not sound displeased, just curious. “You are a little unworldly, are you not?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “I am only just discovering it. In reality, I mean. I feel like a very well-educated child.”
“Why? What is your story, Sir George? What dragons have you slain?”
“Internal ones, largely.”
“You don’t want to tell me,” she said shrewdly. “Even though I have told you my secrets.”
