by Balogh, Mary
She could remember his saying those words at Richmond.
Surely . . .
“Lady Jessica,” Mr. Rochford said, speaking low in her ear, “would you do me the honor of presenting me to the Dowager Countess of Riverdale and the lady beside her, who I believe is her sister?”
But as he was about to offer his arm, Anna came to join the group and he turned to compliment her on her appearance and bow over her hand, which he raised to his lips.
Grandmama, Jessica saw when she turned her head, was nodding in her direction and smiling even as she was saying something to Aunt Edith. It looked as though they approved of what they saw.
Mr. Rochford had known his cousin well—or well enough, to use his exact words. Surely even after thirteen years a cousin one had known well enough would not have become totally unrecognizable.
Besides, Gabriel was not that uncommon a name. She would surely be able to think of one or two others if she set her mind to the task.
Nine
It had not taken Gabriel long to understand that he had been invited to Lord and Lady Hodges’s party as a possible suitor for Lady Estelle Lamarr, while Rochford was being matched up with Lady Jessica Archer. He was seeing the less than subtle hand of the Westcott family at work, if he was not greatly mistaken, or at least of its female members. Both young ladies, extremely eligible, must be a bit of a worry to their fond relatives, for both were almost certainly past the age of twenty yet remained unmarried, unbetrothed, and seemingly unattached.
What the family had perhaps not taken into account, at least in the one case, was the character of Lady Estelle. She had a winning smile and an air of open candor. And a twinkling eye. He had noticed all three as well as her prettiness at the Parley ball.
“I wonder if you understand, Mr. Thorne, that we have been thrown together to discover if we like each other,” she had said to him when he already did understand after Lady Molenor had made a point of presenting him to her—again—and then disappearing at an imagined call from another family member.
“I am flattered,” he said, smiling back at her. “I am considered an eligible connection, then, for the daughter of a marquess?”
“Oh, I do not doubt that your supposed American fortune and your connections here in England would be looked at very closely indeed if you were to make an offer for me to my father,” she said. “I am his only daughter and he is very protective. I also have a twin brother who would check your credentials just as thoroughly even if Papa did not. But you are Lady Vickers’s kinsman, and she and Sir Trevor are your godparents. Sir Trevor Vickers is a prominent member of the government and is held in high esteem.”
“Ah,” he said. “Then I can aspire as high as to your hand, can I?” He was rather enjoying himself, he realized.
“Well, you can,” she agreed. “But you would be foolish to do so.”
“I am devastated.” He set one hand over his heart and she laughed. “Is it something I said?”
“Hard as it is for my family to understand,” she told him, tapping her closed fan against his sleeve, “I am not ready for marriage yet, Mr. Thorne. Eventually, perhaps, but not now.”
“And I cannot sway your resolve?” The twinkle in her eye told him that she fully realized he was not devastated.
“You cannot, alas,” she said. “This coming autumn the lease will come to an end on the house—my father’s house—where Bertrand and I spent much of our childhood. The tenants will be leaving. Once the house is empty, Bertrand intends to take up residence there, and I plan to go with him. We are twins, you know, and enjoy a close bond. I do not doubt he will wish to marry eventually, and I am quite sure I will too. But first I want to go home. I want to spend time there. With my brother. And with myself.”
“Leaving home, going home,” he said. “They are pivotal, emotionally charged moments in life.” He knew something about them. “I must look elsewhere, then, for a bride.”
They continued to smile at each other, but with a little less amusement than a few moments before. He understood her, and perhaps she knew he did.
“Perhaps Jessica?” she suggested, and laughed. “Now she is eligible. Even more than I am. Though I do pity the man who has to face Avery to ask for her hand. He can be terrifying.”
“I may have to decide if I am willing to take the risk, then,” he said just as they were joined by her twin and a friend she introduced as Mrs. Overleigh.
If he had been invited here as a possible suitor for Lady Estelle, Gabriel thought, then his continued presence here was redundant. Rochford was fawning all over Lady Jessica. How the devil was he going to use this occasion to some advantage in order to romance her? He had not set eyes upon her for three days, and though she might have seen the humor of the pink rose the first day, the joke might have worn a bit thin on subsequent days. Besides, he did not suppose a joke was romantic. But what else was he to do? He found it difficult, even impossible, to be ostentatious. He would feel downright embarrassed about sending a bouquet. The next thing he might find himself doing was kissing his fingertips and blowing her a kiss or gazing soulfully at her.
He discovered as the evening progressed that this was not the sort of party at which one spent the whole time in the same place with the same set of fellow guests. These people were adept at moving about, aligning themselves with different groupings, keeping the conversation fresh and touching upon any number of topics. No one dominated any conversation, though Gabriel suspected Rochford would have done so if he had been allowed. But almost immediately after he had divulged that damning and astoundingly inaccurate information about Gabriel Rochford and his relationship with him, both Riverdale and Lady Hodges deftly turned the subject without being at all obvious about it. Both had perhaps felt that such conversation was not appropriate to the occasion, though young Peter Wayne, one of Molenor’s sons, had been agog with interest.
It was a strange tale Rochford had told. He had been just a boy when Gabriel went to America—a boy he had never met and had known next to nothing about. Yet there had been the story about his own wildness and its gradual development into vice and rape and murder. Had all these lies come from Anthony Rochford’s father? After thirteen years, without any contrary story being told, were the details now etched in stone? Had Rochford told the story tonight with the sole purpose of blackening the name of a cousin he assumed was not alive to speak for himself? So that no one would question the moral as well as the legal right of his father to take over the title?
Lady Hodges had moved to include Viscountess Dirkson and another lady in the group, and Lady Estelle had turned away with her friend when two young men, Dirkson’s son, Gabriel believed, and the friend’s husband, drew their attention. The Duchess of Netherby had approached to say good evening to Rochford. He was bowing over her hand and raising it to his lips.
“Lady Jessica,” Gabriel said, seizing the opportunity, “do you play the pianoforte?” There was a grand pianoforte in one corner of the drawing room, though no one had yet gone near it.
She raised her eyebrows in that haughty way of hers. “Well,” she said, “I do, but I do not lay claim to any great talent. My music teacher told me one day when I was still a child that I played as though I had ten thumbs instead of just two and eight fingers. All my governess could say in my defense was that it was unkind of him to speak so candidly. And when I ran to Avery to complain, all he did was look at me with that pained expression he is so good at and ask me what my point was.”
Everyone in the group laughed.
“We love you anyway, Jessica,” her aunt, Lady Dirkson, said, her eyes warm with merriment. “And that was a cruel thing to say, and not at all accurate.”
“Definitely not ten thumbs, Jess,” Peter Wayne, her cousin, assured her. “More like eight thumbs and two little fingers.”
“Perhaps you would care to tackle a duet,” Gabriel suggested.
“You play?” Lady Jessica asked.
He did. He had never had lessons and
no one had ever encouraged him, though his aunt had come quietly into the room a few times at Brierley while he was playing and quietly listened and quietly went away again. Cyrus’s late wife had had a pianoforte in Boston, sadly out of tune. Gabriel had had it tuned after Cyrus’s death and had played it for his own entertainment.
“A little,” he admitted.
“You must certainly play for us, then,” Lady Hodges said with her characteristic warm smile, and she raised an arm to summon her husband. “There is some sheet music inside the bench.”
He had never learned to read music.
“Shall we?” he asked, reaching out a hand toward Lady Jessica.
“Oh dear,” she said, eyeing his hand with obvious misgiving. But she set her own in it and allowed him to lead her toward the pianoforte. Lord Hodges had opened the cover over the keys and was propping open the lid. Lady Hodges was removing a pile of music from inside the bench and setting it on top.
“There,” she said. “I am sure you can find something you know, Jessica. And anytime I have heard you play I have found your performance quite competent.”
She smiled at them both, took her husband’s arm, and went off to mingle with their guests.
Lady Jessica looked through the pile of music while Gabriel stood half behind her, his hands at his back.
“Thank you for the roses,” she murmured.
“I have always considered a single rose more lovely than a whole vaseful,” he said.
She paused over one sheet of music, opened it, closed it again, and set it on top of the pile of discards.
“It enables one to concentrate the whole of one’s attention upon the beauty of a single bloom,” he said. He was sounding pompous.
“That reminds me of the poem that begins, To see the world in a grain of sand,” she said. “Do you know it?”
“By William Blake?” he said. “Yes. Another of the lines, I believe, is, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand. It is the same idea in a different image. And a single rose can be more breathtaking than a whole garden.”
“I could never quite understand Mr. Blake’s point when I was a girl,” she said. “A grain of sand is merely a grain of sand, I used to think.”
She played a ballad, “Barbara Allen,” though she did not sing the words. She played competently and even made a key change halfway through without stumbling. The guests had not stopped their conversations, but there was a smattering of applause nevertheless when she had finished.
“Let me see your hands,” Gabriel said, leaning slightly over the keyboard. She spread her fingers and turned her hands palms up while she looked inquiringly at him. “I see four fingers and one thumb on your left hand and four and one on your right. Your music teacher was cruel. And quite wrong.”
“I was ten years old,” she said. “And he actually did me a favor. I was so furious with him and with my governess and with Avery that I was determined to show them how wrong they were. After that I practiced twice as long as I was required to instead of half as much, as I had been doing. I wanted all three of them to eat their words.”
“And did they?” he asked.
“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “But I did learn to play well enough not to make an utter cake of myself in company. You have not chosen your music, Mr. Thorne. I shall not let you escape, you see, after you’ve admitted to being able to play.” She got to her feet, folded her sheet of music, and set it on top of the pile.
“My music is here,” he told her, tapping a finger against his temple. Though that was not strictly true. He had to think, yes, in order to bring a tune to mind, but the music was not in his mind. And when he sat at the pianoforte, he had to rid his mind even of the tune so that it would not interfere with his fingers as they played. He did not know where the music itself came from after that. He did not know how his fingers hit the right notes or how they knew what other notes to play in order to create the full melody and the accompaniment. It all came from some unknown somewhere inside him, yet it seemed too vast to fit within his frame. It was a good thing he had never tried to describe the process to anyone.
“You have memorized it?” she asked as he sat on the bench and arranged the tails of his coat behind him. “That is impressive.”
He very rarely played in company, and when he did, it was usually merely to entertain. Fortunately there was a hum of sound as people continued their conversations. This corner of the room actually seemed like an oasis of quiet. Of which Lady Jessica Archer was a part.
He gazed at the keyboard, not quite seeing it. He listened to the melody of Bach’s “Jesus bleibet meine Freude”—Jesus shall remain my joy—in his head. Then he set his fingers on the keys, let them find the ones he wanted, emptied his mind, and played. Perhaps, he thought for the first few moments, he ought to have chosen something lighter, something simpler, something more obviously entertaining. He was very aware of Lady Jessica standing beside the bench, watching his fingers.
And then the music took possession of him. He closed his eyes, tipped back his head, frowning, as the main melody, stately and dignified, asserted itself through his left hand while his right hand after the first introductory moments continued with the ripple of joyful accompaniment. It was a soul-wrenching contrast, part of his mind thought, between deep emotion and exuberant joy. He had heard it played on the organ in the church at Brierley when he was a boy, and the music had been a part of him ever since.
His eyes were closed again as he finished and listened to the echo of the final notes receding to wherever the music lived when it was not being played. He was not aware of the silence in the room until it was shattered with applause.
“That was exquisite.”
“I say. Bravo, Thorne.”
“How absolutely lovely.”
“What was that?”
“You really ought to be on a concert stage, Mr. Thorne.”
“Beautiful.”
“Oh, do play again.”
A number of voices spoke at once.
“Well,” Lady Jessica said after a rather lengthy pause. “I am very glad I went first. Wherever did you learn to play like that?”
“I did not,” he said.
“You are self-taught?” She opened her fan and plied it before her face.
“I do not read music,” he told her.
This was a party, a soiree, not a concert. He felt embarrassed and was very glad to see that conversations were resuming and servants were circulating with trays of drinks and dainties.
“I wish I could play like that,” she said softly.
He got to his feet, moved the pile of music to the floor, and gestured to the bench. “Come and sit beside me,” he said, “and we will play something together.”
“Without music?” she said.
“I will teach you,” he told her. “You can play the lower notes. They are really quite simple, but they set the tempo, the bass upon which the melody is set.”
She eyed him doubtfully and then eyed the bench before seating herself and sliding along it to make room for him. He had done this at parties in Boston. It had always been good for some light entertainment.
“You are Gabriel,” she said, turning her face toward his. “But the angelic connotation is somewhat marred by your other name. Mr. Gabriel Thorne.”
“A rose is spoiled by the thorn on its stem, then?” he asked, turning his head to look into her eyes.
“Are you indeed an angel, then?” she asked him. “Mr. Thorne?”
And it struck him that they were no longer talking about roses. It occurred to him that she knew, or at least suspected.
“By no means,” he said. “How tedious life would be.”
“The other Gabriel is no angel either,” she said.
“Apparently not,” he said. “If one is to believe Mr. Rochford’s story, that is.”
“And you do not?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
She shook her head slightly, set down her fa
n on the bench between them, and rubbed a finger over one of the white keys as though she had spotted a dust mote there. “Let us discover how good an instructor you are, then, Mr. Thorne,” she said. “My guess is that I am about to make an idiot of myself in front of almost my whole family as well as some distinguished guests.”
“Impossible,” he said. “With me as your teacher?”
They turned their heads at the same moment—a massively uncomfortable moment as it turned out. Their faces were only inches apart. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes wide. He had not really noticed before how thick and dark her eyelashes were or how her upper lip curved slightly upward when her lips were parted, as they were now. Or how pearly white her teeth were. He had not noticed how very kissable a mouth she had.
It was not a thought he cared to pursue at this particular moment. And yet . . . He had promised to romance her. Was that what he was attempting to do now? In full view of a roomful of people? By coaxing her to do something she was reluctant to do?
The flush in her cheeks deepened before she looked back to the keyboard. He was no accomplished lover. How did one romance a woman in a way that would speak to her heart? Unfortunately, it seemed that women thought with their hearts, while men thought with their minds. Or with another part of their anatomy equally distant from the heart. He had feelings. Of course he did. Often they came close to overwhelming him. But they were something he had always carefully guarded. Even the deep affection he had felt for Cyrus had not been fully apparent to him until after the accident, when it was too late to show it.
Agreeing to romance Lady Jessica Archer had been little short of madness.
“We will keep it simple,” he said. “You will need to use just your left hand.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “I am right-handed.”
He showed her how to play a simple rhythm with a pattern of notes that could be repeated endlessly though they could be varied with tempo changes. He did not burden her with that possibility, though. He played the rhythm with her, an octave higher, until she had it, then added a melody above it with his right hand. She turned her head to smile at him, a flashing brightness of an expression that almost made him falter. She did falter and had to search for both the notes and the rhythm again while he adjusted the melody to hide the gaffe. Eventually he stopped parroting her rhythm with his left hand and played a variation on it while he changed the melody with his right hand.