Heart Strings (Music of the Heart Book 1)

by Donna Hatch

  Squaring his shoulders, Kit marched up the drive and into the house.

  “Lord Christopher, your mother is in her morning parlor,” the butler greeted him.

  “Is my father at home?” Kit asked.

  “No, my lord, he left early this morning.”

  Mingled relief and sorrow warred within him. After all the time he’d spent preparing himself for a conversation with his father, he would not have the opportunity to see him today.

  Kit strode to his mother’s morning room and found her sitting at her writing desk, penning a letter. “Good morning, Mother.”

  She looked up and dropped her pen. “Why, Christopher, what a delightful surprise.” She came to him and took his hands. She looked him carefully in the eyes. “Tell me what has you so blue-deviled this lovely morning.”

  He sat with her and carefully lined up each finger with the matching finger on the opposite hand. “I met someone.”

  “The harpist?”

  He lifted his head. “You know?”

  “Esther told me. She wanted me to know that she approves even though the girl is an orphan and a professional musician.”

  Good ol’ Esther. He almost smiled, but his heart was too heavy. “Her name is Susanna Dyer. She is remarkable, so unspoiled and sweet, but she’s not at all a green, missish girl from the country. She’s genuine and has this sort of serenity about her. She’s remarkably uncomplaining despite how her relatives have clearly misused her.”

  “So her being a penniless orphan wanted by the law does not deter you?”

  “Those charges are false, and I mean to prove it.” Too agitated to sit, he got up and paced. “As to her being a penniless orphan—it is of no consequence. I haven’t known her for very long, but she’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” He paused, then said the words in his heart. “I love her.”

  His mother smiled gently and clasped her hands together. “Does she know?”

  He paced faster, turning on his heel each time he reached a wall. “Yes. I asked her to marry me, but she refused me.”

  “Oh, my…”

  A flood of words poured out of him. “I don’t know if it’s because when she found out who I am she doesn’t feel as if she belongs—perhaps she worries you and Father won’t approve or society will be unkind to her. Maybe she’s angry I didn’t tell her who my family connections were from the start, or ….” He swallowed. “Or if she simply doesn’t return my regard.”

  She might have no wish to shackle herself to a man she didn’t love. Had he misread her admiring glances? Had he arrogantly assumed she cared for him without truly exploring her feelings?

  He’d never doubted his appeal to the fair sex. They’d always admired him. Even those who didn’t know his rank and social status clearly found him physically attractive.

  What if Susanna did not? Self-doubt, an almost unknown sensation until now, spiraled through him.

  “Christopher.”

  He stopped pacing.

  Quietly Mother asked, “Did you tell her you love her?”

  “I….” he trailed off. Had he actually told her he loved her? He was pretty sure he had, and that he’d said something about feeling complete when he was with her. Hadn’t he?

  “Oh, my dear boy.” She shook her head. “You need to make that clear. She might think you are offering for her out of a desire to protect her from the law—a chivalrous gesture to be sure, but a young lady wants to know that she is loved.”

  He sat. He’d probably botched the whole thing. Perhaps the timing had been bad. He’d asked her at the end of the evening—after the constable and the hired brute had threatened to take her away. Kit had acted like a pompous boor in his desire to protect her. She might have thought he felt some sort of misplaced obligation or overblown chivalry.

  What to do now? At a loss, he hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees. She’d already been the victim of pushy men who wanted her for all the wrong reasons. Did he dare press his suit again?

  “Son.” Mother moved to his side and put a hand on his back. “If she’s as sweet and big-hearted as Esther says, she will give you another chance.”

  His fears burst out of him. “What if she simply doesn’t want me?”

  “Then you have a choice; you can either woo her with all the energies of your heart or you can give her up with the belief that if she doesn’t see all your fine qualities—the good and kind and honorable man that you are—she isn’t good enough for you.”

  Give her up? Let her walk out of his life? The idea sent waves of panic over him.

  His mother leaned back against the cushions of the sofa. “Your father had to fight for me, you know.”

  “He did?” He lifted his head.

  “I wasn’t sure I liked him. He seemed too stern.” She chuckled softly. “He didn’t give up, and I eventually saw the tender heart he keeps hidden from others. He loves very deeply, but he was raised to keep those emotions buried, to maintain proper decorum. It took me a fair amount of time to see that about him. I’m glad he was persistent.” She smiled with a faraway look in her eyes.

  “I can be persistent.”

  Mother put her arm around him and squeezed his shoulders. He leaned against her. Hunching over, he rested his head on her shoulder. Finally, he gave in to his instincts; he closed his eyes and allowed his mother’s love to fill him with healing confidence.

  He would not let Susanna go without doing everything in his power to win her over. “Thank you, Mother.”

  She kissed his brow and pressed her forehead against his. “Go fight for your lady.”

  “I will.” He stood.

  As he crossed the main hall to the exit, the door opened and admitted his father. Kit halted. His father, the Duke of Charlemonte, handed his hat and gloves to the butler. He glanced at Kit. He froze. Wearing a Cambridge blue coat and buff knee breeches, his hessian boots shining like glass, the duke stood as if a soldier at attention. He was stiff, proper, and meticulous as always. His impassive stare dried Kit’s mouth.

  Kit swallowed. “Good morning.” He almost added Your Grace but clamped his mouth shut.

  The duke’s expression never changed but he inclined his head as if greeting an associate. “Lord Christopher.” Always formal. Stiff. Disapproving.

  “I…” Kit took a breath.

  His father waited.

  Kit swallowed.

  Something in the duke’s expression softened. He gestured. “Would you care to join me in my study?”

  Kit nodded. As he waited for the duke to reach his side, Kit studied his father. In the two years since Kit had seen him last, his father had aged. He still walked with confidence and power, yet more silver streaked his dark hair, more wrinkles lined his eyes and mouth.

  “Are you…well?” Kit asked.

  “I am quite well, thank you. And you?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  The small talk fizzled out. They reached the study and entered. Nothing had changed. Heavy dark furniture and scarlet wallpaper still adorned the study. His ducal desk presided over the room as it always had. Their chess table sat near the window where it always had, the silver pieces lined up and ready for the next battle. It was like coming home.

  The duke picked up a crystal decanter. “Care for a sherry or brandy?”

  “No, thank you.”

  His father poured himself a glass. “If you are here to receive my blessing on your wedding to this little musician with whom you and Esther seem so infatuated, you are of age. I cannot naysay you. Are you here to transfer your unused allowance into your own account?”

  “No, I actually came to see you. It’s been too long.”

  He paused. Then, “I see.”

  They stood awkwardly. His father drank. Kit stared at the darkened hearth.

  Kit’s gaze fell on the chessboard, and he gestured. “Do you still play?”

  “Not since you left.”

  Kit chewed on that information.

  Father nodded toward
the chessboard. “Care to play now?”

  “I believe we are overdue.”

  They played chess. As they matched move for move, the years fell away. A comforting sense of home came over him. At first, their conversation stuttered, lighting on minor subjects such as the weather, the political arena, the news. They played through luncheon and tea, enjoying those repasts as they played and talked. Eventually, they discussed estate matters. Later, Kit told his father about his position as concertmaster with a respectable orchestra, and how much he enjoyed playing with other musicians. Kit eventually told him about Susanna—how they met, how much he enjoyed creating music with her. He even admitted the boxing his father insisted that he do in his youth had come in handy when defending Susanna from the lawman. He skirted around his feelings for her, and left out his clumsy proposal.

  His father, stoic as always, finally unbent enough to let his expression soften and his mouth actually curved into something resembling a smile. “You have your head on straight, son. And a good heart. I trust your judgment.”

  Kit blinked and cleared his throat to hide just how much those words meant to him. “Thank you.” He focused on the game and moved a piece.

  By dinnertime, his father had beaten him, but only just. They stood and shook hands.

  “Don’t stay away so long next time, son.” His father looked away and cleared his throat.

  “I won’t.” Kit took a few steps away, then turned back. “It was good to see you, Father.”

  He received a silent nod in reply.

  Astonishing. His ever-controlling father had not tried to correct or control him in any way. He mostly listened, as if Kit were an equal.

  At the door, his father’s voice stopped him. “Bring her here to meet us. I promise not to eat her.”

  “I will, if she’ll have me. I haven’t won her over yet.”

  “War and love are not for the fainthearted. Have courage.” He shook his fist as if rallying the troops.

  Kit smiled. He’d come expecting a confrontation but had only received encouragement. Had his father changed, or had Kit? Perhaps a little of both. “Good day, sir.”

  “Good day, son.”

  As Kit headed for the door, his father called out, “You might be interested to know that I closed the plantations and freed the slaves. All of them.”

  Kit gaped. Had he heard correctly?

  “It will take years to recover from the loss,” the duke continued, “unless the canal venture pays off better than I hope it will.”

  Too weak to stand under the magnitude of what his father said, Kit sat. “Are we bankrupt?”

  “No, of course not. We’ll have a few lean years but I’ve invested in other ventures that do not involve the slave trade, and I’ve let out the houses in Bath and Kent as well as the hunting lodge. Your mother will never know—she hadn’t visited any of those places in years. And no, this won’t affect her pin money or allowance—that’s all safely in a trust fund.”

  Kit continued to grapple with the news. “What did Dunlap think of this?” As the heir, his brother stood to lose a great deal on this decision.

  “He conceded to my wishes.”

  Kit spread his hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “It was worth it to gain the respect of my son.” His father quirked the closest thing to a smile Kit had ever seen. It was fleeting, but it was there. He resumed his usual stoic demeanor and sat. “I have some correspondence I need to attend to.”

  Kit stood. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

  He gave his father a low, formal bow. Still reeling over his father’s revelation—his sacrifice—Kit walked home. He’d had no idea his good opinion mattered that much to the duke.

  How lean, exactly, would the next few years be for his family? His father had promised that his mother would never feel the tightening of their purse strings. Still, his conscience pricked him that his father and brother would feel the strain. It had to be worth it, though, if it meant their family would no longer engage in slavery. Perhaps someday, such a vile practice would be abolished everywhere.

  Kit returned home significantly lighter of heart, and changed for the upcoming evening performance.

  At the theatre, he continued looking for Susanna, even knowing she would not be there. He felt remarkably unsupported without her there and when his duet with the principal harpist came, it felt forced and empty. The harpist attacked the music as if he were trying to beat it into a shape it was never meant to take. At the end, Kit glanced back. The musician muttered and tugged on his hair, then he stroked the harp with both hands and nuzzled it as if they were lovers rather than musician and instrument. Kit frowned. He really suspected the man was, as a violin teacher used to say, “a note short of a full scale.” Was he truly mad or just egregiously eccentric?

  At the end of the concert, Alex raised his brows. “You didn’t have your heart in it tonight, Kit.”

  Kit shook his head. “Any chance we could offer Susanna the job of secondary harpist, or even give her the duet exclusively? She is a better harpist, and you know it.”

  Nearby, laughter rang out over the murmur of voices.

  “I’ll discuss it with the manager and see what we can do,” Alex promised.

  “Thank you.”

  One of the female musicians paused next to him. “Are you still courting Susanna, Kit?”

  Orchestra gossip must have chewed on his obvious interest in the temporary harpist. He answered in what he hoped would be the truth as soon as he convinced Susanna to give him another chance. “I am. Why do you ask?”

  “When I heard she was no longer needed, I was concerned for her. She is so sweet but so very green.” She smiled. “If you are courting her then I’m sure you must be seeing to it that she is well.”

  “She is very well, indeed.” He tried to smile but his heavy heart tugged too hard at the memory of her refusal.

  “Oh, I’m so happy to hear it.” The cellist smiled. “I miss her. She played so well—so much better than our regular harpist. Everyone is saying so.”

  “She certainly does.” The wistfulness in his voice taunted his own ears.

  He looked forward to a lifetime of hearing her music. If he managed to convince her to have him, he would give her a harp for a wedding gift, and she could play all she wanted. He really ought to procure more harp-violin duets so they could play together. An almost feverish desire to see Susanna again seized him. Forgoing his usual stop at the Silver Duck, he fairly trotted to Esther’s house.

  Inside the Daubrey’s house, the strains of a harp guided him to the drawing room. He found Esther snuggled up against Daubrey on an Ottomane couch, their fingers intertwined, their heads close together. Envy arose at the sight. He ached to share such moments with Susanna. She sat at the Louis XVI harp, playing so mournfully that his eyes burned in response.

  Did she play with such sorrow because she feared her fate? If only her sadness stemmed from missing him. Did he dare hope she regretted her hasty answer to his proposal?

  Careful not to make a sound, he sank into the nearest chair and watched her hands move gracefully over the strings like the arms of a ballerina, coaxing from the harp such poignantly beautiful tones that he feared he’d break down and weep on the spot.

  The final notes died away. Kit swallowed against the lump in his throat.

  Esther sniffled. “That was heartbreaking.”

  “Yes, it was,” Kit said softly.

  “Kit, I didn’t see you come in.” Susanna stood and clasped her hands together. She fidgeted and glanced at Esther and Daubrey. “How was the performance tonight?”

  “Not nearly as moving as when you play with me.”

  Her mouth curved into a sad smile. “I shall miss that.” She looked away.

  He stood and took a few steps closer. “I asked Alex to speak to the manager about making you the secondary harpist, and even suggested that he give you the duet to play every night.”

  She looked down. �
�That was kind of you.”

  He moved to her side. “I didn’t do it out of kindness. I did it because you play it better than the other harpist does. He’s technically good, but you play with such emotion that it creates magic.”

  Her smile widened but she refused to look at him. He took her hand and tugged gently. “Will you walk with me?”

  She wrapped her fingers around his hand. A promising response. He led her outside to the terrace and took her to a bench next to the railing within sight of their chaperones. Esther and Daubrey pointedly kept their attention on each other and began conversing perhaps more loudly than necessary. Kit sent his intuitive sister a silent thank you. Moonlight cast a soft halo around Susanna. The sharp planes of her cheekbones had softened, probably due to his sister feeding her practically every hour, and she no longer had the wary, half-starved look of the little waif who’d lingered at the stage door desperate for an audition. Even then, he’d sensed something about her, an inner drive, a quiet strength. Over the last few days, a new confidence had settled over her like a favorite shawl.

  “I owe you an apology,” he began.

  She fixed her eyes on him, too shadowed in the moonlight for him to see them clearly or to judge her mood. “For what are you apologizing?”

  “I didn’t deliberately deceive you about who I am, but I didn’t tell you the whole truth, either. I left home, determined to reject everything of my father’s and to be my own man. I have been living the life of a musician for so long that it comes naturally to me now.” He drew a breath. “For more than two years, I had stopped thinking of myself as anyone other than merely Kit Anson, a violinist.”