Sophy looked at her hostess. “Do you play any of them?”
Angela blushed slightly. “To be honest, I have from time to time applied myself to learning to play this one. It is called a sarod, but I would never play it in company.”
“The woodwork on it is so lovely.”
The hostess smiled and touched the instrument that had captivated Sophy. “This one was a gift from one of the Indian Rajas to my grandfather, Thomas Coutts. Do you know the name of the instrument?”
“Yes, it is a tanbur. It is also known as a sitar,” Sophy found herself saying.
“How delightful! I am so glad to have found someone who knows something about it.” Angela took the instrument off the shelf and handed it to Sophy. “Is there anything else you can tell me about it?”
“There is very little I remember.” Sophy sat down on a chair and tested the weight of it in her lap. She gently ran her finger down the neck and faceplate to the carvings of the chamber. More images and sounds rushed through her mind. A room where she felt safe. An aged man was standing over her. He was dressed in a kurta—the long loose shirt rippling in the breeze—explaining the instrument to her, teaching her how to play.
The sound of applause brought Sophy back to the room once again. The woman playing the piano had finished. Miss Burdett-Coutts was leaning over, waiting for an answer.
Sophy focused on the sitar in her lap. “You can see the instrument has two bridges; the large bridge, the badaa goraa, for the playing . . . and these drone strings and the small bridge, the chota goraa, for the sympathetic strings.”
She took a metal pick off the shelf, wrapped it around her index finger like a thimble, and tested the sound. Several heads turned in their direction.
“This sitar has six playable strings. Some have seven. Three of them are called the chikaari; they simply provide a drone. The rest are used to play the melody.”
“Can you play it?”
“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “But this is not the place to find out. I would never want to embarrass you before your guests.”
“Nonsense,” Angela said good-naturedly. “I want you to try it.”
Sophy glanced at the room full of guests. Some of the men had started filtering in to join them. She knew she could refuse and put the instrument back on the shelf, but she could already feel a connection between the sitar and her past. The sounds and images were the clearest glimpse she had so far of the life she must have led. She could feel real memories bubbling so close to the surface, ready to break free.
“Is there somewhere else I might go to play? Another room, perhaps?”
Angela motioned with her head to a set of closed double doors. “Come with me.”
Sophy followed her out of the drawing room into a smaller library. A fire had already been lit in the hearth, and candles glowed in sconces all around the room. A servant closed the door behind them, shutting out the noise of the guests.
“Would this suffice?”
The room was perfect.
“I remember sitting on the floor and playing the instrument,” Sophy told her.
“You may play it wherever you wish.” Angela went around the room and collected a few pillows, placing them near the fireplace.
Maneuvering in the dress so she could sit on the floor was not as easy as Sophy had imagined it would be. But with the help of her hostess, she managed it, sitting and balancing the instrument between her left foot and right knee. She knew her hands needed to move freely without having to carry any of the instrument’s weight.
She plucked a couple of strings. Immediately, emotions welled up in her chest. She looked up and saw Angela standing near the door.
“Do you need some time alone?”
Sophy nodded. “I am sorry for not being a good guest.”
“You are doing exactly what I’d hoped you would do. Sophy, you are here because I want to help you remember.”
Angela turned and left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Sophy stared after her for a moment and then withdrew into the solitude of a lost past.
Taking a deep breath, she focused on the instrument on her lap. It took her a few moments before she could recall the images she’d seen in the other room. Playing the strings, she let herself float off exploring the harmonies and the texture of sound. She drifted again back in time.
The air was thick and steamy. The rain had been falling incessantly for days. Fields and roads were flooded. People were sleeping in the barns and stables. She could hear a loud commotion in another part of the house. Voices crying out in sadness.
Leaving the instrument on the floor, she went to the door. She was only a child. She wanted to find more about what was happening. A hand took hold of her wrist. The thinly built woman, wearing a sari, held her back. She spoke soothing words, a mixture of tongues. Her voice was calming, so much like the music Sophy loved. They waited, hand in hand. She knew now that the tumult was coming to them.
A man in white stepped into the room through the sheer curtains, his face sad and his eyes on the floor. He was bringing the news. Sophy felt the pressure of the woman’s grip tighten on her wrist.
Her mother is dead.
Sophy stared. She knew what dead meant. Dead meant going away.
Her mother was gone, like the other people she knew who had been afflicted with the sickness and the fever. She had been watching the bodies being taken away from the house and the barns and the stables. She had watched them from the wide verandah. That was as far as she had been allowed to go for many days.
And now her mother was gone, too. Sophy hadn’t been allowed to see her since she had been confined to her bed. She would miss her now that she was gone.
She looked up at the woman holding her wrist. Tears were rolling down her dark cheeks. Sophy started to cry, too. She cried because she didn’t like to see her sad. That was when she realized she loved Priya as much as her own mother.
Sophy found her vision blurring. Someone was playing. She couldn’t hold back the tears. There was no beginning or middle or end to the song. The music droned on and then she suddenly stopped. She was the one playing.
The door was open. A handful of guests were gathered there, watching her. Just inside the door, she saw a man dressed in formal naval uniform of blue and gold. Captain Seymour.
CHAPTER 21
She might as well have been plucking the strings of his heart.
The burning fire cast a golden glow around her. The light from dozens of candles tried in vain to compete with her radiance. Edward didn’t think he’d seen anything more beautiful than Sophy holding that instrument and sitting on the floor. She seemed to be lost in a dream, swaying softly to the sounds she herself was creating on the sitar. Her tears, glistening on her face, were his undoing.
When her eyes focused on him, their gazes locked. No one else existed. He had only one thought in his mind as he moved toward her. She was his. Family, wealth, her reputation, her lost memory--all the other doubts that had been plaguing him since he’d guessed her true identity suddenly didn’t matter. This was the woman that he had been waiting for all his life.
The other guests appeared to be as enthralled by her performance as Edward. When she paused, applause broke out from the gathered throng. Edward was angry to see Wren reach her side before he did. He offered his hand to assist her rising. Before she could take it, though, Edward moved around his friend, took the sitar off of Sophy’s lap, and handed it to him.
“Be useful, old fellow, and put this back on the shelf,” he ordered.
“So, you can insult our host and our lovely guest of honor by coming around so late,” Latham said, smirking, “but we are still yours to command?”
Edward ignored him and reached down and offered his hand to Sophy. He was relieved when she took it and came up to her feet.
“I never thought I could be jealous of a musical instrument” he whispered to her. “But tonight I was.”
“Well,” Wren said, breakin
g in, “You’re more than welcome to have it back.”
“On the shelf, Latham,” Edward said without looking at the nobleman.
A beautiful blush had colored Sophy’s cheeks, and she politely withdrew her hand. Edward saw many of the guests were approaching them.
“I am so embarrassed. I didn’t realize I had an audience.”
“Miss Sophia—” one guest began.
“Miss Howe,” another interrupted. “How did you ever learn to play so beautifully?”
“—such an exotic instrument?”
“And so beauti—”
“Is it common among young women in Boston to learn to play such an instrument?”
She was surrounded by questions, and Edward stepped back slightly, allowing her the attention she was so deservedly receiving.
“What is it? Have you made up your mind?” Wren came back into the room and stood next to him.
Edward frowned at his longtime friend. Wren was studying Sophy too closely.
“You will stay away from her, Latham.”
“I shan’t if you are going to remain so distant.”
“Really.” Latham was beginning to lose his appeal as a friend.
“Naturally. Sophy is beautiful, smart, talented, charming, no doubt very rich, and still unknown to the scores of eligible bachelors in England . . . never mind all the old goats. In fact, I’ve always believed a little competition is a good thing,” he said thoughtfully. “Never mind that I showed you the courtesy of asking your intentions. I believe I will compete for her affection.”
“You know that I am not above knocking you down right here in this room,” Edward threatened.
Wren turned his attention to him. “A bit cocky, this evening, are we not?”
“Let me see. My years in the Royal Navy fighting for queen and country versus your years of idleness, drinking, and debauchery . . .with the occasional gentlemen’s club boxing match."
“Well, I must say that you have described the life in politics admirably, but I seem to recall holding my own against you back in school.”
“If you think the sad memory of some glory days that never really existed, except in your own mind—”
“I’m thinking that this prize may be worth—”
“And I’m thinking I may just have to swab the deck with y—”
Angela Burdett-Coutts slid between two men.
“I just love this nautical talk,” she said in a low voice, smiling and putting a hand on each one’s arm. “It is so lovely to see how well you two continue to get along after so many years of friendship. Shall we return to the drawing room for cards before some of these priceless artifacts are damaged?”
Edward looked around to see Sophy leaving the library on the arm of Mrs. Dickens.
“Just a moment, gentlemen,” Angela said, holding them. “Lord Latham, since you will be staying for the weekend, I was hoping to entice you to go riding with me and a few of my guests tomorrow morning.” Angela waited until the nobleman nodded before turning to Edward. “And you, Captain. I’ve been informed that Mrs. Dickens is anxious to get back to her children. Since you will not be staying the night, I was hoping you might do me a favor and drop Miss Howe at her residence.”
“It will be my pleasure,” Edward replied with a bow before Wren had a chance to object. “In fact, I was planning on it.”
“Good,” she said with a smile. “Now come along amicably . . . both of you.”
The next hour dragged on, leaving Edward with feeling of a ship becalmed, rolling listlessly in a sea of people he cared nothing about. He knew he couldn’t leave until Mr. and Mrs. Dickens were ready to go; the rest of the guests assumed Sophy was staying with the novelist and his wife. He had no interest in cards and realized, to his frustration, that he also couldn’t even get close to Sophy. It seemed as if everyone at the party had become interested only in her.
Listening from afar as he stood by a fireplace, Edward realized he would also need to start accepting invitations to the pre-Season affairs put on by these year-round Londoners. Clearly, he would have to attend, for there was no way he was about to let her travel alone in this company of wolves. He glared ferociously at Latham, who had somehow managed to secure a seat next to her. It only cheered him negligibly to see that Sophy would not show him her cards and treated him with courtesy, but nothing more.
When they all rose from the card tables, he was relieved to see Mrs. Dickens suggest to her husband that it was time for them to be going. Still, Edward had to keep up the pretense of indifference through a lengthy farewell.
“A successful night, I should say,” Dickens said as they stood in the marble foyer, waiting for their carriages to be brought around. Sophy was saying goodnight to the novelist’s wife. “I will be quite interested to hear what Sophy tells you. Will you join me for a walk tomorrow, Captain?”
“I will, indeed.”
Edward watched his carriage roll up to the door, and he and Sophy went out into the chill of the night. He had been torn as to whether he should come to the party or not. At the last minute, he’d convinced himself that the priority needed to be to help Sophy recover her past, and so he should make the long journey out to Angela’s Holly Lodge. His battle with his conscience continued to rage, however.
“Priya,” she said as soon as he climbed inside and the door closed behind them. “I remember a woman named Priya. I believe she was very important. She was like a mother to me.”
Edward recalled an older Bengali person referred to in the newspaper. The woman was Sophy’s servant and had traveled from Calcutta with her. At one of the coroner’s inquests, it had been suggested that she might be the only one qualified to make a positive identification, if a body should be found. Edward wondered if she could be the same person.
“Did you remember this tonight?”
“Her face and her name came to me as I was playing the sitar. The image was from a long time ago. Perhaps I should be worrying about what might have happened to her.”
“Was there anything else that came back to you?”
“My mother. She died of a fever during an epidemic that killed many others.”
She was sitting across from him. Edward reached out and took her hand. “I am sorry.”
Sophy nodded and looked out the carriage window. “It had to be years ago. I don’t remember her face or anything more about her. But in this daydream I was more upset because Priya was sad. That is how I know she was very important to me.”
Edward wondered if there was any way he could arrange a meeting between Sophy and the Bengali servant. There was a risk, of course. The woman might simply take the news of Sophy’s existence and whereabouts back to the uncle.
“When I arrived at the party, you were playing the instrument, but you did not seem to be aware of anything else around you. It looked as if you were in a trance.”
“I suppose that’s true. The music did something to me.” She looked into his face. “Playing that sitar, I was taken back to a different time. I was in another room. It was a place that I knew very well, and the people in it were real. I am certain they were from my past. I know I spent part of my life in another country. It wasn’t that someone taught me to speak the language here in Britain. I was in India.”
“And what you remembered tonight, those images. Were they different from the ones that have come to you before? The ones that draw you out into the streets of London, or to the Isle of Dogs where those children waited to be rescued?”
She withdrew her hands from his grasp and sat back, looking away again. He felt the curtain draw, saw her shut herself off from him. “Yes. Very different.”
As much as he would have liked to ask her more questions, Edward knew he was hiding things from her, as well. He no longer entertained any doubt as to Sophy’s identity, but he was saying nothing to her about what he and Dickens had discovered. And as much as he tried to rationalize that it was for her safety that he was doing this, he still questioned whether it wa
s right to withhold the truth from her.
“Miss Burdett-Coutts told me on the way out that she is going to send the sitar over to you tomorrow or the next day. She recognizes the significance of it in helping you remember.”
“Her kindness astounds me. But I know the reason for it.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “Thank you, Captain.”
Edward fought the urge of reaching for her. He had missed her. Every moment they’d been apart, he had been thinking about her. He wanted her . . . badly.
“I don’t deserve any credit.”
“But you do,” she argued. “I cannot even begin to thank you for your generosity. Since saving my life, you have continued to provide me with so much. The dresses, the—”
“No. Please do not mention any of it. Whatever you need, and everything you ask for, and anything I provide you with, they are just a gift from one friend to another. You have no obligations to me, no reason to feel indebted in any way.”
“Is this what we are then? Friends?”
“Friends,” he repeated in a lower voice.
She started to say something, but paused and played with the edge of her cloak for a few moments. She finally looked up.
“And you wish for us to be nothing more.”
Her words cut through the lie he was telling her. He remembered Wren’s attentions to Sophy tonight. And that blackguard was his friend. He wouldn’t have a chance with her once she began attending parties and making her way around London society. And once the Season began in earnest after Christmas, there would be no stopping her. As it should be.
CHAPTER 22
“It is undoubtedly the same woman,” Dickens said excitedly. “This Priya that Sophy mentioned must be the same woman that John Warren is keeping safely tucked away in his residence--and not with the rest of the servants, but separately. She never leaves, by all accounts, nor has she received any visitors since arriving in London.”
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