The Hellion's Waltz

by Olivia Waite

  “No,” Maddie whispered, anguished. “I couldn’t bring the loom.” Not unless she took it apart, piece by piece, and reassembled it somewhere else. But she couldn’t picture it anywhere else—it had always stood here, a testament to her mother’s drive and ingenuity and skill. Maddie couldn’t imagine a way to move it that wouldn’t feel like destruction.

  But what good was a weaver without her loom? What was Maddie, if not a weaver?

  Sophie’s fingers stopped stroking and slid around Maddie’s shoulder, gripping tight. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You’re not going to lose me,” Maddie said at once, looking down into Sophie’s eyes, which were liquid silver with moonlight and worry. “And you know I’ll never lie to you.”

  “I know.” Sophie’s answering smile was haunted. Maddie kissed her lips free of it, and found a better way to spend the last hours of the night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The concert evening was clear apart from a few trailing wisps of cloud, as though the sky itself had put on handmade lace for the occasion. Everyone appeared in their very best: the gentry, the merchants, and the factory families. The only difference was the latter would bundle their finery back to the pawnshop on Monday morning, until Friday’s pay could redeem the good clothing for church.

  Sophie had Julia help her into her concert gown of pale blue silk with a net overlay. The net was extremely fine and had been embellished with white embroidery in the shape of long, graceful plumes; they feathered over the bodice and short sleeves, and trailed down the center of the gown to the hem.

  It made Sophie feel quite angelic, which was both gratifying and pricked at her conscience.

  Julia was in white, with a spattering of small gold wings like bees, and very proud of them she was. Jasper had a waistcoat made of the same material, and had been strutting about in it all afternoon until Mrs. Roseingrave made him change to a less imperiled one to eat supper in. “Are you ready?” Julia asked.

  Sophie took one last breath and braced herself. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Mr. Roseingrave had hired a carriage for the night, and a wagon had taken Sophie’s piano over earlier that afternoon. Once the Roseingraves arrived—a noisy group, as the twins and Freddy were near bursting with excitement, with only Robbie silent and ashen-faced—she hurried to test her instrument was in tune and make her final anxious adjustments.

  The Carrisford Moot Hall was an old building lately refurbished: the room a long rectangle with the organ at one end, rows of pillars down either wall, and a sky-blue arch of ceiling above. It was so precise a match for the hue of Sophie’s gown that she almost wished she could fly up and disappear into it.

  But that was her nerves talking. They jangled like overstretched wires down her arms and in her belly, and there was no way of putting them in better tune.

  The hall blazed with light, most of it by the old Gothic window where the piano had been situated along one of the long walls, rows of chairs facing it. At the back of the rows were tables with bowls of punch and trays of sweets. The members of the Weavers’ Library were serving, bright and lively in various hues. At one of these tables, Alice sold silk souvenir programs and accepted donations for the Weavers’ Library. Sophie and the other performers clustered at the back, many holding instruments with damp hands and murmuring softly to one another.

  And there, sitting in the second row, tapping one foot on the floorboards, was Mr. Giles.

  Sophie estimated the tempo of his agitation by the speed at which he tapped. She knew, because she’d helped write the note, that Mrs. Money had sent word to him this afternoon that one of his investors, on the side, had made her an offer for the formula of the color-changing dye.

  I knew we couldn’t trust them, the note had said.

  They have betrayed you. Horace’s rivals must have found out: they have long been looking to steal his secrets and claim the credit. They must not get hold of his formula! Horace’s legacy must not be so tarnished!

  I cannot linger here past tomorrow—but nor do I dare meet you anywhere quiet, where they might ambush me before I have a chance to deliver Horace’s notes to you. If you have the thousand pounds—even if it must be in banknotes—bring it to the concert at the Moot Hall tonight.

  I will be wearing green, my mourning year being past. Find two seats in the front row, and I will join you once the music has begun. One last act for my Horace’s honor, and I will shake the dust of this town from my feet.

  Mr. Giles’s coat, Sophie noticed, was bulging a little on one side. As though he had a second heart hidden there. He would occasionally reach one hand up to touch it, defensively, as he waited with ill grace.

  Slowly, the hands on the clock crept forward, and the chairs in the hall filled with people both new and familiar. Every carrying laugh and cough wound Sophie tighter, until she worried her joints might actually burst with the strain.

  Miss Narayan wore an amber velvet that made her brown skin glow as if lit from within. She and her aunt were in the precise center of the chairs, with Mr. Samson a tall figure in between. Mrs. Roseingrave was wearing deep blue satin; she walked slowly to the front row with the elder Mr. Frampton and spoke to Mr. Giles. While Sophie watched closely, Mr. Giles moved over at her request, so that Mr. Frampton with his cane could settle into the aisle seat, with Mrs. Roseingrave beside him. Two empty seats separated Mrs. Roseingrave from Mr. Giles: the spaces reserved for Mr. Roseingrave, and Mrs. Money.

  Sophie saw Mr. Giles touch his coat again, and felt her heartbeat skip double-time.

  Sophie’s mother rose from her chair and murmured something to her friend. Moments later she was giving Sophie an encouraging maternal kiss on the cheek. “Feeling brave, my dear?”

  “Only if bravery feels precisely like nausea,” Sophie murmured back in a burst of frankness.

  Her mother smiled. “Old performer’s secret: if you’re going to be sick,” Mrs. Roseingrave whispered, “be sick and get it out of the way.” She embraced Sophie hard, kissed her husband, then returned to her seat.

  Sophie shook out her hands at the wrist and flexed her fingers. She wouldn’t be playing for a while yet, but she worried if she ran away to retch somewhere she’d just keep running and never come back.

  She couldn’t even think it. Too much depended on her.

  Restless, she made her way over to where Harriet Muchelney stood. The girl’s sheet music was fluttering in her shaking hand, and her eyes were so big they glowed white even back here where the light was dim. “My cousins Lucy and Stephen came up from London,” she said faintly. “It’s a very long way to travel. And they brought a countess with them.”

  A lot of expectation there. Sophie cold sympathize. She put a steadying hand on her student’s shoulder. “How are you feeling?”

  “Terrified,” Harriet whispered.

  Sophie leaned down and whispered: “Me too.”

  Harriet’s surprise was clear; her eyes widened further. “But you’ve done this before?”

  “Not quite like this,” Sophie said. “But I do know: it’s a little terrifying every time. And now you know something about performing—this is just how it feels before you begin.” She squeezed the girl’s shoulder. “It doesn’t mean anything about how you’re going to do. That’s entirely up to you.”

  The girl swallowed audibly. “What if I hit a wrong note?”

  “You might,” Sophie allowed. “But you just keep going.”

  “What if”—Harriet bit her lip—“what if I forget how to play?”

  “If you get lost, you can just stop, and then start over.”

  “From the beginning, or—?”

  “From anywhere you like. And it might feel awful. But just try again, and keep going. Because here’s another secret . . .” She leaned close. “The audience wants to see something interesting. And if you play very well, that’s interesting. And they’ll clap for you. But if you hit a wrong note, or lose your place—if you have to stop and start over an
d try again—if you make a mistake but keep going and then make it to the end anyway . . .” Sophie smiled. “They’ll clap even harder. Because if you play perfectly, you’ve conquered a piece of music. But if you play imperfectly, and still finish, you’ve conquered fear itself. And every audience in the entire world wants to see that.”

  “They’ll clap harder?” Harriet asked.

  “I’ve heard them,” Sophie said.

  Harriet gave a small smile, and her music didn’t rattle quite so hard in her hands.

  Mr. Roseingrave grinned at his daughter. “Are you ready to create a sensation, my dear?”

  Sophie straightened her shoulders. “As ready as I can be.”

  “Then let us begin.”

  Mr. Roseingrave cleared his throat, moved to the front, and raised his arms. The audience chatter faded away into silence as he strode into the bright lights of the small stage. “Ladies and gentlemen . . .” he began.

  His introduction was mercifully brief, and at the end he resumed his seat in the audience, his wife patting his knee. Jasper and Julia were up first, the crowd cooing over their matching garb and improbable confidence. They raised their violins—Jasper gave a silent count—and the duet began. Sophie had heard it a hundred times as they practiced at home, but here in this space it sounded unfamiliar, as though it had been created just for this moment.

  As soon as the first notes sounded, Mrs. Money walked into the room. Her Pomona green gown bore rosettes of bright gold on the bodice, and no fewer than three tiers of flounces along the hem. She made her way along the side, unseen.

  Sophie marked time by watching Jasper and Julia, who were outdoing themselves. Soaring strings and small, quick fingers, and two instruments that were fortunately in good tune: the audience applauded so much at the finish that Jasper’s grin nearly split his face, and even bold Julia looked surprised and slightly shy at such a wealth of approval.

  While everyone applauded, Mrs. Money slipped into the empty seat in the front row, clutching at her purse as though she feared to lose it.

  Now it was Harriet Muchelney’s turn on the program. She turned half-wild eyes to Sophie.

  Sophie nodded briskly and smiled. “It’s up to you now.”

  Harriet’s spine straightened, and she nodded back. If her walk to the piano bench was a bit of a martial march, well, that was only to be expected.

  Sophie held her breath. Despite her bold words to the girl, Miss Muchelney’s success was a test for her teacher as well. This was Sophie’s first student in Carrisford, and her ability to attract others would hang on what happened in the next few minutes.

  The piece Harriet had selected (with Sophie’s help) was a simplified version of a waltz in A minor: she only had to worry about the white keys, and it sounded dramatic and eerie and sinister in a way that had called to the girl’s fierce soul. Miss Muchelney sat on the bench, wiped her hands on her skirts, and reached for the keys.

  Sophie had to remind herself the human body needed to breathe. She sucked air in, conscious more than she had ever been before of the way her lungs expanded in her chest, and the muscles that moved all of it in and out.

  Harriet launched into the waltz as though declaring war.

  It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t lyrical, and half the audience reared back in polite surprise at the volume—but her rhythm was good, the sound filled the hall to the corners, and she wrung every feeling she could from the melody. It was bloodthirsty, somehow, and brave, and it threw caution absolutely to the wind.

  She played every note perfectly, if emphatically, and reveled in the small bits of showiness at the end.

  Before the notes of the last chord faded from the air, the applause was already deafening.

  Harriet rose and bowed, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, the wonder of it clear on her face: this applause was all for her. From the back came the sound of her brothers yelling her name; she flushed and gave them a little wave, and laughter rolled over the applause.

  Sophie had fallen in love with performing herself in just this way—albeit with a much smaller audience—and from the wings she clapped until her hands stung, fit to expire from mingled relief and pride.

  In the front, Mr. Giles turned to murmur a few words to Mrs. Money, and she held up a quelling hand, peering suspiciously around at the audience.

  Mr. Frampton and Miss Slight followed, playing one of Spohr’s sonatas for harp and violin. The bell-like tone of the harp and the voice of the violin were an exquisite combination, and Sophie managed to soothe her nerves a little in the shiver of the strings.

  She peered out at the audience again when the sonata finished, and spotted Maddie Crewe for the first time. Maddie was across the aisle from Mrs. Money; her gown was a silvery gray color that brought out the rosy tones in her skin and the auburn in her hair. Starlike spangles were scattered along the neckline and down the skirt. They sparkled as she clapped, her eyes diamond bright. She flicked a quick glance across the aisle, where Mr. Giles sat, not even applauding, clearly so caught up in his dreams of unearned success that he was unwilling to even pretend to enjoy the performance. Waiting for the important part—which is to say, the part of the evening that involved and affected him.

  How profoundly selfish, Sophie thought.

  More performances: Robbie and Freddie, the Aeolian Club. Sophie managed to resist the urge to chew her nails down to the quick. And when she stretched her hands for the hundredth time, trying to keep them busy, she realized: she hadn’t actually thought about Mr. Verrinder in weeks.

  She’d been too occupied practicing her waltz, kissing Maddie Crewe, and plotting to defraud Mr. Giles. Only one of those was truly virtuous, but they’d all been enjoyable. More than enjoyable—they’d made her feel like the strongest and truest version of herself.

  Maybe this was what healing felt like.

  One final quartet finished playing, and carried their instruments away. The piano was once again alone out there, shining like a torch in the candlelight.

  Maddie Crewe leaned forward in her seat, roses blooming in her cheeks.

  She had woven the silk programs; she had known the order of performances. She knew Sophie would be up next. The finale, the last great spectacle of the night.

  Maddie was eager for it, the curve of her lips evident even at this distance.

  Sophie gazed at the woman she loved more than she’d ever thought possible, and like her mother so many years before, she knew she was doing all this tonight for one reason and one reason only: to enthrall and enchant one particular audience member. In the hope she could steal Maddie’s heart so thoroughly they would spend the rest of their lives tangled up together.

  And she realized: this was what Mrs. Roseingrave had talked about. This was one of those perfect moments that happened only so often in the course of a musician’s career.

  There was nothing to do but give it everything she had.

  Sophie strode into the light and curtsied to all of Carrisford. She sat on the bench and smoothed out her skirts so her feet could reach the pedals unimpeded.

  The waltz unfurled in her mind like a map to the next ten minutes.

  She felt Maddie’s gaze on her, warm with approval.

  She breathed in deep, raised her hands, and began to play.

  Maddie had suspected it, but now she was sure: Sophie Roseingrave was a musical genius.

  She’d heard “The Hellion’s Waltz” once before, so she ought to have been prepared. But it was one thing to hear it played in a close and intimate setting, for an audience of one—it was quite another to be sitting in a throng as Sophie’s incredible hands pulled note after note out of the piano shining under the lights. The audience was rapt, utterly entranced by the skill of the composer and the performer, the air thick with the peculiar tension that happens only when hundreds upon hundreds of people are all holding their breath with wonder.

  It was such a shame they wouldn’t get to hear the ending.

  As the third and final secti
on started up—the two melodies singing together, harmony ringing out honey-sweet in the Moot Hall—Mrs. Money made her move.

  Maddie had watched her closely the whole night, sitting beside their victim. Mr. Giles had tapped his foot impatiently through every performance in such a way as to make Maddie reconsider the wisdom of murdering him and throwing his body in the river. And now, as the final movement of the final piece rang out, and everyone’s attention was fixed upon the small figure on stage, the evening’s real performance began.

  Mrs. Money took a few folded sheets of paper out of her purse, wrapped them quickly in her silk souvenir program, and handed it to Mr. Giles. He, in turn, passed her a small purse, with a cord she quickly looped over her wrist.

  Then Mrs. Money rose and crept to the side, ready to make her way out of the hall.

  Mr. Giles tried to tuck the silk-wrapped bundle in his coat, but it was just large enough to be awkward. He fought with it. Mr. Roseingrave noticed the gesture, and from across the aisle Maddie could just hear him say: “Oh! Oh, dear. Your program is badly creased, Mr. Giles—do let me offer you a fresh one.”

  And he plucked the silk from Mr. Giles’s hand.

  Maddie’s every muscle tensed.

  “Give that back, sir!” Mr. Giles hissed—too loudly. People from the second and third row shushed him, frowning at the unmelodious interruption.

  Mr. Roseingrave had already cast his eye upon the paper, enough to read what little was written there. Maddie’s hands clenched, as the piano maker’s eyes flicked up again, narrowed in offense. His tone was a shade louder than before, as if he had briefly forgotten he was at a concert. “I beg your pardon, sir, but this is not a gambling hall.”