by Music Box
“I suppose.” Bryce’s smile was automatic, his concentration shifting from Nevon Manor’s residents to Lucinda, although not to capture the details of her idle chatter. For the first time he studied Lucinda as an objective observer might, scrutinizing the woman the newspapers referred to as “a fairy-tale princess.”
It was easy to see why. Everything about her was lovely—her golden hair upswept and adorned by a coronet of flowers, her elegant peau de soie ball gown the very height of fashion, its blue hue the perfect contrast to her ethereal features. She was flawless, like a priceless painting captured on canvas—refined, tasteful, and above all else, consistent.
Why did that consistency suddenly seem like a shortcoming rather than an asset? What the hell had come over him this past week?
“Bryce?” A worried frown creased Lucinda’s brow. “You really do seem out of sorts. Actually, you haven’t been yourself all week. Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Bryce shifted restlessly, staring into his empty glass and massaging his temples. “I suppose I’m just tired. I had more work piled up on my desk than I expected when I returned from Hertford.”
“I’m not surprised. No one—myself included—expected you to be away for so long.” Lucinda smoothed her skirts. “Lady Nevon obviously had a great many legal matters to discuss.”
“She did. But that wasn’t all that kept me away. Her staff … the people who live there …” He broke off, uncertain how to explain—or, more to the point, how much he could explain. He’d already tried, several times, to convey his ambivalence toward Hermione’s staff—his concern over their future, his admiration for their commitment to one another—but he’d been met only by a sympathetic nod and a distressed murmur, Lucinda’s customary manner of placating him.
Normally it didn’t matter. His causes were his own. It wasn’t necessary that Lucinda share them, only that she not deter him from doing what he must.
But this time was different. This time he wanted to shake some sense into her, to shout out his pride in these people’s accomplishments, to make her see that, inside Nevon Manor, what she viewed as impairments weren’t impairments at all.
Thus far he’d been unsuccessful.
And Lucinda’s next comment reinforced that fact all the more. “From what I’ve gleaned from you thus far, Lady Nevon’s staff sounds like an eccentric little group, to say the least. Were I you, I’d stick to my dealings with their mistress and leave them to their own devices.”
“Why?” Bryce bit out.
“Why?” Lucinda gave him an odd look. “Because they’re Lady Nevon’s responsibility, not yours. In addition, she’s clearly the only one who’s equipped to handle their special needs. As for my regarding them as eccentric, how else would you describe people who give parting gifts to a man they hardly know—and such peculiar parting gifts: a shovel, a cap, and a cloth with which to dust your shoes?”
“I’d describe them as caring.”
“I don’t doubt their motives, Bryce,” Lucinda replied in that calm, sensible voice of hers. “Only their clearheadedness.” Gently she touched his sleeve. “I wasn’t suggesting you treat them unkindly. However, in the future, I don’t think you should allow them to become quite so attached to you—or you to them, for that matter. It’s not healthy, the amount of time you’ve spent worrying over them this week. Objectively consider what I’m saying, and you’ll see that I’m right. They are, after all, Lady Nevon’s charges. And you are her legal adviser, not a companion for her staff.”
“That’s not terribly charitable of you, Lucinda,” Bryce returned coolly. “And I’m afraid I’m not as adept as you are at relegating people to neat little niches. These are individuals, not some generally labeled group. Each of them is different and unique. Take Peter, for example. At nine years of age, the lad already has the potential to be a brilliant barrister, and he will be, with the right encouragement. If I can provide him with that encouragement, and perhaps some knowledge and opportunity, how can I not?”
A sigh. “I’m not a monster, Bryce. I heard your colorful descriptions of Nevon Manor’s residents. Certainly I’m not suggesting that you scorn them, only that you moderate this fierce sense of personal duty you brought home with you. Help the lad, of course. Give him some of your books. Put in a word or two at Eton, if that would help. But you needn’t appoint yourself his personal champion.”
Silence.
Lucinda gave a helpless shrug, glancing behind her as the music in the ballroom resumed. “Please, Bryce, let’s not argue. Everything I’m saying is for your own good. I realize you feel a deep sense of compassion for Lady Nevon’s servants, and you know how much I admire your commitment to those less fortunate than we. But I don’t like to see you so distressed. Remember, Nevon Manor functioned just fine before your arrival. I’m certain it’s sustaining itself equally well since your departure.” Her fingertips brushed Bryce’s forearm, her smile coaxing. “Now let’s go back inside. I believe the musicians are striking up a waltz.”
With a terse nod, Bryce complied, fully aware that this discussion was going nowhere and deciding that dancing, which required no conversation, was preferable. Wordlessly he led Lucinda past the glass doors and back into her world: the ballroom.
The music had indeed resumed, and despite his lack of enthusiasm for the ball itself, Bryce found the melody oddly comforting after the tension of the past few minutes—harmony on the heels of discord; Concentrating on the lively cadence of the waltz, he swept Lucinda about the crowded floor amid the throng of laughing, chatting people.
Oblivious of the crowd, Bryce stared off into space, his gaze settling on the pianist. Idly, he wondered what Gaby would think of his performance. The gentleman was quite impressive, as was the gleaming pianoforte on which he played. But, skill notwithstanding, the music lacked the emotion, the intensity of feeling, that Gaby exuded when her fingers touched the keys. And the lighthearted waltz he was playing— Bryce grinned inwardly—was definitely not Beethoven.
The concert he and Lucinda had attended the other night had featured several of Beethoven’s symphonies. Those Gaby would have adored, as she would have the entire musical experience. The richness of the symphonies, the full-bodied sound of all the instruments playing as one—each its own entity, yet together so unified—Gaby would have blossomed like one of the springtime buds she so treasured.
As he whirled Lucinda about, Bryce’s thoughts converged on his promise to find a way for Gaby to attend a concert. He’d already given it a great deal of thought and had resolved at least one of the problems: that of Gaby’s chaperon, given that Hermione was presumably too weak to travel. He’d considered the limitations of the various residents of Nevon Manor and had decided upon Marion. She would be ideal. Not only was she steady enough, both physically and mentally, to spend an evening away from the estate and in London, but she would relish the opportunity to ride alongside her beloved Goodsmith in the carriage. It would provide them with one of those miraculous opportunities for privacy that Gaby had alluded to.
Bryce’s grin faded as he realized whom he’d instinctively chosen for the role of Gaby’s escort: himself. The idea was inadvisable, potential guardianship or not. If he walked into that concert hall with Gaby by his side, if not on his arm, the wrong conclusions would be drawn. He could ask Lucinda to join them, of course, but given her reaction to his entire Nevon Manor experience, she would doubtless balk at the notion of entertaining Hermione’s adopted niece.
A niece, he reminded himself, who’d been mentioned only briefly in the descriptions he’d provided Lucinda of Hermione’s residents.
He didn’t dare contemplate the reasons why.
Bryce jerked his thoughts back to the matter at hand: the dilemma of getting Gaby to the symphony. The only way he could see of accomplishing this was for Hermione to attend. And if she was too ill … Bryce frowned. There had to be another course of action. For Gaby’s sake and for his. The truth was, he didn’t want anyone
else escorting her to her first concert. Quite simply, he wanted to be the one to see the look on her face, to share her exhilaration as she immersed herself in the experience.
That unsettling voice inside his head—the one that had been assailing him all week—chimed in once again, dryly proclaiming that, should he manage to accomplish his goal, he doubtless wouldn’t have the same problem he’d had the other night. He’d found the concert to be surprisingly flat and uninteresting, and he couldn’t leave soon enough to suit him. In fact, the entire event had seemed irritating rather than enticing, the music devoid of its customary resonance.
And he knew bloody well why.
Damn.
“Where did you get those scratches?” Lucinda murmured as the waltz came to an end.
“Pardon me?”
“Your face.” One gloved finger grazed his jaw. “You have scratches on your chin and along your jawline. Did you injure yourself?”
“Ah, those.” A faint smile touched Bryce’s lips as he recalled the tussle that had resulted in those scratches. “No, I didn’t injure myself, at least not in the way you mean. The children at Nevon Manor conspired and granted me their own farewell gift: a cat. Actually, a kitten—an unruly little scamp named Sunburst, who thinks he’s a tiger. He’s accustomed to making himself at home when and where he chooses. As of now, he’s chosen my bedchamber as his lair. He’s taken it over and is most reluctant to share it. We had a small disagreement over the use of the bed this morning. Thus the scratches.”
Rather than smiling, Lucinda looked concerned. “Perhaps you should put him out, before his attacks really hurt you.”
“I think I can hold my own against a kitten,” Bryce returned dryly. “Besides, I would hardly call a few scratches an attack. Don’t worry; I’m fine.”
“Surely there are families with children who would be delighted to give your cat a home.”
Abruptly, Bryce wasn’t smiling. “He doesn’t need a home,” he said, feeling an irrational surge of annoyance. “He has one. Furthermore, I would never give him away; he was a gift. If I simply handed him off to another family, it would hurt Lily, Jane, and the boys terribly.”
A flicker of surprise widened Lucinda’s eyes—one that was quickly extinguished, supplanted by comprehension. “Of course. I understand. If you hurt the children’s feelings, it would upset Lady Nevon, something you cannot risk doing. She is, after all, a very important client. She’s also well known for her benevolence. Now that I consider it, your strategy—the empathy you’re showing her staff—is a sound one. Heartfelt, I know, but also quite sound.”
“My strategy,” Bryce repeated in a wooden tone. He drew a slow, tired breath. “Lucinda, I think it’s time we took our leave. It’s late, and I have an early morning appointment.”
“Of course.” Ever the consummate lady, Lucinda hid her disappointment. With one swift, baffled look at Bryce, she gathered up her skirts and glanced about the room. “The ball will be winding down soon anyway. Why don’t you arrange for the carriage to be brought around? I’ll find Lady Wilcox and say good night.”
“Fine.” Bryce turned, surveying the crowd and steeling himself for a push toward the hallway.
For one brief instant the full impact of his surroundings struck home. An opulent party, lavish gems, unspeakable affluence, notable guests.
So many people, so little purpose.
Abruptly Bryce had to get out of there. Immediately.
“Welcome back, Gabrielle.” Thane came out to greet Hermione’s carriage personally, extending his hand to assist Gaby in alighting.
“Thank you, Thane—and not just for the welcome,” she murmured when she stood beside him. “For everything.”
“My pleasure.” He leaned forward to help his aunt down, giving her a reassuring nod as he did. “You’re looking stronger today, Hermione. And you’re soon to look stronger still. Mrs. Fife has prepared an enormous lunch for us, one that might just cause the dining room table to collapse. Afterward the staff has an exhausting afternoon planned for Gabrielle—and for us, if we can manage to keep up. Mrs. Darcey has arranged for a long stroll about the grounds, stopping at all the hiding places she and Averley assure me were Gabrielle’s favorites. Following that, one of the fillies Gabrielle adored as a child—Maiden, I believe Mrs. Darcey said—will be saddled and brought around for a ride.”
“Oh … Maiden!” Gaby exclaimed, her mind flooded with fond memories. “She was my absolute favorite, all long-limbed and gangly, but with a hint of grace and a wealth of energy. Papa put me on her back when I was two—probably just so I’d stop nagging him to do so.”
Thane shot Gaby a grin. “Well, Maiden’s awkward youthful phase is over. Like you, she’s grown to adulthood. Her gangly limbs are now swift and strong, her grace fully developed. Her energy level remains unchanged, though. She’s now a thoroughly spirited mare who races like the wind. I guarantee she’ll tire you out. However, if your eyelids have yet to droop after your ride and your stroll, the staff has organized a late afternoon game of croquet, to be followed by a much needed tea party in the garden.” A chuckle. “You’ll probably sleep through the entire carriage ride home, and certainly throughout the night.”
Gaby’s throat tightened with gratitude. “It sounds wonderful,” she managed. “I can hardly wait.”
“Good. Then let’s not delay Mrs. Fife’s banquet.”
Lunch was all Thane had promised and more. Served by a half dozen familiar faces and overseen by Mrs. Fife herself, the meal consisted of roast mutton with browned potatoes and carrots—which Gaby instantly recognized as her most clamored-for meal as a child—followed by apple pastries, her all-time favorite. Biting into one of the warm confections, she smiled to herself, recalling how many times she’d wandered into the kitchen and tugged on Mrs. Fife’s skirts to get her attention, and all for the purpose of receiving the first pastry hot from the oven.
She’d usually accomplished her goal.
Gaby’s memories warmed still further during the stroll Mrs. Darcey had arranged. Accompanied by the housekeeper herself—and several younger maids who took over when Mrs. Darcey’s strength ran out— Gaby walked the grounds of Whitshire, encountering one delightful reminder after another. Each stopping point triggered another filament of recall: The massive rock at the edge of the woods, the thick cluster of trees, the grassy hollow alongside the stream—they all brought to mind a curious little girl who’d been discovering new and interesting places to explore.
Then came the highlight of the afternoon: her reunion with Maiden.
The mare was as splendid as Gaby remembered, maturity having only enhanced her beauty and spirit. Having been led by a groom to Whitshire’s course—clearly to avoid Gaby’s having to visit the stables and nearby servants’ quarters—the magnificent mare was saddled and ready to be mounted, tossing her golden brown head and eyeing Gaby as she approached.
Gaby paused beside her, stroking her mane and her silky muzzle. The way her ears perked up when Gaby said her name made it clear that Maiden remembered her.
“Is that really you, Gaby?” The groom, who had stood silently by during this reunion, now spoke up, sounding—and looking—utterly amazed as he uttered his question.
Shifting her attention, Gaby studied the man’s face, her eyes narrowed quizzically as she tried to place him. He was in his late twenties, she should say, with a ruddy complexion and a ready smile. Something about him was familiar, but she just couldn’t place it.
Noting Gaby’s puzzlement, the man grinned, and the twinkle that lit his dark eyes brought his identity back in a rush.
“Thomas?” she gasped, trying to liken the fifteen-year-old stable boy who’d fed and watered the horses to the muscular man now gazing back at her with amused disbelief. “Is that you?”
“I’m easier to recognize than you are,” he retorted, politely trying not to stare. “When His Grace said you’d be visiting, I assumed you’d look different than I remembered—taller, older. After all,
I haven’t seen you since you were five. But I didn’t expect a fully grown, beautiful …” He broke off, flushing as he realized he’d overstepped his bounds. “Sorry. It’s just that I’ve always pictured you the way you were: the little imp who was forever underfoot when your father was trying to get his work done.” A rueful sigh. “It certainly makes me feel old.”
A smile touched Gaby’s lips. “We’ve all changed, Thomas. Not old, just older.”
Thomas nodded, the toe of his boot scraping the dirt. “Denning would be real proud of you. You’ve got his way with horses. You also look a whole lot like your mother.” His head came up, and he watched her, his expression distinctly uncomfortable. “I hope I didn’t upset you by saying that.”
“Not at all,” Gaby assured him, feeling choked, but in a profound and tender way rather than a pained one. “In fact, I can’t think of a lovelier compliment.”
Nodding again, Thomas shifted awkwardly, gesturing toward Maiden. “Can I help you up?”
“Yes, thanks.” Gaby moved to Maiden’s left side, accepting Thomas’s assistance and easing into the sidesaddle. “Is it all right if I take her over the course alone?”
“Yeah, I guess it can’t hurt, given you’re not riding astride. You can’t let Maiden take control. If she thinks she’s boss, she’ll take off like a bullet. Before you know it, you’ll be sailing over her head and landing on your—” He cleared his throat. “You know what I mean.”
“Indeed I do.” Gaby bit back her laughter, giving Maiden an affectionate pat. “Thank you, Thomas. I promise not to become overzealous.”
Sidesaddle or not, the ride was exquisite, a ballet without music. Gaby guided Maiden across the grounds, taking in the familiar sights that mere strolling had circumvented: the manicured length of the course, the twists and turns she remembered so vividly, having followed her father countless times as he cooled down the horses for the day.