How pathetic she was to have to buy her friends and to seek approval and self-worth from strangers when she performed.
A sound from the kitchen finally gained her attention. Slowly, hope beginning to grow, she headed for the back of the house. When she pushed through the door she found Margaret working at the stove, Henry reading the newspaper, and Deandra going through a stack of documents.
“You’re still here,” she said, her breath rushing out.
All three looked at her. “Of course we’re still here,” Deandra said, sitting back. “Where did you think we’d be?”
“But your rooms are empty.”
“No, they are simply cleaned up for a change. We are used to having servants do our every bidding.”
Sophie’s spine stiffed. “I’m sorry,” she offered, her chin rising.
“Don’t be sorry. You’ll pay for servants again soon enough. I’m going through your contracts now to see what is due you and when.”
“In the meantime,” Henry said, “I’m going to get a job. These classifieds are filled with them.”
“You mean…”
The words trailed off, and Margaret strode up to her in her efficient manner. “We are staying. Whether you have money or not. Whether you have a future or not. Who knows where the three of us would have ended up had you not taken us in. Now it’s time for us to return the favor.”
“But what about your cousin?”
“My cousin doesn’t want me, nor does she need me. My place is here with you.”
Sophie threw her arms around the primly dressed woman who had become a friend. “I love you.”
Henry leaped up. “I want a hug, too!”
And before too long, the three of them held tight, only Deandra holding back, an odd look on her face as she sat at the table—wistful and disdainful at the same moment.
“Come on, Dea,” Henry cajoled.
After a second, she flew into the group and held tight with a laugh.
“We’re going to make it,” Margaret said.
“Never a doubt,” Henry added.
They pulled back with smiles on their faces.
“Thank you.” Sophie felt an intense joy. Then she headed for the newspaper. “Henry, how about sharing those classifieds with me? I’m going to get a job, too.”
“Not on your life,” Deandra stated, back to her businesslike self. “More than ever you need to practice. You are going to get this Music Hall show over with so we can get payment; then we are going to head back to Europe.”
Back to Europe. The only viable option, since her father had no room for her in his life. And the truth was, until she had finished the summer and winter tours, she couldn’t afford her childhood home.
After all the battles, she could still lose Swan’s Grace anyway.
A wave of disquiet swept through her. She turned away, knowing she couldn’t redo the mistakes of the past. She could only make sure she didn’t make any more mistakes in the future. And she would do that by playing. By truly playing.
As she was meant to.
The thought reared up, surprising her. She wanted to dazzle Bostonians, yes, but with talent rather than spectacle.
She might have lost everything else about her past, but she would not lose her pride.
She realized with blinding insight that she had wanted it all along, but had held the desire at bay.
Determination whirled through her blood. Determination and fire. She would play Bach. Because despite what Niles Prescott had made her believe, she had talent.
Her heart pounded. She wanted this more than she ever dreamed possible. For months she had tried to deny it. But now the feelings burst forth and wouldn’t be held back.
She wanted to show Niles Prescott that he was wrong. She wanted to show her father that he should be proud. She wanted to show Grayson that in many ways she had not failed. And show them she would.
With that decision, Sophie devised a schedule, then clung to routine like a lifeline. She started practice earlier every morning, rehearsing into the late hours of the night. Her world became ordered with the precision of a metronome. Purpose and excitement filled her, as intoxicating as a drug.
She practiced in the library, paintings stacked in the hallway, wallpaper half gone, the room empty except for her chair and a music stand. In moments of frustration when a piece wasn’t going well, she poured her energies into stripping more of the wallpaper. But then the solution to a difficult section would come to her, a strip of paper hanging half off the wall like a tongue lolling out of a mouth. She would leap back into her chair to play what she heard in her head, the problem solved, until the next one arose.
At the end of the first week of practicing, her confidence rose as the notes started making sense in her head.
Euphoria and wonder filled her. Purpose became her constant companion.
But as one week turned into two, her euphoria began to falter. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t pull the suites together. She might understand how the works needed to be played, but despite her determined effort, she couldn’t make the cello soar as she wanted.
After long months of simply letting her music flow free and wild, the bow had become awkward in her hands. The change from spectacle back to respected concert cellist required controlled movements. But those modifications made her bowing inconsistent. Her left hand clenched up, her body went tense. Even simple scales became torture.
And at the end of the second week, what progress she had made was negated completely. She fought to hold on to her conviction that she could succeed. Her excitement faded, and confidence became as elusive as waves rushing back to the sea.
Through it all, Grayson was there every day. Several times Lucas had arrived, and the men had conferred behind closed doors. Grayson had also hired a solicitor who specialized in property to find him a new office.
By the end of the third week, doubt had crept in and firmly took hold, making her wonder how she ever could have thought she could play a single unaccompanied Bach suite, much less five of them.
Fear pushed every ounce of excitement away. And by the time she woke the next morning, she could hardly breathe when she stood from the bed.
She wanted to go to Grayson. To talk to him. Sit with him. Have him tell her everything would be all right. But everything wasn’t going to be all right. She couldn’t play Bach, and soon Grayson would be gone.
With only a week left before the concert, Sophie dressed hurriedly, barely securing her clothes before heading downstairs.
But she stopped in the foyer when she found Grayson standing in the torn-apart library. He stood in profile, so strong in his dark coat and pants, his face chiseled. Would he ever fail to move her?
He turned slowly and looked at her. When he did she could see a flash of brightness, as if he were happy to see her. The simple gesture made her heart swell. But then the flash was gone.
“Good morning,” he greeted her, his tone the kind he used with business associates, professional and straightforward.
“Good morning,” she said with a poignant rush of feeling. Where was intelligent, witty conversation when she needed it? But she couldn’t deny how glad she was to see him, even if he was cool and distant. “Would you like to join me for tea?”
For a second his countenance softened, seemed almost wistful as he started to reach out to her. But at the last minute his eyes hardened, as if he suddenly remembered the past. He dropped his hand away.
“I’m due in court. I stopped by for a file.”
He turned away and strode to his office, cursing when he banged his knee. Sophie was left standing in the foyer. Hurt and angry, she marched in behind him, reacting to more than his bland dismissal.
“Do you really hate me so much?” she demanded from the doorway.
Grayson looked up from the papers on his desk.
His dark eyes were filled with emotion she hadn’t noticed when he arrived.
“Don’t,” he said, the wor
d part warning, part plea.
“Why not? I understand that you don’t want to marry me any longer. I’ve understood that all along. But why do you have to ignore me, like we were never friends?”
“We are too old to be friends, Sophie. Adults are not friends, at least not men and women. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to read this file before I am due in court.”
Her father arrived that afternoon, his long, narrow face lined with concern. Patrice was at his side.
“Good morning, princess,” Conrad said kindly. “Your stepmother and I are worried about you.”
“What for?” she asked, trying for nonchalance.
“We haven’t seen you in weeks, and—”
“And rumors are circulating that your engagement to Grayson is broken!”
“Patrice.” Conrad turned to his wife.
“What? What kind of future will our daughters have if she mucks this up?”
Our daughters, as if Sophie weren’t one of them. The words seeped into her heart, filling every corner.
“Where are we going to get the kind of money that Grayson paid you for her?”
Sophie flinched, but she pushed the words from her mind. She concentrated on the floor, the black-and-white marble like squares on a chessboard.
Her stepmother took a step closer. “Doesn’t she care that we will be ruined if she doesn’t marry Grayson Hawthorne?”
“That is enough, Patrice,” Conrad stated, his voice simmering through the foyer.
Sophie’s head shot up and she looked at her father. She couldn’t have been more stunned when he came forward and cupped her arms gently, in a fatherly way.
“I’ve spent many nights these last weeks thinking of little else besides what has happened here,” he said. “As long as I live, I will never forget the look on your face when we told you of the betrothal. I can see how distressed you are still. No father is immune to that.” His voice grew strained. “Not even me. That’s when I realized that I hadn’t been thinking about you when I signed the agreement. I was thinking of myself.” His smile was sad. “But know that I truly thought a betrothal with Grayson would be the best thing for you and for him.”
“Good Lord, Conrad,” Patrice snapped.
“I said, enough!”
Tension shimmered through the air as the man and his wife stared at each other. It was clear that Patrice wanted to snap back at her husband, and normally she would have. But something had changed, perhaps in that moment. And after several silent seconds, Conrad looking at her, his gaze hard, she only turned away.
Conrad pressed his eyes closed fleetingly before refocusing on Sophie.
“I will do whatever I need to do to make this right.”
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, her throat aching with sudden, unshed tears. “Everything is going to be fine. The betrothal is broken.”
Patrice gasped.
“And Grayson has returned Swan’s Grace to me.”
“Good God, how will we ever repay him?” Patrice wailed.
“You don’t have to,” Sophie stated. “I will. I have a career as a cellist, and I will repay Grayson Hawthorne every penny he spent.”
“Oh, Sophie,” Conrad said. “Always so strong. Whether you know it or not, you’ve always made me proud. That is why I came here today to tell you that, so you could go into this concert without worry.”
Her heart lurched.
“You deserve this performance,” he continued. “You deserved it long ago. Now it is yours, and I don’t want my foolishness to ruin it in any way. This Saturday you will be the tremendous success I’ve always known you could be.” His face lit with a hopeful smile. “Afterward I will find a way to repay Grayson myself.”
“Oh, Papa,” she repeated.
The concert. She felt sick at the thought. If she couldn’t play Bach, then she’d have little choice but to give her usual show.
“I love you, Sophie.”
But would he after he saw her play?
As soon as the door clicked shut, she faltered. Her mind felt disjointed with alarm. She couldn’t talk, she couldn’t do anything but work her way through the Bach suites again and again, hoping that at any moment they would pull together, until her world consisted of little more than notes that threatened to strangle her.
She couldn’t perform the spectacle. Not now. Not after her father’s precious words.
The feeling welled up in her all at once, the pain and the longing almost choking her. How foolish to let her worth become wrapped up in a single performance.
She had to get out, escape the doubt, out into the open. With frantic steps she left the house and walked up and down the Back Bay’s grid of streets, counting, each step taken to a rhythm in her head like the tick of a hall clock.
Panicked, Sophie continued to walk, looking neither right nor left. The air was finally warm, and she walked through the streets relishing the dark as the sun went down. She walked until she came to the Hotel Vendome. Bright and cheerful. She looked up at a front window and wondered if Grayson was inside.
What was he doing? Sipping brandy? Preparing for court?
Did she dare walk into the Vendome and knock on his door?
Grayson sat in his sparse hotel room, the small writing desk covered with documents and contracts. He had a great deal of work to do, files to read, contracts to draft. But he had sat there for hours without reading a sentence or writing a word, his mind filled with Sophie. The feel of her hair, the taste of her skin.
He cursed the weakness. He was an ordered man. He understood that. And Sophie had turned his world upside down. But no matter what she had done, he couldn’t forget her.
The solicitor he had hired brought property after property to him for his perusal. Each of them would have been fine for a new office. But he hadn’t bought any of them.
He needed to be strong as he had always been, controlling his life with a calm certainty. However, he felt anything but calm. He was furious at himself. At Niles Prescott. The fury was eating away at him. But always in his mind there was Sophie.
His countenance darkened even more when a knock sounded.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded as he pulled open the door.
Henry smiled, then simply stepped past him, strolling into the room and looking around as if he were considering buying the place.
“Hello to you, too. I take back the suggestion that we buy stock in this humble abode, as it is much too… humble for my tastes.” He chuckled, then noticed Grayson’s ominous glare. With a shrug he added, “As to why I am here, I can think of many reasons.” His smile turned lurid.
“Careful, Chambers, you’re treading on thin ice.”
The little man shivered and smiled. “You brute, you.”
Grayson took a step toward him, but Henry held up his hands. “Don’t hit me, at least not before we’ve talked.”
“We have nothing to say.”
Henry’s smile fled as if it had been little more than a disguise, and he sighed. “But we do. I’m here about Sophie.”
Instantly Grayson was alert. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“You tell me. What happened between you two while we were gone?”
Silence sliced through the room, each man staring at the other.
“That is none of your concern.”
“Sophie’s too proud to admit it, but she needs you.”
“Get out,” Grayson stated coldly, his frustration seeping through.
“She does need you, just as you need her. Quit being so stubborn and go to her.”
“I said get out!”
Seconds later Grayson stood alone in the room. It was dark outside, the night pressing in around him. He had work to finish. He had a hearing first thing in the morning, and he couldn’t afford for anything to go wrong with this case. He needed to sit back down and concentrate.
Instead he slammed out the door.
It was nine o’clock, the horizon dark. At Swan’s Grace he didn’t bother
to knock. He used his key and entered, surprising Deandra, but Henry nodded silently.
“I’ll tell her you’re here,” Dea said, standing from her chair.
“Let him announce himself,” Henry responded.
Deandra looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “She’ll be furious.”
“Will she?”
Grayson didn’t wait for the two to stop their arguing. He took the stairs in a few pounding steps, then came to the master suite.
He didn’t knock.
He pushed through the door, then stopped in his tracks at the sight of her, her gossamer wrapper sheer against the golden light. She stood in front of the long oval mirror, staring at herself.
What did she see?
“You always take my breath away,” he whispered, unto stop himself.
She gave no start of surprise, and she didn’t turn to look at him. “Why?” she asked, so softly he almost didn’t hear. “Because you think I’m beautiful?” She reached out and touched the glass. “I was never beautiful before. But now men clamor for my attention and swear I am the loveliest woman they have ever seen.”
Closing the door with a click, Grayson strode across the room, but stopped just short of her. “They are right.”
Pivoting so fast her hair fluttered around her shoulders, she turned to face him. “What is different about me? Why am I pretty now?”
“You were always pretty.”
“To you, but to no one else.”
What could he say? When she was young, her hair had been unruly, her eyes an indistinct brown. But now that she’d become an adult, those very same features had come together in a way that was striking. Unruly had become provocative. Indistinct had become golden brown.
He wanted to touch her, much as she had touched her image in the mirror. But he kept his hands at his sides. “Now everyone else sees what I saw all along.”
“No, they see someone new.” Slowly she turned back to her reflection. “I changed. And it’s the results of the change that they love. The wildness. The distance I put between myself and them. That is what they crave.”
“As you said yourself, every man wants what he can’t have,” he stated.
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