Mistress of Melody

by Anthea Lawson

  “I cannot thank you both enough,” she said.

  Clara sent her a sympathetic smile. Though Jessa had not spoken of why she left England, Master Reynard’s wife seemed to have guessed that it had something to do with unfortunate love.

  “Come, my dear.” Master Reynard held out his free arm to his wife. “They are clamoring for us.”

  “Play well,” Jessa said.

  They always did, of course, with an ease and brilliance that continued to astound her. There was a wordless interplay between them that added such depth to the music, the weave of violin and piano into one voice as the couple performed Clara’s compositions.

  Jessa was fortunate to hear them perform so often. Her musician’s soul delighted in the small variations and changes they made during each performance, keeping the pieces fresh and vital.

  They strode on stage to deafening applause, and Jessa made for her dressing room. She would put her violin away, place her flowers in the vase provided, then return to listen to the rest of the concert.

  As she passed the Reynards’ dressing room, she heard Annie laughing at her little brother, and the calm voice of their nanny in response. The sound cheered her, in a bittersweet fashion. Would she ever have children of her own?

  Sighing, she pushed open the door of her dressing room, then froze in shock. A man stood there—a tall, blond-haired fellow. He turned, but she already knew who he was.

  Morgan. Her lips shaped his name, but she could not speak it aloud.

  Joy crashed over her, followed by bleakness that froze her to the bone.

  “Jessa,” he said. “You sounded marvelous.”

  “What are you doing here?” She forced herself to walk past him.

  With trembling fingers, she set her violin in its case. The flowers she set on the table to wither. Her suddenly numb hands would not be able to jam them into the vase.

  “I came to find you,” he said, as if that were explanation enough.

  “And you have. Now you may depart again.” She knew her voice was cold, and she did not care. Inside, her heart careened wildly.

  He took her hand, and she pulled it away, then folded her arms.

  “I suppose I deserve your scorn,” he said with a wry look. “And you deserve my apology in full measure.”

  “Your apology?” She clutched her arms close to her body. “Did your new wife send you on this mission, so that you might return to her with a clear conscience? What else did you bring—gold to buy my silence, so that your reputation may remain unsullied?”

  He took a step back, a wounded light flashing through his gray eyes. “No. And I am not married.”

  “Yet.”

  “Yet.” He ran a hand through his hair. “You are making this damnably difficult, Jessa.”

  “You may take your leave of me at any time.” Her body trembled with the need to touch him, but she forced herself to remain still. “Did Lady Anne accompany you to Lisbon? No doubt she is curious about your absence.”

  “I’m not going to marry Lady Anne!” He strode forward and took her elbows. “I want to marry you.”

  She blinked at him, the room suddenly tipping at the corners of her vision. Surely he had not just spoken those words. Her pulse beat loudly in her chest.

  “I… beg your pardon?”

  He stared into her eyes. “Jessamyn Lovell, will you marry me?”

  It must be a cruel joke, yet his expression was completely serious. Pleading, even, if one knew how to read his face. Which, to her sorrow, she did—all too well.

  “But you took her a bouquet.” She feared her replies were making her sound as simple as Louisa, yet she could make no sense of his words.

  “To perdition with the bouquet. I threw it in the Thames, then told Lady Anne I could not fulfill her expectations.”

  The truth in his voice pierced her. He had not married Lady Anne. He had come to Portugal to find her. But no matter how the embers in her heart burst to full flame at the thought, she could not be his ruin.

  “Morgan, you cannot marry me. What of your name, your reputation—”

  “Blast the reputation. My aunt was right, though it took me far too long to see it. A proper life is no good, if one is desperately unhappy all the way to death’s door. My brother…” He swallowed, then continued. “It was not a love of life that killed him. I tried to make myself believe it, though. I thought if I shut away that part of my soul, I would be safe. But you stormed into my life with your music and passion, and I was lost.”

  She gazed at him, noticing that he wore a new coat in a deep moss-green color. Had Morgan truly broken free of his prison of respectability? Her chest expanded with ridiculous hope. Then the breath crushed out of her as she remembered the other reason she had fled.

  “I still cannot marry you,” she said, her voice low and miserable.

  “Why not? I told you, I don’t care what the ton thinks. We can go live in the country when you are not performing. Society can gossip all it likes, but it will not matter one whit.”

  “You should have realized that a dozen years ago! What about Abigail, and Rosemary?”

  He looked at her blankly, and she wanted to slap his face.

  “Rosemary?” he asked.

  What a blackguard he was, lacking all human decency. To think she had misjudged him so badly. She’d foolishly given her heart to a man who deserved to rot in hell.

  “Your bastard daughter,” she said bitterly. “Or did you forget?”

  To her shock, he threw his head back and laughed. She raised her hand then, to slap him in truth, but he caught her wrist.

  “Wait. Wait.” His expression sobered. “You read the letters in my study?”

  “To my everlasting regret.”

  “What a tangle. I should have burned them.”

  She could scarcely look at him. “You would consign Rosemary’s entire history to the fire?”

  “Jessa, listen to me.” He moved his hands to her shoulders, his gaze clear. “There is no bastard daughter, no lover from the past. Those letters were a ruse, planted the night of the musicale for Mr. Burke to find.”

  She swayed, and he steadied her.

  “Is this the truth?” Her heart trembled violently with fear, with hope.

  “I swear it. You can ask Commissioner Rowan of Scotland Yard if you won’t take my word for it. We laid the trap for your guardian.” His voice took on an exultant note. “When he came to threaten exposure, the constables were waiting in the next room. He’s in custody now, awaiting trial—and he named his accomplice, a Mr. Dabbage. He tried to pull you into it as well, but I told the commissioner to have none of that.”

  “I must sit.” She felt as though she were about to collapse from the waves of revelations crashing over her.

  Morgan drew the single chair over and settled her in it. Without asking, he fetched a glass of water. When she took it, the water shivered from the trembling of her hand.

  “I am a bit disappointed.” A touch of the old coolness returned to his voice. “You believed those letters. Do you really take me for that kind of man?”

  “No.” She took a sip of water, the coolness soothing in her mouth. “I could not believe it, although the proof lay there, before my eyes. At first I was going to ask you about them, once you returned home. But then…”

  She paused to swallow back the lump of tears in her throat.

  “Then you discovered I had gone to propose to Lady Anne.” He knelt on the carpet, heedless of his dignity, and took her hand.

  “It was too much,” she said. “I could not bear to see you married, and the letters were yet another reason for me to go. Thinking you heartless allowed me to leave you. Morgan, I am so terribly sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as I am.” He shook his head. “We both behaved like idiots.”

  “You, more than me.”

  She meant it in truth, but also in jest. By the wry light in his eyes, he understood both her meanings.

  “I believe you owe me an answ
er,” he said.

  “Why do you want to marry me?”

  “Ah. I believe I’ve neglected the most important part. I desire you. I need you.” Holding her gaze, he brought the back of her hand up to his mouth and kissed it. “I love you.”

  Her pulse jolted, as though she had just landed from leaping a great distance.

  “If I agree, it won’t be easy.” Slowly, slowly, her heart was opening, cracked apart by the blaze within.

  “I’m weary of spending my life working so hard for no joy.” He gave her a rueful look. “I’d far rather put that effort toward happiness. And so I’ll ask you yet again—and I’ll keep asking until you tell me yes. Will you marry me, Jessamyn Lovell?”

  She stared at him a moment, nearly blinded with emotion, and the sheer unbelievability of his question. He cocked his eyebrow, and she leaned forward, slipping her arms about his neck.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “I love you.”

  She kissed him, their mouths meeting like a chord of music, like sparks and benediction. Like truth. Heat ran from her head to her toes, a rush of wildfire. If they were not in a dressing room during a performance, she would have begun unbuttoning his shirt, taken down her hair, and shared her body with his in a blaze of passion.

  But they would have time, and more time, to give in to that yearning desire.

  When the kiss ended, they both were breathing heavily. She did not care that a tear or two had slipped down her cheek. He blotted them with the back of his hand.

  “I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small, round box.

  He undid the small hook and opened the box to reveal a diamond ring shining against black velvet. One large oval stone was mounted on a gold base, surrounded by smaller diamonds. It glittered like a flower made of stars.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said as he slipped the ring on the finger of her left hand. “And it fits perfectly.”

  “Louisa helped me choose it. She told me to size it to her finger, and then it would fit you. She called it the last talisman, and was utterly confident you would accept my proposal. Her faith in that happy ending is one of the reasons I am here now.”

  Jessa glanced at him. “My sister knows of this?”

  “Yes, and my aunt as well. They came with me to Portugal, and are in the audience even now. Louisa begged to come back to your dressing room with me, but I would not allow it.”

  “They are here?” Jessa rose, happiness filling her so that she could scarcely draw a breath.

  He stood, too, keeping her hand in his own. “When they learned I was going in pursuit of you, they insisted on coming along. Either to celebrate with or to comfort you, as need be. I’m unspeakably grateful that it is to be celebration.”

  “So am I.” She shook her head. “I cannot quite believe this is not a dream.”

  “If it is, then we can dream it together. But come. It’s intermission, and your sister will be overjoyed to see you.”

  Any more joy and Jessa was certain she would rise up into the air. Perhaps float up to the painted ceiling of the Teatro Nacional. She smiled at the image of herself bobbing above the crowd, then laced her arm through Morgan’s. Her true and honorable love. He would keep her from floating away.

  EPILOGUE

  Earl of Silverton shocks!

  After years of nothing but the most proper behavior, Lord Silverton astounded Society with his announcement that he is going to wed the Gypsy Violinist, Miss Jessamyn Lovell. Our most sincere condolences to Lady Anne Percival, and felicitations to the earl and his next intended. One hopes there will not be a third!

  -Tilly’s Mayfair Tattler, September 1839

  Jessa sat stiffly in the carriage bearing them to St. George’s Church. She did not want to crease the organdy of her wedding gown, or disturb the wreath of orange blossoms in her hair. Luckily, the church was in Mayfair, a short distance from Trevethwick House, otherwise she would arrive at her own wedding with a crimp in her neck.

  “Now you are the princess,” Louisa said, nearly bouncing on the seat with excitement. “I knew the Silver Lord would give you the third talisman, and everything would come out right.”

  Jessa held up her hand, and the diamonds in her ring caught the morning sunlight, sending sparks of rainbow across the carriage’s interior.

  Across from them, Lady Agatha smiled. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that this day came about. Ever since you came to us, seeking shelter and protection, I’d hoped Morgan would see what a perfect match you were.”

  “A Gypsy girl and an upright lord.” Jessa shook her head at Lady Agatha, though she could not erase the smile from her own face. “Certainly, ideal in every way.”

  “Hmph. You needed one another, that much was plain to anyone with eyes to see.”

  “We are there!” Louisa cried, sticking her head out the window.

  The church was not an imposing edifice, and for that Jessa was grateful. She had tried to convince Morgan to hold a private ceremony at his country estate, but he refused.

  “I’ll not have it said that I’m ashamed to wed you, and snuck away to Farthingwood to do the deed in secret. No, we may have a small ceremony if you wish, but it will be held in the heart of Mayfair.”

  The carriage drew up at the columned portico of the church. The door swung open, and Louisa hopped out before the footman could assist her. Jessa followed, glad of Thaddeus’s steadying hand.

  “I wish you a very happy day, miss,” the footman said. “And no matter what some people say, I’m pleased as punch that you’re going to wed Lord Silverton.”

  “Thank you.”

  Indeed, all the servants had been kind. Betts had thrown her apron over her head in excitement upon hearing the news, and insisted she come along when Jessa and Morgan removed to Farthingwood after their wedding.

  A wedding that was now upon Jessa. Before she had scarcely drawn breath, Viscount Trenton was at her elbow, ready to escort her up the aisle.

  He had come from Italy when he had heard of her betrothal, and seemed delighted to be back in London after such a long absence. He and Aunt Agatha had struck up a lively friendship, and were often in one another’s company.

  “I do not mind that she is busy,” Louisa had confided. “For I get to see more of you. I missed you terribly when you were away.”

  “I will be away for a portion of every year, duckling.”

  To her amazement, Master Reynard had offered her a permanent position on his concert bill. Luckily, the Reynards did not have an overly punishing schedule, due to traveling with their children. Two months in the summer were devoted to concertizing, mostly on the Continent. Jessa could not have asked for a more satisfactory timetable.

  “I know,” Louisa had said. “But you will come back.”

  “Yes, love.” Jessa had kissed the top of her sister’s head. “I will always come back.”

  The interior of the church was plain, with a spacious nave and a purple velvet canopy over the pulpit. Tall pillar candles scented the air with wax, and the wreath of white flowers on her head added a waft of sweetness everywhere she walked. The distance to the altar seemed miles, and Jessa gripped the viscount’s elbow a bit more tightly.

  “Steady on,” he said, patting her hand.

  She gave him a grateful glance, relieved at how little he resembled his younger brother. Viscount Trenton was nearly completely bald. He and Mr. Burke had the same brown eyes, but where her former guardian’s were the color of dried molasses, the viscount’s held a humorous sparkle.

  Viscount Trenton had also come in time to attend his brother’s trial and sentencing. Morgan’s planted evidence had been the key. Once Mr. Burke understood he was well and truly caught, he had not hesitated to expose Mr. Dabbage and confess everything, in return for a lighter sentence: transportation for life to Van Diemen’s Land.

  “He always was a fretful, unhappy child,” Viscount Trenton had said, shaking his head sadly at the verdict. “I should never have let
him assume your guardianship, Jessamyn, and for that you have my profound apologies.”

  But Jessa refused to let the thought of Mr. Burke blight her day. Already he was a bad memory, fading in the light of her newfound happiness.

  And the center of that joy lay ahead, watching her approach with a smile in his eyes. When she was three paces away, the smile settled upon his lips. He stepped forward and extended his arm.

  Viscount Trenton handed her to Morgan with a slight incline of his head, and her beloved led her to stand before the altar. The minister called the assembled to prayer, and Jessa bowed her head, letting the words of benediction wash over her. She could hear Lady Agatha already sniffling slightly in the front row. By the end of the ceremony, she would likely have gone through several handkerchiefs.

  When it came time to say the vows, Morgan spoke the words clear and true. He held her gaze, and she felt each promise ring through her like the chime of a bell. It was easy to say the words back to him, to admit the depth of her love before the handful of guests, the minister, and God.

  “The ring,” the minister said.

  Morgan slipped a plain gold band onto her finger. It was warm from his touch. Hidden against her skin, their names were engraved, and the date. Morgan & Jessamyn Trevethwick, 20-9-39. The truest talisman of all.

  And then it was done, and the church bells pealed, and Morgan kissed her, holding her in his embrace a touch longer than propriety would allow.

  “My lord,” she said, pretending outrage. “You are scandalous.”

  “Just for that, I will kiss you again, Lady Silverton.”

  He did, until the minister cleared his throat loudly. “If you will follow me, we may sign the license.”

  Morgan escorted her to the side of the nave, where they signed the documents legally pronouncing them man and wife. Jessa’s hand was steady as she penned her name.

  Then Louisa and Lady Agatha, laughing and crying both, came to embrace her. Geordie looked on, grinning, and the other guests applauded.

  “Is it time for the wedding breakfast now?” Louisa asked. “There is a splendid cake. And gifts.”