Chapter 27 - MARK—LESSONS IN LIFE

Chapter 27

MARK—LESSONS IN LIFE

Once Torrance gave me word that Lydia Wilcox had opened her eyes and had even gotten out of bed, I knew that the child would live. Relieved, I packed up my books, told Dido I was hers again, then took my portmanteau and left Anya House.

The stars were out.

I couldn’t see them while hiding in the music room.

Staying in there, even when Georgina passed with the most fragrant biscuits I’d ever smelled, was difficult. My stomach wanted to betray me. Blast it, I wanted to return to her and understand what I’d done wrong.

I had to have fouled things up somehow. If she wanted me to win, why did I feel like a loser?

No one wanted to struggle. I couldn’t control what my parents thought, or the ton.

But why should that matter?

My mother was my champion. Surely, she could help me sway Prahmn.

Not wanting to wake the grooms who worked in the mews, I walked toward Grosvenor Street. I’d return in the morning for my horse.

I counted the lights on in the houses I passed. Most were dark. One might be having a late dinner party. I heard the music of dancing and imagined people whirling to the tune. Yet the picture of a resolute woman saying she wanted the fake relationship over something true made me ache.

Other than the Carew business and the duke stuff, what had I done wrong? With each of these crimes, I could attest to being a fool. Then there was the stupidest thing: admitting to loving Georgie. I’d never told a woman that before.

Was that so wrong, to admit what was so right?

Maybe I didn’t have the answers for what tomorrow would bring, not the ones she wanted.

But I was honest about my heart.

I wanted Georgina Wilcox.

I loved Georgie Wilcox.

I wished to marry Georgie.

A half hour of walking brought me through the cool night to 75 Grosvenor Street, the house of Prahmn, and perhaps the realization that Georgie didn’t want to marry me or anyone.

She ran initially from the false alliance, and now that things were true, she ran from us too.

Slipping into the house through the service entry, I found it quiet. But Chancey, the light sleeper, caught me. He shook his head and admonished me to be quiet.

There were questions I wanted to ask him, but the diligent man didn’t need a fool keeping him up asking the meaning of life.

He gave me a candle to keep from tripping over the stairs and waking the house.

Standing in the quiet hall, I listened to nothing.

No music.

No servants scampering about.

My mother was probably the only one home, and she’d be upstairs in her bedchamber, asleep to the troubles of the world, or at least the dilemmas facing her younger son.

Up the curving stairs, I went straight to the music room. Like my mother’s parlor, it had beautiful windows, lovely sheers that shimmered and reflected the starlight. It was too late to begin playing, but I sat at the pianoforte. I tugged out my papers from my stack and looked at the notes I’d written. Da da dum.

The glimpses of the melody that unfurled when I held Georgina, now I saw them all. The fear of rejection by the Harlbert’s Prize committee had been dislodged by something more immediate and true: Georgie’s rejection of starting a life with me.

The pressure I’d placed on my creativity gave way to my ego. My heart being destroyed because my offer to be a loving husband, an honorable mate, was rejected was a crushing blow.

A song could be fashioned by this loss.

A life together should be a lasting choice.

Candlelight flickered at the door. My mother stood there in a gorgeous pink robe and paper curlers peeking out of her matching mobcap.

“Mark? That is you.”

“Yes, Mama, I was in the neighborhood.”

“At three o’clock in the morning? You were at some wretched neighbor’s dinner party and they didn’t invite me? How rude.” She chuckled. “You all right?”

“Yes. Quite fine.” I, the liar, opened the pianoforte and stared at the keys. From my portmanteau, I took out my bottle of ink and quill.

Papering the melody I heard in my head became easy. This new sonata was full and sweeping. It was everything, and it came from deep inside me.

When I finally looked up, I saw my mother still standing there, holding the candle, gawking.

“Mama, is something wrong?”

“No. I like watching you create, but I thought you were your father. When his little adventures go wrong, I find him here sulking, looking for someone to listen to his troubles, remind him that he’s not an old fool.”

Is that what she called my father’s affairs, adventures? How could she be so forgiving for such open betrayal?

He was an old fool and my mother still cared for him. I gazed at her and wanted to ask why.

But that was their marriage.

It was not the type of union I ever aspired to. I wondered if that was what Georgie thought I was asking.

“Mama, you can go on to bed. I’m just going to sit here and work on my sonata. I think it’s going to be good.”

“They say heartache is the best teacher.”

Well, then I should be a genius by morning.

She came inside the room and sat in the small chair by the window. Putting down her candle, she pulled her hands together. The Prahmn family jewel, a lovely ruby ring, glimmered on her finger next to a simple silver band, something her father gave her.

“Was it worth the ruby, Mama? Father’s a fool to keep hurting you.”

“You get numb to it. I’ve actually become a very strong woman. Yes, it takes a great deal of strength to walk into a room where half the people are gossiping about you and the father of your children. You have to learn to look serene, knowing there are women in your midst who take pleasure in your downfall.”

“Mama, if I asked someone to marry me, is that what she thinks I’m asking? Is it possible she believes marriage is a misery?”

For a moment, my mother looked very serious, more serious than I’d ever seen. She leaned back in the chair, touching her finger to her nose. She said, “Marriage can be wonderful. There are some memories which are the greatest joys in my life. I shared them with your father. Others I’ve shared with my children.”

She looked down at her ring. “Prahmn and I were not a love match, not on his part. I was wealthy, a little too carried away by his ardor, and a little too na?ve about life. My father had a special license curried by the archbishop. We married. My family’s reputation remained spotless. I have a title and an often-empty bed.”

I’d never heard her say this so plainly, why she’d married my father. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

“Both people have to want the unity. There’s no comfort in being a wife who doesn’t have her husband’s favor. There’s no comfort for a husband who’s lost his wife’s respect.”

I banged the keys by accident. “What does it mean to lose respect if you keep forgiving him?”

She rubbed her arms as if a breeze fell upon her. “Can mean a lot of things. It means not caring about what’s important to him. Making sure he sees how his latest mistress snubs him. Encouraging the son who wishes to shape up to pursue his heart and the woman who has his.”

“What?”

“The Dowager Livingston sent her son to see me directly. He told me you’ve stayed at Anya House waiting for Miss Wilcox’s sister to recover. Your father barely waited for me to be out of labor.”

“Well, Livingston doesn’t have the latest gossip. She’s rejected me.”

“Oh. If there’s a way to recover her, try. Remember what brought you together.”

Couldn’t believe my mother’s words, but I heard them. Then I heard more of my song. Dada dada. Dada da dum.

I dipped my pen in the ink and began to write. Furiously, I filled the page.

When I finished the last stanza, my mother was asleep. She’d stayed the entire time, listening to me hum and write my notes.

The work wasn’t finished, but I had a good foundation. In life, in love, in creating this sonata, I had that. Things weren’t easy. I fought for every note, but I had them. No one could take them away.

Georgina Wilcox, my stubborn Georgie, was worth fighting for. But I had to win the goal I put in place.

Getting this sonata done, establishing my career, would show her I could be counted upon. Winning the Harlbert’s Prize would show her I was my own man.

Yet, I wasn’t.

I sat in my mama’s house, writing at her piano.

Shaking my head, I corked my ink.

An independent composer was worthy of a woman like Georgie Wilcox. I had to become him. Sacrifices now would pay off in the end. And we still had our faux relationship to keep me in her sphere and close to her heart.