Chapter 35 - GEORGINA—PRACTICING WITH A DISTANT CREATOR

Chapter 35

GEORGINA—PRACTICING WITH A DISTANT CREATOR

Three days before the ball, Mark and I had our final practice. It had been a long practice, but I felt more confident.

Mark rested his hands on the keys.

“Georgie, you sound wonderful. Your exhibition will be phenomenal.”

“Thank you.”

That was one of the only pleasant things he said. My music teacher had been upset throughout our long session. He said nothing out of the ordinary, but his tense brow, his not glancing at me, spoke volumes.

Mark always looked for me. Even in a sea of men in the duke’s study, I saw him turn my way. I liked that he was nervous for me. I like that he cared.

“I suppose this is coming to an end.”

“Yes,” he said. Then he began shuffling through his papers.

The ball was next week. Mark and I would no longer have these moments alone.

The duke would announce my new favorite, Mr. Carew, at the ball. The physician had sounded pleased, saying something about how his aunts loved knowing that a duke favored his expertise and that Carew would be taking time from his busy work to be social.

With the duke conversing with him about my prospects, the single, handsome gentleman would probably propose.

Mr. Carew had known my family for a long time. A man in his thirties who’d never been married was a good candidate. I would be respectably wed and the duke’s bet would assure Scarlett and Lydia would be protected.

“How has your sister taken the news that she is going to lose the bet?” Mark’s voice soared about the scales he played on the pianoforte. “You’ve told her you intend to let Torrance win?”

“Not exactly, but she’s a smart woman, and the duke has more bark than bite. They’ll figure things out. I suspect he’ll release her from the bet.”

Mark rested his hand on the keys. “You think a man in love will give up so easily?” He played a few more notes. “Well, he’s in love . . . and will do what is best for the person he desires.”

Mark wasn’t talking about the duke and a lump appeared in my throat.

“Don’t know if I can sing anymore.”

“That’s all right, Georgie.” The music he now played was something new—lovely and ethereal.

“Is this more Pleyel? Something of his later works? It sounds different.”

He peered up. “How so?”

“It’s haunting and beautiful. Yet, it makes me feel grounded, like I can be confident. The world is ahead.”

“Your world is, Georgie. And this is mine, my finished sonata. It’s what I’ve prepared for the Harlbert’s Prize. You are the first and only one to hear it.”

It was done. I ran around the pianoforte. As though I were Lydia, I wrapped my arms about his neck. “Congratulations.”

Mark embraced me, then kissed me quickly on my lips, then my forehead.

With my pulse racing, I released him.

His arms went away, and he began playing his song. “It’s not perfect. I’m struggling in the final movement. With our practicing done, it will have my full attention. I will submit on time. I can’t keep delaying my future. It’s not the way to live.”

In silence, I watched his tortured soul become a hymn. He poured his heart into each note.

To comfort him . . .

To stand by him . . .

It’s what I wanted to do.

Yet, how could I? Our love would only draw me back to the place I’d run from—insecurity about our future, the harm his powerful family could do to mine.

I had to succeed where Katherine had failed. Mr. Carew made perfect sense.

“You sounded wonderful today. You will be brilliant at the ball. Bravo, Georgie. Bravo. Mr. Carew cannot help but love you as I do. And he will give you the best life. It’s what you deserve.”

My elation burst. Mark had said he loved me before, but this time it sounded like goodbye.

A woman in love should say nothing matters. She should run and catch her heart.

My feet were stone. I couldn’t move, not now.

He ripped his hands from the keys. “I’m sorry, Georgina. I’ve made you feel bad. I didn’t mean to. I understand about practical marriages.”

“Practical? I suppose there are some that are impractical. What do you count as such?”

“I’ve missed your questions.” He began packing up his papers. “Carew is well-off. Your backgrounds are similar. It must be a better match.”

“Because he’s a Blackamoor like me. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.” He shook his head. “His family will support and admire you. Mine will not. It will take years for them to come around, if ever.”

I walked away to the painting of the cousins. “Do you think Dido had support from all her family?”

“Her uncle loved her very much. Her cousin, Lady Elizabeth Finch-Hatton, did too. Lady Elizabeth still lives, and her husband too. It was a love match.”

“What of Dido?”

“I believe she married a Frenchman and bore him twin sons, three boys in total. I’d like to think they were happy. That she was happy in her short life.”

Mark left the pianoforte. He stood behind me. I smelled ink, crisp and tart, and notes of sandalwood.

The sound of his breathing fell on my neck. If I turned now, like I readied to dance, I would be in his arms.

“She’s beautiful, like you.” His palm cupped my elbow. He started me turning. Eye to eye, he gazed at me. “Carew is the best man in the duke’s parade. If you accept him, he will be the luckiest of men.”

He said these words, yet his arms went about my waist. “Goodbye, Georgina Wilcox.”

The pressure of his hands fell away. I wanted him to hold me tightly, but I watched him walk away.

Mark slung his satchel to his back and I listened to his boots clicking on the floorboards as he exited the music room.

The man I loved would be out of Anya House in minutes. I should move. I should run after him.

But I didn’t. I let him go and surrendered to loss.

My frustration at Mark turned to respect. He was brave enough to say he loved me and strong enough to want me to have what I needed even if that was not the composer.

The sooner this scandal and ball and bet were over, the better off we’d all be.

Readying to leave, I saw a piece of paper on the floor.

Wedged between the pianoforte and the wall, I wiggled it free. It was music. I sat and played a few notes.

This was his sonata, maybe an earlier version but very close to what he’d played tonight. I folded up the paper and held it to my bosom.

Mr. Steele appeared at the door. “The duke’s carriage is ready to take you to Ground Street.”

“Thank you, sir.”

About to put the paper on top of the musical instrument, I changed my mind. With careful creases, I folded it and put it into my pocket.

Upon retrieving my bonnet, I rushed through the hall toward the awaiting Berlin. The wide vehicle would take me across the river at sunset.

When I passed the hall mirror, I looked at myself. The proud woman looking back hadn’t run from the parade of suitors or after a man who made her feel like music. Like the sheet of notes in my pocket, I was a work in progress. I was beautiful art, something to behold.

Outside, Mr. Steele helped me inside the carriage. “This house will be transformed when you see it next, Miss Wilcox. The duke throws a massive celebration. He embraces life like there is no tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait. I’ll be ready to perform.”

“Yes, you and Lord Mark sound exquisite. The performance, the two of you together, will be wonderful.”

Yes. The two of us.

The music teacher and his student. No.

The composer and his muse. No.

The man and his fetish. No. No.

Partners, equally yoked. Yes.

“Good evening, sir.”

Mr. Steele shut the door. The carriage started and I settled in. Yanking out the sheet music, I stared at Mark’s careful handwriting and hummed.

This piece ran out of notes. No concluding bars, but Mark and I had them. We’d perform one last time. My heart had to accept that our song would end at the ball.