When Harry had left for Harrow, I’d pretended to be happy for him, thrilled for his chance to have such an opportunity. What good could come from giving voice to my doubts? Hoping I would be proven wrong, I’d said nothing of my plans to bring him back home once his guardianship passed to me.
But now, to hear how miserable he was . . . to hear that he missed my stories . . . Nighttime was when I missed Harry the most, for I used to sneak into the nursery and tell him stories of Mother and Father—all the things a boy should know about his own parents. He especially loved to hear about Father’s travels and adventures—his many escapades during the war. Sometimes I worried I told him too much, for Harry talked about the sea so often I feared he’d want to follow in Father’s footsteps. At least, for now, he was safely occupied at Harrow.
I folded the letter and returned it to my pocket, determined to write back as soon as I finished exploring the castle. I already had a long list of things I wanted to tell him.
The far corner of the room held a large and intricate dollhouse. It was not difficult to think of Lady Ellen here as a youth, since she was close to my age, but envisioning the duke as a child required a great deal of imagination. How much older was he than Lady Ellen? It seemed likely he had been off at school before she had even been born.
I walked over to the window and peered down at the gardens. How tiny they looked from up here—as miniature as the ones that adorned the perimeter of the dusty dollhouse. As I watched, the duchess appeared in the garden walkways, with several laborers in tow. She began giving instructions, and I drew back, fearful she might catch sight of me.
Had I been raised in this home, I would have spent a great many hours looking through this window, observing people as they came and went.
Making sure to leave everything as I’d found it, I made my way back down the stairs. The third floor held the main living quarters, and I avoided it, guarding my solitude. I found an out-of-the-way staircase and ventured down to the second floor.
Though tempted to go back to the library, I didn’t want to intrude as an unwelcome guest for the second time in as many days. Instead I pushed on, meandering through endless corridors.
At the end of an unfamiliar corridor I found a closed door, wedged tight. The door wasn’t locked, so I pressed against it, and it gave way all at once. I stumbled forward, barely keeping my footing.
The room was brighter than I expected, with large west-facing windows that drew my eyes upward. An antique chandelier was centered in the carved white-lattice ceiling. The room smelled of sunlight and dust, and the sun’s rays highlighted the floating specks, giving the room an ethereal feel. Strangely, all of the furniture was covered, and the musty air hinted that the room hadn’t been touched in some time.
I pushed the door closed behind me as quietly as possible, wincing at the loud scraping noise it made as it rubbed against the floorboards. Hoping no one had heard, I walked through the ghostlike forms of chairs and chaises, moving over to the large and awkward covered form near the window. I held my breath and wondered if I could be so lucky.
I pulled back the sheet in one swift motion to reveal the grandest pianoforte I had ever seen, obviously purchased for someone possessing musical abilities that greatly exceeded my own. I gazed at it hungrily, for it had been some time since I’d been able to play freely. When I was allowed to play at all, Aunt Agnes’s hawkish eyes were always on me, criticizing my posture, the curve of my hands, and every note I played on the instrument. Under her constant disparagement, I’d grown to hate playing in front of others. But here I was alone and could have the joy of music all to myself.
With one last glance toward the door, I took a seat on the bench, pulled off my gloves, and leafed through the sheet music that rested on the bench. Most of the pieces were for serious players: sonatas, concertos, and the like. I set them aside. For a few minutes I played idly, allowing my fingers their freedom. Even with my meager talent I could appreciate the feel of this superior instrument, how easily the keys fell beneath my fingers. From memory I played a simple tune my father had sung before he’d left for India the last time. As I played, I sang with the Scottish brogue that had colored my father’s voice.
The glasses sparkle on the board,
The wine is ruby bright,
The reign of pleasure is restor’d,
Of ease and fond delight.
The day is gone, the night’s our own,
Then let us feast the soul;
If any care or pain remain,
Why drown it in the bowl.
This world they say’s a world of woe,
But that I do deny;
Can sorrow from the goblet flow?
Or pain from beauty’s eye?
The wise are fools, with all their rules,
When they would joys controul:
If life’s a pain, I say again,
Let’s drown it in the bowl.
“For one who claims to have no talent, Miss Graham, you sing with a great deal of gusto.”
My hands stilled on the keys, fingers frozen. The duke stood in the corner of the room, resting a hand on the back of a chair. Blood pounded through my veins, my every sense in a state of heightened awareness.
Handsome by firelight, he was devastating in the light of day. I had never seen such symmetry in a face. Closing my eyes, I swallowed a sigh. That he should have heard me playing and singing . . . and a drinking song, no less . . . My whole body was aflame with embarrassment. “Your Grace, I would not have . . . I-I mistakenly believed I would not be overheard.” I covered my cheeks with my hands, trying to douse the flames.
His expression lit with mirth. “I am disappointed you did not perform this for everyone last night. You sound as if you were raised in a Scottish pub.”
I stood abruptly, his mocking tone raising my ire and making me forget my shame. “My father was Scottish. And a sailor.” My words were unapologetic, meant to provoke.
“I see. Your mother had poor taste, then.”
“Say what you will about me, Your Grace”—I spat out the words, hoping to strike a blow—“but do not insult my parents.” I picked up the music resting on the piano, trying to keep my hands occupied before looking up again to meet his gaze.
His eyes gleamed with cold arrogance. “But if the truth is an insult . . .”
Rolling the sheet music up, I had half a mind to walk across the room and thump him over the head with it.
He held his walking stick in the crook of his arm, seemingly unaware of my intentions. “And here I find you once again, in a room you have not been invited to, touching things”—he motioned to the piano—“that do not belong to you. Do you still maintain your claim to being a lady?”
I immediately put a hand to my hair, checking to see that it was properly pulled back. My gloves lay on the bench beside me. The smug look on his face stoked the anger racing through my blood. “Perhaps I am not a perfect lady, but you, sir, hardly qualify as a gentleman.”