The Hellion's Waltz Read online

  “I hope you’re not suggesting this house is not a safe place for me or my daughters?”

  Neither John nor Emma nor Maddie had an easy answer to that. They cast anxious glances around in the silence.

  Mrs. Crewe’s lips thinned again and she narrowed her eyes at Maddie. “Let me be blunt: your father often said you kept the worst sort of company—that you had loose morals and depraved habits—that the loss of your mother had warped you in some way and sent you down a ruinous path of debauchery and rebellion. And then I learn that you have a room to lend me only because three of you are sharing a room—and I see with my own eyes that room has only a single bed in it.”

  John’s shoulders were stone-still; Emma’s eyes were on her work, but not her attention; she gave a sharp gasp when she jabbed herself with her needle.

  Mrs. Crewe waved a hand at them and pinned Maddie with her gaze. “Is this one of the things you weren’t telling me?”

  “One of them,” Maddie said frankly.

  Mrs. Crewe’s mouth tightened. “I’m sure I don’t judge.”

  John bristled and Maddie snorted audibly.

  Mrs. Crewe sighed. She turned to Emma, one corner of her stern mouth tilting upward. “Let me speak more plainly still. I am sorry to have worried you, and I thank you and Mrs. Grey for your kindness,” she said. “This world holds many virtues—but no virtue is higher than love. However it may differ from convention.”

  Emma beamed with relief, the expression making her painfully beautiful.

  John let out a long breath.

  Mrs. Crewe quirked an eyebrow at her stepdaughter. “That’s one secret out, anyway. Care to confess any others while I’m here?”

  “Not just at the moment,” Maddie said, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

  “Then I might as well unpack.” Mrs. Crewe levered herself up and nodded to the room. Her cane struck the stairs one by one like the solemn, sinister beat of an executioner’s drum.

  “Maddie!” Emma hissed. “You’re not going to tell her about the swindle.”

  “Of course not,” Maddie replied. “What good would it do? Hopefully we’ll be done with the whole thing before she has time to notice what we’re up to.”

  John said, “The lacemaking will be picking up speed in a month or so.” It always did in spring, when those who could afford lace wanted more of it to flaunt as the weather warmed.

  “Yes—and then she’ll be in the center of that web of rumor,” Emma said. “Nobody gossips like a lace maker.”

  “If she’s listening to any gossip, she’ll hear plenty about Mr. Giles,” Maddie said firmly. “I can’t imagine any world in which my stepmother would approve of anything he’s done.”

  “Having only just met her, I agree,” Emma replied.

  Chapter Twelve

  Winter was showing no signs of yielding to the tender onslaught of spring. Icicles still hung from eaves and branches, and buds still hid beneath the dark earth. The whole world felt like it was in a long, enchanted sleep.

  And yet Sophie felt spring-like. Sometimes she felt so restlessly joyful she was surprised it didn’t come climbing out of her skin like leaves or feathers. Part of it was Maddie Crewe, who had become a frequent visitor at the Roseingrave house.

  Part of it was feeling like she was finally getting music back. She had no idea how she’d done without it for those six months. She hadn’t realized how deep that shadowy place had been until she found herself slowly emerging from it.

  She and her mother had made several subsequent visits to the Framptons. The violinist wore powder in his hair, and Cecilia Roseingrave put on the one best gown she’d kept, in which she’d performed before crowned heads and admiring courtiers. The two musicians had a great many acquaintances in common, all of whom were distant or deceased—both conditions which made them well worth talking about. Sophie lost track of the names in the wealth of anecdotes. In Mr. Frampton’s company, Mrs. Roseingrave bloomed like a cut rose given water.

  It gave Sophie a queer feeling in the core of her, as though she were trying to remember tomorrow night’s dream. She spent most of the conversations silently listening, trying to puzzle herself out.

  Sophie had learned the art of silence from her mother, who used her voice more strategically than the other, noisier Roseingraves. Her confused hearing was an impediment in a crowd, but it was much less trouble in quiet conversation with only two people who knew to speak clearly. She had stopped even bringing her ear trumpet after the second visit, as Mr. Frampton learned how to pitch his voice to suit the strongest range of her hearing. And when Mrs. Roseingrave talked with Mr. Frampton—reminiscing over past concerts, discussing shared friendships, turning over old pieces of gossip like heirloom gems—Sophie heard the echoes of an extraordinary career. She’d known this, of course, ever since she was little. But it was one thing to have heard of it; to feel it now as it unfolded in story after story was something of a revelation. It illuminated the shape of the world, the way a sound from two streets over could make one newly aware of the geography of houses and buildings.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother sing. Properly sing, for an audience, not just hum a tune under her breath. She was still trying to remember when Mr. Frampton waved her over to the piano.

  These weekly private performances were also now a habit—and, since Sophie was still thinking of her mother, she played one of the few pieces she’d written with a sung accompaniment. Sophie’s voice would never fill an opera house to the rafters, but she could decorate a sitting room prettily enough. The lyrics had been printed by Griffin and Brinkworth’s in Melliton, but Sophie had changed the traditional tune out for one of her own devising.

  Mr. Frampton thumped approval with his cane when she was finished, in lieu of hurting his hands with applause. “I particularly enjoyed the flourish at the end,” he said. “But I have to ask: How is the waltz coming along?”

  Sophie had played him parts of the waltz she was writing for Maddie. “I’m still working on that second section,” she said. “It’s improving, but I’m not sure it’s ready for you to hear more just yet.”

  “You are aiming for perfection,” Mr. Frampton said sympathetically. “It’s understandable. What musician worthy of the gift doesn’t wish to be perfect? But it’s unattainable. Either you’re on the upward slope and still learning how to achieve your designs, or you’re past the peak and tumbling down into overanalysis—forms without feeling.”

  “So then how do you stay at the top of the hill?” Sophie asked.

  “You can’t,” her mother replied, setting her biscuit on the side of her saucer. “You have to pick yourself up and keep going, try again. A musician gets only so many chances to stand in that place and give everything she has.”

  “Only so many perfect moments,” Mr. Frampton agreed. “The trick is to recognize them when they’re upon you.”

  “They’re worth it,” Mrs. Roseingrave sighed. A wistful smile curled the corners of her mouth.

  Sophie suddenly wanted to give her mother more than wistfulness. “Will you sing for us, Mama?”

  Mr. Frampton sucked in a breath.

  Mrs. Roseingrave looked into her teacup for a long moment, then set it aside with a click. “Perhaps just a little something,” she said.

  “My music library is entirely at your service,” Mr. Frampton said at once.

  Sophie rifled through the sheet music under her mother’s eye. “This one,” her mother said, snagging the corner of a piece for voice and piano.

  Die Alte, the title read. The Old Woman. Sophie cast an eye over the lyrics and their translation: the first verse was all about older, better days and maidens not provoking their mothers. She raised an eyebrow. “A little pointed, don’t you think?”

  “Who is singing it—me or you?” Mrs. Roseingrave’s lips pursed teasingly.

  Sophie snorted, and spread the music out on the piano. Her mother rested one hand on the case, the better to feel the rhy
thm.

  Mr. Frampton laughed in surprised delight as soon as she struck the first notes. Cecilia Roseingrave’s voice was a little rusty at the start, as she sank into her character’s delicious grumpiness to complain about controlling husbands, indiscreet youth, and a comet that threatened the whole social order. But once warmed up and fluid, there was such a wealth of stodgy offendedness in her tone that Sophie was giggling outright by the time she brought her hands down on the closing chords.

  Mr. Frampton pounded approval on the floor as Mrs. Roseingrave curtsied. “Brava!” he cried, using his cuffs to wipe away tears of mirth. “I should like to see any new young soprano do half so much justice to that piece.”

  “The young sopranos are too busy filling the opera stages and concert halls, I’m sure,” Mrs. Roseingrave said. “Getting up at dawn for rehearsals, staying up past midnight for performances, charming the composers so they’ll write an aria specially for you.” She resumed her seat on the sofa and put her hands round her teacup again. “What is youth for, if not to be used up?”

  Mr. Frampton nodded assent. “I only wish I could return the favor and play you something—but my hands will not permit it, I am sorry to say. They are only good for broad strokes these days.” He gave another thump of his cane for emphasis.

  Mrs. Roseingrave tilted her head. “Your hands have earned their rest,” she replied. “I heard you play for the prince in Brighton.”

  “Ah,” Mr. Frampton said, leaning back regally against the sofa. “One of my perfect moments.”

  “You were a marvel,” Mrs. Roseingrave agreed.

  Later, after they passed through the loud, busy town and returned to the shop, Mrs. Roseingrave kissed her husband hello and elaborated for Sophie’s benefit. “I wish you could have heard Mr. Frampton in his prime, my dear—such a light touch, so expressive. You’d have thought the violin was a human voice, he brought such meaning out of it.”

  “I believe it,” Sophie said. She went to the counter, where the week’s new sheet music was stacked and ready for shelving.

  Her mother’s eyes turned sharp. “And he believes in your potential, Sophia. He thinks you could be the equal of any musician at court.”

  Sophie turned away to begin putting out the new ballads and concertos. The paper was crisp and cool in her hot and shaking hands. Her mother and Mr. Frampton had talked of hills, but all Sophie saw in front of her was a cliff, and they were forcing her to either climb straight up or leap from it. “We can’t afford to send me to court.”

  “Not yet,” Mrs. Roseingrave said, peering down at the account book. “But a year or two like this one, and that could change.”

  “Maybe next year—”

  “Many’s the musician I’ve heard say that, and next year never comes,” Mrs. Roseingrave pressed. “Take the chance! You only have so many years to be a performer. You shouldn’t squander the best ones.” She flipped the ledger closed, jammed it under the counter, and strode to the door. Turning back, she sent one more volley her daughter’s way, projecting as only an opera diva could. “I was a singer before I was your mother, girl. What you’re dreading is something I lived through, so you should believe me when I tell you that you’re more than capable of it. If you want to be afraid of something, fear running out of time.”

  She spun on her heel—denying Sophie a chance to reply—and exited, head high.

  Sophie stubbornly finished her task, ballad after ballad, song after song. When she turned, her father’s glance darted too quickly away, proving he’d been watching her closely. “Well?” she ground out.

  “Oh no,” her father said, and looped a new string through the peg of the violin he was repairing. “I don’t argue with either of you when you’re set on something. Although . . .”

  Sophie clenched her jaw so as not to scream. “Although what?”

  Her father raised his hands. “You don’t think you’re ready to perform yet, I know. All I’m wondering is: What would you need to become ready?”

  “I—” Sophie started, then stopped, then chewed her lip, then sighed. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I only know that when I think about going on stage, I get a sick feeling in the pit of my soul.”

  Her father nodded. “I get that every time,” he said. “I love the piano, but I’m not a performer. So it could be you’re like me, and you don’t want the limelight at all.”

  Sophie thought about the prince’s pavilion, and applause she could almost feel washing over her, and blushed dully with shame.

  “Or,” her father went on blithely, “you could let yourself feel that feeling, but do the concert anyway.”

  Sophie shook her head, his words incomprehensible. “What do you mean?”

  Her father shrugged. “You let the fear exist inside you, where it belongs. And you go up on stage and you play for people anyway.” His fingers tightened the violin string, plucking at it to test the tone.

  “Sharp,” Sophie corrected automatically.

  Her father nodded, and adjusted.

  “Better.”

  Mr. Roseingrave set the violin aside. “You’re used to listening to your feelings,” he said. “It’s what you do whenever you tune an instrument. Your instincts there are precise and helpful. But perhaps—perhaps what Mr. Verrinder did changed your tuning a little bit. So your intervals don’t harmonize the way you expect them to.”

  Sophie shuddered. “What an appalling thought. Am I going to be broken forever?”

  “I don’t believe so.” Mr. Roseingrave came over and clasped his hands around hers. His smile turned mischievous. “You’re already almost back to an equal temperament.”

  Sophie groaned.

  Mr. Roseingrave allowed himself a chuckle, and continued. “It’s hard, especially because you are young and sensitive, and you feel things keenly. Like your mother.” His mouth curled up in the wondering smile he wore only for Cecilia Roseingrave. “But being young, you can only see the damage. It distracts you. Once you’re older, you’ll be better about ignoring the scrapes and letting the wounds heal up.”

  “Oh good,” Sophie said wryly. “Something to look forward to.”

  Her father laughed. “See? Three months ago you wouldn’t have made that joke. You’re getting better every moment.” He squeezed her hands. “And let’s say the worst happens. Let’s say the concert goes terribly. You forget your music, the crowd throws vegetables, a storm blows in and tears the roof off the concert hall—”

  “Someone interrupts my performance and denounces me as a fraud,” Sophie muttered.

  “—at least you’ll know you tried,” Mr. Roseingrave said gently. He squeezed her hands to emphasize his point. “It might be worth a little failure to learn how strong you truly are.”

  For the next part of the swindle, they needed to make an impossible fabric. So Maddie invited Sophie, Miss Slight, and Mr. Frampton up to her attic, to show them precisely how a Jacquard loom worked so that they might devise a convincing impossible process with which to cheat Mr. Giles.

  And then, because it was the end of a long, bleak winter, she decided to make it a party.

  Maddie made the room festive with unsold ribbons and silk scraps, and Sophie brought lamps to brighten the attic to its corners. The odd blue silk made a dazzling cover for a small table heaped with pies, and beer was served in whatever mismatched glasses people chose to bring along with them.

  By sunset, the attic was full and chattering, the noise a chorus above the beat of the silk mill thrumming through the house. John had stayed below to finish a difficult pair of slippers, but Emma had persuaded Cat to take a glass with her; the two sat on the bed with their knees tucked up, laughing at something Judith Wegg was saying. Alice Bilton joined Miss Slight, Mr. Frampton, and a bright-eyed Sophie as Maddie demonstrated the working of the loom and the action of the Jacquard head.

  Mr. Frampton, it transpired, was familiar with the theory of M. Jacquard’s invention, but not the practice. “Show us again,” Mr. Frampton asked, watchi
ng keenly.

  Maddie flicked her wrist and sent the shuttle—threadless—flying through the shed. The pedal shifted the warp threads—the up went down, and the down went up—and the beater pressed the weaving tight and ready for the next thread row. Another flick and pass of the shuttle, another thump of the beater.

  The mathematician nodded. “I assume you’ll want something more showy than substantive?”

  “I agree,” Miss Slight put in. “You need the Jacquard head because its presence tells Mr. Giles that the process is a fast one. He’ll know that much about the machinery, I’m sure. But you need the illusion to be here,” she said, pointing to the shed—the space between warp threads where the shuttle flew back and forth. “This is where his focus will be, so this is where you want the trick to happen.”

  “You have to decide what you want it to look like first,” Alice put in expertly. “Always start with the sparkle, that’s what Wizard Falcetti used to say.”

  Maddie’s hand tightened on the handle of the loom cord. “I want it to dazzle him,” she said, low and fierce. “I want it to be so beautiful that he can’t resist it, and so impossible that only sheer greed persuades him of its truth.”

  “If it’s beauty you want,” said Mr. Frampton, “then Miss Slight is your expert. I’ve never seen mechanisms as lovely and elegant as the ones she builds.”

  Miss Slight’s blush was a lush and lovely thing. She turned wide, pleased eyes on Mr. Frampton, who went ruddy under her gaze but offered her a shy smile in return.

  Alice elbowed Judith, who snorted, and the spell was broken.

  Miss Slight traced her clock maker’s hands over the warp threads. Maddie hadn’t changed them out for the new season yet: they were still the soft cream she’d used as a background hue for gold brocade ribbons. “What if you had the full spectrum of hues showing—but only here? The resulting fabric stark white. Like a prism in reverse.”

  “That would save us having to purchase dyed silk thread, at least,” Maddie murmured.

  Alice leaned forward to peer up into the mechanism. “Could we put a magic lantern in the Jacquard head? The Wizard Falcetti used one for some of his effects. Easy enough to paint panes of colored glass and turn undyed silk a whole rainbow of colors.”