his wife from withering away. She missed London and was plagued with repeated bouts of illness in her lungs. Her poor health had made her susceptible to the sickness which swept through the mines and eventually took her life.
Margaret’s mother had always been fragile which strengthened Margaret’s determination to not be.
The piano had been sold at auction, along with everything else that reminded Aunt Agnes of her younger, more beautiful sister. If it had been possible, she was certain Aunt Agnes would have sold Margaret off as well.
Her fingers flew over the keys, warming up the muscles in her hands before she launched into a complicated piece by Beethoven. Soon, the music filled her, allowing her mind to wander. She closed her eyes, envisioning herself sitting before the Broadwood with Welles at her side, his fingertips running over the backs of her hands. Warmth sank into her skin at the image of playing for him and only him.
“Miss.”
Margaret’s fingers slowed, disappointed to have been interrupted.
“Yes, Henderson?” She turned to see her aunt’s butler watching her, disapproval deepening the grooves bracketing his mouth. Henderson found waiting on Margaret to be beneath him, as if the fact her father had been a tin miner before becoming wealthy was a severe violation of some butler code. Margaret had witnessed his injured pride when she’d heard him voicing his objections to her aunt. Since that time, she’d taken a more timid approach with Henderson because it made her life easier. Margaret had been tired of tepid tea and food which had grown cold. Henderson still detested her but at least now, the fire in her room was lit first thing in the morning.
But Margaret didn’t feel shy or reserved today. Holding the butler’s gaze, Margaret enjoyed the way he cleared his throat and shuffled at her directness, before looking down at his hands.
“Your aunt requests a word with you, miss.”
“Of course.”
Dutifully, Margaret rose and followed Henderson to the front parlor, a room Aunt Agnes typically reserved for answering correspondence or dictating people’s lives over a chatty cup of tea. What a burden her aunt carried, to be so superior that it was left to her to play judge and jury over everyone in the ton.
She kept her eyes lowered lest her aunt see the dislike for her gleaming in them.
Aunt Agnes was perched at the very edge of a cream-colored settee in one of her best day dresses, her head topped by a luxurious velvet turban sporting an enormous ostrich feather in the center. A rather extravagant outfit for writing letters.
“Sit, Margaret.”
Her aunt’s beady eyes, small and black like bits of coal, followed Margaret as she came around to the chair and sat. She clasped her hands, careful to keep her expression neutral. Early on, Margaret had learned if she wanted as little interaction with her aunt as possible, and to avoid having her privileges at the piano taken away, she’d best project a docile manner. The more reticent, the better. Aunt Agnes found little pleasure in berating the pathetic creature she considered Margaret to be.
How she longed to tell Aunt Agnes of Welles’s suggestion to play for him at Elysium.
“I was invited, unexpectedly, to take tea with the Duchess of Averell.” Her aunt’s icy regard never moved from Margaret’s face. “I was thrilled, of course.”
Aunt Agnes’s voice had a horrible, gurgling quality to it, as if a piece of wet toast was caught in her throat. It was one of many things she didn’t care for in regard to her aunt.
“The Duchess of Averell, though not a fixture in the ton, is still quite influential. Imagine my delight at being summoned.”
Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at her aunt’s discomfort. Aunt Agnes typically did the summoning. She stayed still. Silent. The slightest word or twitch and Margaret would be pounced on, torn to shreds within the confines of her aunt’s parlor.
The coal-black eyes narrowed into slits as the ostrich feather atop her aunt’s turban quivered in accusation at Margaret. “Her Grace was so very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
This was a favorite tactic of her aunt’s. Throw out leading questions when unsure of how a particular situation had come about in hopes that the person being interrogated, in this case, Margaret, would stop and correct her or interject into the conversation, thus giving themselves away. Her aunt would then determine the punishment for her own lack of knowledge. Margaret had learned the hard way when she had first