been comfortable with the idea of his only child becoming a spinster. While he’d not liked Aunt Agnes, her father had appreciated her fine breeding and connections.
Oh, Papa. Your intentions were honest but misguided. Margaret felt tears well behind her eyes and hastily blinked them away. She refused to weep in front of her aunt, who would seize upon any weakness and use it to her advantage.
“You are too much like my sister, Clara. Flighty and empty-headed.”
“I am not empty-headed.”
“So timid you can barely meet a gentleman’s eye, let alone garner his attention. So lacking in distinction one forgets you in a moment.” Aunt Agnes continued. “The only thing you care for is playing the piano. No wonder no one wants you.”
Resentment boiled up within her. Margaret had played the shy, reserved young woman in order to avoid marriage to a man like Winthrop and not antagonize her aunt into taking her music away. It was a means to survive until she could figure out a way to escape her situation. Margaret could now see doing so had been a mistake. Aunt Agnes thought her to be weak-willed and docile, much like Clara. But the only thing Margaret had had in common with her mother was music.
“I’m nothing like my mother,” she said, her tone glacial. Clara Lainscott had been flighty. Easily distracted. A beautiful woman who needed someone to care for her and make difficult decisions. She needed servants. A maid.
Margaret needed none of those things. Only her music and a modest income to live on.
Her aunt’s head snapped back, surprised at the vehemence in Margaret’s words.
“My father was wrong.”
Aunt Agnes skewered her with a hostile look. “Really? Is that why he left you to me?”
Margaret looked down at her hands, hating her father for his betrayal. How could he have left this woman in control of Margaret’s future?
“I gave you an entire season to make your own choice and what did you do? Wasted it. You sat in this house, incessantly playing the piano. Scribbling in that leather-bound book as if anyone would ever even look at anything you composed.” A nasty chuckle left her. “Your head has been in the clouds instead of paying attention to what is around you.” She snorted. “This season I took a more active role in ensuring you would find a suitable match. But once again you frittered away your time, playing the piano for the Duchess of Averell like some paid entertainer. Meeting with those women. Mrs. Anderson.”
Margaret’s fingers tightened on the sheet at the mention of the Royal Society of Female Musicians. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
Aunt Agnes gave a derisive snort. “Did you think I didn’t know about your little club? No doubt you plan to give them a large donation once you are married. Those women are nothing but a bunch of parasites who wish to bleed you dry. You stupid girl. Luckily, Winthrop has assured me he will manage your funds.”
“That isn’t true.” Margaret raised her voice. “There are female musicians who are in need of assistance. I wish to help. It is a noble cause. And there is money set aside for me alone once I marry.”
“You can’t be trusted with such a sum else you’d give it all away. What next? Will you roam Covent Garden and toss coins to the jugglers and fortune tellers? The only reason such women would curry your friendship is for your money, Margaret. Are you so blind? Winthrop will ensure not one penny goes to fund such a ridiculous cause. As his wife, you will be expected to support a charity much more meaningful. Orphans, for example.”
No. This could not be happening. Her stomach heaved again.
“You know that isn’t true, Aunt. The duchess is a supporter. Mrs. Anderson is an eminent pianist and teacher in her own right. She has encouraged me to compose and nurture my talent.”
“What you mean is she encourages you to behave like a harlot. Anyone who has seen you play bears witness of your base nature. I wonder that the duchess has allowed you around her daughters.”
“I play with passion,” she choked out, her throat thick with emotion. “I have talent.”
“Your mother was exactly the same. Her passion for music resulted in you. I can still see your father groping her at the piano. Touching her. Debasing her. A miner.” Her aunt’s chest heaved with fury, her bitterness toward her late sister and Walter Lainscott all too apparent. “Clara was the daughter of