he went on disjointedly. “He thought of some others.” Randolph made a vague gesture. “I wasn’t thinking. Things have been in disarray here.”
“How is she?” asked Verity quietly.
He shook his head. “Feverish and vague and very restless. She keeps wanting to get up, but she hasn’t the strength. Which makes her fretful. It’s rather…dreadful to see.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Randolph went on as if he hadn’t heard. “Mama likes to be active, you know. I think of her in motion. Papa will sit and read for hours, but Mama is always rushing to finish some task, or go out riding or… It’s difficult to keep her still. Even when she can hardly move.” His voice caught on the last sentence. He bent his head.
Verity wanted to take him in her arms. Her mother murmured some words of comfort.
“Music soothes her,” he went on. “I used to… I had the pianoforte moved upstairs so I could play for her, but I find I can’t.” He held up his hands; they shook visibly. “I’m useless. I keep having to get up and make certain she’s still breathing.”
Verity took one of his hands and held it. From the state he was in, she feared the duchess really was dying. She caught his restless gaze. “Let me play for her. I should so like to help.”
“You?” Randolph seemed to really see her for the first time this morning. “Verity.”
“I’m here,” she said.
His fingers tightened on her hand. “You could play for her,” he echoed, as if his mind was moving more slowly than usual.
“I could.”
“You wouldn’t have to go into her room.”
Before she could assure him that she wasn’t worried about this, her mother spoke up. “Verity isn’t afraid of sickrooms. We often visit ailing parishioners at home.”
Feeling a surge of love and pride, Verity nodded. “Yes, we do. I can take a turn at nursing.”
“Hannah’s here. And Harris. And Flora. She never learned to play though.”
Verity didn’t recognize two of these names. But it didn’t matter. “Then I shall,” she said.
For a moment, he clung to her like a lifeline. Then he led her and her mother upstairs without further discussion.
Verity found that the pianoforte from the music room had been moved to the bedchamber across the hall from the duchess’s. With both doors open, the sound would carry easily.
She removed her gloves and bonnet and pelisse, leaving them on the bed. Her mother did the same and settled in a chair in the corner. Verity sat down at the instrument, thought over the pieces she knew by heart, and started to play. Randolph stood beside her. She was glad to see his tense expression ease a bit.
There was a spate of garbled words from across the corridor. Randolph stiffened and went out. Verity played. When one composition ended, she moved smoothly into another. She’d played for more than an hour when her mother said, “I must send word. I have an appointment to go shopping with Lucy Doran.”
“You should go, Mama,” replied Verity.
“I don’t like to leave you alone.” Her mother fidgeted. “Though there seems nothing for me to do. I gladly would.”
“I know. But there doesn’t seem to be anything for you to do. And I’m fine here.”
“Well, I suppose it’s all right.” Her mother rose to retrieve her bonnet. “I hate feeling useless. It drives me distracted.” She put on her pelisse and gloves. “You will send word at once if you or the Greshams need me for anything.”
“I will.”
With a nod, her mother departed.
Randolph returned a little while later. “The music seems to be calming her. Thank God.” He grimaced. “Mama thought it was me playing. Even though I was standing right beside her. I told her it was you, but I’m not sure she understood.” He paced as Verity’s fingers moved through a Haydn sonata. “If only there was something I could do!” he exclaimed.
“You could have someone bring up the sheet music from the music room,” Verity replied without missing a note. “I’ll run out of pieces I’ve memorized soon.”
“Of course!” He practically ran from the room.
In ten minutes Randolph was back, his arms full. A footman followed with more pages. Randolph looked around, hesitated, then dumped the music on the bed, gesturing for the servant to do likewise. Piles of paper fanned out on the coverlet. As the footman went out, Randolph gazed at them.
“If you could sort it,” Verity suggested. “And pick out your mother’s favorite pieces.”
“Yes, yes.” He bent over the music, shuffling the pages. “Can