Rhapsody for Two Page 9

She could succeed. She would keep the address the ton had visited for a century. She’d keep her workroom, built specifically for luthiery, and the shop window that so recently had taken on its own personality.

  It was a relief, sort of. She had expected to feel more relief. But as she whipped in and out of the workroom, to and from tuning pianofortes, untouched violins sprawled reproachfully on the worktable. The violoncello without its fingerboard looked like a strangled maiden, its poor neck askew. Simon had teased her once that she talked of instruments as if they were alive. She knew they were nothing but wood and varnish and string, of course, but she still felt in danger of failing them.

  But she wouldn’t. Numbers didn’t lie. She wouldn’t fail.

  So passed the remaining days of May. Simon changed the shop window every day, lettering a new card each time. Rowena rebuilt the violin on display a bit at a time. When customers called with bookings, Rowena or Simon accepted the most lucrative jobs. For the first time in Rowena’s memory, she turned aside work.

  It was good to be busy. Right? It ought to have made everything easier, feeling as if she wasn’t alone. She had only to repair and tune, and Simon managed the rest.

  But it wasn’t easier, because he wouldn’t stay. He referred to his plans more than once. “Before I go...” or “After I leave...” So lightly, he spoke these words, as if they weren’t weapons that slashed her heart.

  So be it. She wouldn’t ask him to stay, lest he say yes without wanting to. Each day, the coin mounted up, twenty pounds of it to be his—and then he’d be off again.

  She tuned her pianofortes; she did not take him to bed again. He watched her narrowly, probably wanting her to ask, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.

  Do you ever do something just because you want to?

  It was a question of privilege, coming from someone who was sure of always taking more than he left behind.

  She wouldn’t give up—she’d learned that much from him. She wouldn’t give up her body without attaching her heart to it. She was a parcel all wrapped in gut strings, all out of tune and craving his touch. And when he left, after he left, she’d be hopelessly jangled.

  As it was, she was fine. Everything was fine.

  On the last day of the month—a fine Monday, perfect for a new start—Lifford called at the shop.

  Rowena made herself smile as she greeted the landlord. “I am ready to sign a new lease. Shall it be for another ninety-nine years, or something more moderate?”

  Lifford did not smile back. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss Fairweather.”

  The sturdy wooden floors beneath Rowena’s feet seemed to wobble. “I am of age and single, with no man in charge of my affairs. It’s possible.”

  Lifford’s mournful clerk’s face looked regretful. “I’ve come to let you know that I’ve just been offered four guineas a week for this building. I can’t turn it down.”

  “Four guineas...” She felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. “Who can afford such a rate?”

  “Bond Street is more expensive each year. All of London wants to shop here, so all of London’s merchants want to keep shop here.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said faintly. “I’ve always thought it the perfect address.”

  “Yours is one of the finest buildings on the street. I’ve had interest for years, and I’ve put off the potential tenants while your lease held. But now...” Lifford trailed off, then asked, “I don’t suppose you could match the offer?”

  Four guineas? She would have laughed if she’d had air enough. “I could barely manage three guineas and a shilling,” she choked.

  Lifford nodded. “I thought that might be the case. I can give you a few days to vacate the premises, but I will need you out of the building by the end of the week.” His expression was not unkind as he added, “I’m sorry for it, Miss Fairweather. But it’s business.”

  It was indeed, as was her shop. And businesses rose and fell based on demand. One’s skill. One’s courage.

  This shop was never intended to be run alone. It was a family establishment, and it was all Rowena had left of her family. For a century and more, people had come to this address to make their lives more musical. Now she would lose it. The address Simon had promoted. The building they’d carefully dressed to draw every eye.

  It wasn’t only business to her; it was her home. The only one she’d ever known. It was a refuge for an old woman who could scarcely move from her parlor. It was a haven for the beetles that kept a hedgehog plump and content. It was perfectly arranged, from the compartments built into the workroom to hold every type of wood to the racks for holding her tools.

  And it wasn’t hers anymore; it was all out of her grasp.

  This was the end of Fairweather’s.

  Chapter Seven

  “There is no more fatal symptom than when an open communicative disposition grows reserved.”

  Glenarvon

  IF A MAN HAD A BED to sleep in, bread rolls and coffee to breakfast on, and a place he loved to go, he had no right to be in a foul mood. Simon knew this. But on the last day of May, despite counting up those small blessings, he was in a foul mood as he pushed open the door to Fairweather’s at midday. When the little bell over the door jingled a greeting, he wanted to snatch it down and stomp on it.

  This was the end. Good-bye came today, and it was nobody’s fault but his own.

  He pushed aside the velvet curtain, drinking the sight of the workroom with thirsty eyes. A perfect space for the work done here. A perfect home for the women who lived here.

  “Good afternoon,” Simon said to Rowena. She had her back to him when he entered and was counting off pieces of wood by size in the numerous built-in compartments.

  “Hullo. One moment.” She jotted a number onto a small bit of paper, then stuffed it into her pocket and turned. “Good afternoon to you. I’ve got a letter for you.”

  “For me? Is it from Botts?” He couldn’t imagine who’d be sending him a message, unless it was one of his musical cronies seeking a booking with Fairweather’s.

  “No. It’s not from Botts.” From that same pocket in her gown, Rowena drew a sealed and folded missive. It had evidently come by post rather than being hand-carried by a messenger, for when Rowena placed it in Simon’s hand, he had to squint to make out the direction through the post-markings.

  And then he realized what it said. Where it was from. Who it was from. “It’s from Elias Howard’s family. How is it from Howard? How did he know... Why is anyone from Market Thistleton writing to me in London?” With nerveless fingers, he dropped the letter to the floor. He wasn’t certain whether he wanted to pick it up.

  Before he decided, Rowena snatched it up and pressed it into his hand again. Her smile was bright, her tone glassy, as she explained, “I wrote to them for you. I wanted them to know how much you miss Howard and still blame yourself for his—”

  “You what?” Simon could have tossed the letter into the nearest fire. “I told you all of that in confidence! So you wouldn’t feel alone in your worries!”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t want you to feel so alone. So I wrote, and you see that Howard is eager to make contact with you. He must have written back—”

  “He can’t write. I saw to that,” Simon said flatly.

  “—using his left hand,” Rowena continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “or had his wife write back on his behalf, as soon as your letter arrived.”

  “Your letter. Not mine.”

  “It comes to the same thing. Behold your reply.”

  Her smile was fixed and strange, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He could only try to make sense of what she was saying, of the letter in his hand after so many years of silence. Silence he wanted, because he feared what Howard might say if given the chance to speak. It was better to fear he’d never be forgiven than to know it for certain.

  He ripped the letter in half, cracking the seal and letting the inky page flutter to the floor in two pieces.
“I don’t want this. If I wanted to write to Howard, I would have done so anytime in the last thirteen years. You had no right to interfere.”

  Her cheeks flushed; her jaw set. “Interference? Is that what this is? Was it mere interference when you came to my shop and asked to remake my business dealings?”

  Deliberately, Simon set his boot atop the fallen letter. “It was. You didn’t have to say yes. That was your choice.”

  She muttered something that sounded like, “Maybe I shouldn’t have,” shoving wisps of hair back with quick, jerking gestures.

  And then the fire seemed to go out of her. “I don’t mean that. I’m glad I said yes. I hoped you would be glad about this too. I only wanted to open a door for you.”

  “I shut it a long time ago, and I want to leave it that way.” Didn’t he? What he really wanted was to erase the past, never to think of it again. But he’d never managed that. He’d never managed to stop missing his friend or regretting the harm he’d caused. Shaking his head, he added, “I’m allowed to feel guilty for something bad I’ve done.”

  “Not if it keeps you from living your own life!”

  “This is the way I live,” he said firmly, struggling for calm. “I’ve always been honest about that. Just because it’s not what you would choose doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

  Simon had always thought of himself as an inquisitive sort of person, one who always wanted to move on and learn something new. He wanted to help, he’d told Rowena once. He wanted to make things better.

  Just now, he didn’t want to do that. He wanted to block his ears; he wanted to protect himself. He was tired of helping others. He was tired of the burden of guilt and shame that he’d borne for years, all the way across England. It was poison for his heart, and she thought he’d want to read a letter about it. She thought he’d want to take that letter from her hand, a hand that had only ever been outstretched to him in grace and honesty.

  She didn’t understand. Maybe he hadn’t allowed her to, and maybe he couldn’t.

  “I’m not trying to tell you how to live.” Rowena pressed her lips together tightly as she unlocked a strongbox built into a hidden compartment in the workroom. With quick, cutting movements, she counted out bills. “Here.” She thrust a handful at him. “Don’t tear these in half and stomp on them. Twenty pounds, just as you wanted. You’ve more than earned it with your shop windows and your persistence.”

  He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. “I can’t take it from you. You need all your money for the lease.” He took a deep breath. “I sold my horn. It’ll be enough for now.”

  “You sold...but why? You won’t make music anymore.” Her brows drew together, an expression of puzzlement and sorrow.

  “I don’t need to.” In his pocket, he felt the pawn ticket for the horn.

  “You mean you don’t have the right to pursue your own aims?” Rowena pressed.

  He shrugged. It was done. There was no sense in discussing the why.

  She slapped the handful of bills against her other palm. “So you’ll do all you can to solve my problems, but you won’t allow me to try to solve yours. Do you think you’re the only one with any competence?”

  His head jerked back. “God, no. I think I’m the only one who shouldn’t have his problems solved.”

  “You’re very special, then. Too special to allow others to care about you.” Rowena looked at the money in her hand, then tossed it back into the strongbox as if she disliked it. Her back to him, she added in a muffled tone, “Or care for you.”

  Was she crying? He yanked his hands from his pockets and took a step closer to her—but then she rounded on him, and her eyes were dry. “If you won’t accept my help, Simon, I don’t want any more of yours. If you won’t allow me to try to lessen your burdens, then why should I trust you to do the same for me? Is my love worth less than your pain?”

  His knees went watery. “You love me?”

  She slashed the air impatiently. “I could, if I thought you wanted me to at all.”

  He didn’t know if he wanted that. He knew he hadn’t earned it. “I’d stay, if I really thought I could help you.”

  She sighed, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. “If you really wanted to stay, you wouldn’t think about obligation at all. You’d only think about me.”

  “I haven’t the right to be that selfish.”

  Her hands dropped to her sides. Blue eyes, frank and troubled, pinned him. “I’m giving you that right.”

  He shook his head, taking a step backward. Toward the velvet curtain. Toward escape. “I can’t take it. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. You should know that—you, who earns everything yourself.”

  “Love can’t be earned,” she said, “only granted freely.” But she didn’t sound as though she believed it. She sounded as though she had already given up on him.

  “I think it can be earned,” Simon replied. “As can trust. It can certainly be squandered.”

  She had trusted him to stay with her; she had deemed him worthy. It had felt like a gift, but just now it felt like a burden.

  Was this how she felt about Fairweather’s? Trust he’d never asked for, a legacy he’d never wanted. Yet, she did want the legacy to survive.

  And he did want her trust. He just couldn’t see how he could earn it long-term, any more than she could repair her beloved violins and still meet the terms of her lease. Not without a miracle. For her, the miracle had to come from without. For him, the miracle had to be much greater—it had to come from within.

  “I have to go,” he said through a throat tight with unspoken words. He shoved past the curtain, stumbled through the foyer, and slapped open the shop door, gritting his teeth against the cheerful parting jingle of the bell.

  Hardly noticing the swirl of London crowds around him, he made his way back to his lodging house. It was a clean but plain building, devoid of personality and tradition. It was a place only to lay one’s head and lock up a few belongings.

  How had he let himself become satisfied with this?

  Easing himself onto the bed, he looked around the rented room. There were no books to occupy him, no horn to practice. There was nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. In the past, he might have bought a bottle, gambled a bit on a game of cards, flirted with a barmaid. But now all he wanted was cream cakes. The only sort of card he cared for was the kind he lettered for the shop window. And he’d no desire to flirt with anyone at all.

  How long he sat there, he didn’t know. A knock at his chamber’s door roused him at last. When he opened it with more force than grace, he was greeted by the familiar red-haired maid from Fairweather’s.

  “Alice?” Simon blinked at her, puzzled. “What are you doing here? Did you bring a message?”

  “Of a sort.” Fool that he was, he hadn’t noticed she was holding anything until she thrust a massive paper-wrapped package at him. Without another word, she curtseyed and turned on her heel, strolling away.

  Mystified, Simon shut the door and placed the parcel on his bed. As soon as he untied the twine, he realized what was inside.

  His horn case. Popping open the latches, he saw the brass instrument—shining and intact as if it had never left his possession.

  Somehow, Rowena had redeemed it. How had she known where he’d sold it? He patted his coat pockets. No pawn ticket. It must have fluttered from his pocket in her workroom.

  He lifted the bell, wondering at the heft of the cold metal. He hadn’t thought the instrument would be his again. He hadn’t thought he’d mind if it wasn’t, but here he was choking on emotion like a child given a beloved toy.

  What was this? Papers, rolled up and tucked into the bell of the horn. Simon tugged them free, heart thumping wildly.

  Here was the letter he’d torn in half and discarded. And here was a note from Rowena.

  All right, he’d read the damned letter from Market Thistleton. He spread the pieces out flat, lining up the torn edges.

 
It was brief, and he was surprised to be disappointed by that. A few courtesies of greeting, a willingness to communicate with Mr. Thorn “in any way he sees fit.” It was signed simply “Howard.”

  Had Elias Howard himself written this? Signed this? What was the feeling behind the tidy script? Was there any feeling at all?

  Carefully, Simon refolded the pieces and tucked them into the pocket of the case where he sometimes carried sheet music. Then he opened the message from Rowena. It was even shorter than the letter, a mere four words.

  Go make it right.

  Maybe she had understood, after all. This was a good-bye, but it was also a farewell. Fare well. Have music. Be forgiven.

  He would never deserve someone like Rowena—no, correction, he’d never think he deserved someone like Rowena—and would never be able to enjoy life without doubt and guilt, unless he went to Howard. Put the money in his hand, saw the operation completed, and apologized. Begged for forgiveness.

  Could he do it? After all this time?

  Until he bought a ticket to Market Thistleton, he hadn’t been sure he really intended to go. Before the coach departed, he had just enough time to pack a satchel and buy a copy of How to Ruin a Duke. Something to read along the way. A distraction from the everyday, as Rowena had described it.

  And he was off, away from London. Traveling northwest to Staffordshire like a bird flying home after a long winter. Unlike a bird, free and fresh, he’d spend the four-day journey in a cramped carriage full of odoriferous strangers. The thought was distracting enough that he’d wedged himself into his seat, the horses clopping off for the journey’s beginning, before he realized he had neglected to ask Rowena about the final terms of the lease. What would the fate of Fairweather’s be?

  He could guess: She wouldn’t give up. She’d keep the building, the business, the name. She would manage it all. Hadn’t she offered him everything he’d asked, to see him packing? She’d made it possible for him to leave, just as he’d always told her he wanted to.

  He ought to be happy about that. He was on his own, unfettered and free to try whatever he wanted. He could be anything.