What Happened at Midnight(25)

If John thought they hadn’t…

Mary reached out and picked up the paper again. She folded it—this time, not for the words he’d written in front, but for the ones she’d never thought about on the back. And then, for the first time in a long while, she laughed.

Now she was ready to take on Sir Walter.

Chapter Ten

BY THE TIME THE dinner guests adjourned to the back room, Mary felt too wracked by her nerves to speak. She’d scarcely touched her food; she hadn’t dared look at Lady Patsworth, lest her questioning gaze give everything away to her husband.

The closer they came to success, the sicker Mary felt. Luckily, as a mere companion, there was no need for her to join in the conversation. She let it swirl around her, and she waited.

The salon was grandly appointed. The walls were a mix of moss-green and gold, clever carved moldings around the edge telling a story about a nymph and a harp. Windows looked out over the night-shrouded valley, dotted by little flashes of lamplight where there were settlements.

Easier to look out the window than to focus on what stood before it: a pianoforte. That would be Mary’s contribution this evening. She’d never been nervous about performing before. This crowd—just Lord and Lady Northword, John, the Beauregards, Sir Walter and his wife, and two other families—would hardly have flustered her a few years ago. Then again, she’d never had a performance this important.

“Miss Chartley,” the viscountess said, “you keep looking at the pianoforte. Do you play?”

It had begun. The evening was so carefully scripted; Mary had only to do her part, and the rest of it would happen.

“A little,” Mary said, looking down.

“A little?” John, a few feet away, made a sound of disbelief. “That’s balderdash, if you’ll excuse the expression. Miss Chartley is utterly brilliant.”

“A bit of exaggeration, I’m afraid.” Mary put her head down in a pretense of modesty.

“But…” Sir Walter looked up, frowning. “Mr. Mason, I thought you didn’t know Miss Chartley. How would you know that she plays?”

John met Mary’s eyes and gave her a melting look; Mary looked away. They’d decided it would do best to have Mary pretend embarrassment—to have Sir Walter believe that she’d been caught out in misbehavior. Mary didn’t have to pretend at all; a slight pink flush rose on her cheeks unbidden.

“Well,” John said, “I had to find out.”

Sir Walter let out a soft hiss. “But you…”

Mary looked up. It wasn’t difficult to meet John’s eyes. And she wasn’t pretending when everyone else in the room seemed to fall away. There was only his smile, only the light dancing in his eyes.

“Hmph,” Sir Walter said. He gave her a dark look, one that said, Don’t you dare speak to that man.

“Well, Miss Chartley, perhaps you could play for us a little.” Lady Northword spoke as if she hadn’t seen that interchange.

“Of course.” Mary blushed and glanced at John again. “And perhaps, Mr. Mason, you might turn my pages.”

“Miss Chartley,” Sir Walter whispered in harsh tones. “This behavior is most unbecoming!”

But Mary stood anyway and moved to the instrument. Sir Walter glared as she thumbed through the available music. His arms were folded across his chest; his chin promised retribution.

John came to stand by her. His simple presence assured her that she was not alone. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t say anything as she flipped, unseeing, through sheets of music. He was just there, steady and honest and trustworthy.

It wasn’t hard for Mary to turn to John and give him the largest, most scintillating smile she could muster. She was supposed to be doing it to rivet Sir Walter’s attention. But she had only to look at the man who’d kissed her every night for the last week, and she felt herself burst into bloom. It wasn’t just a smile she gave him; it was her heart, writ large across her face. Her nervousness faded. Her breath eased. The whole room seemed to fade to an indistinct blur—everything except him. He was the only solid thing in a shifting world.

“You know,” he said, leaning down and whispering in her ear. “There’s one flaw with this plan. I don’t know how I will turn your pages. I can’t read music.”

“Don’t worry,” she murmured back. “I’ll play from memory. Just count to twenty-five and turn, and nobody will be the wiser.”

She took out a sheaf of music and set it in front of her and set her hands on the keys.

It had been so long since she’d touched an instrument. She had worried that she might have forgotten how. But the ivory, cool under her fingers, woke memories that went deeper than a few years’ hiatus. Her muscles still knew what to do. The first sprightly notes came out precise and clear, exactly as she remembered them.

She had always loved Beethoven’s Diabelli variations, in part because the individual pieces were so…various. They were not minor alterations in key and structure, but complete transformations. Chords were taken from one variation and built into a new melody in the next. The notes of the original waltz were still present if you knew what to listen for—they were just given an entirely different meaning. It was music tied to a common heart but made without limitation.

Her fingers faltered at first. But the joy of a variation was that it was all too easy to cover a mistake. Those first missteps she converted into alterations of her own—little ones, at first, and then trills that she added on purpose.