What Happened at Midnight(26)

Herr Rieger had told her—and Mary suspected the tale was apocryphal—that Beethoven had composed the music on a dare from a friend: Take the most mediocre waltz you can find, someone had taunted the composer, and see if you can make it magnificent.

That’s what Beethoven had done, thirty-three times over.

She glanced up at John, standing behind her, and smiled again. She’d had her run of mediocre waltzes. Now it was time to make what she had—what they had—magnificent. The music didn’t carry her; she carried it, from chord to breathless chord, from variation to variation.

She didn’t do all of them. She hadn’t the time or the strength in her fingers. But she played until her fingers began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise. She played long enough to see Lady Northword tap Lady Patsworth on the shoulder out of the corner of her vision. She played with John’s hand hovering mere inches from her shoulder and Sir Walter glaring at her, promising dire retribution.

When her hands began to falter, she skipped to the final variation and ended.

The handful of guests clapped vigorously—all but Sir Walter. The applause died into a moment of silence. Then the windows rattled, and the house shook with the booming roll of real thunder. Even the weather itself applauded her. Mary smiled and ducked her head.

“Miss Chartley,” said Lady Northword. “Mr. Mason was right. You are more than proficient. You are magnificent. I see that I shall have to ask you to visit far more often.”

“Unfortunately,” Sir Walter said, “that will not be possible. You see, my wife…” He stopped and looked about him and abruptly shot to his feet. “Where is my wife?”

There was a moment of absolute silence—the kind of moment that performers dreamed of. Mary was not yet off the stage. She stood, collecting the piano music into some semblance of order.

“Why,” Lady Northword said, “she is talking with her brother.”

“Her brother.” Sir Walter took a step toward the door. “Why is her brother here?”

The back door to the salon opened. “Because I am leaving with him,” Lady Patsworth said.

There was a long pause. “Leaving,” Sir Walter said. “On a visit? Think of your health, my dear.”

“Leaving. For good.”

Those words settled in the room.

“Come now.” Sir Walter was beginning to turn red in the face, but his words were still smooth. “You’re overset. Surely there’s no need to draw these people into whatever trifle it is that has you angered.” He drew in a deep breath and addressed the rest of the crowd. “My wife—she’s not well, you see. If she were, surely she would know how absurd it is to suggest that she might leave her lawfully wedded husband. There’s no need to involve these people, Lady Patsworth. You know what a magistrate will say.” He took a step toward her and held out his hand.

Lady Patsworth did not shrink. In fact, she stepped up to him and set her finger against his chest. “And I was so sure you’d seen the paper. A week ago, the Queen gave her assent to the new Matrimonial Causes Act. Come next January, I will testify before all of England about every milkmaid that you’ve taken. I’ll tell the world how you kept me prisoner in my own home. How you sent my brother away at gunpoint, telling him I never wanted to speak with him.” Her voice was as smooth as his. “I don’t need Parliament to grant me a divorce. I am free, and you can’t hold me any longer.”

“I still have that gun,” Sir Walter growled.

“Mary threw it in the well,” Lady Patsworth returned. “Yesterday evening.” She smiled grimly. “You remember, don’t you? I had a spasm, and you had to take me to my room. For my health.”

Sir Walter did not say anything. His gaze flicked from his wife to her brother, and then across Lord and Lady Northword to settle on Mary.

“You,” he said. “You arranged this. You sent for her brother.”

Mary didn’t shrink from him. “Yes. I did.”

“You’re sacked.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll be having my back wages, then.”

He cast her a sullen glance. “What back wages?”

“That would be the sixty pounds you owe her,” Lady Patsworth said. “If I’ve heard you say it once, I’ve heard you say it a hundred times, how you were keeping the money safe.”

“And paying me interest on the principle,” Mary added. “That is what people do when they hold your money, is it not?”

While Sir Walter was sputtering, Lord Northword came up behind him. “As it happens, I can advance you the amount you need right now,” he said quietly. “Around here, we don’t like to see employees used badly.” He looked round at the other landowners, who were watching in confusion. “Do we, gentlemen?”

Sir Walter looked around, his nostrils flaring, as his neighbors shook their heads.

Lord Northword set his hand on Sir Walter’s shoulder. “So we won’t have to see it,” he said jovially. “You’ll come with me and write me a note, and I’ll give Miss Chartley her money immediately. Now, if you please.”

For a moment, it looked as if Sir Walter would actually strike Lord Northword. But he looked around—at the other guests, at the footmen in the corner, at John Mason not so far away. He remembered that Northword was a viscount and his landlord, and he was a mere Sir.