Prelude for a Lord (32 page)

“I have felt that about the violin. I had more time to practice when I was in school. After university, I spent much time with my father learning to manage the estate, and then I went to war.” His voice dropped, and she sensed a darkness had settled upon his mood.

“You have a lovely estate. In Bath, I missed the freedom of the countryside. I am happy to be here.” And when she left it, she would leave both Dommick and Lucy. The thought made her feel empty, and she stared out at the stream, the reeds waving in the motion from the water.

The sight of the reeds reminded her of happier days and one of her favourite pastimes. “Have you a knife?” she asked.

Looking confused, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small folding penknife. “This belonged to my father.”

“I shall be careful with it.” She rose from the bench and
approached the water. The mossy ground was soggy, but she managed to nick several reeds at the waterline with the knife.

“What will you do with those?” Dommick asked as she returned to her seat.

“Pipes. Did you never make them yourself?”

His smile appeared like sunlight through the mist. “No. You must show me.”

She removed her bonnet to better see the reeds, and he placed it on the bench next to his hat. She measured the proper length, then formed holes at appropriate intervals. She handed him the knife and guided him in making his own pipe, although she widened a few of the holes he had made. “I shall clean your knife for you.” She folded it and tucked it into her pocket.

She formed her fingers over the holes and blew. The sound was breathy and soft, matching the gurgle of the water over the stones and the green shade of the trees.

With very little instruction, he had mastered the notes, and soon they were playing duets. The music was challenging but fun, and they laughed at some of the horrible runs of intervals they made.

Alethea’s heart returned to the golden glow of days playing the pipe with Calandra beside the lake at Trittonstone Park. She had been young and carefree. Her brother had been only a bratty boy, cosseted by the nurse and her father, and not interesting enough to play with. Lucy had not played the pipe but had danced in the glade as they made music. Alethea had been so happy.

She was happy now, and not just in the remembrance of fonder days. She was enjoying music again with a skilled musician. Playing with Dommick made her feel as close to him as an embrace.

“I am not surprised you know how to play a pipe,” Dommick said. “Wind instruments are even more scandalous for women to play than violin. I expected no less from you.”

“I was not very skilled at the flute. Calandra compared my playing to a mournful owl with a very poor sense of pitch.”

“When I first learned to play the flute, Ian said that he would rather muck out the stables than listen to me.”

“Cruel friend.” Alethea smiled.

Dommick frowned at his pipe. “He would say so today. Half the time my G sharps were flat.”

“You must angle your fingers differently.” She reached for his hands and positioned his fingers over the holes in the pipe.

They had removed their gloves to play. His fingers were supple and strong, with rough calluses from violin playing. This close to him, she could smell the scent of lime from his skin, mingled with the green smell of the trees and the spicy warmth of his musk. She avoided looking at his face, for he would see in her eyes how he affected her. She hoped he did not notice her shortness of breath.

After she had positioned his fingers, she was about to remove her hands when he suddenly took hold of them. His palm felt hot against her cooled fingertips. He tugged, and she leaned closer.

Then his warm palm was on the skin of her neck, just over her racing pulse, just as his mouth touched hers.

He did not kiss her as desperately as he had the night of the concert. At first, his lips moved softly, as if hesitant to touch, to taste. Then he pressed closer, and she felt as if he had pressed her against his soul. His kiss was like the comforting wood of her violin, like Calandra’s touch on her head, like the scent of a rose in summer, like the sweetness of a trembling violin note. He felt like home.

She had fallen in love with him.

The thought frightened her, sent her heartbeat galloping. Or perhaps that was because his hand cupped her cheek, her jaw, while the other buried itself in her hair.

She had thought she would never meet a man deserving of
her trust. But this man had shown his concern for her safety, his love for his sister, his passion in music, his courage in danger. He had shown his own stubbornness, his own flaws, his willingness to argue with her, his ability to apologize. He was not perfect. He was Dommick.

She loved him. She never wanted to leave him. She would give all she possessed if only to be with him.

It was just as she realized this, just as she was pressing closer to him, that he suddenly stiffened. His hands left her face, her hair. He drew back, looking down at her with a mix of longing and unhappiness.

What did it mean? He didn’t seem the sort of man to blithely steal kisses. Yet he wasn’t looking at her as a lover might. He had said nothing of his feelings.

And what of her feelings? What of her determination not to marry, her plans for Italy, her love for Lucy? What of her love for music that had motivated her for so much of her life?

She pulled away and shot to her feet. She didn’t like the look in his eyes, and she was afraid of the words that would arise out of his conflicted feelings. They would be more wounding than the words other men had inflicted upon her, because these words would come from Dommick.

“I must go,” she said.

“Alethea—”

“Say nothing,” she said fiercely. “I have no wish to hear it. I could not bear . . .” She took a breath to try to calm herself. “We may both say things we will later regret.”

He rose to his feet now, his eyes burning into hers. There was confusion, and still that yearning, that pain, that terror in his eyes. She did not know what to make of it all, and it cut her to the quick.

She turned and walked away before the tears began to fall.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A
lethea could not avoid the visit any longer. She should have gone yesterday, but she had been too troubled by what had happened with Dommick to be able to speak rationally to any creature. She had pleaded a headache and asked for a dinner tray in her room, which she had devoured. She’d then shocked the maid by requesting an extra serving of dessert.

The poets who waxed eloquent upon the starvation of love were full of rot.

This morning she dabbed her eyes with water so they didn’t look quite so much like two welts on her face, but she had eaten early to escape the rest of the house, and now she wore her closest bonnet to shade her countenance. She went upstairs to the schoolroom where Margaret was picking sulkily at the remains of her breakfast. Alethea removed her from her half-eaten toast and cold tea with difficulty.

“You look terrible,” Margaret said nastily as they walked to the rectory.

“Since I must speak to the rector’s wife about your behaviour with her daughters, is it any wonder? Or should I have left
you
to speak to the rector’s wife?”

Margaret’s first reaction was excitement at the prospect, but as she imagined the tenor of the conversation, she grew sullen again. “I suppose not.”

“Have you meditated upon my advice to you yesterday?”

Margaret kicked at a stone on the path.

Alethea continued, “It might help you to understand Maria and Louisa better. And if it does not, then you shall use the opportunity to learn to be polite.”

“I am polite.”

“Polite behaviour is responding indifferently to what we do not like.”

“Why must I be polite to them?”

“Why must you play with them?”

Margaret knotted the strings on her bonnet. “There aren’t any other girls to play with. The squire’s boys are very stupid.”

“Then if you will choose the girls’ company, you must learn to be polite.”

Margaret heaved a sigh, but her sullen expression softened. Alethea hoped she had made some progress toward mutual felicity between the two houses.

The rectory was a snug cottage but rather bleak in the flower gardens, as it appeared Mrs. Coon was not a great gardener. As Alethea and Margaret walked up the path to the front door, the squire’s wife was just departing.

“Mrs. Coon, Lord bless you for sending your maid to us with the squire ailing so,” the woman said.

“I should come myself if I could,” Mrs. Coon said. “Do let us know if there is aught else we may do to assist you.” Her eyes alighted on Alethea and Margaret, and although Alethea had expected some
exasperation upon seeing Margaret, she instead smiled broadly and invited them inside.

“You will pardon the dirty tea things,” she said cheerfully, “but the squire’s wife has been here for the past hour. Poor woman, her husband has a horrid cough. Indeed, he had a horrid cough last month.” She frowned and tilted her head at the thought. “The man gets them curiously often.”

“We have certainly not arrived for tea, Mrs. Coon. Margaret wishes to apologize to your daughters.”

“As to that, they wish to apologize to her.”

“Whatever for?” Alethea did not miss the fleeting look of satisfaction on Margaret’s face and gave her arm a discreet pinch. The girl winced, and her look of long-suffering returned.

“Apparently Maria had made an inappropriate comment about Margaret’s deceased parents, which was what precipitated the altercation.” Mrs. Coon sat on the settee, and Margaret and Alethea took the sofa opposite.

“I told you—” Margaret whispered to Alethea, but she stepped on her young cousin’s foot to silence her.

Mrs. Coon continued as if she had not heard. “I have spoken most severely with her on the matter.”

“Be that as it may, Margaret should not have responded so,” Alethea said.

“The girls are out back, helping the old gardener with the vegetables. Mr. Coon really should pension the poor man off, for he can barely keep up the kitchen garden and I am no gardener, but we don’t have the heart to do it to him. Margaret, you may join the girls in their toils or inform them that they are allowed a reprieve.”

Margaret bounded up, but Alethea grabbed her wrist and ventured to Mrs. Coon, “Is that altogether wise?”

“Fear not, Lady Alethea. I have instructed the girls in what they should say and do. For this afternoon, at least,” she qualified.

Alethea said to Margaret, “I expect you to apologize, miss.”

“Yes, Alethea.” And Margaret was gone in a swirl of skirts.

“With willful girls, Lady Alethea, allow me to guide you, as I possess two of them.” Mrs. Coon smiled. “Instruct them in proper behaviour and then allow them to find their own way. If you dictate to them, they will invariably do the opposite.”

Alethea squirmed on the sofa, reminded of her own childhood. “I see your point.”

Mrs. Coon sighed. “I admit I have been indulgent to Maria and Louisa for several weeks. I believe I know the cause of the girls’ rude behaviour toward Margaret.”

“I assure you, Margaret is not blameless. She misunderstands their comments and responds inappropriately.”

“But of course she would misunderstand when she doesn’t know what has occurred recently. You see, Lady Alethea, the girls’ playmate, Daphne, died quite suddenly two months ago.”

Alethea drew in a breath. “How tragic.”

“Daphne was a retiring creature, sweet and helpful. The girls were devastated. I assure you, the fight yesterday was unwonted behaviour from them. They have been combative not only with Margaret but with other children in the neighborhood since Daphne died. After the fight yesterday, I suspected that my girls were still grieving for their friend. When I forced Maria and Louisa to repeat the conversation prior to the exchange, it appeared to me they were attempting to mould Margaret into Daphne’s role.”

“Which Margaret would not take kindly to. She is very willful.”

“The three of them are peas in a pod, I am afraid. I spoke to them about Daphne and their behaviour toward Margaret, and the girls were truly contrite, especially after they had spent some time in prayer.”

Alethea could not understand how prayer would benefit a ten-and a thirteen-year-old girl. When Alethea had been Margaret’s
age, prayer had been a chore and opportunity to consider where she would ride her horse after service ended.

Mrs. Coon laughed. “I see you are not convinced. Here is another piece of advice for the raising of willful girls. Nothing you could say would have greater impact than the Lord convicting their hearts. They will obey you out of principle, but they would obey God out of true feeling.”

Still doubtful, Alethea said, “Margaret mentioned that you had spoken to her about God speaking to our hearts and guiding us in doing what is right.”

“Then let us hope that Margaret will also listen to God. You smile, Lady Alethea.”

“In my experience, that is not what people will most often do.”

“No, it is not,” Mrs. Coon said candidly. “But in those cases, we must allow God to comfort us in our troubles.”