Swan's Grace (29 page)

Sophie woke the next morning and hurried through her ablutions. Once dressed, she dashed to Deandra's room. But it was empty, the bed neatly made, none of the usual boas or feathered mules tossed about in disarray.

Dread started to pound inside her as she went to Margaret's room and found it quiet and still, the assistant's desk clear of the normal stacks of correspondence and files. Then she went to Henry's, only to find it the same way. Neat as a pin, with not a hint of his flowery cologne or dapper suits. And other than Margaret, none of them were known to leave their beds, much less their rooms, before noon.

Reeling, Sophie came downstairs, steeling herself against the sight of her entourage packed and ready to depart, their luggage stacked on the foyer floor. But the black-and-white marble was as empty as the rooms had been, and there wasn't a person in sight.

With her skirts puffing around her, she sank to the bottom step, distressed over the fact that they hadn't even said good-bye. Though it was foolish to feel so hurt. She had understood all along that her relationship with these people had revolved around money. They would be her friends if she paid their way. That was what an entourage was. She was a fool to have come to feel anything else for these people. But she had. She had grown to love Margaret like a sister, and even Dea had become something of a mother to her.

And Henry. A rueful smile threatened at the thought of the little man. He had become like a brother or a cherished friend, always trying his best to say the right thing and very rarely succeeding.

How pathetic she was to have to buy her friends and to seek approval and self-worth from strangers when she performed.

A sound from the kitchen finally gained her attention. Slowly, hope beginning to grow, she headed for the back of the house. When she pushed through the door she found Margaret working at the stove, Henry reading the newspaper, and Deandra going through a stack of documents.

"You're still here," she said, her breath rushing out.

All three looked at her. "Of course we're still here," Deandra said, sitting back. "Where did you think we'd be?"

"But your rooms are empty."

"No, they are simply cleaned up for a change. We are used to having servants do our every bidding."

Sophie's spine stiffed. "I'm sorry," she offered, her chin rising.

"Don't be sorry. You'll pay for servants again soon enough. I'm going through your contracts now to see what is due you and when."

"In the meantime," Henry said, "I'm going to get a job. These classifieds are filled with them."

"You mean…"

The words trailed off, and Margaret strode up to her in her efficient manner. "We are staying. Whether you have money or not. Whether you have a future or not. Who knows where the three of us would have ended up had you not taken us in. Now it's time for us to return the favor."

"But what about your cousin?"

"My cousin doesn't want me, nor does she need me. My place is here with you."

Sophie threw her arms around the primly dressed woman who had become a friend. "I love you."

Henry leaped up. "I want a hug, too!"

And before too long, the three of them held tight, only Deandra holding back, an odd look on her face as she sat at the table—wistful and disdainful at the same moment.

"Come on, Dea," Henry cajoled.

After a second, she flew into the group and held tight with a laugh.

"We're going to make it," Margaret said.

"Never a doubt," Henry added.

They pulled back with smiles on their faces.

"Thank you." Sophie felt an intense joy. Then she headed for the newspaper. "Henry, how about sharing those classifieds with me? I'm going to get a job, too."

"Not on your life," Deandra stated, back to her businesslike self. "More than ever you need to practice. You are going to get this Music Hall show over with so we can get payment; then we are going to head back to Europe."

Back to Europe. The only viable option, since her father had no room for her in his life. And the truth was, until she had finished the summer and winter tours, she couldn't afford her childhood home.

After all the battles, she could still lose Swan's Grace anyway.

A wave of disquiet swept through her. She turned away, knowing she couldn't redo the mistakes of the past. She could only make sure she didn't make any more mistakes in the future. And she would do that by playing. By truly playing.

As she was meant to.

The thought reared up, surprising her. She wanted to dazzle Bostonians, yes, but with talent rather than spectacle.

She might have lost everything else about her past, but she would not lose her pride.

She realized with blinding insight that she had wanted it all along, but had held the desire at bay.

Determination whirled through her blood. Determination and fire. She would play Bach. Because despite what Niles Prescott had made her believe, she had talent.

Her heart pounded. She wanted this more than she ever dreamed possible. For months she had tried to deny it. But now the feelings burst forth and wouldn't be held back.

She wanted to show Niles Prescott that he was wrong. She wanted to show her father that he should be proud. She wanted to show Grayson that in many ways she had not failed. And show them she would.

With that decision, Sophie devised a schedule, then clung to routine like a lifeline. She started practice earlier every morning, rehearsing into the late hours of the night. Her world became ordered with the precision of a metronome. Purpose and excitement filled her, as intoxicating as a drug.

She practiced in the library, paintings stacked in the hallway, wallpaper half gone, the room empty except for her chair and a music stand. In moments of frustration when a piece wasn't going well, she poured her energies into stripping more of the wallpaper. But then the solution to a difficult section would come to her, a strip of paper hanging half off the wall like a tongue lolling out of a mouth. She would leap back into her chair to play what she heard in her head, the problem solved, until the next one arose.

At the end of the first week of practicing, her confidence rose as the notes started making sense in her head.

Euphoria and wonder filled her. Purpose became her constant companion.

But as one week turned into two, her euphoria began to falter. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pull the suites together. She might understand how the works needed to be played, but despite her determined effort, she couldn't make the cello soar as she wanted.

After long months of simply letting her music flow free and wild, the bow had become awkward in her hands. The change from spectacle back to respected concert cellist required controlled movements. But those modifications made her bowing inconsistent. Her left hand clenched up, her body went tense. Even simple scales became torture.

And at the end of the second week, what progress she had made was negated completely. She fought to hold on to her conviction that she could succeed. Her excitement faded, and confidence became as elusive as waves rushing back to the sea.

Through it all, Grayson was there every day. Several times Lucas had arrived, and the men had conferred behind closed doors. Grayson had also hired a solicitor who specialized in property to find him a new office.

By the end of the third week, doubt had crept in and firmly took hold, making her wonder how she ever could have thought she could play a single unaccompanied Bach suite, much less five of them.

Fear pushed every ounce of excitement away. And by the time she woke the next morning, she could hardly breathe when she stood from the bed.

She wanted to go to Grayson. To talk to him. Sit with him. Have him tell her everything would be all right. But everything wasn't going to be all right. She couldn't play Bach, and soon Grayson would be gone.

With only a week left before the concert, Sophie dressed hurriedly, barely securing her clothes before heading downstairs.

But she stopped in the foyer when she found Grayson standing in the torn-apart library. He stood in profile, so strong in his dark coat and pants, his face chiseled. Would he ever fail to move her?

He turned slowly and looked at her. When he did she could see a flash of brightness, as if he were happy to see her. The simple gesture made her heart swell. But then the flash was gone.

"Good morning," he greeted her, his tone the kind he used with business associates, professional and straightforward.

"Good morning," she said with a poignant rush of feeling. Where was intelligent, witty conversation when she needed it? But she couldn't deny how glad she was to see him, even if he was cool and distant. "Would you like to join me for tea?"

For a second his countenance softened, seemed almost wistful as he started to reach out to her. But at the last minute his eyes hardened, as if he suddenly remembered the past. He dropped his hand away.

"I'm due in court. I stopped by for a file."

He turned away and strode to his office, cursing when he banged his knee. Sophie was left standing in the foyer. Hurt and angry, she marched in behind him, reacting to more than his bland dismissal.

"Do you really hate me so much?" she demanded from the doorway.

Grayson looked up from the papers on his desk.

His dark eyes were filled with emotion she hadn't noticed when he arrived.

"Don't," he said, the word part warning, part plea.

"Why not? I understand that you don't want to marry me any longer. I've understood that all along. But why do you have to ignore me, like we were never friends?"

"We are too old to be friends, Sophie. Adults are not friends, at least not men and women. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to read this file before I am due in court."

Her father arrived that afternoon, his long, narrow face lined with concern. Patrice was at his side.

"Good morning, princess," Conrad said kindly. "Your stepmother and I are worried about you."

"What for?" she asked, trying for nonchalance.

"We haven't seen you in weeks, and—"

"And rumors are circulating that your engagement to Grayson is broken!"

"Patrice." Conrad turned to his wife.

"What? What kind of future will our daughters have if she mucks this up?"

Our daughters
, as if Sophie weren't one of them. The words seeped into her heart, filling every corner.

"Where are we going to get the kind of money that Grayson paid you for her?"

Sophie flinched, but she pushed the words from her mind. She concentrated on the floor, the black-and-white marble like squares on a chessboard.

Her stepmother took a step closer. "Doesn't she care that we will be ruined if she doesn't marry Grayson Hawthorne?"

"That is enough, Patrice," Conrad stated, his voice simmering through the foyer.

Sophie's head shot up and she looked at her father. She couldn't have been more stunned when he came forward and cupped her arms gently, in a fatherly way.

"I've spent many nights these last weeks thinking of little else besides what has happened here," he said. "As long as I live, I will never forget the look on your face when we told you of the betrothal. I can see how distressed you are still. No father is immune to that." His voice grew strained. "Not even me. That's when I realized that I hadn't been thinking about you when I signed the agreement. I was thinking of myself." His smile was sad. "But know that I truly thought a betrothal with Grayson would be the best thing for you and for him."