Swan's Grace (34 page)

Emmaline couldn't have been more surprised. "What did I say?"

"Nothing and everything." Just as Sophie had once said. "I'll explain later. For now, I have to find Sophie."

She had hurt long enough. And he wouldn't let her hurt anymore, because yet again he hadn't been there for her when she needed him. Sophie who had saved him, Sophie who had always been there for him.

Now he would be there for her.

He would help her believe again. He would show her that someone in the world cared for her—just as she was.

Sophie stood quietly, staring at the shambles that was supposed to have been her music room. She would have smiled at the appropriateness of something that so adequately represented her life if she'd had the ability to do anything besides stand there, numb.

Deandra, Margaret, and Henry were frantic all around her. But she had blocked them from her mind. The concert was in an hour, and she stood in her robe. Her hair was done, her makeup perfect, but she couldn't seem to move herself beyond that.

She was barely aware when the front door burst open, barely heard the footsteps pounding in the foyer until she felt someone next to her.

"Sophie, you're going to be late."

Grayson's voice wrapped around her, and with effort she turned to find him there. So tall, so handsome. Her hero for as long as she could remember. Everything she had ever wanted in life. This man who had said that she would only ruin him. Why had things gone so wrong?

"Come on, Sophie," he said gently. "Let's go upstairs
so
you can dress."

She felt his strong fingers curl around her hand.

"You have a concert to perform."

"No." She pried herself away from him. "I can't do it."

"Of course you can, sweetheart."

A spurt of anger flared. "Don't call me that! I'm not your sweetheart. And I'm not good enough to give the concert."

He took her by the shoulders and held her firmly in front of him. "You are good enough. I've heard you play."

"And now you've read that horrid file on me and know all about my performances. I'm all about shocking people and titillating their senses. I've made a career out of the outrageous." She dashed her hand angrily across her forehead to fight back futile tears. "But tonight I wanted to do it right. Tonight I wanted to play Bach." She closed her eyes. "And I wanted them to like me. For once I wanted to fit in." As quickly as it came, the defiance seeped out of her, leaving her spent. She looked up at him through the tears that couldn't be held back any longer. "For one fleeting moment I wanted Boston's ugly duckling to play with the grace of a swan."

Grayson framed her face with his hands. "Oh, Sophie, you have always been a swan. You have always had the ability to translate people's passion into music. You have always been better than the rest of us, and that makes us uncomfortable. But that doesn't make you an ugly anything."

She looked at him, knowing she had to make him understand. "I can't play the way you want me to, Grayson, the way
I
want me to! I can't play Bach. If I try, I'll only prove that I am everything everyone ever believed. And it serves me right!"

"Why? Because you're not a virgin?" He sighed and his strong face filled with emotion. "That doesn't matter, Sophie. It doesn't, and I should have understood that all along."

"But it does matter." Her voice cracked.

"Why?"

She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn't let her go.

"Why? Damn it, tell me why."

"Because I'm the one who started it!"

The words reverberated through the room. Grayson's dark eyes flickered hot with surprise, and he stared at her. She felt sick at the look on his face, sick and dying inside, but it was too late to turn back.

"
I
kissed him." Foolishly. Stupidly. She squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't know why I did it.
Was
I trying to get back at you? Or was I lashing out at my mother for dying? At my father for locking me out of his life and turning to Patrice?" But explanations had never mattered. All that mattered was that she had kissed Niles first.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. "I never meant for it to be anything more than a kiss. Truly I didn't. I remember being so surprised that I had kissed him, surprised and repelled. But when he curled me even closer in his arms"—she felt her teeth clench—"I didn't say no. I did not say no!"

She dropped her gaze to the mother-of-pearl tacks that marched down his shirt with military precision, focusing, trying not to see the past, trying not to feel. "Afterward I was sick that it had happened, hated that it had happened, but what I hated most of all was that I had given myself away. Such an utter and disgusting waste. Because after I got over my hurt or anger or whatever it was that I was feeling, I realized I had given him the only thing I had that meant anything to you." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "You never cared about how I played, or how I looked. And though many times I have hoped differently, deep down I have always known that the only thing you ever wanted from me—needed from me—was the one thing that made me proper in society's eyes. My innocence."

Afterward, buttoning the pants he had never shed, Niles blamed her, saying she had started it. Niles blamed her. She blamed herself How, after learning the entire truth, could Grayson blame anyone else?

But then he spoke, the words gentle but strong. "Sweet, sweet Sophie. It doesn't matter that you kissed him. You were young and alone. And you needed to feel that someone in this world cared about you."

She looked up at him and her eyes burned.

"You needed someone to hold you, make you feel safe, and he took advantage of that. You didn't give him anything," he said, his tone unrelenting. "He
took
from you. He took your innocence. And I will see that he pays." He seemed to calm himself forcibly, and he framed her face with his hands. "But he didn't take what matters."

Confusion creased her brow.

His palms trailed down to her shoulders, and his voice was a whisper of sound. "He didn't take your heart. He couldn't have, because you had already given it to me."

"What are you talking about?"

He didn't answer, instead he laced his fingers with hers, then led her to the office, where he pulled a tiny key from his pocket and went to the small cabinet that had intrigued her since she returned. He unlocked the door, then pulled out the brass-and-wood talking machine she had thought was long gone, and set it on his desk.

"You found it," she breathed.

"I've always had it. I've saved it all these years. I've played it a thousand times."

He cranked the handle, and her voice loomed in the room, young and sweet, innocent but filled with sincerity.

"I love Grayson Hawthorne. I love him with all my heart. And one day I will be his wife."

The words faded away, and he tilted her chin until her eyes met his.

"You gave your love to me all those years ago. Your love and your heart. I have this box to prove it. No one can take that away from us, not Niles Prescott, not Boston."

"You kept it all these years," she said in awe.

"Of course I did."

Her lips parted as she inhaled sharply. "Why?"

For the first time since arriving, his strong, confident look wavered and he glanced away. But she reached up and touched her fingers to his cheek, making him meet her eyes. "Why, Grayson?"

He bowed his head briefly, then looked back at her, his own eyes burning. "Because when those words filled the room that night, it was the first time I had ever heard anyone say they loved me. A little girl who only told the truth. A little girl who was larger than life. A little girl who was kind and good. And she loved me."

"I love you, Sophie, for that, and for who you are. With every ounce of my being. And I realize now that I always will, no matter what you do, or how you play." He kissed her forehead. "Go out there tonight and give them what you do best. Don't let Niles Prescott or your father—or even me—defeat you. Turn us on our ears; make us squirm. Give us a show we'll never forget." He smiled and pulled her to him, then whispered, "I dare you."

The lights went down. The voices quieted to a buzz of anticipation. Boston's Music Hall had never been so full. Every seat was taken, and people crowded in the passageways, while hundreds of others had been turned away at the door.

Sophie stood on the stage, just behind the curtain, dark surrounding her, her black satin cape pulled tight around her gown. Her pulse skittered through her veins in expectation.

What would they think?

How would her father react?

Forcefully she pushed the thoughts away. It didn't matter what anyone thought. She understood that now. She could only play the way she knew how. And if she had learned nothing else, she had learned that she could be no one but herself.

Her thoughts shifted when the thick velvet curtain began its long, slow slide back. She stood very still, waiting in the dark, just as the crowd waited. She sensed their excitement, their eager anticipation.

She could just make out her father, in the front row next to Patrice. Bradford Hawthorne was there, sitting next to Emmaline, who looked straight ahead, her husband staring at her tightly clasped hands, as if he didn't know if he wanted to take them in his own or turn sharply away.

Then it happened. A stream of light captured Sophie onstage. But the crowd didn't erupt; there was no sound like thunder. It was simple, pure, and true applause that washed over her. She savored each moment as she had never savored it before, because she understood that after this show, she might never hear the applause again. Oddly, she didn't care. There was only this night, a night she had been waiting for her whole life.

With that she raised her face to the light, like savoring the sun. Then she dropped the infamous cape from her shoulders, the satin pooling at her ankles, and the crowd gasped.

The sound wrapped tightly around her. But the gasp was quickly followed by the sound of awe.

She wore blue velvet, not red. Modest and respectable, a classic diamond necklace catching in the light. She was beautiful, not a spectacle, striking but not wild. And she had to force herself not to shake as she stepped back to the chair and took up her cello. No accompanist joined her onstage.

Whatever the outcome, she would play Bach. Once and for all, she would attempt the pieces that had lived in her head for more years than she could count. If she failed, it wouldn't be because she hadn't tried.

The murmurs cut off when she picked up the bow. Sitting forward in the chair, she hesitated and looked up at the blinding light. This time, however, those stolen seconds had nothing to do with luring the audience. She had to gather her thoughts, putting all else but the music from her mind.

Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. But she could do this, she told herself firmly. Then she began.

Her breath caught at the first shaky G that sounded through the hall. She could feel the crowd tense much as she tensed. G-D-B… A-B-D-B-D. The notes sounded like the painful bellows of a reluctant child's music lesson.

The bow felt awkward in her hand. The cello edge bit into her chest. Dread flared and she couldn't breathe. And for one flashing moment she made out Megan Robertson sitting in the first row, smiling. And Niles. Niles Prescott had the audacity to sit there as well, staring at her.

Sophie wanted to run, to set her cello aside and escape. Unable to move from the chair, she could only stumble through the first few measures of the piece. Words rushed through her head.

Yet another former child prodigy with a small, quaint sound.

But her sound wasn't even quaint. Why had she ever thought she could do this? Why had she ever thought that to have tried and failed was better than to have never tried at all?

She felt the scream well up, felt the heat of embarrassment sting her cheeks when she sensed the shuffling that grew louder in the crowd.

But then she thought of Grayson and his love for her. A true love. Regardless of how she played. Regardless of the past. And she hit a single, solitary A. Crisp and wonderful, the sound resonated against the cavernous ceiling. That one note was perfect and lovely, just like their love. And she stopped caring. About Boston, about failing or succeeding.

She lost herself to the cello in her hands and the sound she made that washed through the high-ceilinged auditorium. The audience faded away as she moved through the controlled, intense strokes of Bach. The sound was rich, the prelude perfect, before she launched into the allemande, and she could feel the searching tone of the notes. Unaware of anything besides the music, she flew through the movements, then finally came to the end of the first suite, like coming out of a trance.

Then silence, crystalline and complete, before the crowd erupted in a flurry of applause, the appreciation not trailing off until she began the second suite. After that it was much the same. She played Bach with a beauty and mastery that few artists were capable of bringing to the pieces. And when she came to the end, the crowd was hushed with stunned amazement, before one last time they erupted in applause, men and women alike standing to shout
Brava
!

With her throat tight with euphoric tears, Sophie stood, soaking in the praise much as she had always done before. But now it was different. She had proven to herself what she could do.

Looking up to the ceiling she smiled.
Thank you, Mother. Now you can be proud
.

When she glanced down, she saw Megan standing amid the applause, looking around, bewildered. Sophie felt neither triumph nor sympathy for the woman. Just freedom.

She had said she wanted freedom long ago, she hadn't wanted to be caged—by society, by Grayson. She realized that she had gained her freedom now. But it was freedom from the past that she had needed. The thought of Niles no longer held her prisoner. In that moment, she understood that she truly was free. The past could no longer defeat her.

And that was when she sat down once again.

A startled moment passed while the audience tried to understand what she was doing, but then they reseated themselves, excited for an encore.

She held the cello beside her as she waited for the guests to quiet. She waited, anticipated, drank in the moment like a fine wine. Then she pulled the instrument between her legs like a lover.

Boston gasped, but Sophie wasn't bothered. She would play as she had been playing in Europe, realizing that if this town couldn't love her for who she truly was, in all her forms, then they didn't love her at all. She launched into "A Tawdry Heart," her head thrown back, the bow flying wildly on the strings, her body filled with all the passion she felt for the music, the notes and chords surrounding each man and woman there with the intensity of a primal dance. And by the time she whipped the bow away with a flourish, her cheeks red from exertion and joy, the audience sat in shocked silence.

They hated it. She could feel it. Though it truly didn't matter. One day they were bound to learn about the way she had played in Europe. Better for it to come from her, no longer hidden in shame.

But when she stood and would have left the stage, a sole member of the audience began to clap. Just one person, the sound strong but echoing coldly against the silence. She looked through the light and her heart swelled at the sight of her father on his feet, standing alone, clapping proudly. Patrice sat in her chair, mortified. Megan looked stunned but triumphant, as if in the end she had been proved right.

It was then that Niles stood to join her father, clapping for her, acknowledging her talent.

This time it was Sophie who stood in shocked silence.

But then one more person started to clap, then another, like a slow wave gaining momentum, until the hall thundered once again. Sophie knew then that she had finally succeeded—on her own terms. She had gained the respect of the town of her birth. She hadn't pushed the past away; she had made peace with it.

Backstage there was a crush of people, voices coming at her all at once. Margaret was there. Deandra and Henry both hugged her tight. Her father told her he was proud. But as always, it was Grayson she searched for in the crowd.

Her heart sank when she couldn't find him. Had he been disgusted by what he saw?

But then he appeared, surprisingly from the other side of the stage, as always making her breath catch as his eyes bored into her.

What did he think?

Then he smiled, his dark eyes no longer obscuring emotion.

He strode across the room, taller, more powerful than anyone else. But he didn't acknowledge the people who spoke to him. He only stared at her, his gaze intense.

"You were incredible," he said, taking her hand and kissing her palm.

She gazed at him with all the love that she felt. "I had to do it. I had to see what I was made of."

He pressed her palm to his heart. "I could have told you what you are made of. Strength, honor, dedication. You are also made of a love that none of us who have experienced it will ever forget."

She laughed, a bubble of joy rising up in her. "I think for a while there you forgot."

"Perhaps," he said, his dark eyes growing serious, "but those who love you always find their way back. Like me. And like someone else."

Her eyes widened curiously. "What? Who?"

Instead of answering, he guided her back through the crowd the way he came, then pulled her to the opposite side of the stage, where he must have watched her performance. As soon as they came around the corner, Sophie stopped.

"Sweetie!"

She cried then, racing forward, her tears flowing over as she pulled the dog into a tight hug despite her jewels and elegant gown.

"Where'd you find her?" she asked.

"She found you. When I came out of Swan's Grace on my way here, she was there on the front steps with the young boy who came to retrieve her. He said Sweetie kept trying to return to you. So he brought her himself. None of us can forget you, Sophie. Not Sweetie, not the crowds. And especially not me."

He pulled her up to him, framing her face with his large hands. "I love you, Sophie Wentworth. And I will do everything in my power to make up for all that you have been through. To start with, you will never have to worry about Niles Prescott again."

"What have you done?" she gasped.

"He has been informed that he will need to search for a new position, without the benefit of recommendations."

"Oh, Grayson, you didn't have to do that. He clapped for me in the end when no one else but my father would."

"Don't try to go easy on him. The man deserves much worse," he stated coldly. Then he eased, finding a smile. "And now I am going to court you, Sophie Wentworth, truly show you how much you mean to me. I will take you on picnics, I will compliment your gowns, I will shower you with gifts and flowers—"

"Sweet, sweet Grayson," she whispered. "I don't need any of that. I just need you."

He kissed her then, long and slow. "Does that mean you will do me the honor of marrying me?"

She bit her lip. "What if I want to continue to perform?"

"Then I'll travel wherever it is you want to play."

She wrinkled her nose. "What if I want to wear low-cut dresses?"