“Don’t feel obliged to perform if there’s nothing suitable,” he said kindly.
Her head swung round and she stared at him again. Although her expression was as calm as ever, he sensed that she was angry and wondered why.
“There’s nothing here I want to play,” she said in a clipped little voice, “but it’s all right. I don’t need music to play.”
She turned, sat herself down on the piano stool and, without further ado, launched into a piece of such nimble-fingered, technical brilliance it took his breath away.
She was good. Very good. Much better than Antonia could ever hope to be. Slowly, he approached her, coming to a halt at her shoulder. He stood there and watched her play, fascinated by the swiftness of the fingers that flew over the keys, awed by the unerring certainty with which she hit the notes.
Halfway through, Harriet walked into the room, carrying her embroidery bag. She sent Gil a look of almost comical surprise, and no wonder. Rose was as good as any professional musician he’d ever heard play. Better than most.
She ended the piece with a great, flourishing sweep up the keys and turned round to face them. The echo of the final notes still hung in the air.
“I don’t need the music for that piece,” she said coolly. “I’ve played it scores of times.”
“Goodness me!” Harriet exclaimed. “That was quite extraordinary! I’ve never heard a girl your age play like that. Antonia’s very good but—don’t you agree, Gilbert?—Rose is quite exceptional!”
“Yes, quite exceptional,” he repeated dutifully. He meant it, though. Felt himself looking at his wife through new eyes.
“Play something else,” Harriet begged.
At first he thought she’d refuse, but it was difficult for anyone to refuse Harriet, and at last, Rose relented. She launched into a series of pieces he recognised as Bach’s Goldberg Variations. He’d heard Antonia play them, but in her case, all he’d heard was the difficulty of them and Antonia’s better-than-average skill at mastering them.
Played by Rose, they were something else entirely. This time, he heard the simplicity of them, the ease. The ache of them. He heard the notes and the spaces between the notes too. Beneath those small, slender fingers, that music came to life.
And in the music, at last, he saw her. Her head was bent, her eyes turned from him, but the mask was gone, and he beheld her. Saw something in her that was resilient and brave and beautiful.
He felt a sudden and aching regret that found physical shape in the form of a lump in his throat.
He sat there, his big body crammed into a small, uncomfortable chair, a cup of tea going cold in his hands, and listened to Rose play.
When she finished, she gently closed the lid over the keys and turned around.
“I think I’ll go to bed,” she announced.
Harriet tried to press tea upon her. Rose refused, but Harriet only stopped when Gil announced that he would also be retiring. She wore a coy smile as they left the music room together, Rose’s small hand resting on Gil’s arm. Gil realised Harriet thought they were retiring early to be together. Well, perhaps they were. If that was what Rose wanted?
Rose did not speak to him as they walked up the long, winding staircase together. She did not look at him either, and her hand and forearm were very stiff where they rested on his own arm. When they reached her bedchamber, she quickly dropped her hand from his arm and opened the door, moving forward without even saying good night. It seemed she couldn’t wait to get away from him.
He almost let her go. “Rose—”
She froze at the sound of his voice but didn’t turn. “Yes?”
Gil paused, searching for the right thing to say. He didn’t wish her to feel obliged to accept his company, but he wanted to make a kind of amends.
“Would you prefer me not to trouble you tonight?” he managed eventually.
To his surprise, her eyes flashed with anger.
“I would prefer,” she said tightly, “for you to never trouble me again. I am aware that you married me for one reason only. And that it was nothing to do with the attractions of my person. You may rest assured that after last night, I will trouble you no further. There is no need for you to feel obliged to perform your marital duties again.”
He stared at her, set back on his heels by this unexpected show of temper. She had been so meek until tonight.
“Rose, you don’t mean that—” he began soothingly.
She looked at him then, eyes flashing. “I do! I do mean it! I wish to God I never had to set eyes on you again!”
Something about the venom in her voice, and her words, pricked at the sleeping dragon of his resentment. He felt wretched about last night, but still. He had been forced into marrying someone he didn’t want. And giving up Tilly.