Page 4 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)

Four

SOPHIA

S ophia watched Major Hollimore depart. He had seemed strangely moved by her music, which could not help but affect her.

People always showered her with compliments and smiles when she played at gatherings and local dances, but these expected pleasantries, no matter how genuinely intended, were as nothing to the profound silence he had offered.

It was as if mere words would sully the air, making profane something that was somehow sacred to him.

She accepted his gift of silence, understanding it for what it was.

Then he had asked her to play again, and again.

Although he had chosen to sit just out of her direct line of sight, she could not miss the glint in his eye when she turned to face him after each iteration, the mist of tears he refused to shed.

What he mourned, she did not dare to guess, but it seemed her music helped him, and she was glad to offer what little solace she could.

She had the chance to observe him now. She had not been able to guess his age before.

She had, when she first heard mention of him, believed him to be around Henry’s age of twenty-three or a year or two more, although in his letters, Henry had offered no such information.

It was a guess, a supposition, although friendships had no limitations of common age.

When she first saw him, though, her estimation changed, for he seemed old, so much older. He moved as if wading through a muddy bog, and when she helped him to his room when he seemed suddenly to drown in some unseen swamp the other day, his eyes had looked as old as the dirt beneath their feet.

Today, though, when she played and his face cleared, she saw him differently still.

His hair was dark, untouched by silver threads, and his skin, in contrast to the age-old look in his green eyes, was unlined.

His cheeks were hollow, but a man might not eat well on the battlefield, and the tossing of a ship was not always kind to men’s stomachs.

She could not ask him, but she now estimated his age to be no more than thirty.

She wished to know more of him, although she could not say why. Perhaps it was simply that he was the last connection to her cousin Henry. But there was something else, too, that she could not name.

Was he handsome? With those exhausted eyes and hollow cheeks, she could not quite say, but there was something about his face that appealed to her. If he came the next day, she would play for him, try to soothe whatever tormented him, and watch him once more.

He did come.

He had not been down for dinner or breakfast, but appeared in the music room by mid-morning, shortly after she began to play.

He slipped in without a word and took his chair without interrupting her practice, and she worked her fingers through scales and etudes as if she were alone in the room.

She had begun sorting through her music in search of a piece to play when he spoke.

“You are a diligent student of that instrument. I see why you have such skill. You must love music very much.”

Nobody had ever commented on her commitment to her art before. How refreshing to hear these words of admiration not only for her skill, but for her hard work.

“I do. Music is everything to me. But it is also my entrée into society. I play, and so I am welcomed.”

“Would you not be otherwise? I can hardly account for that. With such relations, who would ever think to exclude you?”

She let out a laugh, only slightly bitter. He looked at her so intently, she could not help but answer with all honesty.

“My aunt and uncle are fine people and have been very kind to me, and have eased my way in society. But very few are unaware of the ignominy of my own parents, of my wayward mother, my unmentionable father. That latter connection alone would otherwise shut many doors to me.”

The major’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I do not quite understand.”

“Did Henry not tell you? I suppose he ceased to think about it; I was always just Cousin Sophy to him, not the daughter of a disgraced relation. How I miss him.” Her eyes filled, but the time for tears was past. “There is no point trying to hide the truth, since it will out. The whole neighbourhood knows, and while most are kind, some will not let me forget my family’s shame. ”

“But you are the niece of a baronet. Is that not enough to guarantee your welcome?”

“My parents, sadly, were not such unobjectionable people.

Theirs was never a happy marriage. My father was a wastrel.

There is no gentle word for it. He squandered the small fortune he inherited from his own father, wagered far beyond his means, and lost everything.

My mother, whom I believe married him only for his fortune, grew most unhappy with her lot, and took up with an Italian singer and ran away with him.

They are, I believe, still living in Italy, although I do not even know for certain whether she is still alive.

“My father, left with a child to care for and faced with the loss of his wife and the great weight of his debts, then ended his own life in the doorway of one of the gaming halls he used to visit. And I, young child that I was at the time, was left to the mercy of my relations. I lay that all before you plainly, so despise me if you wish. I am used to it.”

For a moment, Major Hollimore’s expression was unreadable.

Did he regret having come in here to listen to her play?

Was even this short conversation somehow deleterious to his good name?

For associating with the child of a wayward wife and a suicide must cast aspersions on even the most esteemed man’s character.

It was for this reason that she so appreciated her aunt and uncle’s kindness even beyond the gratitude of familial bonds.

They took her in and raised her with their own children, for all that her aunt never let her forget her shameful parents and ensured that the whole neighbourhood understood the extent of her magnanimity.

Nonetheless, a home was a home, her uncle was genuinely kind, and her cousins loved her.

And for this alone, she would do anything for them.

But not all in society were that forgiving.

She levelled her eyes on the major’s and waited for his pronouncement of horror.

But within moments, his blank expression resolved into one of troubled concern, and then sadness.

“I am sorry for your loss. That must have been a terrible time. Were you very young?”

“I was nine years old. The nursery maid my father had brought on to care for me left the very night he died, and my uncle came for me as soon as he heard the news. He brought me to Roslyn Court, and I have lived here since.”

The major shook his head. “Henry breathed not a word of this, only that his cousin was one of the household. Nor did he mention your prodigious skill at the pianoforte. That, I believe, is by far the more egregious lapse, for such talent should be celebrated.”

“I imagine that was of little import to him. I was always just a cousin, only slightly less annoying than his sisters.”

Major Hollimore gave a sad shake to his head. “One never notices the treasures at one’s own feet; we are always looking into the distance. Now, will you do me the favour of playing something for me? It soothes my spirits in ways I cannot express.”

Sophia ruffled through the sheets of music before her, considering several before selecting a few and placing them on the music desk on the pianoforte.

She had seen how moved Major Hollimore had been by the first movement of Mr Beethoven’s sonata yesterday; today she would begin with something beautiful and melodic by the Austrian Mr Mozart? * .

She set her fingers on the keys and began to play, paying attention more to the flow of the music than to the precise accuracy of the notes.

The lyrical melody and delicate trills filled the air, until she felt there was nothing else in the world but her, the music, and the sad soldier in the corner of the room.

All too soon, the piece ended, and she began another by the same composer.

The sweet tune, almost a lullaby, rocked in the air over uncomplicated harmonies, gradually growing and changing from one variation to the next, sometimes more challenging, sometimes simpler, but never losing the innocent air of a folk song.

? * Then, she brought out a new piece, recently received by order from the continent, another by the marvellous Mr Beethoven. ? *

The last notes faded into nothingness and Sophia lifted her fingers from the black and white keys.

Silence greeted her, and she wondered for a moment if her companion had fallen asleep, but when she turned around, his eyes met hers.

She could not read the depths of emotion in them, but when he rose and said, simply, “Thank you,” before leaving, it was all she needed.

Major Hollimore joined the family for dinner that evening.

It was his first encounter with the assembled Poole household since his first day in the house.

He still looked pale, but his eyes were clear and the aura of agitation that Sophia had sensed about him before was much eased.

He made his apologies for taking so unexpectedly ill, and offered his appreciation for the invitation to remain at Roslyn Court while he regained his strength.

Lady Poole’s passing glare at her husband was such that only a person familiar with her would notice it; Sophia did.

Major Hollimore almost certainly did not.

He was looking down at his soup, and nothing in his countenance suggested he had seen that glance of displeasure.

Had her uncle invited the major to stay with the family for several weeks without consulting his wife?

It would appear that this was the case, as in so many of the dealings between her aunt and uncle.

It was a miracle, at times, that the household functioned at all, with neither master nor mistress bothering to discuss matters with the other.

That, Sophia supposed, was where her own duties came in, for she was the one who managed the details and ensured that neither of her relations was much put out by the whims of the other.

It would likely fall to her as well to see to the comfort of the major during his prolonged stay.

Oblivious to her thoughts and paying no regard to his wife’s displeasure, Sir Neville began talking of the benefits of country air, and of their own neighbourhood around Chilcombe in particular.

“You look better already, young man,” Sir Neville opined as a footman refilled his glass of wine.

“Our lovely part of Gloucestershire must be helping. Have you been to the gardens yet? No? They will do you good, strengthen the body, bolster the spirit. Flowers are just coming into bloom, and there’s good riding.

Not much hunting now; you must come back in the autumn for that. ”

“Thank you, sir. I shall consider the hunt, but I fear my time in the army has tempered my taste for blood. However, your house, your neighbourhood, looks quite lovely from the prospect from my window. I have kept to the house thus far, as I am still finding my feet again. Still, the gardens do look beautiful. Perhaps tomorrow I shall venture out to explore the grounds.”

“Sophia can show you around,” Lady Poole pronounced as the soup course was removed, flicking her wrist in dismissal. “She has little else to do, and my own daughters are needed. I hope you will not object to her company.”

Sophia held back a gasp. To be thus belittled by her mother’s own sister in front of a stranger was humiliating, but it was also nothing she had not heard before. She ought to have expected it, and she forced her expression to remain neutral.

“I would be honoured, Lady Poole,” the major replied. His tone, at least, was appreciative. “Her company is most welcome.”

His lips twitched into what might be a simulacrum of a smile and he sent his glance her way. Perhaps he did understand, after all.

My dearest Father, Mother, Sisters, and Cousin Sophia (I shall write separately to Ned, for he has his own establishment),

We are now well settled in Lisbon, and I shall attempt great patience as I await your letters. I know that such are not so easily sent and received as are ones to London, and I must not fret. Instead, let me tell you of our current settlement.

My present billet is in the house of a merchant in that quarter of the city called Buenos Ayres, and a more pleasant situation I could not imagine. More is the pity that it shall be of a short duration, for I have word that we shall be moving soon.

I am hardly the first to describe Lisbon, but I shall attempt a small picture of words for you, perhaps with a sketch from my pencil later.

It is a delight for one with a pencil, indeed, for the river, covered with ships of all sorts, presents an ever-varying picture which provides such diverse images at twilight or mid-day as to keep my hand well occupied.

The weather at this season is likewise most pleasant, and if not for the great inequality of the ground, which makes walking laborious and riding dangerous, I should think it a very fine place indeed.

With all my love and devotion,

Your son, brother, and cousin,

Henry

* ? Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Piano Sonata #8 in A minor, Andante (K.310, 1778)

* ? Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Piano Sonata #11 in A major, Andante grazioso (K.331, 1784)

* ? Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata #25 in G major (Op.79, 1809)