Page 7 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

“Quite remarkable likenesses,” Sophia said. She could practically hear the crackle of the fire and Henry snoring contentedly. She gaped. “And now you want to draw me ?”

“Only if you’re agreeable. Gertrude writes in her journals to record her life; I sketch and paint. In oils, of course. My watercolors are abysmal.”

“You paint in oils?” Sophia couldn’t keep the shock from her voice. All genteel ladies were expected to sketch and paint, but only in watercolors. She’d always thought it rather unfair that it was considered proper only for men to dabble in oil paints.

“Once you’re a widow or past forty, no one gives a rat’s a—, er, bum what you do.” Mrs. Royston winked at her.

Sophia chuckled as she took her seat at the desk. “Then by all means, sketch away.”

They got through another year in Mrs. Digby’s journal before stopping for the day. Mrs. Royston sketched for over an hour, then napped in the armchair.

As Sophia was putting her supplies away, Mrs. Digby picked up the top sheet of paper and stared at it, frowning, then fanned them as she looked at other pages. “I’ve never seen writing like this before.”

“It allows me to keep up with your conversation.”

Mrs. Digby pointed at a section in the middle of page two. “What does this part say?”

Sophia read over Mrs. Digby’s forearm. “‘We soon learned how much sound carried from one tent to another at night, and how little privacy—’”

“That will do, that will do.”

“This is just the rough dictation. I will copy it into the same writing I used when I responded to your advertisement.”

“Yes, I will definitely be sending to London for more paper,” Mrs. Digby murmured as they left the library.

* * *

After dinner, Mrs. Digby invited Sophia to join her and Mrs. Royston in the drawing room. “Of course you’re welcome to go up to your room or for a walk. But we would appreciate your company.”

“We haven’t had any visitors since Lady Lyttleton’s funeral,” Mrs. Royston said with a sad shake of her head as they entered the drawing room. “Can you play?”

To Sophia’s delight, in addition to plenty of comfortably upholstered seating and a table and chairs set for chess, the room boasted a pianoforte, harpsichord, and over in one corner stood a magnificent harp taller than Sophia’s head.

“I am competent on the harp, but I prefer keyboards.” Reverently she trailed her fingertips across the closed lid of the pianoforte.

She’d had no opportunity to play since leaving the academy, as her cousin’s home had no musical instruments and no one in Tiverton who was interested in music lessons had access to a pianoforte.

“We’ll have to make do with the harpsichord,” Mrs. Digby said.

“It’s been too long since Vincent was here and I’m afraid the pianoforte is sadly out of tune.

Oh, dear. Come to think on it, the harpsichord is probably out of tune, too.

” She sat in one of the armchairs and propped her feet on the ottoman.

Henry immediately jumped up and settled on her lap.

Mrs. Royston opened one of the glass doors on the bookcase just inside the drawing room door. “Do you see anything here you’d like to play on the harp? We haven’t been to London to buy new music in almost a year.”

Sophia glanced over the sheets of music and books of popular tunes that filled up one shelf. Gleaming metal on the top shelf caught her attention. When she reached for the tuning fork, her fingers brushed against a wood handle. “You have your own set of piano tuning tools?”

“Those are Vincent’s,” Mrs. Royston said.

She glanced down at Sophia with a hopeful expression.

“Do you know how to use them? It’s been ever so long since anyone played the pianoforte for us.

” She flexed both hands, showing her swollen finger joints.

“I haven’t been able to play well for a few years. ”

“It is such a treat when visitors play for us,” Mrs. Digby added with a hope-filled look.

Sophia reached up for the tuning hammer and the rest of the kit. “As the music instructor at the academy, I paid close attention when the tuner came each quarter. Madam Zavrina had me take over the task when he retired.”

Mrs. Digby sat forward in her chair. “Would you mind terribly? It’s been an age.”

Sophia opened the cover on the pianoforte and played a few scales. She winced when the middle C sounded like a B natural, but most keys didn’t seem far off. “I think I can get it playable in an hour or two. It won’t sound very pleasant while I’m working on it, though.”

Mrs. Royston handed a book to Mrs. Digby, kept one for herself, and settled on a sofa.

“My dear girl,” Mrs. Digby said, propping her book open on Henry’s back, “if we can ignore the noises from an entire regiment of men in canvas tents at night, the sound of you tinkering on the pianoforte won’t bother us in the least.”

Mrs. Royston chuckled but did not look up from her book.

Sophia opened the cover and lid on the pianoforte, grabbed the tuning hammer and the strip of dampening felt from the box of tools so similar to the one she’d used at the academy, and set to work.

* * *

Within an hour, Sophia began playing a song to check the tuning, one that required every key at least twice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one before,” Mrs. Digby said, looking up from her book.

Mrs. Royston used a finger to mark her spot as she closed the book in her hand. “I don’t recognize it, either.”

“It’s my own composition. More entertaining than just doing this.” She played a slow chromatic scale, which also used every key. “At least, it is to me.”

The two older ladies exchanged a look that held some significance Sophia did not understand. “You write music?” If she knew Mrs. Digby better, Sophia might describe the smile she gave Mrs. Royston as mischievous.

“Nothing of significance. Just a ditty here and there for my own amusement, or for checking the tuning.” She played a few chords.

“And a few pieces to help the girls who needed more music to practice at certain levels of their mastery than were available in our library.” Composing music had been one of her favorite parts of working at the Academy, even though she could only snatch a few moments here and there in which to indulge her interest.

“What a lovely way to help your students,” Mrs. Royston said, once again opening her book to read.

Since Sophia had left her spectacles in the library, she chose a piece she could play from memory.

Some other evening she’d tune the harpsichord.

For now it felt so good to be playing the pianoforte again, she couldn’t help quietly singing by the time she got to the chorus of The Last Rose of Summer .

Both older ladies gently applauded as she played the last chord. “My dear, that was marvelous,” Mrs. Digby said. “Will you play and sing something else for us?”

Sophia chose a few other favorites. Time passed swiftly, immersed in the joy of playing again.

The pianoforte was of even better quality than the instrument they’d had at the academy.

Just as her throat was beginning to feel parched from singing, Enid brought in a tea tray, bobbed a curtsy, and left.

“Imagine how good she would sound singing with Vincent,” Mrs. Royston said, setting aside her book to pour a cup of tea.

Mrs. Digby looked thoughtful. “Their voices would blend beautifully together, wouldn’t they?”

Mrs. Royston nodded vigorously. “We need to get your nevvy here so they can duet.”

Employed at a school for young ladies for several years, Sophia could not recall the last time she had performed with a male singer. “I thought Vincent was your pianoforte tuner?”

“Oh, he is. He’s also my great-nephew. Doesn’t come to visit his auntie nearly as often as he should, the rapscallion.”

Refreshed by the tea, Sophia played for another hour.

Her appreciative audience didn’t seem to notice or care if she played a wrong note.

She could have played for hours on such a lovely instrument, but her right hand began to tire after all the writing she’d done earlier.

She had to make sure not to hurt her hand, and reminded herself she’d been hired as an amanuensis, not a musician.

Up in her room, Sophia prepared for bed and used the two-step ladder to get into the massive bed …

and then lay awake staring at the canopy.

Without the exhaustion from yesterday’s travel, she felt the usual difficulty of falling asleep in a new place.

She threw back the covers with a sigh of frustration and slid down to the floor.

She could light candles again and get out the sheet of music she’d been working on.

Or a book out of her trunk to read. But she was prone to staying up too late to read just one more chapter or compose one more stanza, as long as the candle lasted.

Not wanting to be late to work in the morning or at less than her best so soon in her employment with Mrs. Digby, she padded across to the window.

Wisps of mist rose up from the lawn and from the beach in the distance.

Enough moonlight shone down to highlight the whitecaps on the waves before they crashed on shore.

Sophia pulled on her dressing gown and leaned against the window casement to watch the waves, no two exactly alike.

The rhythmic push and pull of the waves, the crescendo and diminuendo of the surf, soothed her better than any bedtime tonic.

Her eyelids began to grow heavy. Just as she turned from the window, movement on the bluff caught her eye. She blinked and focused her gaze. A female figure in a flowing gown walked toward the path down to the beach, her long, loose hair and shawl fluttering in the breeze.

Grey hair. Light grey gown. Grey shawl.

Sophia’s heart pounded.

The Grey Lady ghost?