Page 18 of The Duke’s Duet

Dawn crept reluctantly through Melody's bedroom window, painting pale patterns across the trunk that waited to be packed. She hadn't slept - how could she, with Brightwood's gift still unopened in her reticule, with the memory of their almost-confession burning in her mind? All night she had lain awake, reliving their final performance, hearing again the raw emotion in his voice during their duet, feeling the ghost of his touch as he'd pressed the package into her hands.

The house was silent save for the distant sounds of Clara moving about the kitchen. Their father had suggested hiring help for these last days of packing and preparation, but Melody had refused. Better to keep busy, to exhaust herself with practical tasks than to think too deeply about what - and whom - she was leaving behind. Yet even as she thought it, she knew no amount of physical labour could quiet the storm in her heart.

Her performance gown from the previous night still hung on the wardrobe door, the deep blue silk catching the early light. She'd chosen that colour deliberately, remembering how Brightwood's eyes had darkened when she'd worn a similar shade at Vauxhall. Now it seemed to mock her with memories of everything they couldn't have.

Finally, when she could delay no longer, she retrieved the package from her reticule. The paper wrapping was slightly creased where she'd clutched it too tightly on the journey home, and her hands trembled as she untied the simple ribbon.

The paper fell away to reveal several sheets of music, written in Harper's elegantly precise hand. Even before reading the notes, she could see the care that he'd taken - each phrase marked with detailed dynamics, each measure containing subtle instructions for interpretation. In some places, the lines showed signs of having been crossed out and rewritten, as if he'd laboured to find exactly the right expression.

The title made her breath catch.

‘What Music Cannot Say’.

Below it, in smaller script: ‘A composition in three movements, for pianoforte and voice’ .

He'd written it for both of them, then - one last duet they would never perform together.

She moved to the pianoforte, her father's prized possession, its ivory keys worn smooth by years of teaching. How different it was from Brightwood’s magnificent instrument, yet in this moment she was grateful for its familiar comfort as she settled the music on the stand. For a long moment, her fingers hovered over the keys, almost afraid to begin. What truths had he poured into these notes? What feelings had he expressed in the only language they truly shared?

The first notes answered her immediately. The opening phrase began tentatively, formally - just as they had at their first meeting. But then it flowered into something richer, more complex, the melody line weaving between major and minor keys as if searching for its proper voice. She could read their entire story in the music - their initial clash of styles transformed into something deeper, more meaningful. The way that they had challenged each other, pushed each other to find new interpretations, new depths of feeling.

The second movement captured her with its raw emotion. Here was their duet, reimagined in ways that spoke of growing trust and understanding. The harmony lines twined together like lovers' voices, sometimes merging, sometimes dancing apart only to find each other again. She could hear echoes of that night at Vauxhall - the coloured lanterns, the almost-kiss, the terrible wonderful tension between them transformed into cascading notes that made her heart ache with remembered longing.

But it was the final movement that nearly broke her. The melody fractured into two distinct voices - one bound by duty's rigid rhythms, the other soaring free but somehow incomplete. They wove around each other in an intricate dance of approach and withdrawal, never quite joining, never fully parting. Until the final measures, where for one brief, glorious moment, they met in perfect harmony before diverging again into separate paths that faded into silence. Melody sat motionless at the instrument, tears falling unchecked onto the keys. Every note had spoken of love - not just artistic appreciation or musical compatibility, but deep, consuming love that circumstance wouldn't allow them to voice. He had poured his heart into this composition, saying in music what he couldn't say in words.

"Melody?" Clara's voice from the doorway made her start. "I've brought tea, and Cook insisted on sending up some breakfast. We should start packing soon, if you're to make the morning tide tomorrow."

"Yes, of course." Melody gathered the precious sheets carefully, reverently, knowing that she would never perform this piece for anyone else. This was Brightwood's heart laid bare in notes and phrases, his love letter written in the only language he dared use. "I'll be there shortly."

But her fingers lingered on the last page, where he'd written a single line beneath the final measure.

‘Some harmonies, once found, echo forever’.

The words blurred before her eyes as she traced them. How like him, to hide such poetry in musical notation, to express in melody what duty forbade him to say aloud. Even now, saying goodbye, he remained true to himself - passion contained within perfect control, feeling expressed through flawless form.

A tear fell onto the page. She wiped it away quickly, carefully, not wanting to mar these precious sheets that she would carry with her across the sea, this tangible piece of his heart that she could keep when everything else must be left behind. But… how would she ever bear having it with her, a perpetual silent reminder of all that she might have had, all that she had lost? She set it back on the pianoforte. She would decide later, at the last possible minute.

"I'm coming, Clara," she called, her voice barely steady. "Just let me put away..."

But she couldn't finish. How could she explain that she was trying to pack away not just paper and ink, but all her dreams of what might have been?

*****

The familiar grandeur of Brightwood House's entrance hall felt different to Melody today. Everything seemed heightened, more vivid, as if her mind was determined to preserve every detail. The sweep of the marble staircase, the gleam of crystal chandeliers, the subtle scent of beeswax and leather that she'd come to associate with Brightwood's world - all of it pressed against her senses with almost painful intensity. Simmons led her not to the music room, as she'd half-hoped, but to the Dowager Duchess' private sitting room. The space was surprisingly intimate - warm with afternoon sunlight, filled with obviously cherished possessions. An Italian landscape hung over the fireplace, and a small pianoforte stood in one corner, its wood darker and more richly carved than English instruments.

"Miss Piper." The Dowager Duchess rose from her writing desk, her elegant figure silhouetted against the window. "Thank you for coming at such short notice, especially when you must be busy with preparations."

"Your Grace." Melody curtsied, noting how the older woman's eyes studied her carefully. "I'm honoured by your invitation."

"Please, sit." She gestured to a delicate chair near the window. "I had thought that we might take tea together, before... before circumstances make that impossible."

The slight hesitation in her voice caught Melody's attention. This wasn't the rigidly controlled Duchess she'd come to know during the concerts. Something else lay beneath the surface today.

"I understand that you leave for Italy soon." The Duchess poured tea with her own hands rather than ringing for a servant. "Florence, is it not?"

"Yes, Your Grace. Tomorrow."

"Ah, Florence." A smile touched her lips. "I remember it well. The light there... it changes everything it touches. Makes ordinary things extraordinary." She handed Melody a cup, her fingers brushing the younger woman's slightly. "Rather like music, in that way." The comparison startled Melody into meeting the Duchess' eyes directly. What she saw there made her breath catch - understanding, sympathy, and something that looked almost like regret. "I was younger than you," the Duchess continued softly, "when I first came to England. I thought that my music would sustain me through anything - even leaving my home, my family, everything that I knew. And in many ways, it did. But..." She paused, obviously choosing her words carefully. "But I discovered that music can also be a bridge between worlds. A way of speaking truths that society's rules won't permit us to voice."

Melody's hands trembled slightly on her teacup.

"Your Grace, I—"

"Let me finish, my dear. Please." The Duchess set her own cup aside. "I watched you perform with my son last night. Watched you create something extraordinary together. Something that transcended mere artistic collaboration."

Heat flooded Melody's cheeks.

"We only wished to do justice to the music."

"Did you?" The question held no censure, only gentle understanding. "Is that all it was?"

The Duchess rose, moving to the small pianoforte in the corner.

Her fingers brushed the keys with obvious familiarity.

"I haven't played publicly since before Harper was born. His father... well, a Duchess has certain obligations, certain standards to maintain. But sometimes, when the house is quiet..." She played a few notes of what Melody recognised as an Italian folk tune. "Sometimes music is the only way to remember who we truly are. You've given my son that gift."

She turned back to Melody.

"These past months, watching him perform with you... I've seen him come alive again. Seen him remember the passion for music that his father tried so hard to suppress."

"I did nothing, Your Grace." Melody's voice emerged barely above a whisper. "The music was always there within him."

"Yes, but you gave him permission to feel it again. To express it." The Duchess moved to a small cabinet, withdrawing a velvet box. "That gift deserves recognition, whatever else may or may not exist between you." She opened the box, revealing a small pin fashioned from gold and garnets. "This was given to me in Florence, long ago. A token from someone who recognised that music could bridge the gap between different worlds."

"Your Grace, I couldn't possibly—"

"You can, and you will." The Duchess' voice held quiet authority. "Consider it thanks for what you've given this family. For showing my son that duty need not exclude passion." As she pinned the jewel high on Melody's dress, her hands lingered a moment. "I was Italian, Catholic, the daughter of a minor Count. Society said that I could never be a suitable Duchess. But love... love sometimes finds ways around society's rules."

Melody's heart thundered in her chest.

"Your Grace, are you suggesting..."

"I suggest nothing." But her eyes held meaning that Melody couldn't misinterpret. "I merely observe that times change. That worth isn't always found where society expects it. That sometimes the bravest choice is to wait, to let time and distance prove what argument cannot."

Melody held the Duchess’ gaze for what felt like long minutes.

“I… thank you.”

With a small nod, the older woman stepped back, once again the perfect Duchess.

“I know that my son has been composing again, in the last few days. If he has given that music to you, I hope that you understand what it is trying to say.”

Melody stopped, stunned, and met the Duchess’ eyes again.

“He has, and I do understand. So much so that I do not know that I can bear to carry it with me. Perhaps I will ask my sister to keep it safe, for my return.”

The Duchess smiled, a little sadly, but gave a nod of understanding.

"The pin suits you, my dear. As does the courage I see in your eyes." She paused, then added softly, "Florence is beautiful in autumn. But England... England can be beautiful in late spring, when new things bloom from old roots."

Melody touched the pin with trembling fingers.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. But remember, when you're in Italy, that some music requires perfect timing to achieve its full effect. That sometimes a rest is as important as a note." The Duchess moved to pull the bell cord. "And remember that you have friends here, should you ever choose to return."

As Simmons appeared to escort her out, Melody caught one last glimpse of the Duchess, silhouetted against her window. For a moment, she could see the young Italian girl who had dared to love an English Duke, who had crossed social boundaries for the sake of her heart.

But what did it mean? Was the Duchess truly suggesting that she and Brightwood... but no. Better not to dwell on impossible dreams. Better to focus on packing, on preparations, on the practical details of departure. Yet as she left Brightwood House, the garnets just below her throat caught the sunlight like drops of fire, warming her skin with possibilities she dared not name.

*****

Returning home had felt like stepping between worlds. The modest townhouse that had seemed so confining now held a different kind of weight - the comfort of familiar things, the history of a thousand ordinary moments.

Now, a few hours later, Melody moved through the rooms, touching objects she'd seen every day without really noticing: the worn spot on the parlour carpet where her father paced while teaching, the small scratch on the pianoforte where Clara had dropped a music stand years ago, the faded curtains that had once been her mother's pride.

Most of her belongings would remain here - Clara would stay with their father, maintaining the house and his teaching practice. But Melody's trunk waited upstairs, already packed with everything she'd need for her new life. Concert gowns carefully folded, scores selected and organised, the practical necessities of travel arranged with mechanical precision.

"The carriage will be here soon." Clara appeared in the doorway, her eyes red-rimmed despite her attempt at a cheerful smile. "Signor Bianchi was most insistent about leaving early enough to reach the inn before dark."

"Yes, of course." Melody forced herself to focus on practical matters. "Is Papa ready?"

"He's just finishing with his last student. He didn't want to disappoint young Thomas, even today."

The normality of it - her father teaching until the last possible moment - made her throat tight. How many times had she accompanied his lessons, played duets with struggling students, helped explain complex musical concepts? This house had been filled with music of all kinds, from beginners' scales to professional performances.

Moving to the pianoforte, she opened the lid one last time. Brightwood's composition lay on the stand where she'd left it that morning, its pages holding all the things they'd never said aloud. She ought to pack it with her other music, but something made her hesitate.

"Will you keep this safe for me?" She held the score out to Clara. "I think... I think perhaps it belongs here, something to come back to."

Her sister took the music, understanding dawning in her eyes as she saw the title.

"Melody..."

"Don't." She couldn't bear sympathy right now. "Just... keep it safe."

The sound of wheels on cobblestones drew their attention to the window. Signor Bianchi's carriage had arrived, its elegant appointments looking somehow wrong against their modest street. The Italian himself descended, gesturing enthusiastically as he instructed his men about handling her trunk.

"Mia cara!" His voice carried clearly through the window. "Are you ready for your grand adventure? Florence awaits!"

Adventure. Was that what this was? It should feel exciting, triumphant - everything she'd dreamed of since childhood. Instead, her heart felt leaden in her chest.

Her father appeared from his study, still wearing the worn coat he taught in.

"The carriage is early."

"Signor Bianchi is eager to reach the inn before nightfall." Melody touched the garnets of the pin on her breast, remembering the Dowager Duchess' words about timing and patience. "Papa, are you certain you won't come to Italy? Even for a short visit?"

"My place is here, with my students." He drew her into a fierce embrace. "And your place... your place is wherever your music takes you."

But was it? The Duchess' hint about spring blooming from old roots whispered in her mind. She touched the pin again, drawing comfort from its solid warmth.

"Signorina!" Bianchi's voice carried up the stairs. "The tide waits for no one, and tomorrow's ship will not delay!"

They descended together, this little family that had survived so much.

Clara carried Melody's reticule, her father a small case of especially precious music, while Melody herself took one last look at each room they passed.

The parlour where they'd practiced countless duets. The dining room where they'd celebrated her first professional engagement. The small study where her father had taught her theory and composition. Every space held memories of music shared, of challenges overcome, of love expressed through art.

Rather like Brightwood House's music room, where she and Brightwood had created something extraordinary together. Where they'd found a harmony that transcended mere performance.

"Mia cara!" Bianchi swept an elaborate bow as she emerged. "Your carriage awaits! Tomorrow you begin your new life!"

But as she stepped into the elegant carriage, as Clara and her father settled beside her, as the horses moved forward with gentle purpose, Melody found herself looking back at their modest home. The garnets in the pin seemed to pulse with warmth, like a promise, like a possibility.

The Duchess' words echoed in her mind.

‘Some music requires perfect timing.’

Perhaps... perhaps this departure wasn't an ending but a rest between movements. Perhaps, like the notes in Harper's composition, some things needed space to find their perfect harmony.

The thought sustained her as their carriage turned the corner, and their home disappeared from view. But she carried with her the memory of Brightwood's music, of his mother's understanding, of a love expressed in the only language they dared to share.