Swan's Grace (14 page)

And she was. She wanted something for herself. She wanted more in her life that said something about her. Something more than being the Ladies Society's most diligent member, or her sons' mother. Or Bradford's wife. She pressed her eyes closed. A wife in name only.

"I am here to sculpt," she repeated, all traces of weakness gone from her voice. "And if I have to go someplace else to do it, so be it."

"But you won't go someplace else," Richard said, a smile in his voice, as if she hadn't said a word against him. "You'll come back. And I'll be waiting."

How dare they?

Long hours after the gala, Sophie paced the east drawing room of Swan's Grace, reeling with shock. How could her father and Grayson have made decisions about her future without so much as a word to her in regard to what she wanted? Good God, would she spend the rest of her life at the mercy of men?

But on the heels of that thought came another. Grayson had chosen her.

A swift joy pierced through her anger before she ruthlessly stamped it out. She had already seen that Grayson wanted her, but that desire was strictly physical. And physical attraction wasn't enough.

If just once he had mentioned love, no doubt she would have been putty in his hands, with every one of those five long years of struggle dropped aside as swiftly and as easily as his cashmere robe. Because if he loved her, didn't that mean he could accept her for who she really was?

But he hadn't mentioned the word, not even some approximation. She knew him well, and undoubtedly the truth was that he saw her as an asset. A marriage between two fine, old families. He was treating her like a possession, just as her father had. Used by one, bartered away by another as if she were no more than a business transaction.

Betrayal snaked through her.

She had learned long ago that Conrad Wentworth lived by standards, traditions, propriety, and social order—sometimes more vehemently than blue-blooded Boston Brahmins. But that, she had learned as life began to teach her lessons beyond reading and music, frequently was the case with men and women who weren't born into the world they inhabited. Those people took on ways with fervent dedication that insiders took for granted. Her father espoused those beliefs, never wavering.

Except for once, when a month after her mother died he had married her nurse.

But time had passed, and as long as Conrad Wentworth had money, Boston could forgive him anything. Even Patrice.

Though as long as Sophie lived, she would never forgive the woman who had come into her home and insinuated herself into their lives, dissolving the adhesive that held them together. Her father had seemed oblivious to Patrice's manipulations, coming into their home to help his wife, and ultimately taking the woman's place.

Bitter anger welled up inside her. Sophie knew her father's calling card into the most prestigious drawing rooms of the old town had been her mother's centuries-old name and his fat bank accounts. He had already lost her mother. If he lost his coins as well, Sophie suspected Bostonians wouldn't be so forgiving.

Because of that, her father was using her to replace the silver and gold he had lost. And he had the power to do it since she had signed a document that put him in charge of her assets and her life.

Even she understood now that she had given him the power to do whatever he wanted with Swan's Grace. She had also given him the power to sign agreements on her behalf. But never in a million years would she have believed he would use that power to sell her home and sell her into marriage. The notion was archaic.

In hindsight, she could hardly credit being so foolish as to agree to such an arrangement. It seemed idiotic now. But at eighteen, after losing her mother and the promised debut concert—losing her direction in life—she hadn't cared. And when her father told her Patrice would be her new mother, she would have done anything to get out of Boston. Signing that document had been her ticket out.

Forcing her mind clear of thought, she sat on the divan and attempted to play. She needed to play, needed to feel the music fill the emptiness in her soul.

It was early in the morning, the sun barely a hint on the horizon. She started a few measures of an adapted piece from
The Marriage of Figaro
, a favorite of audiences. But today it held no interest for her.

Next she tried
The Love Nest
. Still nothing. No feeling. Until finally she moved through the opening bars of a simple piece called
The Waltz of Swans
, which a composer and admirer had written for her. With that, she managed to forget. The long C, the soothing A. The G that made her heart soar. Time was lost, her escape found.

"I thought you said you were going to practice."

Her mind halted, her escape lost. Last night tumbled in on her, and her hand froze midstroke.

Sophie glanced at the doorway as Henry entered the room. The dog she had found lay curled up on the divan, improving every day.

Word had been put out that the animal had been found, but as yet, no one had claimed her. Sophie hated to think that she was thankful no one had shown up. The last thing she needed was to become attached to this dog. She would be leaving just as soon as advance money arrived.

But what about the house? Could she give it up now? Could she toss aside the one thing she had relied on in order to escape the manipulations of men? Could she live without the knowledge that it was there for her?

"I
am
practicing," she said with force.

To prove her point, she began again, music filling the room.

Henry held a cup of coffee in his hand. He wore a black satin smoking jacket with fine gray flannel trousers and a paisley cravat at his neck. "No, you're playing."

"Playing, practicing, what's the difference?"

"You know better than I what the difference is. Practicing is working on technique, mastering sections of a piece. Running through scales," he added pointedly.

Sophie made an indistinct sound in her throat, then immediately started the prelude of another audience favorite called
Love Circus
. Her breathing grew even with the heartfelt opening passage played all on the G and C strings, the intensity and passion filling her. "I hate scales," she said on an intake of breath as she kept the cadence.

"Of course you do, no one likes scales, but everyone has to practice them."

She continued on with
Circus
as though he hadn't said a word, her mind distant, savoring the andantino, the wonderful lilt and swing. She relished the syncopated rhythms. "I practice
my
technique by finding new gowns and combining them with stunning pieces of jewelry. We both know that is what my audience wants to see."

She bit her lip, concentrating, as she prepared for the ritardando in the last measure, her finger sliding up to a high B-flat and G before hitting a perfect F-sharp like the trill of a bird's song.

Finished, she whipped the bow away with a flourish, feeling pleased, triumphant. The piece of music was perfect for her show. Beautiful but accessible. The trick seemed to be to find works that an audience could hum after a performance, works that stayed with them. Hence the reason for performing a great many opera pieces that had been adapted for the cello. It had entailed learning a whole new way of playing.

Most of the difficult concert pieces she had grown up on were appreciated for their complexity and sophistication, frequently nothing a person could hum. Except for the Bach cello suites. They were difficult, yes, sophisticated and complicated, true. But a truly talented cellist could enthrall any sort of audience with the pieces—if one had the ability to create magic.

Once she had believed she could create magic with her cello. Once she had believed she was born to play Bach. Now she created magic with jewelry and gowns instead.

"I think I'd like to wear a tiara for my next appearance."

"A tiara!" Henry demanded.

The burst of sound brought the dog's head up from where she slept on the brocade divan.

"Shhh, sweetie, it's okay. Uncle Henry was just being loud."

The dog thumped her tail against the cushions, then sank back down and tucked herself in more comfortably.

"Yes, a tiara, with diamonds."

"Are we planning wardrobes?" Deandra asked as she walked into the room, her own cup of coffee held in her hand, her ostrich-plumed mules matching the ostrich plume around the neckline of her peignoir.

"Good morning," Sophie said.

Deandra finished a sip, then returned the cup to its saucer with a clink, her ostrich-plumed sleeve slipping back down to her wrist. "Good morning, loves."

"Sophie wants a tiara," Henry stated.

"I think that is a fabulous idea," Dea said after another sip.

Margaret walked in, dressed in a severely cut woolen gown buttoned to her neck. She held a tray of tea items in her hands. "Everyone's up early. Should I start breakfast?"

Deandra shook her head. "You'd think there'd be servants around here. If we are going to be here until May, why don't I look into hiring some?"

"Oh, no." Sophie said the words too fast, drawing everyone's attention. She forced a smile, thinking of her limited funds, reminding her, among other things, that buying a tiara was completely out of the question.

Her smile felt brittle on her lips. "I think it's better we wait until I have this house situation straightened out before we start hiring servants. In the meantime, we can all pitch in and take care of things."

"Us, take care of a house? Sophie, are you feeling all right?" Henry asked.

"I'm feeling fine." Determined, she returned the bow to the strings, sawing up, then back.

"Of course she is fine," Margaret said from the doorway, her mood remarkably lightened since receiving a note from a cousin inviting her to the family country house for a weekend. "And she's right. The last thing we need around here is more people. Good heavens, between all of us, Mr. Hawthorne, and that receptionist of his, not to mention his clients, the house is bursting at the seams." Her eyes widened as she came in and set down the tray. "Speaking of houses bursting at the seams, how did the party go last night?"

The bow sawed unevenly, turning a C into a muddied, screeching jangle of sound.

"That good?" Henry asked, slipping into the wing-backed chair just before Deandra could get there.

"Out of my seat."

"Sit on the divan," Henry said with a snicker.

Deandra pulled herself up to her imperious height. "The dog is there."

"Birds of a feather should flock together…"

A brief silence sizzled through the room before Dea's eyes narrowed and she started for Henry. But Sophie jumped in, waving her rosined bow between the two like a surrender flag. "Children, children."

Henry chuckled and hunkered back down against the buttery leather, his coffee cup held close to his chest like a shield.

"Henry, I hardly call that the gentlemanly thing to do," Sophie admonished.

The little man sliced her a crooked grin. "Since when were you concerned about propriety?"

"Since we got here," Margaret interjected. "Didn't you notice that she spent hours deciding on the perfect gown for last night?"

"Did she really?" Henry mused.

"She
has
been a bit different lately," Deandra commented.

"
She
is sitting right here," Sophie demanded. "And
she
is no different now than ever before."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really!"

With that she leaped into another popular piece adapted from an opera, the notes deep and brooding, her playing fast and furious.

"I take it last night didn't go so well," Margaret remarked.