Miss Kinsworth took the seat opposite, the smile in her gray eyes fading. “Don’t tell me you’re here because Jane Ambrose was murdered.”
Hero looked up from holding her cold hands out to the blaze. “What makes you think it was murder?”
“I didn’t think it before. But I’m not vain enough to believe you tromped through the snow on a day such as this simply to pay me a social visit. Was Jane murdered?”
“I’m afraid she probably was, yes.”
Miss Kinsworth’s face quivered and she looked away. “Ah. Poor Jane.”
Hero studied the older woman’s tightly held profile. “How well did you know her?”
“I’ve known Jane for years. She used to teach piano to Princess Amelia when I was with the Queen, and she’s been Charlotte’s instructor since the girl was quite small.” Miss Kinsworth drew in a deep, shaky breath. “Needless to say, Charlotte is devastated. Jane was with her longer than almost anyone except perhaps her personal maid, Mrs. Louis. The Prince is constantly dismissing the Princess’s servants, you know, as well as her governesses, subgovernesses, and tutors.”
“Why?”
Miss Kinsworth turned her head to meet Hero’s gaze. “Do you want to know the truth?”
“Yes.”
“It’s because he wants them to be loyal to him and him alone, and to unhesitatingly enforce his most arbitrary and heartless decrees. But Charlotte is a sweet, generous, likable soul who quickly wins the hearts and allegiance of those who are around her for long. And when that happens, the Prince dismisses them.”
“Beastly man,” said Hero.
“You can say that, my lady. Unfortunately, I cannot. At least, not aloud.”
Hero gave a soft laugh. “So, was Jane Ambrose here for the Princess’s lesson yesterday?”
“She was, yes. She left as usual shortly after twelve o’clock—just as the snow was beginning to fall. I remember because I happened to look out the window and saw her crossing the courtyard toward the gate.”
“Do you know how she planned to spend the rest of the day?”
“Sorry, no. I assumed she was going home, but I don’t know for certain. I saw her when she first came in and said good morning, but that was about all.”
“Did she seem nervous or frightened in any way?”
“Frightened? I don’t think so, no. Although I did sense a certain . . .” Miss Kinsworth hesitated. “I don’t quite know how to put it. We’ve all been under a bit of strain lately, and she did seem preoccupied by something. She was trying to put a cheerful face on it, but I had the feeling her thoughts were elsewhere.”
“You’ve no idea what might have been troubling her?”
“No. Sorry.”
Given that Jane had been raped a day or two before her death, Hero suspected her preoccupation might well have been tied to that. But it was awkward to discuss such things in polite company. To even address the subject was a delicate exercise to be wrapped up in all sorts of polite euphemisms such as “interfered with” or “an act too infamous to be named.” Hero said bluntly, “She never mentioned anything about someone forcing himself on her?”
Miss Kinsworth’s face went slack. “Good heavens, no. You think that’s what happened to her? Is that why she was killed?”
“It’s possible. Or it could be completely unrelated.”
“Oh, poor Jane.” The older woman’s lips parted. “She never said anything to me.”
Hero wasn’t surprised. Women who were raped usually didn’t talk about it if they could help it. For most, their rape was a dark, shameful secret to be hidden and dealt with in private, if at all. It was also possible that Edward Ambrose had violently forced himself on his own wife. In that case, under British law such an act would not have been considered rape or illegal in any way.
Hero cleared her throat. “Jane had children?”
“She did, yes: two boys. But both died last year. She lost the younger child first, to the flux, and the other, Lawrence, just last autumn to consumption.”
“How unbearably tragic,” said Hero.
“It was, yes. Music and those children were Jane’s world. When she lost the boys, it was as if a light went out of her life.”
“Was she happy in her marriage, do you think?”
Miss Kinsworth smoothed a hand over the skirt of her sensible worsted gown. “To be honest? I wouldn’t say she was, no. But it’s sometimes hard to tell, isn’t it? We never discussed it.”
“What makes you think she might not have been?”
“It wasn’t anything she said precisely. But I sometimes suspected she had a certain measure of resentment toward her husband.”
“Resentment? Do you know why?”
“No. Although sometimes I wondered . . .” The other woman paused.
“Yes?” said Hero.
Miss Kinsworth looked troubled. “I’ve sometimes wondered if she didn’t in some way resent Edward Ambrose’s success as a composer. I hesitated to say it because that makes her sound like a petty, jealous person, and she wasn’t that way at all. She was good and kind and giving—a truly warm, caring person. And yet . . . you know what it’s like for women. She was forced to give up performing even though she was every bit as talented and accomplished a pianist as her twin brother. She was also an amazing composer who could have produced pieces much grander than the glees and ballads and simple chamber music she was known for.”
“So why didn’t she?”
“I asked her that once. She said it’s one thing to write an opera or symphony but something else entirely to find an orchestra willing to perform a piece composed by a woman.”
“Ah, yes, I can see that.”
“When her brother James was alive, he actually published some of her pieces as his own. She said he hated that she didn’t get credit for them, but he thought they deserved to be performed and he knew that was the only way it would happen.”
“I’ve heard Mozart did the same for his sister, Maria Anna.”
“I suspect it’s far more common than anyone would like to admit,” said Miss Kinsworth. Hero nodded, and the two women sat in companionable silence, quietly sharing a
