‘Oh, Mr King,’ Serena gasped, ‘It’s been several years since my fingers graced the keys, and poorly at that.’
‘Never mind. I have enough technique for us both.’ He sat at the piano and stretched his fingers.
Serena stood bemused. Did he mean to play? It didn’t seem to match his crochety nature.
And yet he played. Serena immediately recognised Beethoven’s Sonata number fourteen, otherwise known as Sonata of the Moonlight. She smiled at the aptness of his choice. A wistful tune, which he played with flawless precision—expected—and deep expression, which she did not anticipate. Perhaps he was not as heartless as he seemed.
Even more disconcerting was the fact that he stared at her face, not paying attention to where his fingers were going. How did this man switch from a lengthy explanation of building design to playing a sonata in the space of a heartbeat? Mr Xavier Jones’s words returned to her then. My uncle can be impulsive when he chooses. Well, he was right on that count.
As her shock at the sudden turn of events wore off, Serena closed her eyes. She tried to imagine the ballroom filled with light and dancing people, the strains of music resounding in her ears. How magical it would be. Serena was caught up in the vision in her mind and noticed, too late, that he had finished and that she was still swaying.
He stood before her, too close. Once again, she caught the faint scent of tobacco and cinnamon mixed with lavender. She liked the way he smelled. Without asking or warning her, he slipped one arm around her waist, took her hand in a firm hold and began to twirl her around. On a gasp, she pulled away from him. This couldn’t be right, could it? Were her darkest suspicions true? She couldn’t let him know how unnerving his behaviour was, and forced a laugh.
‘Well, that was diverting. You are very gifted at the piano. Thank you, sir.’
He offered her a formal, overly dramatised bow.
Now what did that mean? No wicked gleam shone in his eyes, just a calm expression of pleasure. Was his taking her in his arms innocent after all? Quite improper, but impulsive and without malice.
Afraid to challenge him, else he revert to hostile behaviour, Serena dipped an awkward curtsy. At that moment, however, she remembered her slippers and dressing gown and the inanity of the moment mixed with her unsettled feelings caused her to erupt in nervous giggles.
‘I like to hear you laugh, Miss Bellingham.’ His smooth voice came from the shadows, for he had stepped in front of the candle and she could not make out his face. Was he smiling?
‘Well, this is rather silly, don’t you think? Here, I am in my nightgown, behaving as though I’m at a ball. I should go back to bed if I’m to work tomorrow. But I have enjoyed our tour.’
‘You are quite right. One mustn’t overtire the staff. I shall walk you back to your room.’ He gathered his candle and presented his elbow for her again.
Still giddy, Serena clasped his arm and allowed him to escort her.
Back in the main hallway, they approached a long display table against the wall. Small paintings crowded the surface. Serena drew in a sharp breath. ‘The roses.’
Mr King stopped before the table as she peered at the miniatures in the flickering light. They were captivating, just as Papa had described. The reality of why she was in this house descended on her like a heavy shroud. For a moment, the wonder of the building and its occupants had engrossed her, or rather, the one occupant standing next to her. Yet, he had forced her to leave her family. How did Papa fare tonight? Did they eat at all? She knew Papa would miss her as much as she missed him. ‘You know, he never meant to do you harm, Mr King.’
He stifled a frustrated sigh. ‘Wrong is wrong. He chose to steal. No one steals from me, Miss Bellingham. No one.’
Serena turned to face him, searching his dark eyes for any compassion. ‘Is it worth sending a man to prison, though? Or a girl away from a family that need her, to a life of servitude?’ She tore her eyes away, unable to face the lack of mercy that she expected there. She didn’t even wait for an answer, but pointed to the paintings. ‘Which one was it?’
Mr King did not hesitate. He picked up one of the tiny roses and held it where the light of the candle fell on its facade. Serena took it from his hands. A pink rose with droplets of rain still on the petals, open and waiting for the sunshine, painted by an exceptional hand. Struck by its loveliness, and the pain of what her father’s actions had caused, a tear slipped from Serena’s eye. ‘Papa knew precisely what would please me.’ She kept her back to Mr King and brushed the moisture from her face. He mustn’t see how affected she was by his heartlessness.
‘It is one of the better ones.’
Serena nodded and placed it back on the table, swallowing back her emotions. ‘If it makes any difference, I apologise on his behalf.’
‘An apology doesn’t change the facts. He stole, or tried to steal, what was not his. I may accept your apology, but the consequences remain.’
‘Consequences that I alone must suffer.’ Serena didn’t know if she’d said the words loud enough for him to hear. And she didn’t wait for a response, but hurried to her room.
7
Monday 11th April, 1842
It is three in the morning. I cannot sleep no matter how I try.
I thought my day would be the same as always—the weight, the torpidness, the endless despising, the call of the fig.
But Serena invaded every moment—Saints above, she is beautiful. The picture of sweetness.
I am aware if I spend too much time with her, Serena will
