Herr Rieger had told her—and Mary suspected the tale was apocryphal—that Beethoven had composed the music on a dare from a friend: Take the most mediocre waltz you can find, someone had taunted the composer, and see if you can make it magnificent.
That’s what Beethoven had done, thirty-three times over.
She glanced up at John, standing behind her, and smiled again. She’d had her run of mediocre waltzes. Now it was time to make what she had—what they had—magnificent. The music didn’t carry her; she carried it, from chord to breathless chord, from variation to variation.
She didn’t do all of them. She hadn’t the time, or the strength in her fingers. But she played until her fingers began to ache with the unaccustomed exercise. She played long enough to see Lady Northword tap Lady Patsworth on the shoulder out of the corner of her vision. She played with John’s hand hovering mere inches from her shoulder and Sir Walter glaring at her, promising dire retribution.
When her hands began to falter, she skipped to the final variation and ended.
The handful of guests clapped vigorously—all but Sir Walter. The applause died into a moment of silence. Then the windows rattled, and the house shook with the booming roll of real thunder. Even the weather itself applauded her. Mary smiled and ducked her head.
“Miss Chartley,” said Lady Northword. “Mr. Mason was right. You are more than proficient. You are magnificent. I see that I shall have to ask you to visit far more often.”
“Unfortunately,” Sir Walter said, “that will not be possible. You see, my wife…” He stopped and looked about him, and abruptly shot to his feet. “Where is my wife?”
There was a moment of absolute silence—the kind of moment that performers dreamed of. Mary was not yet off the stage. She stood, collecting the piano music into some semblance of order.
“Why,” Lady Northword said, “she is talking with her brother.”
“Her brother.” Sir Walter took a step toward the door. “Why is her brother here?”
The back door to the salon opened. “Because I am leaving with him,” Lady Patsworth said.
There was a long pause. “Leaving,” Sir Walter said. “On a visit? Think of your health, my dear.”
“Leaving. For good.”
Those words settled in the room.
“Come now.” Sir Walter was beginning to turn red in the face, but his words were still smooth. “You’re overset. Surely there’s no need to draw these people into whatever trifle it is that has you angered.” He drew in a deep breath, and addressed the rest of the crowd. “My wife—she’s not well, you see. If she were, surely she would know how absurd it is to suggest that she might leave her lawfully wedded husband. There’s no need to involve these people, Lady Patsworth. You know what a magistrate will say.” He took a step toward her and held out his hand.
Lady Patsworth did not shrink. In fact, she stepped up to him and set her finger against his chest. “And I was so sure you’d seen the paper. A week ago, the Queen gave her assent to the new Matrimonial Causes act. Come next January, I will testify before all of England about every milkmaid that you’ve taken. I’ll tell the world how you kept me prisoner in my own home. How you sent my brother away at gunpoint, telling him I never wanted to speak with him.” Her voice was as smooth as his. “I don’t need Parliament to grant me a divorce. I am free, and you can’t hold me any longer.”
“I still have that gun,” Sir Walter growled.
“Mary threw it in the well,” Lady Patsworth returned. “Yesterday evening.” She smiled grimly. “You remember, don’t you? I had a spasm, and you had to take me to my room. For my health.”
Sir Walter did not say anything. His gaze flicked from his wife to her brother, and then across Lord and Lady Northword to settle on Mary.
“You,” he said. “You arranged this. You sent for her brother.”
Mary didn’t shrink from him. “Yes. I did.”
“You’re sacked.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. “I’ll be having my back wages, then.”
He cast her a sullen glance. “What back wages?”
“That would be the sixty pounds you owe her,” Lady Patsworth said. “If I’ve heard you say it once, I’ve heard you say it a hundred times, how you were keeping the money safe.”
“And paying me interest on the principle,” Mary added. “That is what people do when they hold your money, is it not?”
While Sir Walter was sputtering, Lord Northword came up behind him. “As it happens, I can advance you the amount you need right now,” he said quietly. “Around here, we don’t like to see employees used badly.” He looked round at the other landowners, who were watching in confusion. “Do we, gentlemen?”
Sir Walter looked around, his nostrils flaring, as his neighbors shook their heads.
Lord Northword set his hand on Sir Walter’s shoulder. “So we won’t have to see it,” he said jovially. “You’ll come with me and write me a note, and I’ll give Miss Chartley her money immediately. Now, if you please.”
For a moment, it looked as if Sir Walter would actually strike Lord Northword. But he looked around—at the other guests, at the footmen in the corner, at John Mason not so far away. He remembered that Northword was a viscount and his landlord, and he was a mere Sir.
His hands curled in frustration, but he left with the other man.
THERE WAS QUITE A BIT of confusion in the thirty minutes that followed Sir Walter’s exposure, and John’s work was not yet done.
No matter how Sir Walter grimaced and gesticulated, he could not change matters. He’d been exposed on all fronts—and coward that he was, he hadn’t the ability to bluster himself into disagreeing with Lord Northword. Northword sent for a secretary, who arrived very slowly, and was told he should write out a note of promise to cover Mary’s wages. They disappeared to a back room to sign the thing.
John took the time to bundle Lady Patsworth and her brother onto horses, sending them on their way before Sir Walter had the chance to stop them.
Thunder rumbled overhead, and the horses rolled their eyes uneasily.
“West Aubrey is fifteen minutes on horseback across the fields. You should just make the evening train. Leave the horses at the Wayfarer’s Pigeon.”
Lady Patsworth nodded. “But won’t he know we’re going to West Aubrey?”
“Of course he will.” John smiled. “But we’ll be putting the carriage out in the next five minutes. Your husband will think you’re going by road—and that’s a two-hour journey. Let him chase after that. By the time he realizes you’re not there, you’ll be en route to London.”
“Thank you.” She took his hand. “And thank Mary, when you have the chance.”
“Off with you now.” He didn’t bother to watch them go.
It was going to be a hellish ride for them. Thunder rumbled again, and he felt a drop of rain against his cheek. It took another five minutes to get the carriage on the road—and not a moment too soon. No sooner had it turned the bend, than Sir Walter raced out into the night.
“Wait!” he called, running after the conveyance. “Stop!”
Of course, it did nothing of the sort. He followed it as long as he could—about twenty yards, before he doubled over, trying to catch his breath. He caught sight of John just as he stood and turned.
“It’s no use,” he sneered. “It might take me half an hour to fetch a horse from my own stables, but I’ll catch them on the road. And then we’ll see about that so-called divorce.”
“Don’t go out, Sir Walter,” John suggested. “It’s beginning to rain.”
“Ha,” was his only reply. The man set his hat on his head and turned to jog back in the direction of his own stables.
John withdrew into the entry. Lord Northword was standing there, watching Sir Walter go.
“A better man, I think, would not be so amused at the futile nature of Sir Walter’s quest,” John said.
“You’re wrong,” Lord Northword said. “I’m old enough to
be confident that I’m at least as good as you, and I think it’s damned funny.”
John grinned, and then turned around. “Where’s Ma—Miss Chartley?”
“With Lady Northword.”
He nodded, but at that moment Lady Northword came into the entry. “No, she’s not. I thought she was with you.”
A beat of panic entered John’s breast. Sir Walter hadn’t taken her—he knew that; he’d just seen the man. Wherever she was, she was safe.
But Lady Northword was already inquiring of a passing footman, who went to seek news. The man came back. “She left, my lady. Not five minutes past.”
Thunder boomed again. There was no rain—not yet—but there would be. Mary was out there? What was she doing? She would not have returned to Doyle’s Grange and Sir Walter.
“She said, what with the rain coming on, she had better get started to Up Aubrey, where she could get a room in the Lost Sock.”
They hadn’t talked about what she would do afterward. He’d assumed, what with the kisses—all those kisses—and the walks hand-in-hand, that she was contemplating a future with him. Why would she set off on her own at a time like this?
John looked out the window. A flash of lightning illuminated the valley, briefly capturing a glimpse of high summer grasses, waving furiously in the wind of the oncoming storm.
“You’d better go after her,” Lady Northword said. “Bring her back—Miss Chartley can surely stay here until her future has been settled. If she’s going to walk half an hour to West Aubrey, she’ll be soaked.”
“The stables are dry,” Lord Northword added. “Deserted, too, at this time of night. If you wanted to take her somewhere.”
He got a discreet elbow in his side from his lady. “Don’t be inhospitable, darling. She’s very welcome here.”
“I had no such intentions. I have very fond memories of the stab—”
He was interrupted by a less discreet elbow. “Pay no attention to him,” his wife said. “In fact, please forget that he ever spoke.”
The impression John got in that moment was not something he’d ever wanted to think about. Lord and Lady Northword, kissing in the stables? He shook his head to clear it of that image.
“Even if there is somewhere else closer, somewhere dry,” Lady Northword said, “you can be assured that I’ll be willing to say that she spent the night here. Nobody will dare gainsay me.”
Another drop landed on his head. The air was heavy with unspent rain. John nodded, but he scarcely heard their words. It was impossible to dwell on Mary’s reputation. She was out there alone—and soon it would be cold and wet.
“Thank you,” he said. “Thank you both, for everything.” He tipped his hat at them, retrieved his coat, and set off across the field.
Chapter Eleven
MARY WAS FREE.
Just two weeks ago, the thought of getting sacked had filled her with dread. But now, she could walk away from Sir Walter and not only remain standing, but feel that she’d had the better of him.
Months had passed while she told herself she wasn’t a lady any more, that she scarcely deserved common courtesy. And yet being a lady had not brought Lady Patsworth any real respect. A thousand rules of etiquette, drummed into her head—and in the end, it was her piano lessons that she’d drawn on.
She could remember Herr Rieger standing over her and scowling. Why did you stop playing?
Because I made a mistake.
Don’t stop. Never stop. They’ll never respect you if you stop and cry like a girl.
But—
He’d frowned at her and made a motion with his hand. Weep later. Play now.
Mary had pushed all her emotions away—grief, anger, guilt. But she’d not realized that she’d condemned herself to avoid the good ones, too. Pride. Happiness. Love. She deserved to experience those as well.
She’d stopped for too long. But now she was free, free to take a running start once again. The sharp smell of the oncoming storm only made her feel giddier.
Giddy was the least of the things that she felt. Relief, that things had not been so bad as they could have been. Pride, in a job well done. And a subtle sense of satisfaction—one that she would never have found if she’d stayed a genteel young lady all her life. She would have married John and disappeared into being his wife, putting all her own dreams away just to be with him.
Once, that had seemed worth the price.
But now, she was no sheltered lady who needed to be protected from the world. No; the big bad world needed protection from her. Bad things had happened to her, yes, but she had prevailed.
She felt daring with her victory. A bubble of laughter rose up in her.
On the horizon, summer thunder rumbled. It was dark enough that she could only tell there were clouds by the lack of stars. She’d left with scarcely a hand towel to her name. She should have been frightened. Instead, she felt recklessness rise up in her. She was free. She was free. She had bills folded in one skirt-pocket, a towel in the other, and her entire future ahead of her.
Nothing could stop her.
Mary knew it was an illusion, just as she knew that the heavy, humid heat that hung around her was about to give way to cold rain. Sixty pounds was no real security—just enough money to get her into trouble, and not enough to buy her way out. But it wasn’t the money that made her heart sing. It was the proof she’d received: that she could trust to her own competence. That, ultimately, she had been the instrument of her own deliverance.
Tomorrow would be enough time for reality. When dawn came, she’d take stock of her resources, make decisions for the future.
But tonight…
Lightning sparked on the horizon, a great blinding tree of electricity stretching from the clouds to the skies. Mary held her breath at the wonder of it all, and counted. Five, six, seven—on the count of eight, thunder growled around her. The very ground rumbled beneath her feet, and the air shivered with the power of the storm. Her hairs stood on edge.
Ladies did not run off into storms. But then, ladies didn’t sneak out of their windows and kiss gentlemen, no matter how handsome that gentleman was. She was damned glad not to be a lady any longer.
Tonight felt wild—a night that belonged to some other woman. Tonight, she would celebrate the rediscovery of herself. It seemed a night for dancing barefoot across the fields, or, perhaps, for making her way to the village a few miles distant for some good brandy.
Lightning flashed again, illuminating the stone wall along the road, half a mile in the distance. Sharp stones had been set at an angle in the mortar on top; they made a jagged row of teeth, stretching off into the distance. Darkness returned as swiftly as it had fled; then thunder rumbled. A droplet of water landed on her nose.
Rain was coming, and soon. If the lightning came any closer, it wouldn’t do to be standing out in the field. Luckily, she had a destination in mind, and one that was just beyond the curve of the hill.
“Mary!” someone called behind her. She turned around. The figure was still far behind her, but she recognized him.
John. Precisely the man she’d been hoping to find.
“Mary,” he said. “You’ve got to come in from this, before the storm starts in earnest.”
It was a night for wildness, a night for celebration. It was a night for pagan acts, for leaving behind all that held her back. She didn’t just want John; she yearned for him, with an ache that went all the way through to her heart.
He wasn’t just the man she loved, the one she’d once agreed to marry. He was everything that had been wrested from her—her innocence, her childhood, her foolish belief that so long as she was good that nothing bad could transpire. He was the only thing that joined the person she was now—this reckless, uncageable creature—with the quiet girl she had once been.
And she had, after all, wanted to celebrate.
He caught up to her. He was carrying a shawl, which he dumped unceremoniously over her shoulders—as if he hadn’t realized how hot
it was.
“Mary,” he repeated. “Thank God I found you. You’ve no idea how worried I have been these last ten minutes.”
Lightning flashed again, searing all sight of him from her eyes. She waited for the reverberation of thunder. Another solitary raindrop found her cheek, then another. Then the thunder came, booming around them.
“Worry?” she asked. “Why were you worried? I’ve never been better.”
Mary let the shawl slip down her shoulders.
“Come,” he said, “we’ve got to get you back to Northword Hill.”
But it was too late. The fall of droplets had become a light patter around them.
“No, John,” she said, and it felt as if her voice came from very far away.
She had stopped hoping to be granted her heart’s desire. She was going to start taking it now.
“No?” He picked up the edge of the shawl, looped it around her elbows, and wiped the raindrops from her face.
“No,” she said quietly, raising her hand to his jaw. “I have been looking forward to this part of the evening for the past week. I didn’t get tossed out of my employer’s house with nowhere to go but your arms just so that I could return chastely to the viscount’s home. You’re taking me to bed.”
Lightning slashed down, illuminating his silhouette. He seemed so still—looking at her as if he’d no notion what to say in response. And then the rain truly began, pelting into them. He grabbed her hand—too tight, too close—and together, they ran to Oak Cottage.
BY THE TIME JOHN brought Mary back to Oak Cottage, she was soaked through. He could feel her trembling all the way through the shawl he’d put around her. But despite her shivers, there was something about her that heated him more than any of their kisses.
It wasn’t just the way she removed the soaking-wet shawl, or how she turned to him and undid the buttons of his coat. It wasn’t just the physical thrill of seeing her bodice cling to her skin. After she took off his hat and set it on a hook, she found a clean, dry cloth and wiped the droplets from his face—slowly, tenderly. Their breaths made little white puffs of air in the entry.