Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82982 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
“The music room will be ready for you and his lordship this evening,” Mrs. Dougall informed me. “I know his lordship was looking forward to you playing for him on the pianoforte. It was tuned earlier this morning by Mr. Winthrop in the village.”
“That is wonderful news,” I said, though a hint of worry laced my delight at the news.
The music room at Wheaton Hall had long been closed up, the furniture and pianoforte hiding under coverings. When Alexander had suggested that I make use of it once more, I had been overjoyed at the prospect of having a music room to myself and the leisure to be able to play again. But it had been years since I had last had lessons, and I worried my husband was doomed to disappointment.
“If I may be so bold, my lady,” Mrs. Dougall added, a glint entering her eyes. “I must say how pleased I am to have a mistress in this house. I had begun to despair that Lord Wheaton would never take a bride. To see him so contented with you now warms my heart. He is such a fine gentleman, none better.”
“Yes, he is,” I agreed without hesitation, even if I did feel my cheeks going warm.
It made me happy to think that Alexander was contented in our marriage. I thought he was, but neither of us had yet spoken words of love. It was my greatest hope that, in time, he may return my feelings. Hearing someone who knew him as well as Mrs. Dougall did suggest I made him happy boosted my spirits, making me forget my dismay at potentially harming his ears with my poor pianoforte skills later.
“Forgive me, my lady. I don’t know why I’ve turned into a watering pot.” Mrs. Dougall dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.
“There is no need to apologize,” I assured her. “It pleases me to know that you care for my husband as you do.”
The housekeeper sniffed, regaining her formidable composure once again. “Well, then. Before I turn maudlin, is there anything else you require of me today, my lady?”
“I was also hoping to hire a few more maids and footmen from the village if you think it prudent,” I said. “Now that we are residing here at Wheaton, with, God willing, the promise of a family beckoning, I believe some more domestics would be helpful.”
Mrs. Dougall nodded. “The nursery will have to be aired out next, I should think. A few more hands to help would be just the thing.”
The nursery.
I didn’t allow myself to linger overly long on that room. I had long dreamed of becoming a mother, of having a family. And now, that dream was at last within my reach.
“Thank you, Mrs. Dougall,” I said, “I will entrust the matter to your capable hands.”
As she was more familiar with the needs of Wheaton, I would defer to her.
The housekeeper beamed at me, clearly overjoyed to be holding the reins. “I would be more than happy to do so, Lady Wheaton.”
We finished our discussion, and I decided to inspect the music room just down the hall. No servants were lingering within as I crossed the threshold, amazed at the difference that had come to pass over the last few days. Like my salon, the music room had a bank of windows that allowed a cheerful amount of natural light to filter into the chamber. The pianoforte was handsome, fashioned of satinwood and tulipwood with inlaid floral decorations spanning the sides and front. A comfortable-looking bench had been placed before it, with a harp, flute, and violin.
I never learned to play the violin, but I had tried my hand at the flute and harp. My mother had taught me. Perhaps I might play a simple tune for Alexander this evening after dinner. I moved to the pianoforte first, running my fingers lightly over the keys. The sound was clear and loud, perfectly in tune. Mr. Winthrop had performed his job well.
I missed making music. Listening to music. I missed what music had meant to me, what seemed a lifetime ago. My mother had been a talented singer and a skilled musician, and I had grown up watching her play before learning from her when I was old enough. Hearing the random notes I had played took me back to a different time, when I had been protected and comfortable. When I had never worked or feared. When I had never gathered reeds and awaited my punishment.
A stunning rush of grief sliced through me.
“I miss you, Mother,” I whispered aloud.
A song returned to me, one of her favorites, called “Shepherds, I Have Lost My Love.” To my amazement, I realized I remembered it, each note coming to me as I hovered over the pianoforte, my eyes filmed with the wistful mist of my tears.