Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley (18 page)

Cecile looked taken-aback. “You promised Lord Hartley that you would go to England with him? But why?”

“It seemed to be the only sure way to help Sir Lucian. Hart knows Miss Cartwell, has known her since they were children. I am very sure that he is the only one who could have persuaded her to perform. But you know how much he dislikes Sir Lucian. I didn’t have time to persuade him, and I didn’t want to take the chance that I might fail. So I struck a devil’s bargain instead. I proposed that if he should help me in this, I would go back home with him. Tonight. After the concert.”

Maggie looked at Cecile to try and gage her reaction, all the while remembering the inexplicable disappointment she had glimpsed in Hart’s eyes after he had heard her offer.

“A devil’s bargain indeed.” Cecile looked pale, but determined. “But I know that you did what you felt was necessary. It was a very selfless thing to do.”

“Yes. I am very sorry I hadn’t told you sooner. I don’t think I really believed myself that this wonderful dream of Paris could come to an end so abruptly. And I don’t know how I shall get on without you. Will you forgive me?”

Cecile frowned. “Yes, of course. But… Without me? I am going with you.”

“Indeed, not. Not unless you truly want to, and I can see that you don’t. You are happy here. This world of gowns and marvels. Why should you be drawn back into the endless grey with me? You must stay here, be Madame Finette and live free for the both of us. In Paris, you can be amidst all the beauty and vivacity of the Continent – and, who knows, some gentleman could come in tomorrow and sweep you off your feet,” she said, thinking of the handsome solicitor.

Cecile chuckled and took Maggie’s hands in hers, though her eyes lacked humour.

“Gentleman! Who has time for that? But you have been a sister to me, and sisters are more important than romance.”

“You have been a true sister to me too, Cecile – and while it shall break my heart to be parted from you, I know that this is the life that will truly bring you joy.”

Cecile sniffled, and produced a handkerchief. “Dearest Maggie. But perhaps things may yet work out. Life has been rather surprising up to now, you must admit.”

“It has, hasn’t it? Do you remember that first day at Dover, when I was sure the duke and duchess would drag us back to Papa? And don’t cry, or I shall cry too, and we will both look a right mess.”

Then they were hugging, laughing and crying at the same time, as only sisters and the very best of friends can.

At last, Maggie calmed down and took a deep breath. “I think, since this is to be our last day together, and since you must now face Madame Gallois without me, we deserve to have a glass or two between us!” With an impish smile, she moved to the cupboard and produced two glasses and a bottle of sherry that she had purchased weeks ago in wait for a special occasion.

They had three glasses each and giggled like schoolgirls caught in a prank.

“But how shall Madame Finette go on without your sketches?” Cecile asked suddenly.

“Perfectly well, I am confident. There is rather a large collection already. And I will still send you my new plates whenever I am able. I think that you must appoint more apprentices to help with the sewing. Now, we know what I am to wear tonight, but what have you picked out?”

Cecile looked taken aback at that. “But I’ll not be going. There is so much yet –”

“Of course you shall. I insist on it. You can’t sit at those ledgers all night long.”

“I assure you, I do not mind it. What can be better than the shop?
This
is what I have always wanted – and I am determined that we must make a success of it. Besides, I find that I enjoy the ledgers. They help me think, and dream. I remember my mother best when I am in the shop – it is the sort of establishment she would have wanted for me. I feel as though she is always with me when I am there.”

Maggie suddenly felt a very strong longing for her own mother: a mother to hug her, to advise her and to help her set the world to rights. She smiled softly at Cecile.

“I’m glad. Memories are a very precious thing. And I am happier still to know that you have such a place. But it isn’t in the shop that your mother lives, Cecile – her home is in your heart. And she is always with you, whenever you need her.”

Maggie reached over to embrace her friend again. They had weathered so many storms together. Having to say goodbye felt impossible.

“Now, I am very sure that you can take a break for one night and hear Sir Lucian’s masterpiece. If I may not bury myself in work, then nor may you.”

*

Maggie wondered if Hart would be at the symphony. She’d not seen him at all since they had come to their agreement, and if she didn’t know better, she would have thought that he was purposefully avoiding her. But why should he, when he had clearly won?

The countess confused her even more when, on the way to the concert, she confided in Maggie that she was deeply concerned for Hart’s health – there was something weighing heavily on his mind.

“At the last minute, he sent his apologies that he would be unable to drive with us to the theatre tonight – he pleaded urgent business and said that he would have to be late. It is all very unlike him.”

She gave Maggie a very intense, knowing look as she spoke, and it rather chilled Maggie’s blood. How much of the truth did Marie-Josette know? Maggie did her best to look surprised at the lady’s concerns and utterly unaware of the pointed gaze directed her way.

“I am certain I could not guess why that might be, but I hope that it will pass soon. Are you certain he will be at the symphony tonight?” she asked in her calmest voice, which utterly contradicted the racing of her heart.

“Indeed I am. He promised me that he would be my escort. Such a fine, devoted young man, my nephew. Did your husband care for music at all?”

Husband?
Maggie was confused a moment, having forgotten all about her late imaginary spouse in the wake of the whole strange situation with Hart. She felt like a harp string wound too tightly.

“My husband?” she echoed absently.

The older woman nodded, waiting for her reply.

“Oh – yes. He liked it very much. Though I don’t think he ever had the privilege of hearing Sir Lucian’s work…”

She hastily joined Cecile in gazing out of the window at the
Comedie Française
, which was surrounded by carriages and lit up in a way that managed to make the building look even more majestic.

*

Maggie peered anxiously out of the box they had taken for the performance.

Hart was still nowhere to be seen.

She tried to distract herself by looking for Sir Lucian, but he had yet to make his entrance. Maggie was sorry that she had been unable to speak to him before the performance. She had glimpsed him only briefly on her way to the box, when he had been surrounded by a bevy of fashionables and admirers.

In the stalls, the audience buzzed excitedly. Everyone had heard of Sir Lucian’s near-disaster and Miss Cartwell’s unexpected rescue.

Maggie still could not believe that this was to be her last night in Paris. It seemed as though only yesterday she had first set foot in this marvellous city. And it also felt as though she had lived here all her life.

She wondered how she could ever again fit into the life she’d had at Chenefelt Park. She had grown so far beyond reach of it that she simply could not fathom the thought of taking it up again.

Hart arrived just as the lights were being dimmed and the last stragglers took their seats. He smiled at his aunt and gave Maggie and Cecile identical, polite greetings before taking his chair.

If the countess thought it odd that he knew the baroness’s reclusive cousin, she did not say so.

Despite his cool behaviour, Maggie could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, burning through her skin and making her pulse race. Did he think that she would leap to her feet and run away from him, despite giving him her word of honour?

The thought made her angry.

She wished that Frederick were there – her bother, for all his teasing, had always acted as a buffer between them.

Cecile and the countess quietly discussed the programme, but Maggie could barely bring herself to speak. The same affliction seemed to be troubling Hart, for he spoke gracefully, but only when he was directly addressed.

“You mustn’t be so gloomy, my boy,” said the countess, with a twinkle at her nephew. “It makes you look stormy like your father. He was always in a huff. After all, you can come back to Paris just as soon as your London business is over.”

Maggie frowned. London business? Was that meant to be her?

Off-balance at this revelation, she dropped her fan, and quickly moved to retrieve it.

“Allow me,” Hart said, bending over and picking up the silk bauble. His index finger brushed hers lightly as he returned the fan, and she felt that same familiar thrill shoot through her hand at the contact.

She stole a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye, but could read nothing on his handsome face.

“It is only natural that I should be in the doldrums while I am away from you, aunt,” Hart said politely, in response to his aunt’s admonition.

“Hah. You always were a clever boy with words. If only you exerted that much effort with ladies, I should be a
great aunt
by now. And don’t pout. At my age, I am allowed to say just what I please.”

Then the audience began to applaud and they saw that Sir Lucian had taken the stage at last, bowing to the auditorium and producing the conductor’s baton.

It was obvious that he had already won over the hearts of his audience before so much as a note had been played. Who could resist his charm, his miraculous good luck and his extraordinary talent? It seemed that even those not usually given to the appreciation of such concerts were eager to know how the great composer and the legendary Miss Cartwell would do together.

With a graceful sweep of the baton, the music started.

It was, Maggie thought, like Ambrosia for the soul. Surely even the food of the gods could not compare with the sheer passion and heart that poured out of every note?

If ever there was a perfect moment, when the whole world was poised tremulously still and listening, this had to be it.

It was as though every musician was connected to the music, as though they had become mere instruments performing the will of something greater and more powerful then they. The music ebbed and swelled.
The Gloaming
, Maggie thought, savouring the perfection of the title. It was a magic slice of time. Her emotions eagerly followed the music wherever it wished to lead her, sweeping away her own anxieties.

Tangled within the music, she heard strains of joy and love, longing and sorrow, memory and the simple, everyday beauty of simply being alive. It made her feel as though anything in the world were possible. Anything at all.

She believed in magic, and love – and she believed, most of all, in people.

She glanced over at Cecile. Her friend wore an expression of rapture that must have mirrored her own.

It took a moment for Maggie to register that the music had stopped for a brief intermission, and the rest of the affected audience were just as surprised, for they filed out of the room in a dazed, uncharacteristic silence.

Hart stepped out to retrieve some refreshments for the ladies.

He brought back strong tea and some dainties requested by the countess, a light fruit punch for Cecile, and a cup of chocolate spiced with cinnamon for Maggie, though she had not thought to request one.

She looked at him in confusion, to find his blue eyes dark and compelling. He always did have such beautiful eyes…

“I remembered it was your favourite,” Hart said quietly.

Despite her emotional turmoil, Maggie was deeply touched. How could he possibly have remembered something she had told him so offhandedly at Christmas?

“Thank you,” she replied, just as softly and perhaps a touch wistfully.

He merely smiled in reply.

*

The magic of Sir Lucian’s composition was just as captivating in second half of the performance. When the final movement was over and the crowds rose to applaud, Maggie discovered that there was a trail of tears down her cheeks. The others also appeared to have been deeply moved by the music, but hers were the only wet eyes in their box, she noticed with chagrin. Flustered, she searched for a handkerchief in her reticule.

“Please, Madame,” Hart said, offering her his own.

Maggie could see his coat of arms tastefully embroidered in one corner. She thanked him, accepting the proffered square of silk. She saw that something powerful was brewing in his gaze, like a tide rising: inevitable and uncontrollable. But then it was gone. He nodded at her and turned away.

“Well, mademoiselle, and what did you make of the symphony?” Hart asked Cecile.

She raised her eyebrows at the question as she considered.

“I thought it very moving, my lord. Sir Lucian is the most talented composer I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing. And Miss Cartwell was sublime.”