Chapter 4
“There are not more than five musical notes, yet the combinations of these five give rise to more melodies than can ever be heard.”
I’d never been one for humility. It wore thin when overused, like a poorly applied veneer.
Therefore, I didn’t hide the fact that I was an expert in many fields.
I not only spoke fluent French, German, and Italian, but I also had such a firm command of Latin that I once found an error in a translation of Metamorphoses and submitted a correction to the publisher.
In addition, I excelled at watercolor, classic literature, history, arithmetic, and even archery.
My tutors demanded perfection in my studies, and I delivered.
My skills with the pianoforte, however, were a different story.
As I sat in Mother’s music room, clumsy fingers plunking at the ivory keys, I was sorely reminded of my lack of skill—and the hole in my heart Mother once inhabited.
She was a bright woman, with a voice as melodious as the songbird she used to keep in this room.
The bird would whistle merry tunes, and Mother would capture its music with her pianoforte and compose the most beautiful songs.
As a child, I’d curl up on the velvet chaise in the corner and watch her fingers dance over the keys like sunlight on water.
“This song is for you, darling,” she would say each time she finished a composition. “See?” She pointed to the top of the handwritten sheet music, where she’d scribbled the words For my Helena.
Her sheet music was all I had left of her.
But no matter how much I practiced, I could never bring her music to life.
Her hands had soared over the keys. Mine fumbled.
Her rhythms were fluid and alive. Mine were stiff.
Even if I played the notes correctly, the music—the part of her soul she captured through song—was gone.
Still, playing her pianoforte brought a much-needed balance to my thoughts.
I was still simmering from last week’s ball, where Mr. Hawke had both insulted and rejected me in the span of ten minutes.
If I was going to succeed in convincing one of my two candidates to marry me without a dowry, I needed Mr. Hawke well out of mind.
The door to the music room flung open. I winced as it crashed into the wall, causing the gilded cage that once held Mother’s songbird to nearly topple over.
“What in the devil are you doing in here, Helena?” Father demanded. “I thought I told the servants to shut up this miserable room.”
I closed the fallboard to protect the precious keys from his insults. “Good afternoon, Father.”
“Surely you have better things to do than make my ears bleed. The butler was complaining.”
“Practice makes perfect.”
He snorted. “You ought to abandon this childish hobby. Stick to your strengths—your little paintings and whatnot. I don’t like seeing you play her instrument.”
Her. Father couldn’t even say Mother’s name out loud. He hadn’t in the ten years since she’d been gone.
Since you caused her death, a haunting voice reminded me. It was the one time I disobeyed Father, and Mother had paid the price. I pushed the awful thought away, forcing the tightness in my chest to dissipate.
“You’re right, of course.” I stood, putting the pianoforte behind me. “Is that all, Father?”
“No.” He sniffed. “I have news.”
I paused, unable to discern the expression pinching my father’s face. “Bad news?”
“Excellent news.”
Ah, so that expression was happiness. No wonder I didn’t recognize it. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Father pleased.
“What is it?” I asked, stepping forward. Had Father settled his debts and turned the tide of our misfortunes?
He sat down with a wide smile, resting his boots on the velvet chaise—my chaise. “I've just clinched a deal, a most favorable one!”
“What kind of business?”
“The man is a bungler!” He laughed, not answering my question. “He proposed the deal to me, and I got him to pay twice as much as he should have. Oh, I can’t wait to rub it in Pratt’s face tonight at the club.”
“Are we safe? Is the estate secure?”
Father’s smile faltered. “Hardly. It’s a tidy sum, not a grand fortune. But it’s enough to address the most immediate concerns… as well as buy you some new dresses.”
I perked up. “Really?”
Father picked at his fingernails. “Pratt asked me if my investments were in trouble, since I apparently couldn’t afford to give my daughter new dresses.” He scowled. “The presumptuous cad. Now half the club thinks I’ve lost my business sense, and I won’t stand for it.”
I bit my tongue. I had warned Father of this very thing, but he had discarded my warning like chaff.
“So you’ll buy me a new wardrobe? Truly?”
“You are my only child, and although you are not my male heir, you still represent my good name. As such, you should not wear old clothes. Or old jewelry, for that matter.” Father stood and pulled out a small box from his pocket. “Hold out your wrist.”
I obeyed. “What’s this?”
“You are the jewel of the season, Helena. This is a reminder to not be just any jewel, but the one that shines the brightest.” He slid a delicate silver chain around my wrist. A single, clear stone dangled from it.
I held the bracelet up to the light, mesmerized by the rainbow the jewel cast on my skin.
“A diamond?” I asked, breathless. Although I was elated at Father’s gift, the high cost made my stomach churn. Why would he buy this when we so desperately needed money?
Father placed his hands over mine in an unusually affectionate gesture. “You must be a diamond, Helena. You cannot have a single flaw if you are to save this estate.”
I swallowed and nodded. Father was right—there was no room for imperfection. It was not only my family who depended on my success, but that of every servant in the household, as well as the tenants under my father’s care.
I glanced briefly at the pianoforte, ignoring the sinking in my chest. “I promise I’ll succeed, Father.”
“Good.” My father eyed me. “How is your progress? Have you received a proposal yet?”
“There has been only one ball, Father. Even I cannot conjure a proposal in a single night. But I have selected my candidates.”
“Who?”
“The Baron of Cranford.”
“Excellent choice. I respect a man with a title. Who else?”
“Mr. Marceaux.”
He frowned. “The Frenchman?”
“He was born French, but his family fled France and swore loyalty to our king. He’s legally an Englishman now, and a rich one at that.”
“He could be Napoleon’s son for all I care, as long as he’s got enough money to pay for you.” Father crossed his arms in thought. “What about that Hawke fellow? Did you meet him at the ball?”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “Edmond Hawke?”
“I’ve heard promising things about him. He’s new to town, but people say he’s tripled his fortune in the span of just one year. Even so, I have a feeling he’s dim enough to forgo a dowry.”
I inhaled and exhaled before saying, “He’s not a good candidate, Father.”
“Nonsense. He’s richer than Cranford and Marceaux combined.”
“Father, I really don’t—”
“You can set your hook into him this weekend at the Pratts’ garden party.”
“But—”
Father gave me a warning glare, and I shut my mouth. No part of me wanted to pursue Mr. Hawke. He was arrogant, rude, and entirely too consumed with his own greatness. But Father didn’t care about any of that.
Sun Tzu’s words rang in my head like a beacon of hope: According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one’s plans.
I stood, a new approach springing to mind. “You said it yourself, Father. The man is a newcomer. The ton knows hardly anything about him.”
“He’s rich and unmarried. What else is there to know?”
“What I’m trying to say is that any match I make will reflect on you. He could be a scoundrel for all we know. Or a rake, or a gambler—”
“So what if he is?” Father bellowed.
I flinched at the outburst but kept my head held high. “If Mr. Hawke turns out to be of poor character, then what will people think about the father who blessed the marriage?”
Father paused, deliberating. “You’re right.
We can’t have you paired with someone unworthy of my name.
” He stood. “I want you to find out everything there is to know about Mr. Hawke. If he’s found lacking, we’ll have lost nothing of consequence.
But mark my words, Helena—I won’t dismiss him over mere trifles.
He’s an ideal match, and only a grave flaw would change my mind. ”
Relief flooded through me. “Thank you, Father, not only for your wisdom, but also for the dress allowance and the bracelet.”
“Anything for my daughter,” he said, patting the diamond on my wrist. “But you will speak to Hawke at the Pratts’ garden party. Learn more about him. Win him over.”
My relief vanished, but I nodded. “I’ll go to the modiste immediately to place my order so a dress will be ready before the next ball.”
He waved his hand. “Do as you wish, as long as you do it brilliantly. Remember—not even a wrinkle!”
As soon as he left, I glanced down at the bracelet hanging heavy on my wrist. The diamond gleamed back at me, a merciless reminder of what was at stake if I didn’t secure a wealthy match in the next eight weeks. Only flawless diamonds held value. The same was expected of me.
But what if I didn’t receive a proposal in time? The question had boiled my thoughts every night as I fought to sleep. I envisioned it all with terrible clarity: our house foreclosed, the viscountcy reduced to a meaningless title, a hurried marriage to a man rich enough to purchase a wife.
My throat tightened, as if the air in the music room had thinned. The threat of that dark, unknown future overwhelmed me to the point of panic. It was like a beast, its maw wide open, waiting to swallow me whole if I so much as slipped.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the awful image to depart, and steadied myself on the pianoforte. He wins his battles by making no mistakes.
It was then I decided I wouldn’t remove the bracelet until my wedding day, which would not be to Edmond Hawke if I had anything to say about it. The diamond would be a constant reminder that perfection was no longer a lofty goal to strive for—
It was survival.