Chapter 10 Rhys
Rhys
Someone was playing in the conservatory. Rhys wondered who it could be. The room had been shuttered ever since they’d gone into mourning, and he had never opened it back up. He hadn’t seen the point.
He was on his way to the library in the east wing when he heard the music, a haunting melody that curled in the air.
The pianist was clearly masterful. But why they were playing in the conservatory and not the salon filled him with irritation.
He was already out of sorts, having stayed up way too late last night translating the diary’s opening pages.
Now the last thing he wished to do was converse with houseguests—and a wayward guest was presently in the conservatory playing like a maestro.
His curiosity was too piqued not to find out who possessed such astonishing talent.
He had invited four families and barely spoken with them.
The Winslows had brought Flora’s sister, Lady Fauna.
The other families, the Westbrooks and the Eastons, had brought their daughters, and he couldn’t even remember the name of the fourth family, the Bailfrys or Balfords?
Unfortunately, the daughter was just as forgettable.
Lord Erickson was the lone male guest, who had come to inspect the library. Presently, Rhys was too distracted to talk to the man. He only wanted to question the woman from the labyrinth and read the diary.
The irony was not lost on him. The first day of his house party where he’d finally decided to do his duty and marry and a woman shows up in his labyrinth looking like she’d stepped from the mists of a fairy tale and all his good intentions had gone up in smoke.
The timing seemed intentional, which only made his suspicions rise.
Where had she come from? Now thanks to his mother, who had invited their mystery guest to stay, it looked like he would have plenty of time to find out.
Earlier that morning at breakfast, his mother had entered the dining room looking more frazzled than usual. Then she astounded him by announcing to the guests, “I’m pleased to share vee vill have an additional guest joining our party! Miss Brighton, zee daughter of my late husband’s dear friend.”
Rhys blinked, listening to the outrageous lie.
“She has just arrived overseas from America and is most tired from her travels. Unfortunately, her trunks have gone missing, hence zee delay in her joining us, but vee are overjoyed to include her in zee festivities.”
Rhys’s eyebrows shot up. They were? Had his mother gone mad?
He held up the gold quizzing glass hanging around his neck to his eye and gave her a pointed look.
Only she would know he was irritated. It was his father’s quizzing glass.
Rhys had borrowed it last night, using the little magnifying glass to study the diary.
His mother ignored his signal and continued. “She vill join us later today.”
Rhys scowled and dropped the quizzing glass while his mother avoided looking at him. He waited until the guests finished breakfast and then led her into his study, where he dropped his voice to a fierce whisper in German. “What in blazes are you doing? We can’t let her stay!”
“Rhys, don’t be unkind. Vhere vould zee poor girl go?”
“Home! Back to her family who is surely looking for her. I will send out inquiries right away to the neighboring estates.”
His mother looked alarmed. “No! Don’t zend her away. You mustn’t.”
“Why ever not?” He raised the quizzing glass to make a point, and she swatted it away.
“Vhat if she needs our protection? Vhat if she is running away? Amnesia is triggered by trauma. Terrible, terrible trauma! Who knows vhat kind?” She fisted her hands in determination and stomped her foot like a child. “She must stay here. Vivianne vill lend her clothes, and you vill be kind.”
“Mother . . .” He sighed. “That is your problem. You are too kind. And naive. Does she truly have amnesia? She knew her name. Magellan Brighton. And she thought she was a harpist at a wedding. That doesn’t sound like amnesia.”
His mother pressed, her eyes wide with worry. “Zhen she is afraid. Surely vee must give her time to recover before vee alert anyone to her vhereabouts.”
Rhys sighed again and of course gave in to his mother’s wishes. But he would need to have a private audience with Miss Brighton and question her.
“Now enough of zis talk.” His mother headed toward the door. “Our guests are vaiting.”
Rhys swallowed his frustration and followed, ready to perform his duties as host. He took a brisk morning ride with the guests and thought of Miss Brighton only once. Then he led everyone on a tour of the gardens and out to the pond for a picnic, where he tried not to think of Miss Brighton at all.
Lady Fauna seemed to be on his arm the most, needing assistance to step over rocks and such.
She also kept dropping her handkerchief repeatedly to his ire.
He didn’t know if he wanted to encourage her handkerchief dropping.
Lady Fauna’s laugh was quite high-pitched and her face had a pinched look, as if she wasn’t taking in enough air.
Not to mention they had run out of conversation after discussing the weather.
Rhys found the perfect moment to excuse himself from the picnic early.
Back at the house he enquired about Miss Brighton and was told she was convalescing in her room.
With nothing to do but wait for her appearance, he returned to the library to translate more of the diary until dinner.
Everyone else would be doing archery or needlepoint or some other fluff.
If Miss Brighton did not present herself at dinner, then he would go find her himself.
He had made his way to the east wing to sequester himself in the library when he heard the haunting music coming from down the hallway. He bypassed the library and headed to the conservatory and quietly opened one of the doors.
Not knowing who to expect, it definitely wasn’t to see her seated at the piano.
Miss Brighton’s back was to the door, her arms spread wide over the keys. Her hair was upswept, and she was dressed in an elegant gown. She was playing with a mastery he’d never witnessed before, and she had no sheet music. He could only watch spellbound, his feet rooted to the floor.
The song traversed every possible emotion—hope, love, loss, rage—until the music distilled into a poignant melody.
She bent low over the keys to play it tenderly.
All the while Rhys stood riveted by the door, not daring to move, not daring to breathe.
Her playing felt like an arm was reaching inside his chest and squeezing his heart.
Then the song ended.
Miss Brighton sat in silence for a suspended moment, the silence just as much a part of the music.
Her hands stayed poised above the keys. Rhys waited, holding his breath to see if she would play again.
When she didn’t, he hesitated, about to step forward and announce himself.
He’d only been wanting to talk with her all day.
Before he could, she stunned him by laying her head down on the piano to weep.
Rhys hovered, unsure what to do. Witnessing any woman’s tears was one of the singular worst experiences in life. He’d seen his mother cry only once, when his father died, and it had almost broken him. To intrude on such a private moment felt wrong.
He gently pulled the door closed and waited in the hallway as he listened to her muffled cries.
The sound was simply dreadful. He tried not to fidget.
He checked his pocket watch. He fiddled with his quizzing glass and studied the carpet.
Then he studied his boots, noting how they gleamed. He would have to compliment his valet.
Finally, she grew quiet.
All he could think was his mother was right. The poor woman was suffering from some kind of trauma and needed their protection. He would give her time to compose herself, then he would announce his presence, and they could speak frankly, but he would be gentle with his questioning.
Several minutes passed as he waited with bated breath outside the door, desperately wanting to go in. He heard only silence, but at least she’d stopped crying.
After a few more minutes, he expected her to resume playing, but she did not. Unable to wait any longer, he peeked through the door to find the room empty.
The doors leading to the gardens were open. She was gone.