Chapter 12
Seraphine sat at the pianoforte, gently plunking out a Christmas tune. She wasn’t overly thinking about it. She was just letting her fingers have their way as she sat there.
She had forgotten how much she loved music.
How much she loved the way that simply striking a key that then struck a string caused music, like magic, to reverberate from the instrument.
She’d forgotten all of that in her endless pursuit of skills, of perfection without enjoyment.
She could play Bach and Mozart, and even Beethoven, without hesitation and so technically correct that even the great masters could not find fault.
But she had forgotten that she loved it. That it was beautiful. That she was making something miraculous when she sat down to play.
The Briarwoods had reminded her of that, and as she played the simple tune that was as beautiful as any concerto, tears filled her eyes.
Tears that she had wasted so much time feeling…
nothing. Feeling as if she couldn’t stop until she was perfect.
But Laertes was right; no one could ever attain perfection.
There was no end, as she could see here at the Duke of Westleigh’s estate.
Life was a journey, and the only end was when one breathed out their last. Would she waste those moments trying to win the favor and approval of those who were unhappy themselves?
She did not wipe away the tears but let them fall because they felt good. They felt as if they were purifying her soul, as if she was setting down a burden that she had picked up on Christmas Day so many, many years ago.
Laertes was about the house somewhere, and she’d needed a moment alone, a moment of quiet to understand herself.
For the last few days, she had spent her entire time surrounded, except, of course, for those few hours when she’d been alone in her room, wishing she was with Laertes.
But now, even at night, she was with him.
Though some might have assumed the tears meant something different, the truth was she was so happy. She was so happy she didn’t know what to do. The feeling was completely and utterly foreign to her. It was positively terrifying.
How awful was that?
That happiness was terrifying. She kept waiting for something bad to happen, if she was honest. Mostly, she kept waiting for one of the Briarwoods to censure her. For her to disappoint them.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. All her life, she’d had to strive to get people to like her.
Well, the version of her that she thought people wanted, the version of her that her mother had forced her to become. In some ways, she wasn’t even entirely certain that she knew who she was.
Laertes knew who she was. That she was certain of. Somehow, he had looked right inside her heart and her soul and seen her true self. He had a better idea of who she was than she did, and that was absolutely mad, but it was also right.
Because in the short days that she had spent in this house, she had already learned many things.
She loved good tea. She loved the pianoforte.
She loved to sing. She loved to play with Laertes.
She adored being entwined in his arms. She wanted to do a plunge into the river, though she wasn’t certain about that, at the New Year.
She loved to eat chocolate and cake. She loved to laugh and play games with the children.
Blindman’s Bluff was one of her favorite games, as were doing similes and riddles with the children.
The children were remarkable at similes.
They made her laugh with all of the jokes they made out of people’s names and words and the twisting of them to make delightful concoctions that were meant to amuse.
She loved children. She loved being with them.
She hadn’t really realized that before. She wasn’t really allowed to be around them.
There weren’t many children at the courts that she attended.
But in this house, she saw children with eyes dancing and cheeks bright and lips parted in smiles, with open hearts.
She’d been hugged more times than she had in her entire life in the last days.
And it made her feel loved, alive, special.
She now understood what Laertes had meant about owning how special the Briarwoods were.
She had accused the Briarwoods of being arrogant, but they weren’t.
They were right to think so well of themselves and to love themselves so dearly, because they were good and strong.
They abandoned themselves and each other for no one and nothing.
It was a wonder.
She stopped playing for a moment and savored the quiet, a rarity in this loud, happy house.
She looked to the windows and then to the portraits on the wall and the paintings. It was such a beautiful place full of old things, but it wasn’t a prisoner of the past. Somehow the house was as free as the people in it.
“Are you all right, my dear?” a voice called from the doorway.
She turned quickly. The dowager duchess stood there like a spirit of Christmas, a spirit of the house. She was as much a part of this house as anything. She was the lynchpin of it all.
“I am perfectly well, thank you. I was merely thinking. That’s all.”
The dowager duchess took a step in, her burgundy skirts, embroidered with golden roses, swishing about her legs. “Do you mind if I join you in your thinking? Or did you wish to think alone? Although sometimes I do think thinking alone can be quite a dangerous thing indeed.”
Seraphine laughed and turned towards the dowager. “I don’t disagree with you, but this time none of my thoughts are terrible.”
The dowager’s silvery brows rose. “Are your thoughts often terrible?”
Seraphine winced. “Sometimes.”
“How so?” the dowager duchess asked, gliding into the room with a confidence that few had. “But first, if you choose to share those terrible thoughts, I have come bearing a gift.”
She cocked her head to the side, intrigued. “Oh?”
The dowager duchess produced a small, beautifully made paper box. “My dear granddaughter-in-law, Lady Hester, has been busy in the kitchens with her friend, Mrs. Ellen, and she made these.”
The dowager duchess lifted the lid and showed her jewel-like little marzipans. One was in the shape of a pear, one was in the shape of an orange, and another was in the shape of a strawberry.
“They are remarkable,” she gasped. Such things were quite common in the wealthiest houses in Europe, but somehow these felt…unique. Touched with love.
“Would you like one?” the dowager asked.
“How can I possibly say no?”
“That is a very good answer,” the dowager said. “And it seems to me you’ve been giving that answer more and more of late. Which is a very good thing.”
She smiled, glad for the approval, and she didn’t feel guilty for wanting that approval. The approval felt different this time, for it was not approval of a curtsy or approval of a turn of her wrist. It was approval of Seraphine’s choices.
She took up the beautiful little marzipan pear. She took a bite of the delectable bit of art and the flavor burst in her mouth, transporting her to as close a place to heaven as one could get.
Her eyes fluttered shut at the sweet artistry of it.
“I like to see you appreciate things,” the dowager said.
She snapped her gaze open. “Thank you. I’m glad I get to.”
The dowager nodded and said ruefully, “I don’t think you’ve really been allowed to appreciate things.”
“What do you mean?” she asked as she took another bite of the marzipan.
The dowager chose the small orange and took a nibble. “Well, you’ve had to focus so entirely on making sure that you are…”
“Perfect?” she put in, resigned. It was her word, after all.
The dowager nodded. “Whatever that is. It seems to me you’ve not been allowed to enjoy the smallest things around you.”
Her mouth dried and the marzipan turned bitter as a wave of sadness crashed over her. “Oliver and I have never really been allowed to enjoy our lives. But the strangest thing is, Your Grace,” she said softly, “I genuinely believe that my mother loves us. My father did too.”
The dowager let out a long sigh, crossed to the piano, and leaned against it, though it was clear how strong she was, despite her years. “Unfortunately, that often happens. My dear, would you mind scooting over so an old lady can sit beside you?”
“You’re not so very old,” she replied.
“Oh, but I am,” the dowager said quickly, “and I’m quite proud of it. Now scoot over.”
She did. She had no desire to say no to this kind woman, and as the dowager duchess had pointed out, she was embracing things now.
“You see,” the dowager began slowly, “parents love their children very much, but they often are misguided in how they show it. A mother will want her daughter to do better than she did and avoid the pitfalls that she fell into.” She drew in a weary breath.
“And so the criticism will begin. A mother sets out on the quest for her daughter to be the very best at everything. A mother wants her daughter to be admired by all society. To be a diamond, as it were.”
She winced. “Diamonds are cold and hard,” Seraphine said. “They’re not even as pretty as emeralds, as sapphires. They’re distant.”
The dowager laughed. “Are you sure you’re not a poet? Laertes has the soul of a poet. I think you do too. You’re just the thing for him.”
“Am I?” she asked, though if she was honest, she was not surprised at the statement. “He’s certainly the thing for me.”
“He is special, that boy.”
“I’ve come to understand that,” she replied.
The dowager was rather enigmatic, but she said gently, “Have you come to understand all about him?”
“I think he understands me better than I understand him.” She bit her lower lip, then confessed, “But I love his soul.”
“Do you?” the dowager breathed, clearly pleased.
“There’s something unique about it, isn’t there?”
The dowager nodded.