Epilogue
“I have made a terrible mistake.”
Owen stared at the curtained stage of Chuddums’s brand-new theatre.
It was the opening night of Grantley’s latest venture, which Rose’s emeralds had helped build, and from Owen’s vantage point in the prized second-floor box, the place was sold out.
People had traveled from near and far to attend the inaugural event.
“I should put a stop to this,” he said. “Ethan is going to hate what I’ve done—”
“Don’t be silly.” Finn squeezed his hand. “Your brother will love his surprise.”
“No, he won’t. He hates surprises. What possessed me to think that this was a good idea? He will think I went behind his back. This time, he won’t forgive me. Bloody hell, I should get on that stage and send everyone home—”
“Stop panicking,” Finn ordered. “It is too late to change anything. And you don’t need to: the concert will be perfect.”
“I shall be the judge of that.”
Owen’s throat closed when Ethan entered the box.
He had Xenia on his arm. Since Owen had needed Xenia’s help to set up the surprise, she knew what was about to happen.
For some reason, she didn’t look worried.
In fact, she gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Perhaps her advancing pregnancy had muddled her brain, and she didn’t realize the disaster he was about to cause.
“I don’t know why Grantley insisted on keeping the performer a secret,” Ethan grumbled as he and Xenia took their seats at the front of the box. “He might have consulted me. I cannot claim to be an expert in many matters, but the piano is one of them.”
“Do try to relax, darling, and enjoy the show,” Xenia said.
“That is my point. I shan’t be able to relax if the performer is not up to snuff. I’d rather take a bullet to the head than hear a piano badly played.”
Seated in the row behind, Owen felt his heart plunge to his polished shoes.
“Is that preemptive complaining from Ethan I hear?”
Gigi popped into the box on Grantley’s arm.
“It is what your brother does best,” her husband drawled.
“Very amusing,” Ethan retorted. “We shall see who is laughing when your patrons demand a refund for a second-rate performance.”
“Since I offered the tickets for free to draw a crowd, they can grumble all they want.” After taking his seat, Grantley twisted around, saying to Owen in an undertone, “The guests are not going to complain, are they? My reputation is riding on this. That mysterious virtuoso of yours better be worth his salt.”
Owen gulped, but it was too late. Mama and Papa arrived to claim the remaining seats, and the lights dimmed.
As the curtain rippled, the crowd held its collective breath.
Owen wondered wildly if this might be a nightmare.
He hadn’t had any since Finn started sleeping by his side. He was probably due—
“Darling.” Finn took his face in her hands. “Breathe.”
The love in her eyes calmed him.
Then the first notes of the piano floated into the theatre.
It had been the virtuoso’s idea to start the performance with the curtain drawn.
He’d wanted the focus to be on the sonata, which he’d deemed a masterpiece.
But Owen didn’t know the first thing about music, and his heart climbed steadily toward his throat as the gentle notes hovered in the air like a question.
It sounded lovely to him—but what did he know? He risked a glance at Ethan.
“Holy Mother of God.” Ethan bolted upright. “That’s my sonata.”
Owen braced himself for an outburst.
Yet Ethan fell silent, his gaze transfixed upon the wall of crimson velvet as the music changed.
The quiet, searching notes took on a different quality.
They gathered momentum, and lyric tenderness built into passionate intensity.
Music filled the auditorium, so grandly it seemed impossible that it could have come from a single instrument.
Phrase after phrase fell, some like spring rain, others like a winter storm, enthralling the audience.
“A true maestro,” Ethan whispered in awe. “It couldn’t be him.”
Only then did Owen release a breath.
The sonata continued to weave its magic. It shook the crowd with thunderous passages that reached every corner of the hall; it made them weep with moments of quiet, aching beauty. Owen felt the notes in his chest, his teeth, the sudden sting behind his eyes. Finn gripped his hand, nodding at Ethan.
Even in profile, Ethan’s expression was rapt, tracks of moisture on his cheeks.
When the last triumphant note was played, the audience surged to their feet, and Ethan was amongst them. The applause went on and on, calls of “Bravo!” shaking the rafters. Finally, the curtains parted, and the virtuoso came forward to take his bow.
“Bloody hell, it is Liszt,” Ethan shouted over the cheers. “How did you arrange this, Grantley?”
“Don’t look at me,” Grantley said with a grin. “This was Owen’s doing.”
Ethan turned around, and his startled joy filled Owen with relief.
“How did you…?”
“Liszt was the guest staying at Thymehill.” Owen smiled crookedly. “He liked the roses I planted.”
Ethan shook his head. “Lad, I don’t know how to—”
“Please don’t.” His voice hitched. “It was my honor. Being your brother is my honor.”
Ethan’s gaze glistened. He laid a hand on Owen’s shoulder, and his squeeze conveyed everything that needed to be said.
When the audience quieted, the maestro spoke. He was a tall, elegant man in his forties, with a dramatic mane of hair. His charisma filled the theatre the way his music had.
“I thank you for your gracious reception,” he said in clear, carrying tones. “It was my privilege to perform for you this eve.”
Pausing, he looked directly at the Harringtons’ box.
“While the maestro brings music to life during his performance, a composer shares his gift for lifetimes to come. Lord Ethan Harrington, I thank you for this sonata—for your work of power, passion, and unrivaled genius.”
When Liszt bowed, Ethan looked stunned. He only remembered to return the virtuoso’s courtesy when Xenia tearfully nudged him.
Suddenly, a familiar voice was heard over the din.
“You’re a famous bloke, eh?” Wally stood near the stage, giving the celebrated musician a genial once-over. “You’re handy at the pianoforte, I’ll grant you that. May I ask what brought you all the way to Chuddums?”
The entire theatre cringed.
Liszt, however, smiled.
“Sir, it is true that I have played for kings. But in this case”—his eyes glinted with amusement—“I came at the behest of a gardener. He gave me roses, and from one artist to another, I wished to repay his gift of beauty.”
Outside the glowing theatre, they heard the music and the laughter.
They felt the love and the healing.
And, finally, the chains fell.
Thomas smiled at his beloved. “She is happy.”
“Yes, she is,” Rose said softly. “They all are.”
“Our work here is done. Where shall we go now, my love?”
“Anywhere at all.” Rose looked at the other half of her soul with adoring eyes. “Now that our story has been told and the promises have been fulfilled, we are finally free.”
He whirled her in his arms. She laughed as he spun her faster. They floated into the night sky, higher and higher, twirling until their light melded into one, the brightest of stars.