Chapter 15
GRACE
“Dras-ko Mawr,” Grace repeated slowly.
In her room, she sat at the desk and thought for the longest time about what exactly made her angry at her husband.
He didn’t want her yet had to marry her. The wealthiest man in London had no choice—intriguing, to say the least. Perhaps, she was unjustly cross while he tried to navigate the new life he had been forced into just like her.
Her hopes and dreams only days ago were now engulfed in flames. Fate was strange. Cruel? Not yet. But he held it in his hands. And what had Grace done all her life in circumstances like this? Played by the rules and made sure everything was perfect.
Dras-ko , she mouthed again, rolling the syllables that tasted like whisky, heavy and sharp.
She had looked up his name in an encyclopedia. Of Slavic origin, Serbian or Montenegrin, perhaps. “Precious” it meant.
Unlikely.
But with bitterness, there came subtle acceptance. A tune played in her mind. She hummed. The lyrics started forming on their own, like they always did—places, feelings, senses. Some wrote diaries. Grace composed songs.
She took a pad out of a drawer and started writing. This was her talent. Music was her soul. Everything she’d ever loved or hated always trickled into her songs.
This time, she wrote about green eyes. The words, disjointed at first, slowly spilled onto the paper. The tune hummed in her head, a sad one, but hopeful. She made it hopeful, wanted it to be.
This marriage would work. She would make it work! At least until he decided to set her free, he’d said.
Her fingers started dancing on the smooth wooden surface of the desk, imitating the piano chords.
Grace noted them down, and soon, she forgot herself.
The chords formed into a sensual song. She rose from her seat and walked around the room, singing to herself.
Her fingers flicked in the air as she mimicked the chords, her steps in rhythm with the invisible tempo.
She didn’t know how much time had passed when she finally inspected her notes—songs and songs written about… him .
She dropped them as if they scalded her.
He did not deserve her songs!
She bit her lip and stood in silence by the window for some time, trying to calm her mind.
A frantic knock came at the door, and Eden burst into the room. “My lady! Oh, but you have to come downstairs at once!”
What now? “Is Mr. Mawr there?”
“Your husband? No.”
Everyone was set on reminding her who he was to her.
“He left, ma’am. Business, he said. But there is a man asking for you. Several men, to be exact. And…” Eden’s eyes glowed with a glee that only made Grace intrigued. “But come, ma’am! Please come!”
Samira stood outside the door, too, smiling, as always.
Loud noises came from downstairs—men’s voices, harsh orders, the sound of something being dragged, someone’s authoritative bark, “There! There! Oh, you be… Care-ful! By God! It cost more than your life! My life, too! Right there! Perfect!”
What in the world?
Grace hurried down the stairs, into the music room, and halted in the doorway.
There, in the middle of the room, sat a full-size concert grand piano, its shape unmistakable under a beige cloth.
A grand piano for her? Broken? Crippled? Was that another lesson for her to learn?
Her heart painfully contracted in her chest—this must be another trick.
The workmen stepped aside, bowing to her.
A short elderly man with a cane and wearing glasses hurried toward her.
“I am Jacque Ormsby. I own Ormsby Pianos,” he said, bowing with a broad white smile framed by a thick beard and bushy mustache. He reached for her. “Miss Grace Sommerville. Oh, Miss Grace! What an honor!”
She flinched at the sound of her former name.
His eyes widened in panicky realization. “Oh, pardon, pardon me, ma’am! Mrs. Mawr, of course! How foolish of me. Forgive me, forgive me.” He bowed in apology and kissed her hand that she absently put into his, glancing curiously at the instrument. “We are not yet used to the change, Mrs. Mawr.”
“We?”
“Well, yes, the admirers of your talent. We have delivered your order!” He hurried toward the covered instrument and paused with his hand on the cloth, smiling at her.
“My order?”
“Mr. Mawr ordered it for you. He did. And it is… Oh, but you shall be the judge! I present to you?—”
His eyes glinted conspiratorially as he theatrically pulled the cloth up. The thin fabric flew upward and glided along the slick piano surface onto the floor.
Grace gasped. Her heart skipped a beat.
“It is a custom model by the talented American builder, Henry Steinway. Steinway & Sons,” Mr. Ormsby announced proudly.
Grace walked as if in a dream toward the most beautiful grand piano she had ever seen.
“It is the classic but recently updated design of the concert grand. Rosewood, mother-of-pearl, and gold,” Mr. Ormsby explained.
But Grace barely listened.
In awe, she walked around the grand piano, the light from the large windows beaming off the slick surface and the golden edges.
“For me?” she murmured in disbelief. She had never seen anything so beautiful. “Where did you get this beauty?”
She couldn’t breathe. She was afraid to touch it. This was a masterpiece. And hers. She had never gotten a present like this.
“You see, Mrs. Mawr, Ormsby Pianos does not have such exquisite pieces in stock. Or even in England, I must say. This is the most expensive piece we have ever been commissioned. It took four months.”
“How…” Tears pooled in Grace’s eyes at the sight.
“Ah, but Mr. Mawr found out about it. He surely is persuasive, to say the least. He went to visit the customers who had ordered it. I don’t know what he said or did. He is charming, of course. But—voila—they kindly agreed to sell it to him.”
Unable to look away, Grace still didn’t dare touch the instrument. She walked a circle around it like a sleepwalker.
“Mr. Mawr, oh, he is wonderful,” the man said.
Wonderful? Something did not add up.
“When did my husband do all this?” Grace asked with a frown.
“Over a week ago, Mrs. Mawr.”
“A week?” She gaped at the man in disbelief.
“Ten days, ma’am. Ten days. I have it marked on my calendar. It’s a… Well, it was an event, let me tell you.”
So, that was the day after the wedding, after she had poisoned him, when he used to spend nights elsewhere.
“Yes! I shall never forget!” Mr. Ormsby continued. “Mr. Mawr sent the telegram to the original customers, arranged the meeting, then traveled to Edinburg to talk to them and… Well, now it is here.”
Smiling proudly, Mr. Ormsby stroked his beard.
Grace still couldn’t believe it. All this before he brought the cheap clavichord.
A smile broke out on her lips. Can’t be. She killed it with a pang of embarrassment and finally dared touch her present.
Her fingers tingled at the feeling of polished wood under them, luring her to sit down on the matching piano bench and try it out.
Mr. Ormsby motioned to his men, and one of them walked, almost on tiptoes, and propped the lid open.
With caution, Grace opened the fallboard, her hummingbird heartbeat putting her on edge. She brushed her fingers along the keys and finally hit the first chord.
Her heart answered.
Her entire body resonated with a sound she hadn’t heard in days. And then her fingers briefly flew over the keys, playing the song she had just written upstairs. A song about him .
Mr. Ormsby stilled, slightly bowed, his eyes, full of admiration, on her hands.
She withdrew her hands abruptly.
Liar. Trickster. Manipulator.
She couldn’t find the right words for her husband. He was playing games with her, and she knew it. She was like a mouse toyed with, and she understood it too.
But the sight of this most beautiful instrument made her eyes burn with tears. She was absolutely in love with it, wanted to be alone with it and make it sing under her fingertips.
“It is a superb piece,” she said quietly through tears. “Thank you very much, Mr. Ormsby.”
“My pleasure, my pleasure, ma’am. Mr. Mawr clearly cares a lot, despite—” His words cut off.
Grace smiled to herself. “Despite?” Despite the dirty headlines.
“Oh, nothing. My apologies, ma’am.” Mr. Ormsby bowed apologetically. “This old man doesn’t know what he is talking about. Your husband very much loves you.”
She had to make an effort not to laugh in his face.
“Mr. Mawr said you use two pianos. One for performances, at the Academy, and an upright for practice. A true professional, he said.”
“He said that?”
“He said George Steck, the American, was your favorite. Is that correct?”
She listened to him stunned. Where would her husband learn all that? How would he know? And most of all, why would he bother?
Oh, but this was a deal, she reminded herself. He wanted her to do her best.
Very well . A queen would’ve given herself to him for this instrument.
Grace trembled in anticipation, wanting to play the new instrument so badly but keeping her face straight in front of the man.
It was true, of course. It was much more practical to practice on an upright. But this—she stroked the edge of the grand piano—oh, this was just splendid!
Mr. Ormsby graciously motioned with his hand. “Mr. Mawr was so adamant about getting the best we had and hoped you’d love it. I have never met a man who was so dedicated to his wife’s talent! So… Mrs. Mawr, where would you like the other one?”
At a loss, Grace shook her head in confusion as she met his eyes. “The other?”
“Yes! Mr. Mawr understands true craft. He insisted that you had to have the upright, too. For daily practice, he explained. So, where would you like my men to put the second one?”