The Music Box (8 page)

Bryce didn’t even attempt to deny it. “Why? Why is it the only way to ensure things stay as they are?”

“The very fact that you’re asking me that is answer enough.” Gaby watched his brows knit in puzzlement. “Mr. Lynd … Bryce,” she amended, “how many people do you know who would keep on a stable manager who can scarcely walk? A maid who’s too unsteady to carry a tray? A footman who can scarcely hear or scarcely see? A gardener who views his shovel as a dear friend? Not to mention children who are far too skinny and weak to do a significant number of chores?”

“Only one,” Bryce replied. “Hermione Nevon.”

“Two,” Gaby corrected. “Aunt Hermione—and you.” She leaned forward, unconsciously gripping Bryce’s forearm. “Here, those fine people are accepted, loved, given a sense of purpose and belonging. Out there, in the real world, they’d be scorned, discarded like broken playthings. Aunt Hermione won’t allow that to happen. Neither will you.”

“Nevon Manor seems to be running very smoothly, limitations or not.” A gentle note crept into Bryce’s tone. “Then again, I have a feeling you, Chaunce, and Hermione are always on hand to smooth out any wrinkles that might occur.”

“They don’t occur that often. It’s amazing how effective people become when someone believes in them. Just look at Peter. His limp was all but gone when he left your quarters today. Why? Because his soul had been nourished. I’m willing to bet there was nothing he wouldn’t have been able to accomplish at that moment, lame or not.”

“I agree.” Bryce shifted, making Gaby aware of her grasp on his forearm.

Awkwardly she released him, interlacing her fingers in her lap. “If you’d like, I can provide you with the background of each and every servant at Nevon Manor. Most of them were discharged from other jobs by dissatisfied employers who demanded perfection and refused to accept less. As for the children, Peter, of course, is Cook’s son. The others are orphans like me. No,” she amended softly. “Their circumstances when Aunt Hermione took them in were far more dire than mine. Their mothers were unwed, cast into the streets where they died of starvation or illness, leaving behind children who were little more than infants. Lily, Jane, Henry, Charles—they have no memories to sustain them, nothing to hold on to at night to help keep their parents alive. I, thankfully, have both—memories and my music box.”

“Music box?”

Gaby nodded. “Mama told me that Papa gave it to her the day I was born. He used nearly all his savings to purchase it—as you can guess, head grooms didn’t make very much money. Anyway, she’d admired the box in a shop window, and Papa was determined that she should have it. So he had the shopkeeper put it aside until I arrived, and that very day he rushed down and bought it. I vividly recall how deeply Mama cherished that box; she kept it nearby all the time, sitting on her nightstand. Except on those nights when I had a bad dream. Then she’d bring the box to my room and open it, letting me listen to its beautiful melody—ʻFür Elise,’ my very first taste of Beethoven. Sometimes Mama would leave the box beside me when she tiptoed back to bed. Those times were my favorites. I could listen until the melody lulled me to sleep.” Gaby swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It’s the only possession of theirs that wasn’t lost in the fire.”

This time it was Bryce who reached out, gently squeezing her shoulder. “The music box sounds lovely.”

“It is. It’s made entirely of mother-of-pearl with gilt trim and a delicate stone in the center.” Feeling the reassuring pressure of his hand, Gaby gave Bryce a tentative look. “Perhaps, if you have time during your stay, I could show it to you.”

“I’d be honored.” Bryce withdrew his palm, his expression pensive. “You’ve certainly given me a great deal to contemplate.”

“Does that mean it’s time for
you
to answer
my
questions?” Gaby saw the perfect opportunity to lighten the mood—and to accomplish her goal, that being to learn more about Bryce Lyndley.

He grinned, making a wide sweep with his arm.

“Ask away. Where shall we begin, with my experiences in school or in court?”

“What about in society?”

A shrug. “Those are distinctly unexciting.”

Gaby’s eyes widened in surprise. “I should think just the opposite would be true, especially of late.”

“Of late?”

“Yes. Oh, please don’t misunderstand. I thought your previous companions sounded charming,” Gaby hurriedly clarified. “But judging from the glowing accounts we’ve received, Miss Talbot is uncommonly poised and intelligent, not to mention incredibly beautiful. Why, one newspaper description likened her to a golden-haired fairy-tale princess. She’s always on hand to herald your accomplishments and to share your pastimes. You’ve escorted her all about London—to the theater, the balls, and of course the symphonies we just discussed. Then there are those carriage rides through the park, the sailing jaunts along the Thames. … Your courtship sounds exhilarating.”

Bryce’s jaw dropped. “I don’t recall seeing such a comprehensive portrayal of my activities recounted in the papers. Who have you been talking to? What’s more, why in the name of heaven have you been collecting information on my friendship with Lucinda? Wait—never mind.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I needn’t ask: Hermione. Lord, is there
anything
about my life she hasn’t delved into?”

“I’ve upset you.” Gaby felt more puzzled than remorseful. “But why? And why would Aunt Hermione’s knowledge of your courtship suggest to you that she’d pried? You’ve hardly kept your relationship with Miss Talbot a secret. Let the truth be known, Aunt Hermione’s investigators provided her with very little information she hadn’t already gleaned from Chaunce. Or rather from his butler associates, most of whom work for prominent members of society and are therefore privy to all the latest gossip, most particularly during the Season, when the gossip flows so freely. Why, nearly every butler in Hertford passes tidbits on to Chaunce, and you’d be stunned to learn how many of those tidbits have, of late, pertained to you and Miss Talbot. You obviously don’t read the newspapers too carefully; items about you two have appeared regularly, complete with details and descriptions. Just as they appeared when you were seeing Miss Chatham, Miss Dods, Miss Wells, Miss—”

“You’ve made your point,” Bryce interrupted, his expression growing more and more incredulous with each passing word of Gaby’s elaborate explanation. “And I’m sure all those ‘items’ you’re referring to line the pages of Hermione’s scrapbook. Given that fact, together with the findings provided by Hermione’s investigators and the reports provided by Chaunce’s contacts, I don’t know what possible questions I can answer. Clearly you know more about me than I do.”

“I know this particular courtship has gone on much longer than the others.” Gaby ignored Bryce’s wry assessment, seeking something far more crucial. “Are you in love?” she demanded eagerly.

Bryce blinked. “In love?”

“Yes—with Miss Talbot. And if so, is it everything the poets claim it to be?” Even as she asked the question, Gaby could actually feel Bryce withdraw, retreat behind his earlier wall of reserve.

“I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong person,” he replied, sounding more dispassionate than angry. “I’m not a big believer in what you’re describing.”

It was Gaby’s turn to blink. “What I’m describing is what you and I have just spent the past hour discussing—love.”

“We were discussing compassion, not love.”

“We were discussing both. You yourself used the word ‘love’ when you spoke of our feelings for Aunt Hermione.”

“That’s hardly the same emotion you’re referring to now.” Folding his arms across his chest, Bryce challenged her words, delivering his argument as if he were in court. “Love, as in the ability to feel benevolence or devotion, and love, as in the ability to lose oneself in a fantasy, are two entirely different things. One is simple decency or regard. The other is consuming, romantic, involving far more than mere respect and affection. That kind of emotion is one I can’t understand, much less subscribe to, for no poet has yet to explain it in a way I can fathom.”

“Explain it? Aren’t you the one who said some things must be felt rather than defined?” Gaby paused, waiting for Bryce to reply. When he didn’t, she softly added, “A man who can make such an evaluation, who can feel the beauty of music, is also a man who can love, both affectionately and romantically.”

“Gabrielle, you’re very young.”

“And you’re very jaded. Did one of the women I mentioned earlier hurt you? Is that why you’re averse to falling in love?”

Bryce stared in utter disbelief. “Hurt me? Of course not. They were delightful companions.”

“So is Crumpet. That doesn’t answer my question.” Gaby studied Bryce’s baffled frown, a dawning knowledge kindling inside her. “Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it does.” Slowly she rose from the piano bench. “You’re a very complex man, Bryce Lyndley. But I don’t think you’re nearly as removed and analytical as you believe—at least not in all matters. I won’t press you about the secrets you’re guarding. But whatever they are, I suspect they must be quite painful—painful enough for you to erect a wall around your heart that’s as unnatural as it is self-imposed. I hope for your sake you decide to lower that wall, at least long enough for someone like Miss Talbot to enter. From what I understand, love—like music—is magic. Don’t deny yourself that magic. It would be an enormous mistake.” A sudden thought struck Gaby, and she smiled, marveling at what could be a wonderful and ironic twist of fate. “Earlier I told you how glad I was that you’d come to Nevon Manor, how much I believe you can offer our family. Now that I consider it, I believe we can offer you equally as much in return. Perhaps you should consider staying here for a while. Perhaps it would be the best thing not only for us but for you as well.”

Bryce opened his mouth to reply, but whatever he intended to say was cut off by a knock at the partially open music room door.

“Yes?” Gaby called.

“Pardon me, Miss Gaby,” Chaunce said politely, stepping into the room. “I hope I haven’t interrupted your conversation at an inopportune moment. But Lady Nevon wishes to speak with Mr. Lyndley. Now—before the family gathers for dinner.”

“Is Aunt Hermione all right?” Gaby asked anxiously.

“Yes, the medicine did her a world of good, as did her afternoon nap,” Chaunce confirmed. “However, she is still a bit peaked. Thus Mrs. Gordon and I persuaded her to remain in her chambers, if not abed, until the time comes to dress for dinner. She’s there now, awaiting Mr. Lyndley in her sitting room.”

“I’ll see her immediately.” Bryce was still staring at Gaby, his expression unreadable. Abruptly he looked away, walking automatically toward the doorway. “Hermione and I still have a great deal to discuss.”

“Yes, sir,” Chaunce concurred, hands clasped behind his back. “A great deal.” He turned to follow Bryce, his gaze flickering over Gaby in the process.

She could have sworn she saw satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

“A
H, BRYCE. PLEASE COME
in.” Hermione gestured for Bryce to enter. Nestled on the velvet settee, her dark skirts billowing out around her, she looked small, wan, and far more frail than Bryce would have liked.

Renewed pangs of worry assailed him, supplanting the brooding humor that had accompanied him from the music room and his unsettling conversation with Gabrielle.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, eyeing Hermione’s pallor and trying to keep his tone light, unconcerned.

“Years younger, now that you’re here.” She smiled, patting the cushion beside her. “Sit with me.” Tipping her chin up, she glanced beyond Bryce, giving Chaunce a businesslike nod. “You may fetch the books now, Chaunce. While you’re gathering them, I’ll finish my chat with Mr. Lyndley.”

“Very good, madam.” With a half bow, the butler took his leave, shutting the door behind him.

Bryce crossed over and lowered himself onto the settee. “You’re still somewhat pale. Did you rest?”

Hermione waved away his concern. “You sound like Dr. Briers. I’ll answer you as I do him: I’ve done nothing
but
rest all day.” A sigh as she rubbed the fine silk of her gown between her fingers. “As for being pale, I only look that way because of these drab colors I’ve been wearing since Richard’s death. In truth, I loathe them. I much prefer bright hues, especially on a woman my age whose wrinkles already make her look dreary enough. But for the next few months at least …” She paused. “I realize you can’t possibly fathom this, Bryce, but Richard was, for the most part, a dutiful brother. And even those times when I thought him unfeeling, he was still my brother—the only brother I had. If I failed to show some display of mourning, I’d feel as if I were dishonoring him. I suppose in your eyes that makes me a dreadful hypocrite.”

“No, it makes you a devoted sister—in anyone’s eyes.”

Warmth suffused Hermione’s face. “Thank you. You’re a kindhearted man. And not only on my behalf. Cook spent a quarter hour in my chambers going on and on about the miracle you wrought with Peter. She’s never seen the lad this enthusiastic—
or
this self-confident. Whatever did you say to him?”

“Nothing magical,” Bryce assured her, crossing one long leg over the other. “I showed him some of the legal texts you provided me. We chatted about the Inns of Court. I read him the outlines of a few interesting cases. He took one of the books to his room.” A faint reminiscent smile. “He won’t be able to read much of it, but I don’t think it will matter. It didn’t to me. The first time I held a legal text in my hands, I was at Eton and not much older than Peter. I hadn’t anywhere near a full understanding of what was in that book, but I knew that when I held it I felt like an authentic barrister, necessary skills or not.”

“Well, evidently Peter feels the same way. And you’re the person responsible for his sense of well-being. Just as you’re responsible for his mother’s. Not to mention the other children, who hung on to your every word at lunch; Wilson, who’s been boasting all day that you admired his primroses; my devoted lady’s maid, Dora, who glowingly informed me that you aided her on the staircase when her walking stick faltered; and even Mrs. Gordon, who claims you’ve not left a single track of dirt in the manor—not even after returning from your walk on the grounds.”