Chapter Seventeen

He took the letter. Really, he had no choice, though he would much rather not. He handled it gingerly, as if it were a serpent.

Was this a test of some sort? What he would like to do was burn the damn thing. He was chagrined to realize how much it bothered him that this letter should matter so much to her. After that kiss he knew that nothing mattered to him as much as she did, and he wanted her to feel the same way. He could hardly say that, but he needed some explanation of his reluctance. He dredged up a schoolboy sense of honor and said, “It is addressed to you. I should not read your private letter.”

“You should if I give you permission to do so. If I insist that you do so. It will be much easier for me to explain things to you once you have read it.”

The letter seemed to grow heavier in his hand. He stared down at it. Did he really want to know what was in it? The writing was French—hardly unexpected, since they were in France—and a man’s handwriting. Not, he thought, a young man. Was that better or worse?

“Are you sure? I have no right to pry into your private affairs…” His voice trailed off as she gave him a mocking look. No right, perhaps, but they both knew that he wanted very much to pry. What else had he been doing when he followed her here to the village in the first place? For days now, weeks even, he had been trying to discover her secrets. If that wasn’t prying, what was?

He set his face and tore open the envelope.

Ma chère Marguerite…

His jaw tightened. It was in French as he had expected. His accent might leave much to be desired, but he could read the language with no difficulty. Still, My dear Marguerite? That was a more familiar salutation than he would have liked to see.

He glanced over at her, but she was looking off into the distance, tensed, as if fearing to hear what the writer had to say.

He returned to the letter with a scowl, but that soon tempered into confusion. “He says that Paris is still difficult. Louvois has apparently made his views known, and his influence is enough to frighten people.” When he looked at her with a question in his eyes, she simply nodded, as if she had expected nothing else.

“He goes on to say that Paris is not the only city in Europe. He has written to Liszt, who remembers you well.” He looked at her, startled. “Liszt? Franz Liszt?”

Her face softened, almost into a smile, and her eyes widened in amazement. “He remembers me?”

“It seems that Liszt is outraged on your behalf, and says that he will sponsor a series of concerts beginning in Weimar, where he is teaching at the moment, and continuing to Vienna and Prague.” He paused to look at her. “I don’t understand.”

The soft expression stiffened. “But Delphine told you, did she not? I am a performer. I go out on stage and play for the entertainment of the audience.”

He gave an angry snort. “Do not talk dismissively of yourself. I have heard you play. But even so, Liszt?”

“Yes. Liszt. He was a friend of my father, a good friend, and at my father’s request he invited me to play for him.” The memory was obviously a happy one, judging from her expression. “Just to play for him was an honor, you must realize. I am not as good as Clara Schumann, he said, but perhaps one day I will be. Oh, that lovely, generous man! To say he will sponsor me. And in Weimar, Vienna. A whole series of concerts. We are saved!” She collapsed back against the rocks, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. But she was smiling. “We are saved,” she repeated softly. “Louvois cannot touch me now.”

That name again. “Louvois?”

She shook her head. “I do not want to think about him. Not now. Did Oscar say anything else?”

“Oscar?”

“In the letter.” She pointed at it impatiently.

“Oh.” He had not looked at the signature. He did not know the name. “Who is Oscar Villoteau?”

Her impatience seemed to be growing. “I don’t know what you would call him. He publishes music, and he arranges concerts, engagements for musicians. A manager? But he does not have a concert hall of his own. What else did he say?”

Little the wiser, Ned nodded and quickly scanned the rest of the letter. “He says he knows you did not ask this, but he was so impressed with your sonata that he sent it to Liszt, seeking his opinion. The Maestro was more than enthusiastic. He said he would be pleased to introduce it, but thought it would be better if you did yourself. Liszt said it will make your concerts an instant success.”

“He said that?” She held her hands to her throat, as if holding up her head. “Truly?”

“Read it for yourself.” With a smile he held out the letter.

“You don’t understand. You cannot know what it has been like.” Shaking her head, she clutched the paper to her. “I’ve been so afraid. But now we’ll be safe. If I can get concert engagements, I will be able to support us.”

“Have you been worried about that? But why?”

She looked at him incredulously. “Why? Only an aristocrat would ask such an idiotic question. Are you so insulated from reality that you do not know that is what most people worry about all the time?”

He could feel himself flushing. “But your father was a famous musician. Surely he left you provided for. And here at your family’s chateau, you are perfectly safe.”

“You know nothing,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten that we just had a war? Paris was in chaos. Everything was in chaos. We came here, yes, but out of desperation. Do you think I would willingly choose to live on the charity of relatives who disowned my mother? Am I allowed to have no pride because I am a woman?”

He snapped back. “And am I allowed no pride? Do you think I am unable to provide for my wife’s family? Or do you think so poorly of me that you think I would not do so?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, you foolish man. Can you not get it through your head that you cannot marry me?”

Oh lord, he thought, she was back on that subject. “Unless you already have a husband, I do not see the problem.”

Suddenly she was on her feet, and thumped him on the chest. “I do not see the problem,” she repeated in a singsong tone, and thumped him again. “If you do not see the problem you are a blind fool. Tell me, if I married you, what should happen with that concert tour Oscar wrote of? What do you propose?”

“Why, I suppose it would not be necessary.”

“No?”

“Well, you will not need the money.” He spoke cautiously, suspecting some trap here.

She shook her head. “You see? You do not understand at all. Tell me, have you ever known a professional musician? Not one of your aristocratic ladies who plays her little Mozart minuet for her guests. But a professional.”

He shook his head.

“Of course not,” she said. “But that is what I am. Do you not understand what those concerts mean for me? It is not simply the money, though those worries would have been enough! But the honor of it! Liszt himself thinks I am good enough. Liszt! And my sonata, my sonata—he thinks it is good. And you would have me give up all this? You would let me play for your family and friends, I suppose. Like a caged bird. That is what Louvois wanted to do to me. You might as well kill me.” She flung a dismissive hand at him, turned and began walking back to the road.

Flummoxed. That was the word he wanted. He was flummoxed.

He had the horrible feeling that she was right.

He had heard her play and thought she was excellent, but he hadn’t thought of it as something more than, well, a pastime. Ladies often played. She just played exceptionally well.

Though if he actually had thought about it, he probably would have realized that no one plays that well, with the practice required, merely as a hobby.

He didn’t know what to think, except that, obviously, he was an idiot.

If she had been a man, would he have dismissed her music so casually? After all, he didn’t think of Tony’s obsession with steel factories as nothing more than an amusing little curiosity. And he knew how offended he could be when people did not take his historical studies seriously.

How insulting he had been without even realizing it. No wonder she was furious.

And that piece he had heard her playing, that magnificent, soul-wrenching piece—she had written it? He had been stopped in his tracks by it. Not only was her playing superb, but she had actually composed the piece. That was not talent; that was…that was genius.

He tried to picture her playing at a musicale, in some London drawing room, where half the guests were not even listening.

It was ridiculous. Ludicrous.

Of course she did not belong in such a cage. He would never try to put her in a cage. That would be criminal—worse than criminal. Any attempt to constrain her would be infamous. He could never be guilty of such iniquity.

Could he?

No, not now that he realized—had been forced to realize—that she was right in one sense. They did come from different worlds. He had only begun to see some of the differences.

This was not going to be simple. The road ahead was not a straight, smooth path. Instead, it was all too much like the road he had ridden to get here—twisted, treacherously muddy, and shrouded in fog.

But he would not, could not give her up, not when he had just discovered her.

This was not what he had thought love would be like. He had always imagined his future wife as someone soft and sweet; not a cipher, not really, but someone gentle. They would live in the country. He would have to travel from time to time, of course, for his research, but he would come home to a smiling wife, surrounded by their brood of children.

It was difficult to picture Marguerite in that setting. No, not difficult. Impossible.

Well, not completely impossible. He could imagine her with children. She would be as fiercely protective of them as she was with Delphine and Horace and Madame. Not indulgent. Not obsessive, like those women who thought of nothing but their children. Protective. A tigress.

A tigress should not be caged.

But if he would never try to cage her, neither would he give her up. He did not know how they would manage it, but there had to be a way. They would find it. On that he was determined.

She had already passed out of sight. He hurried across the sand to catch up with her.