The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh (The Cavanaughs 3)

He didn’t need the music sheets; he opened himself to the music and let it pour through him, guiding his fingers on the keys.

He played the rondo from start to finish, then lifted his hands and turned to see the boy staring at the keys with his mouth partly open. “Do you see—or rather, did you hear?” Frederick asked.

Slowly, the boy nodded. “Yes,” he murmured. Then with greater confidence, he repeated, “Yes.” Impulsively, he shifted along as if to bump Frederick aside and reclaim the keyboard, then froze and colored and glanced at Frederick. “May I?”

Frederick slid to the end of the stool and gestured to the keys. “Try it again. Just the rondo. You had the adagio perfectly gauged.”

The lad set his hands to the keys, paused, then started playing.

Silent and still, Stacie remained by the wall and watched and listened—and gave thanks. She could see the musician in Frederick rise to the fore and take charge. He watched the young man’s hands with an eagle eye, and when the piece ended and the young man raised his hands from the keys and looked, Frederick nodded approvingly. “Much better.” He hesitated for only a second, then asked, “Do you know Schubert’s ‘Fantasy in F Minor?’”

His eyes lighting, the young man nodded. “I’ve played it, practiced it, but I’m not as good as you.”

“No, you’re not, but playing with pianists like me will improve your touch, which is what you need to work on. So.” Frederick nudged the young man along. “I’ll let you have the easier part.” He set his fingers to the keys. “Ready?”

Somewhat nervously, the young man nodded—and Frederick launched into the piece and swept the younger pianist into it by sheer force of personality.

Stacie listened and marveled. It felt like a blessing to be able to hear such music at close quarters, to be able to watch and see the performers, Frederick with his fingers dancing unerringly over the keys, and the lad matching him—drawn in his wake by the power inherent in the composition.

Finally, the music ended, and she softly sighed.

The young man swung to face Frederick, stars in his eyes. “Are you a new teacher?”

“No. I’m Albury.” Frederick rose and looked down at the younger man. “But you and I will play together again. What’s your name?”

“Brandon, sir. Brandon Miller.”

“Well, Brandon Miller, I strongly advise you to continue practicing. Your technique is excellent and your playing is, too, but your touch doesn’t so much need work as you need to learn to trust in your feelings about how the music should sound and let that guide you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do as you say.”

With a nod of farewell for his newfound acolyte, Frederick walked to where Stacie waited and tipped his head toward the door. The strains of the Beethoven rondo, played with noticeably better balance, followed them into the corridor.

Stacie glanced at Frederick’s face; his expression was once more austere and impassive—utterly impossible to read. While he’d played, his features had been mobile, reflecting the emotion

he invested in his playing; it was almost shocking to realize how definite and absolute the wall he usually maintained between him and the world actually was.

In the foyer, when she would have paused at the counter, he grasped her elbow and steered her directly toward the door.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Withers!” Stacie called over her shoulder.

She saw Frederick’s lips tighten, but he didn’t slow—not until they were through the door.

Then he halted on the cobbles, released her elbow, and looked down at her. “Did you arrange that?”

She blinked up at him. “The young pianist?”

When he curtly nodded, she shook her head. “No.” Then she confessed, “But if I’d known that was what it would take to tip you into agreeing to play, I would have.”

He sighed, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

She studied him, then finally felt it was safe to ask, “You are going to play at my musical event, aren’t you?”

He lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and looked at her—for all the world as if he was irritated, but, she sensed, not with her. “God help me, yes. I’ll play at your damned event. Those young men in there are good—in time and with the right experience, some might even achieve greatness. Brandon Miller isn’t up to my standard yet, but he’s ten years younger. With the right encouragement, he could have the world at his feet.”

Frederick watched her face transform—with joy, delight, and not a little relief. To his eyes, she all but glowed with happiness; the sight stole his breath and left him giddy.

“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad you agreed to come and see the school and the pupils. Protheroe will be in alt.”