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Authors: Madeline Hunter
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head. “Why do you say that I bought them for a future bride?”
“It is past time for you to marry. Considering their price, I assume that you have found your future countess. But do not worry. I promise to start no gossip.”
Y ates perused the documents on the desk in front of him. Another stack waited on a nearby table. He judged that he would be lucky to finish with all of them before Christmas.
Scents of the late country summer blew in through the window on a breeze that tickled the edges of several pages. He moved a weight to ensure the careful arrangement would not be disturbed. He felt a bit like those documents himself, weighted in place by responsibility.
He did not mind the duty he had committed to, but it was not one with any joy. Even the fact that he would inherit the estate being so meticulously examined did not raise his spirits when he came down from town and made his way to this study in Elmswood Manor. The whole business made him feel too much like an executor before the fact of his father’s passing, and the ill health of the earl cast a pall over the entire household.
They had spent more than eight months on this now, and would spend more, perhaps whatever months were left. As his physical side wasted away, the earl seemed to cling all the more to the part of him that had no end. What energy he possessed, he spent on the title and estate, on the parts of his life that made him one Highburton in an ongoing line of them.
Is it your peace offering? Your attempt to mend the differences that grew over the years?
Cassandra Vernham might be irreverent and irritating, but she possessed a quick insight. It was an attempt at doing just that. A poor one, but it was all he had.
Thinking of her led him to pull the papers forward that dealt with those earrings. If he coerced Cassandra to learn what she could from her aunt, it was past time to learn what he could from this household. Normally, unraveling a mystery fascinated him, and in his discreet investigations he did not shirk from asking the questions necessary. But then normally the questions did not have to be asked of his own family.
He reviewed the papers, set them down, and stood. As he left the chamber, he passed the violin case that had lived here with him for too long now. The temptation to stop and play tugged. Deciding he could put off the next chore for a short while, he picked up the instrument and tuned it.
A tutor had introduced him to playing the violin when he was ten. For years he had only dabbled, but at university, the exercise suddenly had greater appeal. He went through a period of several years back then when he practiced hours every day, taking as much satisfaction in mastering a new piece of music as he did in hitting the marks when he shot his pistol.
He picked up the bow, and within ten notes, he hit his stride. He barely felt the strings as his fingers moved over them. The bow served as an extension of himself. The music formed a cloud that hovered above the world and in whichhe floated. On good days like today, it proved so dense that nothing seemed to exist outside of it.
Sometimes even his own thoughts did not survive the sound. The notes would intrude and merge with his consciousness. They would dissolve him. That was a rare occurrence, and not something he especially enjoyed. He could not predict it either, which made performing too capricious.
Today that did not happen. Instead, the progressions and skill disciplined his thoughts. The separateness of the cloud provided a rare isolation that permitted clear thinking. There was no chaos in music.
His mind took the opportunity to categorize things done and things that needed doing. He exerted no effort and did not direct his thoughts. It just happened. Playing aided his obligations to the estate just as they had aided his studies. In his investigative work, he came to rely on the way an hour with the bow helped him see patterns he had not noticed on his own, and
“It is past time for you to marry. Considering their price, I assume that you have found your future countess. But do not worry. I promise to start no gossip.”
Y ates perused the documents on the desk in front of him. Another stack waited on a nearby table. He judged that he would be lucky to finish with all of them before Christmas.
Scents of the late country summer blew in through the window on a breeze that tickled the edges of several pages. He moved a weight to ensure the careful arrangement would not be disturbed. He felt a bit like those documents himself, weighted in place by responsibility.
He did not mind the duty he had committed to, but it was not one with any joy. Even the fact that he would inherit the estate being so meticulously examined did not raise his spirits when he came down from town and made his way to this study in Elmswood Manor. The whole business made him feel too much like an executor before the fact of his father’s passing, and the ill health of the earl cast a pall over the entire household.
They had spent more than eight months on this now, and would spend more, perhaps whatever months were left. As his physical side wasted away, the earl seemed to cling all the more to the part of him that had no end. What energy he possessed, he spent on the title and estate, on the parts of his life that made him one Highburton in an ongoing line of them.
Is it your peace offering? Your attempt to mend the differences that grew over the years?
Cassandra Vernham might be irreverent and irritating, but she possessed a quick insight. It was an attempt at doing just that. A poor one, but it was all he had.
Thinking of her led him to pull the papers forward that dealt with those earrings. If he coerced Cassandra to learn what she could from her aunt, it was past time to learn what he could from this household. Normally, unraveling a mystery fascinated him, and in his discreet investigations he did not shirk from asking the questions necessary. But then normally the questions did not have to be asked of his own family.
He reviewed the papers, set them down, and stood. As he left the chamber, he passed the violin case that had lived here with him for too long now. The temptation to stop and play tugged. Deciding he could put off the next chore for a short while, he picked up the instrument and tuned it.
A tutor had introduced him to playing the violin when he was ten. For years he had only dabbled, but at university, the exercise suddenly had greater appeal. He went through a period of several years back then when he practiced hours every day, taking as much satisfaction in mastering a new piece of music as he did in hitting the marks when he shot his pistol.
He picked up the bow, and within ten notes, he hit his stride. He barely felt the strings as his fingers moved over them. The bow served as an extension of himself. The music formed a cloud that hovered above the world and in whichhe floated. On good days like today, it proved so dense that nothing seemed to exist outside of it.
Sometimes even his own thoughts did not survive the sound. The notes would intrude and merge with his consciousness. They would dissolve him. That was a rare occurrence, and not something he especially enjoyed. He could not predict it either, which made performing too capricious.
Today that did not happen. Instead, the progressions and skill disciplined his thoughts. The separateness of the cloud provided a rare isolation that permitted clear thinking. There was no chaos in music.
His mind took the opportunity to categorize things done and things that needed doing. He exerted no effort and did not direct his thoughts. It just happened. Playing aided his obligations to the estate just as they had aided his studies. In his investigative work, he came to rely on the way an hour with the bow helped him see patterns he had not noticed on his own, and
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