Free Prelude for a Lord by Camille Elliot

marketplace and that offensive Mr. Golding . . .”
    “I don’t know that they’re connected, but it is a possibility.”
    “Did he steal anything?”
    “Nothing. Not even jewelry.”
    “But Margaret and Mrs. Dodd were in the kitchen.” Lucy shuddered.

    “They heard nothing, but it worries me that someone entered the house during the day, no less, while they were there.”
    Lucy suddenly looked around. “Alethea, where is your maid?”
    “Most of the fashionable set isn’t awake yet to see me maidless.”
    “You are too used to country ways. You cannot go unaccompanied, and after the intruder, it would be safer if you had someone with you.”
    Alethea had not thought of that. “You are right. I shall take a maid next time.”
    “Alethea.” Lucy juggled the paper and ink she held in order to reach out to take her hand. “Is the violin really worth the possible danger to yourself and your family?”
    “You want me to simply hand Mr. Golding my violin?”
    “Think of Margaret and your aunt.”
    Because she’d been left on her own at Trittonstone Park for most of her life, Alethea’s actions had rarely affected others’ safety. The newly realized responsibility seemed odd to her, settling upon her shoulders almost like a physical weight, forcing her to be stronger. Her life was now more than just her own.
    But the image of giving her violin to Mr. Golding sent a wave of nausea up from her stomach and she tightened her throat. When she looked at her violin, she remembered the sunroom at Arkright Manor, the way the morning light would caress the wood of the violin almost reverently as Calandra played, her eyes closed in concentration and adoration of the music. The musical pieces would evoke emotions from Alethea like a bouquet of handpicked flowers—the bright joy of a child’s laughter, the cool stillness of the downs at dawn, the warmth and comfort of a crackling fire while rain pelted the windows. Alethea remembered the tenderness in Calandra’s hand on her head as she gave the violin to her, saying, “Now you try it, Alethea.”
    Later, when Calandra grew too ill to play, Alethea would play for her in that sunroom, following her mentor’s verbal instructionsuntil she made the music sound almost like tangible emotions. Alethea and Calandra would both be in tears at the end of the piece, and they’d laugh as they reached for their handkerchiefs. “What is music if it does not move you?” Calandra had told her.
    Alethea realized she hadn’t played that way in a long time, not since Calandra had died. Now she was reduced to bright pieces on pianofortes at evening parties that most people would talk through rather than listen to. No shared tears, no musical pieces of powerful feeling. Her acquaintances in Bath already considered her an oddity for her intense attention during concerts. They would never understand how a concerto could make her cry. She was reminded that she had no one in her life who understood that deepest part of her, and it made her feel desolate.
    She was brought out of her sad memories by the squeeze of Lucy’s fingers on her hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to cause you to miss her again.”
    “It’s been years. It shouldn’t still be so painful.”
    “It’s because no one else understands you as Lady Arkright did.”
    “I can’t sell my violin, Lucy. It would break my heart.” Alethea took a deep breath, feeling a little better now that she had acknowledged that fact aloud. “And I will not let a stranger take this last shred of her memory from me. I will stop them.”
    Lucy nodded as she withdrew her hand. “Now, where are you going? I will accompany you and then see you home before I return to Mrs. Ramsland.”
    “You oughtn’t do that. You might fall into disfavour with your employer.”
    “You are my sister. You’re more important.” The look in Lucy’s eyes was Alethea’s anchor, the one connection in her life that shone brighter than the sun and was