Free A Reason to Rebel by Wendy Soliman Page B

the instrument, as though sensing her impatience.
    “Very well, my lord, but pray to not expect anything out of the ordinary.”
    Estelle seated herself and ran her fingers tentatively over the strings. She trusted that the hours of practice she had put in over the years would compensate for her recent neglect. There was no harp in Mr. Travis’s house. Her father had recognized her fledgling talent when she was quite young and spared no expense on instructors. He had made her practice for hours to perfect her performance in order that she might play for his artistic circle of friends and show him up in a good light. No one else played the magnificent harp in the salon in her father’s house but he would not hear of her taking it to Hertfordshire. There had been no one useful to him to hear her play it there.
    Estelle settled her skirts comfortably about her and tuned the instrument to her satisfaction. Forgetting about her aristocratic audience, she moistened her lips and anticipated the pleasure she would derive from indulging her passion. She launched into one of Mr. Parry’s popular pieces, playing from memory. A smile spread across her face as the haunting melody washed through her. The therapeutic benefits of making such lovely music transported her to a place beyond the cruel realities of her world, a place where no one could reach her with their unreasonable demands.
    At the end of the piece she looked up to see tears in Lady Crawley’s eyes and an expression of deep appreciation on the face of her son. He applauded her efforts, praising her skill. Having regained control of herself, the viscountess also voiced her appreciation.
    “You must forgive a foolish old woman, Miss Tilling.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But that particular piece… I was accustomed to play it all the time at my husband’s request. How singular that you should have chosen it.”
    “I am sorry, ma’am, it was not my intention to overset you.”
    “You did no such thing. My only regret is that I never could execute it as well as you.”
    “You are too kind.” Estelle shook herself. “Now, what else would you like to hear?”
    She noticed Lord Crawley’s eyes frequently upon her as the evening progressed. Even when she quit her position at the instrument to sit beside his mother and drink her tea, he continued to scrutinize her. Had she done something to incur his displeasure? She hoped that was not the case and met his gaze, an expression of polite enquiry in her eye. But his responding smile lent few clues as to the thoughts occupying his mind.
    The next afternoon she sat at the instrument again. Lady Crawley was making calls and Estelle was at leisure to amuse herself. She launched into an ambitious piece she had been trying to master just before her marriage, not having had an opportunity to return to it since. Lost in her own world, it took her a moment to realize that a visitor had called. She heard Phelps show the caller into the adjoining parlour and inform him he would enquire whether Lord Crawley was at home.
    Lord Crawley soon joined the mysterious stranger there, asking what business brought him to Crawley Hall. As the visitor responded, his voice full of impatience and displaying scant deference for Lord Crawley’s elevated social position, Estelle let out a gasp of sheer despair. Her fingers hit several false notes, froze with indecision and died on the strings. She would recognize that voice anywhere.
    The man with Lord Crawley was her father.
     
    –—
     
    Alex strode towards the morning room. He was annoyed to be disturbed by someone he did not know demanding rather than requesting an audience with the master of Crawley Hall. He would not, as a rule, entertain such a request from a Joseph Winthrop of Hampshire, according to the card he had given to Phelps, since the man was not prepared to state his business. But he had been so insistent, his strident tones reaching Alex’s ears even in the depths of his study.