"I had noticed." Robert moved closer to the pianoforte. "Which version produces the cleaner phrase?"
The cellist answered before anyone else could: "Miss Dracott's, Your Grace."
The violinist nodded. "By far."
Beckham tapped one finger against the proofs. "Performers often prefer ease to intention."
Matilda felt heat rise through her chest, but she kept her voice level. "The change is not easier. It is structurally necessary."
Robert looked at her. "Why?"
Beckham opened his mouth.
Robert did not raise his voice: "I had asked Miss Dracott."
The room went quiet again. Matilda looked at the score. Then she explained: "The first phrase rises by step. The cello answers by inversion. If the violin enters too early, it interrupts the answer before the harmony resolves. The later entrance restores the balance."
Robert listened without interruption. When she finished, he turned to Hester. "Is that what you intended?"
Hester's face remained composed. "Of course."
"Then Mr. Beckham's printer has done you a disservice."
Beckham shifted. "A trivial error, perhaps."
"Though trivial errors do seem remarkably loyal to Miss Dracott's corrections."
No one answered. Robert glanced at three sets of marked rehearsal pages spread across the pianoforte. The same brown ink appeared again and again in Matilda's handwriting: a changed rest, a revised entrance, a harmonic adjustment. Hester's name stood at the top; Matilda's thinking lived in the margins.
Beckham rose. "I should speak with Mrs. Dracott privately before the next printing."
"An excellent idea," Robert said. "Though before you go, I would still enjoy seeing the earliest draft."
Beckham met his gaze. "I am afraid that may not be possible."
"Lost? Dispersed? Burned?"
"No."
"Then we are making progress."
Matilda looked down quickly. This time, she could not entirely hide her smile. Robert saw it. His own expression changed by less than an inch, but she knew he had seen.