Hester ended the rehearsal soon afterward. When the musicians had left, and Beckham had followed Hester into the adjoining drawing room, Matilda gathered the marked scores. Robert remained by the pianoforte. Properly, they were not entirely alone: the door to the hall stood open, and Mrs. Canning was visible at a table beyond it. Even so, Matilda felt the difference in the quiet.
Robert touched none of the pages. "May I ask you one question?"
She continued arranging the music. "You already have."
"Then I shall risk a second."
She looked at him. His eyes were lighter than she had first thought—gray rather than blue, and far too attentive.
"If the piece were yours," he said, "what would you change?"
The answer escaped before caution could stop it: "The ending."
Robert's gaze sharpened. "Why?"
Matilda looked at the final page. "Because it returns to the opening theme too easily. It repeats what has already been said instead of changing what the listener understands."
"And you have another ending in mind?"
She hesitated. "Yes."
Robert smiled slightly—not triumphantly, almost sadly. "Then Mrs. Dracott has a problem."
Matilda's pulse quickened. "What problem?"
He picked up the printed program from the pianoforte and tapped the title with one finger. "She told me yesterday the composition was perfect."
From the adjoining room came the faint sound of Beckham's voice, lowered and urgent, then Hester's. Matilda could not hear the words; she did not need to.
Robert looked toward the closed door, then back at the scores in her hands. "And yet," he said quietly, "the only person who seems to know what is wrong with the music is the woman whose name is nowhere on it."
The next afternoon, Matilda arrived in the music room before the musicians and found that someone had changed her chair. The narrow bench she usually used had been replaced with a cushioned seat of proper height, and a small footstool stood beneath the pianoforte. Beside it waited a pair of plain black shoes, soft enough to spare her injured heel.
Mrs. Canning was arranging music near the window, which meant Matilda was not alone. Even so, she knew at once who had noticed.
Robert stood near the far fireplace with a book in one hand, and an expression of such complete innocence that she nearly smiled before she had reason to.
"Your Grace," she said.
He looked up.
She glanced at the chair. "This is new."