"So I am told."
"And the shoes?"
"A mystery."
"A convenient one."
His mouth shifted slightly. "The best sort."
Matilda set her music on the stand. She could have objected; part of her wanted to. Kindness still made her uneasy when it arrived without a price attached. Yet the chair was sensible, the shoes fit, and Mrs. Canning was watching with an expression that made clear she would tolerate no martyrdom disguised as politeness. Matilda sat. The relief in her heel was immediate.
Robert returned his attention to the book, though she noticed he did not turn the page.
She opened the velvet pouch she carried in her reticule and removed the small silver tuning fork that had belonged to her father. Its metal surface had dulled with years of use, but the stem still carried a faint indentation where his thumb had rested. Matilda struck it lightly against the edge of the pianoforte and held it near her ear.
A pure note entered the room: quiet, steady, true.
Robert lowered his book. "What is that?"
"A tuning fork."
"I had gathered that much. I meant that particular one."
Matilda looked at the silver in her hand. She rarely spoke about her father to people who had not known him; his memory belonged to a part of her life untouched by Falconhurst. "It was my father's."
Robert came no closer. "Was he a musician?"
"An organist and teacher. Provincial, but respected."
"You say 'provincial' as though the countryside has never produced anything of value."
"Society often behaves as though it has not."
"Society also believes a dinner becomes more important when there are six forks beside the plate. I would not depend upon its judgment."
Matilda smiled despite herself. Robert noticed and looked suspiciously pleased.
"He taught you?" he asked.
"Everything I know that matters." She struck the tuning fork again. The note shimmered between them. "Before every lesson, he would make me listen until the sound faded completely. He said most people hurry toward the next note because they are afraid of silence."
Robert's expression changed. The humor remained, but something quieter appeared beneath it. "And were you afraid of silence?"