Robert looked at her hands. They had gone still. He said nothing; that silence carried more understanding than any public defense could have.
The musicians prepared for the second section. Halfway through, the first violinist stopped. "Forgive me, Miss Dracott. Should the phrase not resolve before my entrance?"
Beckham stepped forward. "Continue as printed."
The violinist frowned at his part. "It clashes with the cello, only briefly—"
Matilda looked at the measure. "No, he is right."
Beckham turned to her. "The proof has been approved."
"Then the proof contains an error."
Hester's expression changed only slightly. "Enough."
Beckham spoke with patient condescension: "Miss Dracott, printers require stability. We cannot revise every passage because a performer grows nervous."
The violinist looked offended. Matilda remained calm. "The performer is not nervous. The harmony is unresolved."
Beckham's smile thinned. "The music is Mrs. Dracott's."
Before Matilda could answer, Robert's voice came from the back of the room: "And yet the orchestra appears to be waiting for Miss Dracott."
Every head turned. Robert walked closer with the unhurried ease of a man who knew no one would stop him. "Please," he said to Matilda, "explain the passage."
Beckham opened his mouth.
Robert looked at him. "I had asked Miss Dracott." The words were mild; they still ended the interruption.
Matilda looked at the score. "The cello descends here. The violin must wait one additional measure, or the phrase interrupts itself before resolution. The later entrance completes the pattern introduced in the first movement."
The cellist nodded immediately. "Yes."
The violinist lifted his bow. "Exactly."
Hester gave a light laugh. "Matilda is very particular about technical matters."
Robert turned toward her. "How fortunate for the music."
The musicians played the corrected version. It worked; everyone heard the difference. Even those who did not understand harmony understood ease: the passage breathed.
Robert did not smile triumphantly. He simply looked at Matilda as though the correctness of her answer mattered more than the embarrassment of anyone else. That disturbed her in a way praise did not: praise could be borrowed; accuracy could not.