Matilda felt the insult arrive, dressed as kindness. "I am not."
"You have been under strain since the unfortunate incident at Falconhurst." Hester glanced toward several guests who had heard the gossip. "And one cannot blame you for becoming confused about the difference between copying and composing."
The sentence landed cleanly. Matilda felt it in the room before she felt it in herself: a woman in the second row lowered her fan; Mr. Ellison looked at Matilda with sudden discomfort.
Beckham moved quickly. He lifted a printed proof from the table beside him. "There has been some misunderstanding," he said. "Miss Dracott has assisted with copying and corrections. Valuable work, certainly, but assistance can sometimes lead a person to imagine ownership where none exists."
Robert straightened. Matilda looked at the proof in Beckham's hand; Hester's name appeared at the top. Of course it did; every printed page did.
Hester folded her hands. "I had hoped to handle this privately." Her voice was sorrowful now. "Since His Grace began paying particular attention to Matilda after her injured foot, she has developed ideas that would never have occurred to her before."
Several heads turned toward Robert. There it was: not an accusation of seduction, something more careful. Hester was suggesting vanity—that ducal attention had made Matilda imagine herself talented, important, perhaps even equal to the woman who employed her.
Matilda's heart began to pound; she could hear it between the small sounds of the room.
Beckham continued: "No one questions Miss Dracott's diligence, but diligence is not authorship."
Matilda looked down at her hands. They were steady; that surprised her. She had thought fear would make them tremble. Across the room, Robert had not moved. He was watching her, not Hester. Waiting.
The waiting mattered: he had not spoken for her; he had not rescued her before she chose whether to stand.
Hester's voice softened: "Matilda, end this now. Say plainly that the music is mine."
The room held its breath. Matilda remembered the ivory slippers. She remembered blood beneath the pianoforte. She remembered the blank title page she had refused to fill. She remembered taking one handwritten variation and placing it in her reticule because, for once, she had decided to keep something that belonged to her.
She lifted her head. "I have never mistaken copying for composition."
Hester's eyes narrowed. "Then say it."
Matilda looked directly at her. "No."
The word did not echo; it did not need to. Hester's composure cracked by the smallest degree.
Beckham spoke at once: "Be careful, Miss Dracott. A public accusation against a respectable patroness can ruin a woman in your position."
"I have made no accusation."
"You are implying one."
"I said no," Matilda's voice remained calm. "You may decide what you imagine beyond that."
A murmur moved through the room. Robert finally stepped forward. "Miss Dracott has made one statement. I suggest we acquire the discipline to hear it before inventing five others."