"You know," she said.
"Yes."
"Did you do this?"
He did not pretend misunderstanding. "I suspended my patronage."
Her fingers tightened around the paper. "And because your name was attached to the concert, the premiere was cancelled."
"Yes."
"And the publication?"
"Beckham depends heavily on subscribers who take their lead from certain families. I made my concerns known."
Matilda stared at him. He was still speaking with calm honesty, as though facts could make the injury smaller. "You cancelled it."
"I stopped them from using your work while the authorship is disputed."
"You cancelled it!" This time, her voice was sharper.
Mrs. Albright lowered her embroidery, but said nothing.
Robert's expression changed. "Yes."
Matilda walked to the center of the room and placed Beckham's note on the table between them. "Without asking me."
"You had just been publicly humiliated."
"That is not an answer."
"I thought removing the performance would prevent further damage."
"To whom?"
Robert went still.
Matilda felt heat rise in her chest—not panic, not shame: anger. Clean and frightening. She had spent years swallowing anger because other people always seemed to possess more urgent feelings than she did: Hester's embarrassment, Beckham's impatience, the comfort of guests, the convenience of musicians. Now Robert had joined them—not in cruelty, but in certainty.
"You stopped them from using my music," she said.
"Yes."