She returned to Falconhurst the next morning—not as a defeated dependent, but as a woman collecting what belonged to her. Mrs. Canning met her in the entrance hall. Hester was in the drawing room; Beckham was expected before luncheon. Robert was still in York; Matilda felt relief at that—she was not ready to see him again.
She went upstairs, packed her clothes, gathered her father's letters, the silver tuning fork, and every manuscript page in her own hand that she could legally claim. Then she entered the music room one last time.
Hester stood beside the pianoforte. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving."
Hester's face changed. "Do not be absurd."
"I am not."
"You have nowhere respectable to go."
"I have already arranged lodgings."
"With what money?"
"My own."
Hester laughed once. "You think one week of attention from a duke has made you independent?"
Matilda looked at her. "No. I think years of dependence have made me tired."
Hester's voice sharpened: "If you walk out of this house, I will not provide a reference."
Matilda had known the threat would come; it still hurt. "Then you will not."
Hester stared at her, finally understanding that the old lever no longer moved anything.
Matilda placed the blank title page on the pianoforte. "You may keep your program." She touched the reticule holding the unfinished variation. "I am keeping my music."
When she stepped outside, a hired carriage waited beyond the front steps. Robert stood beside it.
Matilda stopped. "I told you not to act."
"I have not."
"Then why are you here?"
"Because I heard you were leaving, and I thought you might need to say something to me before you did."
She almost smiled at the careful wording. Almost. "Do not follow me until I ask."