Mrs. Albright smiled. "A promising beginning."
The consequences for Hester and Beckham had not been theatrical; they were worse for people like them because they were real. Hester publicly withdrew her claim to the Fantasia and to two earlier works whose drafts could be traced to Matilda's hand. She resigned from the York Music Patronage Committee before its members could formally remove her. Invitations diminished; praise disappeared. The same people who had once described her as inspired now spoke of "unfortunate judgment" and "regrettable ambition." Hester continued to live comfortably, but the admiration she had stolen no longer entered the room before her. For a woman who had valued recognition more than truth, the punishment was exact.
Godfrey Beckham lost the edition. Several important subscribers withdrew; musicians refused to participate in further performances arranged under his supervision until questions about false attribution were resolved. Through solicitors, Matilda asserted her ownership of the complete score and ended all professional dealings with him. There was no dramatic trial, no modern spectacle, no single public blow that destroyed him; there was something quieter: trust withdrew, contracts followed. His name remained known, but not as he had intended.
Matilda chose a new publisher only after reading every term herself. Robert offered no recommendation until she asked; even then, he gave three names instead of one.
"You distrust certainty now," she observed when he presented the list.
They were walking in the walled garden of Mrs. Albright's cousin's estate, where propriety was preserved by the presence of the older woman several yards behind them.
Robert looked thoughtful. "I distrust my certainty. Other people may keep theirs if they like."
"That is generous."
"I am told I am improving slowly."
"You continue to wound me."
"You survive remarkably well."
He smiled. The humor between them had changed: once it had been armor; now it was permission.
Robert courted her properly: he sent letters that asked questions rather than announcing decisions; he visited with chaperones present; he never once suggested that marriage should end her work. When Matilda traveled to York to rehearse with musicians for a new performance, he did not ask when she would stop; he asked what she needed. Sometimes the answer was nothing—he learned to accept that. Sometimes the answer was his company—he learned not to look too pleased.
The months passed; trust deepened without spectacle. Matilda discovered that love, when it was safe, did not arrive as surrender; it arrived in small choices repeated until fear lost authority.
One afternoon, beneath bare branches at the edge of a Yorkshire estate, Robert stopped walking. Mrs. Albright was still visible behind them, examining late roses with exaggerated interest.
Matilda turned toward him. "You have become quiet."
"A dangerous sign, usually." He looked at her with none of his usual deflection. "I have something to ask."
Matilda's heartbeat changed. "Then ask it."
"Not as a duke."
"You cannot misplace the title so easily."
"No, but I can refuse to use it as leverage." His voice grew quieter. "I do not wish to rescue you. I do not wish to improve your position by making you dependent on mine. I do not wish to become the reason your work is taken seriously."