She had not thought of those words in years.
Another knock came. This one was proper and measured. Mrs. Canning entered, carrying a single manuscript page. "His Grace asked that this be delivered to you."
Matilda took it. Her correction remained visible in the margin. Her handwriting looked almost defiant now that someone else had noticed it.
The next morning, she found Robert waiting in the breakfast room with Hester and two other guests already present. He rose when Matilda entered, his eyes dropping briefly to her plain walking shoes, then returning to her face: no pity, no amusement, only recognition.
"Miss Dracott. I trust the page was returned safely."
"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you."
He reached for the program beside his plate and opened it to the Fantasia. "May I ask you something?"
Hester's teacup stopped halfway to her lips. Matilda knew she should be careful. "Of course."
Robert placed one finger on the printed passage that matched the correction she had made. "Did Mrs. Dracott compose this?"
The room became very quiet.
Matilda looked at Hester, then at Robert. Her answer would cost something; she knew that before she spoke. But for the first time in years, silence felt expensive, too. She could not say yes; she could not yet say no.
So she said nothing.
Robert held her gaze for one long second. Then he looked down at the program. "I see."
And Matilda understood, with a sudden mixture of fear and relief, that he did.
Robert did not press her for an answer. That unsettled Matilda more than persistence would have. He simply returned his attention to the program, folded it once, and set it beside his plate as though the silence had been sufficient.
Hester recovered first. "His Grace is teasing you, Matilda. You must not encourage him by looking so solemn."
Robert reached for his coffee. "I rarely tease people about authorship, Mrs. Dracott. It seems an inefficient subject for comedy."
One of the other guests smiled uncertainly. Hester did not.
Matilda lowered herself carefully into the nearest chair. Her heel still ached beneath its bandage, but the pain had become manageable. What she could not manage was the awareness that Robert had seen enough to question the story everyone else accepted. He did not know the truth—not yet. But he had begun looking in the correct direction.
Breakfast continued with the forced ease of a room pretending nothing had shifted. Hester discussed the York subscription concert. A gentleman from Leeds praised her taste. Robert asked no more questions until the footman entered to announce that Mr. Godfrey Beckham had arrived from London.
Hester brightened at once. "At last!"
Matilda felt something cold move through her. Godfrey Beckham was not merely a publisher; he was a promoter, negotiator, collector of wealthy subscribers, and a man who could turn drawing-room admiration into printed reputation. He had handled Hester's last three editions. He had also never once asked Matilda what she thought of the music she prepared for him.