The building used to be an antiquarian bookshop and still had a vast collection of books for use by the ladies of the club. Viola always felt a rush of pride when she saw the gray stone facade and the sparkling leaded glass windows. The idea for an all-female club that she and her friend India had hatched years ago had become such a solid and welcoming reality.

Her friends Isobel Mayberry and Ardella Finchley were taking tea in the cozy front sitting room.

“Viola,” Della called. “Come and join us.”

Viola stuck her head in the door. “I wish I had time for tea, but I’ve work to do and only a few free hours.”

“Well, at least come in and tell us what you’re working on,” Isobel urged. “I can tell by the intense light in your eyes that it’s a new composition.”

Viola smiled and joined her friends. “I’ve accepted an invitation in Papa’s name to compose a new Christmas carol for a gala celebration. The music and lyrics will be distributed to choirs throughout England. This could be a way for my father to regain favor and restore our fortunes. I’m going to search through the library for a suitable poem by a female poet to set to music.”

“It sounds like a spectacular opportunity,” said Della enthusiastically, her blue eyes bright and lively and her gestures animated. “We’ll all have to go and listen to it performed.”

“And we’ll know it was the daughter, not the father, who composed it,” said Isobel.

Viola smiled. “That’s all the recognition I require.”

Isobel was one of the more daring members of their club, as she had attended a school of law and accepted a clerkship at a law firm in the guise of her invalid brother—with his permission. Her tall, thin frame and sharp-featured face made the deception easier.

“That reminds me.” Della opened her reticule and searched through it, pulling out various glass vials, a magnifying glass, and several eye droppers. She assisted her father at his perfumery and was a devoted chemist. “Oh, where is that clipping? Ah! Here it is.” She smoothed the wrinkles from a page of newsprint and held it to the light. “‘If anyone has information as to the whereabouts of one Mr. Vincent Beam whose composition won second place in the Royal Society of Musicians’ contest for new symphonic works, please contact the publishing house of Atwater and Herrick . . .’ It goes on to give more details and offers a monetary reward.”

“Why do they want to contact Mr. Beam?” Viola asked.

“That’s the exciting part. They want to publish your work, Viola! They’ll pay you for it.”

Viola sat down in a chair. “But I can’t reveal myself as Mr. Beam.”

“And why not? There are dozens of female composers of note,” said Isobel indignantly.