I took the folded newsprint with a nod, waiting until the room had quieted and all attention was turned elsewhere. On the lower right side of the page were the announcements—birth, death, and engagement—with Marcel’s name first on the list of deaths. I looked over every word of it until my distracted vision caught on an announcement farther down, with another familiar name attached.

Richard. My Richard . . . who was now someone else’s Richard.

Distinguished shipping baron Richard Cartwright of Manchester was to wed one Georgianna Gaines of North Yorkshire on the 23rd of February in the coming year.

Yet another death, another loss. While I lay trapped in this place, the remnants of my life were quietly being stripped away.

I wilted onto that pianoforte, my cheek against its polished smoothness, and simply lay there, letting that wave roll over me again and again. Someone seemed to shuffle out patients and nurses, and soon I felt the stillness of an empty room. Of peace. A nurse would be standing guard just outside, no doubt, but one of them had seen my troubles and granted me the moment of solitude I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Dr. Turner was the last to leave—I saw his shoes from where I laid my face. He stood, observing me with empathy I could feel. Then he too turned to leave, closing the door softly behind him.

I began to cry.

33

This utter fear of being thought peculiar has stifled any desire for originality among the English of every class. Therefore we’ve dulled ourselves into a society of sameness.

~Vivienne Mourdant

He should have brought a candle. Mitchell Turner knew those halls, but he should have prepared a light anyway—if nothing else, to see what the noise ahead was.

Footsteps. Someone coming toward him, despite the hour. The heavy darkness.

Then a short-statured figure came into the flickering light of a torch farther up.

“Canon Harford.” Mitchell cleared his throat, pacing forward with relief. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I heard you were looking for me.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Just a word, if I may.” He gestured them toward an empty office down the corridor. Once inside, Mitchell sat down at the cluttered desk and invited his visitor to take the chair across from it. He blew out a breath, palms down on the mess of papers. “It’s Miss Vivienne Mourdant, your pianist.” He focused on the corner of that rough desk for a moment, properly assembling the question he wished to ask. “It seems you were already acquainted with her before. Knew she played the pianoforte.”

“Oh?” The man’s easy self-possession wavered just a bit. “Musicians are always somewhat acquainted in spirit, even before introductions. I can spot one in any crowded room.”

“Of course.” He clasped his hands before him on the desk, steadying himself. “But you seemed acquainted with her—as if you’d spoken to her before Hurstwell.”