Page 22 of The Music of Love

“Are you enjoying your time here thus far?” His question forced her to look up. He motioned to one of the chairs that stood in front of the enormous fireplace. “Have a seat. Tell me your impressions of Cornwall. We are a proud people and love to hear how others view our little corner of Britain.”

Portia could feel the pulse at the base of her throat pounding. Could he see it? Why did he want to talk to her? Why was she behaving like such a half-wit? She cleared her throat and lowered herself rather inelegantly into the chair he’d indicated.

He sat across from her, his body relaxed and graceful, a politely interested expression on his face. Portia couldn’t recall speaking with a person more difficult to read. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Maybe he really was as bland and emotionless as he appeared. But no, she could not believe that after hearing his playing.

She realized he was waiting. “I enjoy my rambles here; in London it was not so easy.”

“Walking in Rome was easier?” He sounded genuinely interested rather than polite.

“I knew Rome very well and was much more comfortable there than I ever was in London.” She didn’t tell him how she’d wandered every inch of the ancient city by herself when she was young, something a well-bred English girl would never do. Such behavior was frowned upon in Rome, too, but Portia’s father had been too busy working to keep track of his willful adolescent daughter.

“Do you ever think of returning to the Continent now the War is over?”

“My father was an only child and we were never close to any of his relations. There is nothing for me there.” There was actually too much there, but she could hardly tell him that.

“Do you have plans to travel to Europe, Mr. Harrington?”

“I am not fond of traveling.”

Portia opened her mouth, caught herself, and closed it. But naturally it didn’t stay closed. “Because of . . . because of your condition?”

To her surprise, he smiled. “That is part of the reason.”

Portia knew her face was the color of the oxblood books she held. “People can be ignorant and cruel.”

“That is true, Signora.” He was still smiling, but his tone had cooled and Portia felt she’d been put in her place.

She got to her feet, her heart pounding with mortification. “I will keep you no longer, Mr. Harrington.

He didn’t argue with her this time. Instead, he preceded her to the door. “Until this afternoon, Signora.”

Portia inclined her head. It was a struggle to move at a dignified pace, especially with his gaze on her until she turned the corner.

The day after her visit to the magnificent library Portia met Mr. Harrington’s old nurse, Nanny Kemble, for the first time. She’d been out on her usual afternoon ramble and decided to take the path into the woods she’d seen Mr. Harrington emerge from that first night. The trail was narrow but fairly well-travelled, proving that her employer was not the only one who used it. The canopy blocked out a good deal of light and made the air cool and damp.

She’d been just about to turn around when the sound of the surf became louder so she kept going.

On the other side of the small wood was a gently sloping hill that led down to a small cottage that seemed dangerously close to the cliffs.

Nanny Kemble was pottering in her small garden when Portia trespassed on her land. The ancient woman greeted Portia as if they were old friends.

“Why, you must be the piano teacher!”

“Yes, I am Portia Stefani.” She was no longer surprised that everyone in the area knew of her after having similar experiences in Bude each time she went.

I’m Nanny Kemble, Master Eustace’s nanny. I’ve been hoping you’d visit.”

Portia quickly learned Mr. Harrington—or Stacy, as she called him in the privacy of her mind—had not only given his old nurse the snug cottage, but also supplied her with servants to see to her needs. He wasn’t just generous with his money; he also called on the old woman weekly, as did Miss Tate. Nanny had no near neighbors and the only other people she saw on a regular basis were the Fants, the dour husband and wife caretakers who lived on the property.

“Miss Tate engaged them,” Nanny said, when Portia commented on how efficient the married couple seemed. “They’re from The North,” she said the two words the same way another person might say under a rock. “They certainly don’t come from where the rest of her people live.”

“Frances Tate’s people?” Portia asked, somewhat surprised. “I was under the impression there was no other family?”

Nanny blinked. “I’m sorry my dear, did I say she had people?” She shook her head. “Miss Tate and Master Eustace are the only two left. It’s such a pity.” The old lady’s mind drifted frequently and some days were better than others. The woman was close to ninety and had come to Stacy, her final and favorite charge, late in her life.

The next time Portia took her walk through the woods the old lady was waiting for her.

“I had Master Stacy from the day he was born.” They were having tea in Nanny’s cozy sitting room and the older woman was working on a section of intricate lace, which she could make without watching her hands. She stared at Portia with cloudy blue eyes. “What a tiny angel he was. He never cried or fussed, not at all like his brother.”