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I stopped abruptly, stood up and closed the lid with a snap. “Because I do not feel like it.” Turning to Sir Mordecai, I walked to the door. “My apologies, sir. I shan’t play again.”
“It is good to have music in the house once more,” he murmured in a voice that I would not have known came from him, had I not been looking directly at him. “Your grandmother loved to play. And,” he added more strongly, sounding more like himself, “we will all listen to you play tonight after dinner.”
Another order. I was to play - told, not asked. This man was more dictatorial to his family than my father had been to any of our slaves. None of our family had ever spoken to any servant the way Sir Mordecai spoke to me.
I could hear Basil walking toward me, so most inelegantly dashed around Sir Mordecai and down the hallway to my room, slamming the door behind me and leaning against it as if slavering beasts were on the other side trying to come in.
If I were forced into marriage with Basil there would be no door, nothing to keep his oily presence away from me. The prospect made me shudder.
I was late to dinner that night, but it was not until we all trooped up to the music room that both Basil and Sir Mordecai realised why. The bench where two could sit was gone, carefully secreted in another unused room, and replaced by a spindly chair which looked as if it could barely support the weight of one person, let alone two.
Basil’s expression was not happy, but still he smiled with oily perfection. “I will happily stand for the pleasure of turning your pages, dear Clarissa.”
“That is not necessary,” I said, seating myself and praying the little chair held together. “I play from memory.”
The family seated itself around the room on an assortment of chairs hastily assembled from the rest of the house. I began to play my favourites, feeling the notes caress my soul and, in a small corner of my mind, almost wished that Stanhope were here to listen. I was careful to avoid any romantic or sentimental tunes, even when Basil requested them. Undeterred by the removal of the bench, he leaned on the edge of the piano, his eyes filled with a touching simulacrum of longing that never left my face. It was most disconcerting and more than a little nauseating.
“Do you not know any ballads?” asked Sir Mordecai as I finished the final flourishes of Beethoven’s sonata number 12.
“Or any love songs?” sighed a misty-eyed Great Aunt Zipporah.
“No,” I said briefly, closing the lid and standing. “I do not wish to play them. Now if you will all forgive me, I am somewhat fatigued and wish to retire.”
It was so early that the village woman was not waiting in my room, which was just fine with me. I struggled out of my dress, yet again stabbing myself a few times with errant pins, and was brushing my hair when she stumbled into the room, all obsequious apologies and grovelling.
When she was finally gone and I free to crawl into bed, it was only a few minutes before the door swung open without the courtesy of a knock and Sir Mordecai stamped in.
“This rebellion will not do, you know.”
“Good evening, Sir Mordecai,” I replied politely.
“You can fight all you want, but the outcome is settled. You will turn your fortune over to me, and you will marry Basil. It is what must be done for the family and the name. I expect those letters to be ready tomorrow. If they are not, I will cease to wait for you and have them written myself.”
“Good night, Sir Mordecai,” I said, once again politely, sounding a great deal calmer than I felt.
After he left, I was filled with a queer combination of rage and fear. How dare he give me such absolute orders? Surely he could not force me to give up my money, or to marry a man I found repugnant, could he? I didn’t know. Perhaps in this antique society the law would allow such an outrage.
Had Stanhope sent my letters on their way? Would Coutt’s Bank acknowledge my instructions not to respond to any orders of change to my account no matter if it seemed to have come from me? Or did a woman’s word mean nothing in this land even if I were legally in sole charge of the money? Uncle Bernard would believe me, of course, but it would take weeks before my missive reached him and more weeks for his reply, and who knew what horrors could have been done to me by then?
Unable to rest, I rose and began to pace the room.
The door opened so soundlessly that the sudden flash of light was the only indication that someone had entered my room.
“Clarissa?”
“Patience? What are you doing here?” I threw back the drapes, allowing the watery moonlight to gild the room.
“I came to talk to you. He isn’t going to give up, you know. When Sir Mordecai makes up his mind, he will stop at nothing to get what he wants, no matter how miserable it makes everyone else.”
There was a hint of grief in her voice.
“What did he do to you?”
“It makes no difference. I just came to tell you that, for your own sake, you should give in and do what he wants. It will save you so much suffering later on.”
She turned to leave, but I stopped her.
“What did he do to you?”
