Heart Strings (Music of the Heart Book 1) (8 page)

Kit’s demeanor changed, light in his eyes softened and turned almost pleading. Very gently, he said, “I realize you don’t know me at all, but I give you my word as a gentleman that I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

Her stomach chose that moment to growl.

He grinned. “You can’t expect me to believe you aren’t hungry.”

Heat raced to her cheeks and she laughed softly. “I won’t bother.”

His grin widened. “I don’t recall ever meeting anyone who blushed so easily.”

She held her portmanteau in front of her with both hands. “It’s my complexion. My mother used to say that people as fair as she and I are, are blessed with the gift of honesty—we can’t tell a lie or even hide our feelings without turning red.”

“She is as fair-skinned as you are?”

“Yes, she was.” She let out a little sigh. “She was a great beauty.” Rousing herself lest she fall into doldrums, she found a smile from somewhere inside her. “At least you won’t have to worry if I’m being truthful with you.”

“I wasn’t worried. A late super then? With me?”

She glanced around. Nora and Jane were gone. So much for her plan to ask for their help. Her weakness and hunger warred with her hope to sleep safely inside the theatre. At the moment, her hunger won. She’d probably regret her choice later. Perhaps she could somehow get back inside tonight.

“Very well, I accept.” She slid the cover over the harp and picked up her portmanteau.

He lifted a brow. “Do you carry that thing everywhere you go?”

“Of course.” She lifted her head as if his had been a silly question, as if everyone carried baggage everywhere they went. He probably thought her odd.

“Then please allow me to carry it for you.” He reached for her portmanteau.

She hesitated again. Everything she owned was in that bag, but if she could trust him enough to go somewhere with him, surely she could trust him with her bag and its meager contents. She surrendered her portmanteau.

With her bag in one hand, and his violin in the other, Kit wound through the orchestra pit to the stairs. Susanna followed him. As they reached backstage, he slowed his pace until she caught up with him. Then he matched his longer strides to her smaller steps. Jane and Nora stood in the wings, flirting with a pair of stage hands. They glanced at her as she walked past them next to Kit. Jane’s mouth dropped open before curving into a delighted smile, and Nora’s sentence trailed off.

Susanna walked a little taller next to Kit. It was silly, of course. He clearly had no real interest in her. No matter. Just being seen with such an admired—and admirable—man sent a flutter of wild tingles all over her. This would be one of the sweetest of Sweet Moments she could take out later to savour when she needed to buoy her spirits.

Unwholesomely pleased with herself at that moment, Susanna put her hand on Kit’s arm as they worked their way to the exit. She had sacrificed another opportunity to ask Jane and Nora about lodging, but on Kit’s arm, she couldn’t muster up any regret. Besides, she would eat a full meal soon. Her mouth watered.

Kit called out a farewell to Bert at the door, and tucked the violin under the same arm that carried Susanna’s portmanteau. As if it were second-nature, Kit opened the door and stepped back. He glanced expectantly at Susanna. She almost missed her cue. When was the last time a man had held a door for her? Her father, probably, had been the last, just as he always did for her mother.

To Kit, she murmured a breathless, “Thank you.”

When they stepped outside into the cool London fog, Kit again offered her his free arm. Speechless at his thoughtfulness, she slipped a hand around his elbow and looked up at him. He stood a full head taller than she, and at that moment, appeared more knight than angel.

“Are you blushing again?” his amused voice rumbled softly.

She looked down. “This isn’t a ballroom. You don’t have to treat me like a fine lady, offering your arm and opening doors.”

“Of course I do. The streets of London are almost as dangerous as ballrooms, you know.” He grinned.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been to a ball.”

“Outdoor country dances, then?”

“No, never.” He must think her a backwards bumpkin.

“Really?” His brows lifted and a delighted smile brightened his already stunning face. “We must remedy that.”

“Oh no, I haven’t danced in so long, I doubt I remember how.”

Her dance master had only worked with her for a few months before her parents both succumbed to influenza. Aunt Uriana, viewed Susanna’s dance master an unnecessary expense and dismissed him. Later, Aunt hired a dance master for her daughter but forbade Susanna to participate.

Kit’s voice drew her gaze. “Dancing is one of those delights in which everyone should have an opportunity to indulge. One can always learn—or relearn—the steps. Here we are.” He led her to a tavern named the Silver Duck and held the door open. The Silver Duck. This was the same place with the pump in back where she’d been getting her water.

Inside, Susanna paused, breathing in the aroma of bread and beef stew. A few men clustered around tables drinking and talking. Some laughed raucously and others murmured, their heads close together. Tallow candles sputtered on the tables and in sconces on the walls but failed to provide more than tiny circles of light amid the darkness.

They found an unoccupied table and, always the gentleman, Kit held her chair out for her. After scooting her in and placing her portmanteau and his violin on an empty chair between him and the wall, he sat and turned a curious gaze upon her.

“May I ask you an impertinent question?”

She folded her hands in her lap. “You can ask, but I do not promise I will answer it.”

“Fair enough. How does a gently-bred lady from the country end up in London playing for an orchestra?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. How much to reveal? She tilted her head. “How does a gentleman with enough town polish who, if he wore the right clothes, could impress even the dragons who run Almack’s, end up playing for an orchestra?” Of course, having never left her town until now, she knew little about such things except what she read in the gossip columns of her uncle’s cast off newspapers.

He laughed uneasily. “
Touché
. Very well, I’ll tell you; I had a falling out with my father over a moral dilemma, and I left hearth and home to make my own way in the world—to prove to myself and to him that I am my own man and need not live under his tyranny.”

Who was his father? A country squire? A distant relation to a lord? The more time she spent in his company, the less likely it seemed that he could be the son of a merchant or factory owner. From what she’d seen of society in her hometown and her aunt’s guests, Kit had the kind of inherited polish of ancient gentry that families of new money never managed to capture.

Continuing his story, he said, “I needed a way of supporting myself so I auditioned for the opera orchestra.”

“I see our stories and reasons are similar,” she said.

Interest sparked in his eyes. “Have you been on your own long, then?”

“Not long.”

His brow lifted as if he’d expected a different answer but he nodded. He laced his fingers in front of himself on the table top, his eyes searching hers. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No. I merely…had to get away from my aunt’s tyranny.” Hopefully using his own words would stop the questions.

“It’s one thing for a man to be on his own. It’s another matter entirely for a lady to do so.”

“A great number of women are alone.”

“Not daughters of gentlemen.”

She blinked.

He offered an apologetic smile. “Your manners and the quality of your speech give you away. When ladies fall on hard times, they usually find work as a lady’s companion or governess so they are still under someone’s care.”

She weighed the wisdom of confiding in him. He seemed so kind, but he might think her wicked for refusing to marry the man of her guardian’s choice and running away from home. The idea of losing his good opinion of her tied her tongue.

Finally, she managed, “I have had quite enough of being under someone’s care.”

“Ah, Kit.” A rotund, rosy-cheeked man wearing an apron and wiping his hands on a towel emerged. “I wondered when you were going to show up. You brought a friend.” His gaze flitted to Susanna. He looked her over curiously as if he couldn’t imagine why such a plain little ragamuffin would be in Kit’s company.

Addressing Susanna, Kit gestured to the man. “This is Ol’ Joe. He and his wife own the place.”

Ol’ Joe’s wife must have been the woman who allowed her to wash using their water pump behind the building.

“Ol’ Joe, this is Susanna. She’s new to the orchestra. Plays the harp.”

Ol’ Joe lifted his brows. “Harp, eh? Never seen one of those up close. Bet it sounds like a little slice of heaven.”

She smiled. “My father always thought so.” A Sweet Memory returned, one of Papa sitting nearby, smiling, eyes closed, as he listened to her play, and Mama next to him, working on her sewing, also smiling. Fortunately for her, Uncle enjoyed it as well or her harp playing days would have ended years ago. Bless him, it was the one time he’d spoken up against his wife. He even had kept her supplied with a steady supply of new music.

“Are you hungry, too, miss?” Ol’ Joe asked. “You could use some food, by the looks of you.”

Heat crawled up her neck to her cheeks, and she lowered her gaze, nodding. Someday soon she’d find steady work and would eat on a more regular basis—enough to fill out like a woman instead of a scrawny little boy.

“We’re both famished, Ol’ Joe,” Kit said.

The tavern owner nodded and disappeared behind a swinging door in back.

“You are a regular here, I presume?” she asked.

“This is one of the few places that serve food so late. I like their simple, wholesome fare.”

Ol’ Joe returned and placed the food on the table in front of them. Big chunks of beef, potatoes, and vegetables swam in thick broth. Susanna’s mouth watered. She devoured the stew and a thick slice of brown bread Kit handed her. Oddly enough, she filled up faster than she’d expected considering how long it had been since she’d had a full meal. Perhaps her stomach had shrunk.

Pushing back her bowl, she let out a contented sigh and added the delicious meal with Kit to her Sweet Memories. Someday, she’d eat meals this satisfying every day with no one to lock her in her bedchamber without food.

Kit grinned. “I share the sentiment. I’m always starved after a performance.” He stretched out his legs and folded his hands over his lean waist, still eyeing her. “I’m of a mind to take you to the public dance tonight, if you are willing. Will you come with me?”

“So late?”

“Many people go home early, but a fair number stay out late Saturday nights—probably because so many shops are closed Sundays; they can sleep in tomorrow. The music is good and the company is fun, if you don’t mind associating with a working class rougher even than musicians.” He offered a self-deprecating smile to let her know he wasn’t truly a snob.

Who was Kit Anson? He had to have come from a family of means. His clothes were good quality, without holes or thinning places—not quite as fine as the members of the
beau monde
wore, but certainly among the prosperous working class. His manners and accent would fit in with even the upper crust of society. Clearly he’d been trained by the best; raw talent was one thing, but a musician of Kit’s calibre developed from a combination of innate talent combined with years of training by the finest masters. Only someone with deep pockets would have the funds for a violin master to fine-tune his talent and mould him into a performer of unsurpassed skill.

He smiled. “You’re thinking very hard about this. It’s not supposed to be a difficult question.”

She shook off her musings. “Of course I don’t mind associating with the working class. I’m part of them. But I really don’t remember how to dance. My dance master was dismissed years ago.” She hadn’t danced with a partner in so long—not counting her imaginary partner who danced with her each time she was confined to her bedchamber—she doubted she could do it properly. She’d probably embarrass herself.

“That’s easily remedied. One can learn the steps in a short lesson,” he assured her. “A dance master probably wouldn’t have taught you any of these dances anyway.”

She cursed her wagging tongue. Now he knew she’d come from a family who could afford a dance master. She wasn’t very good at remaining anonymous.

He leaned forward. “Do come. It will be fun. When was the last time you had a little fun?”

When, indeed? She took pleasure from playing the harp. She enjoyed walking along the river that ran through the estate—or at least, she did when she lived there. She liked reading. But fun? When was the last time she’d had fun?

Kit chuckled. “If it’s taking you that long to remember, then you are overdue. Come.” He stood, gathered up her bag and his violin, and held out a hand. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a command, but rather an invitation.

Guided by the same reckless courage that had prompted her to leave her aunt and uncle, she placed her hand in his. “Very well. I will.”

He gave her that infectious grin, and she couldn’t help but smile in return. As if they were a fine lord and lady, Kit escorted her along the dark streets and alleys of London. With Kit at her side, the shadows no longer looked ominous, and passers-by seemed innocent of evil designs. Safe. This was what it felt to be safe in the presence of another person. How lovely.

A break in the buildings caught her eye and the gurgle of water beckoned to her. She stopped, straining to see what had caused it.

“Is that the river?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s the Thames. Ever seen it?”

“Only at a distance.”

“You’ll want to see it, then. I can take you sometime during the day, if you’d like. The best place to view it is Wapping, down the old Waterman’s stairs. I go see it every few days. It seems to pull me there.” He smiled wistfully. “It’s like an old friend to whom I must pay my respects. I never quite know what I’ll find. Depending on the tide, it may be low and have an expansive beach, or so high and turbulent that one doesn’t dare step off the stairs.”