Part 11 (1/2)

The horse pawed at the floor of his stall.

”I know. I know. You're hungry.”

She brought hay to the stall and dropped it into the manger, then grabbed the bucket and took it to the pump, where she filled it with fresh, cold water.

”He asked me to give him piano lessons. Can you believe that? He's building a resort, running for mayor, and he wants to add piano lessons to the mix. And I agreed! Why did I do that? What was I thinking?” She hung the bucket once again on the hook inside the stall. ”I don't need his twenty-five cents.”

Shakespeare chomped on his hay, unmindful of her dilemma.

Gwen rested her hands atop the stall rail, then placed her chin on her wrists. ”Of course, I don't have to give him lessons. I could cancel, couldn't I?”

Yes, she could cancel. She would would cancel. First thing tomorrow, she would let him know she couldn't give him those lessons after all. cancel. First thing tomorrow, she would let him know she couldn't give him those lessons after all.

FOURTEEN.

Gwen arrived at Morgan's home at three minutes to the hour the following Tuesday afternoon. She had meant to cancel the lesson. More than once she'd begun a note to tell him she couldn't do it. The notes had ended up unfinished in the trash.

A woman wearing a black dress and matching ap.r.o.n answered her knock. ”You must be Miss Arlington.” The woman opened the door wide. ”Mr. McKinley told me to expect you. I'm Mrs. Cheevers, the housekeeper. Please come in.”

”Thank you.” Gwen stepped into the entry hall. ”I believe we've met before, Mrs. Cheevers. At the Humphrey girl's wedding last year.”

”Oh. Of course.” The housekeeper motioned with her right hand. ”If you'll make yourself comfortable in the front parlor, Mr. McKinley will join you soon. He's in a meeting with Mr. Doyle.”

Mrs. Cheevers led her into a beautifully appointed room with a high ceiling and tall windows that afforded a view of the town and the mountain range to the south. The piano, which stood near one of those windows, had been polished to a high sheen.

”May I bring you some refreshment, Miss Arlington?”

”No, thank you.” Gwen made her way to the piano and slipped onto the bench.

Her grandparents owned a grand piano similar to this one. Her own lessons had begun on that instrument when she was six years old, before her hands could properly span the keys. She recalled many an hour in the music room of her grandparents' home in Hoboken, practicing her scales over and over again.

Mr. Kirby, her teacher, had been a strange-looking little man with thick gla.s.ses that rode the tip of a birdlike nose. ”Do it again, child. Concentrate this time,” he'd told her.

Sometimes Gwen had cried in frustration, but her tears hadn't moved her mother. Elizabeth Arlington had wanted Gwen to learn to play and learn to play she would. A musical ability, she'd told Gwen repeatedly, was one of the social graces. Every young lady of quality played an instrument.

Her mother couldn't have guessed that Gwen would one day be paid to teach others.

”Poor Mother,” Gwen whispered as she placed her fingers on the ivory keys. ”What a disappointment I am to her.”

She heard men's voices and twisted on the bench an instant before Morgan and f.a.gan Doyle came into view.

When Morgan saw her through the parlor doorway, he smiled. ”Ah, you're here already.” He stepped into the room.

”It's now past three o'clock.”

”Is it?” He checked his watch. ”I hadn't realized. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.” He glanced over his shoulder. ”f.a.gan, you remember Miss Arlington. She's here to give me a lesson on the piano.”

Gwen slid to the end of the bench as the two men approached.

”'Tis a pleasure to see you again, Miss Arlington.” He gave her a broad wink. ”Be patient with Morgan. I wouldn't call him daft, but still...” He shrugged as his voice faded to silence.

”Be on your way, f.a.gan.” Morgan feigned a scowl.

f.a.gan laughed. ”He has no sense of humor, that one. None at all. Have a care, miss.”

”I will, Mr. Doyle.” She grinned at him, enjoying the easy banter of the men. ”Thank you for the warning.”

As f.a.gan left the room, Morgan looked at Gwen and in a stage whisper said, ”I most certainly do do have a sense of humor. If I didn't, I wouldn't survive having f.a.gan for a friend.” have a sense of humor. If I didn't, I wouldn't survive having f.a.gan for a friend.”

His eyes, she thought, contained so much life, and his laugh was deep and rich. Had she noticed that before?

Swallowing hard, Gwen reached into her bag and withdrew the sheet music she'd brought with her. ”We should begin your lesson, Mr. McKinley.”

”Of course.” He moved to the left side of the bench and sat beside her, his shoulder almost touching hers.

It was quite warm in the room. Perhaps she should ask that a window be opened.

Morgan put his fingers on the piano keys, his left little finger resting on lower C, his right thumb resting on middle C.

Gwen gave him a sharp look. ”You've had lessons before.”

”Yes, but that was years ago.”

”But I thought - ”

He pressed middle C with his thumb, three times in quick succession. ”My parents and I heard Percy Grainger play in the London recital that established his reputation as a virtuoso. I'll never forget it.” Slowly, Morgan played the notes of the C-major scale with his right hand. ”I was twenty years old at the time. Percy Grainger was nineteen. I remember wanting to learn to play just like him.”

How easily he spoke of his travels in England and Europe, of the grand hotels and spas he'd visited, of seeing one of the great pianists of their day perform in London. Morgan had led the sort of life her mother could only dream of, the kind of life she'd wanted for her daughter if only Gwen would have married well.

Poor Mother.

Gwen's maternal grandparents were well-to-do merchants in New Jersey. Part of the nouveau riche, nouveau riche, their money had opened many doors for Elizabeth and Gwen. But some doors at the highest echelons of good, long-established society had remained firmly closed. Gwen hadn't cared, but her mother had. their money had opened many doors for Elizabeth and Gwen. But some doors at the highest echelons of good, long-established society had remained firmly closed. Gwen hadn't cared, but her mother had.

What would Mother think if she could see me now?

Morgan's left hand began the scale, moving from left to right, but he struck a sour note as he crossed his middle finger over thumb. He stopped, chuckled, then looked at her. ”As you can tell, I'm no virtuoso.”

Gwen swallowed again. ”You'll get better.” Her heart beat an uncertain rhythm in her chest. ”It only takes practice.”

How easy it would be to lean to his right and kiss her lips. Morgan longed to know if she tasted as sweet as she looked.

As if she'd read his mind, her eyes widened and color infused her cheeks. She slipped from the bench and stood beside it, clenching her hands at her waist. ”Please play that scale again, Mr. McKinley.”

He shouldn't be thinking about how easy it would be to kiss her or how sweet she looked. That wasn't why he was here. He concentrated again on the piano keys. His playing felt awkward, his fingers stiff. How many years had it been since he'd sat on a piano bench, his fingers touching ivory? Too many.