first, continuing. "When my father died, someone else inherited the marquisate. I don't use the courtesy title. There's no point." At her ear, the hum of the tuning fork faded.
She quickly moved the instrument toward Mr. Tremore. "Do you hear any—" She went to take his chin as she did with her lady students, but as her fingers grazed his jaw the feeling of stubble—more than a dozen hours beyond a shave—startled her somehow. She withdrew her hand, lowering it, burying it in her skirt as she stopped the tuning fork against her bosom. For a moment, the fork hummed against her chest.
She sat there a little bit taken aback. She'd done this a thousand times. It was quite ordinary.
"What?" he asked.
"Sorry." She shook her head, laughing nervously, and struck the fork again. "Let's have another go at that. Tell me if you hear anything when I touch it behind your ear."
They were both silent as she performed the second part of the test, this time without touching his chin. It went smoothly.
"Good," she reported again.
"You was rich?" he asked.
She lifted her eyes to him. "Pardon?"
"When your father was alive, you was rich?"
"My father was. But I'm not poor now."
"I can see that. But I can see your house ain't what it was. Was it ever fancy and right?"
She pondered the question. Right. Was this house ever right? "I suppose. Though the really fine one is—well, you'll see it. It's where the Duke of Arles holds his annual ball now: in the house where I was born, my family's old estate."
"The duke inherited your house?" The look on Mr. Tremore's face said he could hardly believe that fact.
She could hardly believe it herself some days. Still, twelve years later, she'd wake up some mornings and be surprised all over again that Xavier had everything, all she'd ever known growing up, while she had ended up here, a place she had only visited in her youth, a house in which she had only ever spent the night when her father had made trips to London, because he had papers to present.
She picked up a smaller tuning fork, struck it. "You'll tell me please again when you no longer hear the sound."
When she reached toward him, he caught her hand, taking the fork from her. "What happened to your old house?"
He was delaying after a long day of strange procedures and drills, all of which he'd trudged through but disliked. She answered anyway, mostly to be done with it, to be past the awkward questions. "Exactly as you said: When my father died the next male in line inherited his title, that person being my father's cousin. He wasn't a duke yet. That came three days later, when my grandfather, the fourth Duke of Arles, died, too. My cousin Xavier inherited it all. He became the Duke of Arles as well as Marquess of Sissingley and a host of lesser honors." She shrugged. "Quite normal. Lines pass through their firstborn sons." Indeed. Daughters of marquesses married to acquire land and money, only she hadn't.
Here was as far as she ever went aloud. Her history embarrassed her. She murmured, "Please give that to me." She held out her hand for the tuning fork.
Mr. Tremore watched her a moment, then struck the tines on his palm as she'd done. He held it to his ear, listened, then handed it back, tines first. When she grasped it, her fingers vibrated.
Within the hour, they finished up the last of the initial record-keeping and testing and began in earnest on articulation. Which left Mr. Tremore really at sea. They'd hardly started when he wanted to quit.
"I ain't used to bein' wrong at anything so much as you say I be here."
She could have countered that she wasn't used to a lot of what was happening either. A man in her house. Tuning forks handed back to her, humming. A student who leaned back on the rear legs of his chair and twitched a big, bristly mustache at her every time she said something he didn't want to hear.
She told him anyway, "It's to be expected that you'll say everything wrong at first. We're looking for what you say
She quickly moved the instrument toward Mr. Tremore. "Do you hear any—" She went to take his chin as she did with her lady students, but as her fingers grazed his jaw the feeling of stubble—more than a dozen hours beyond a shave—startled her somehow. She withdrew her hand, lowering it, burying it in her skirt as she stopped the tuning fork against her bosom. For a moment, the fork hummed against her chest.
She sat there a little bit taken aback. She'd done this a thousand times. It was quite ordinary.
"What?" he asked.
"Sorry." She shook her head, laughing nervously, and struck the fork again. "Let's have another go at that. Tell me if you hear anything when I touch it behind your ear."
They were both silent as she performed the second part of the test, this time without touching his chin. It went smoothly.
"Good," she reported again.
"You was rich?" he asked.
She lifted her eyes to him. "Pardon?"
"When your father was alive, you was rich?"
"My father was. But I'm not poor now."
"I can see that. But I can see your house ain't what it was. Was it ever fancy and right?"
She pondered the question. Right. Was this house ever right? "I suppose. Though the really fine one is—well, you'll see it. It's where the Duke of Arles holds his annual ball now: in the house where I was born, my family's old estate."
"The duke inherited your house?" The look on Mr. Tremore's face said he could hardly believe that fact.
She could hardly believe it herself some days. Still, twelve years later, she'd wake up some mornings and be surprised all over again that Xavier had everything, all she'd ever known growing up, while she had ended up here, a place she had only visited in her youth, a house in which she had only ever spent the night when her father had made trips to London, because he had papers to present.
She picked up a smaller tuning fork, struck it. "You'll tell me please again when you no longer hear the sound."
When she reached toward him, he caught her hand, taking the fork from her. "What happened to your old house?"
He was delaying after a long day of strange procedures and drills, all of which he'd trudged through but disliked. She answered anyway, mostly to be done with it, to be past the awkward questions. "Exactly as you said: When my father died the next male in line inherited his title, that person being my father's cousin. He wasn't a duke yet. That came three days later, when my grandfather, the fourth Duke of Arles, died, too. My cousin Xavier inherited it all. He became the Duke of Arles as well as Marquess of Sissingley and a host of lesser honors." She shrugged. "Quite normal. Lines pass through their firstborn sons." Indeed. Daughters of marquesses married to acquire land and money, only she hadn't.
Here was as far as she ever went aloud. Her history embarrassed her. She murmured, "Please give that to me." She held out her hand for the tuning fork.
Mr. Tremore watched her a moment, then struck the tines on his palm as she'd done. He held it to his ear, listened, then handed it back, tines first. When she grasped it, her fingers vibrated.
Within the hour, they finished up the last of the initial record-keeping and testing and began in earnest on articulation. Which left Mr. Tremore really at sea. They'd hardly started when he wanted to quit.
"I ain't used to bein' wrong at anything so much as you say I be here."
She could have countered that she wasn't used to a lot of what was happening either. A man in her house. Tuning forks handed back to her, humming. A student who leaned back on the rear legs of his chair and twitched a big, bristly mustache at her every time she said something he didn't want to hear.
She told him anyway, "It's to be expected that you'll say everything wrong at first. We're looking for what you say
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