“Chin high,” she quietly reminded Miss Elliott, and herself. “Keep smiling.”
Kate began playing the lower half of the duet. But when the time came for Miss Elliott’s entrance, the younger lady faltered after just a few bars.
“I’m sorry, I just . . .” Miss Elliott lowered her voice.
“Did he wince again?”
“No, worse,” she moaned. “This time he shuddered.”
With a little gasp of indignation, Kate craned her neck to view the bar. “No. He didn’t.”
Miss Elliott nodded. “He did. It was terrible.”
That sealed it. For him to ignore her pupils was one thing. Wincing was another. But there was no excuse for shuddering. Shuddering was beyond the pale.
“I’ll speak with him,” Kate said, rising from the pianoforte bench.
“Oh, don’t. I beg you.”
“It’s all right,” Kate assured her. “I’m not afraid of him. He might be brutish, but I don’t believe he bites.”
She crossed the room and came to a stop just behind Corporal Thorne’s shoulder. She almost gathered the courage to tap the tasseled epaulet of his red uniform.
Almost.
Instead she cleared her throat. “Corporal Thorne?”
He turned.
In all her life she’d never known a man who could look so hard. His face was stony—composed of ruthless, chiseled angles and unyielding planes. Its stark terrain offered her no shelter, nowhere to hide. His mouth was a grim slash. His dark brows converged in disapproval. And his eyes . . . his eyes were the blue of river ice on the coldest, harshest winter night.
Chin high. Keep smiling.
“As you might have noticed,” she said lightly, “I’m in the middle of a music lesson.”
No response.
“You see, Miss Elliott is anxious when it comes to performing for strangers.”
“You want me to leave.”
“No.” Kate’s own reply surprised her. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”
That would be letting him off too easily. He was always leaving. This was their standard interaction, time after time. Kate screwed up her courage and attempted to be friendly. He always found some excuse to promptly leave the room. It was a ridiculous game, and she was weary of it.
“I’m not asking you to leave,” she said. “Miss Elliott needs practice. She and I are going to play a duet. I’m inviting you to lend us your attention.”
He stared at her.
Kate was accustomed to awkward eye contact. Whenever she made new acquaintances, she became painfully aware that people saw only the bold, port-wine splash on her temple. For years she’d tried to obscure her birthmark with wide-brimmed bonnets or artfully arranged ringlets of hair—to no avail. People always stared straight past them. She’d learned to ignore the initial hurt. In time, she went from being just a birthmark in their eyes, to being a woman with a birthmark. And eventually they looked at her and just saw Kate.
Corporal Thorne’s gaze was altogether different. She didn’t quite know who she was, in his eyes. The uncertainty set her on a razor’s edge, but she kept struggling to find her balance.
“Stay,” she dared him. “Stay and listen while we play our best for you. Applaud when we finish. Tap your toes to the rhythm, if you like. Give Miss Elliott a bit of encouragement. And shock me to the fingernails by proving you’ve a smidgen of compassion.”
Eons passed before he finally gave his succinct, gravelly response.
“I’ll leave.”
He stood, tossed a coin on the counter. And then he walked out of the tavern without looking back.
When the red-painted door swung shut on its oiled hinges, mocking her with a loud slam—Kate shook her head. The man was impossible.
At the pianoforte, Miss Elliott resumed playing a light arpeggio.
“I suppose that solves one problem,” Kate said, trying, as always, to see the bright side. No situation was ever hopeless.
Mr. Fosbury, the middle-aged tavern keeper, arrived to clear Thorne’s tankard. He pushed a cup of tea in Kate’s direction. A wafer-thin slice of lemon floated in the center, and the aroma of brandy drifted toward her on a wave of steam. She warmed inside before she’d even taken a sip. The Fosburys were good to her.
But they still weren’t a substitute for a true family. For that, she would have to keep searching. And she would keep searching, no matter how many doors slammed in her face.
“I hope you don’t take Thorne’s crude manners to heart, Miss Taylor.”
“Who, me?” She forced a little laugh. “Oh, I’m more sensible than that. Why should I take to heart the words of a heartless man?” She ran a fingertip around the teacup’s rim, thoughtful. “But kindly do me a favor, Mr. Fosbury.”
“Whatever you ask, Miss Taylor.”
“The next time I’m tempted to extend an olive branch of friendship to Corporal Thorne . . . ?” She arched one brow and gave him a playful smile. “Remind me to whack him over the head with it instead.”
Chapter Two