A RIPPLE of music had kept Marguerite spellbound on the sofa. She was passionately fond of music and it was a delightful surprise to hear Percy play - the soft tones of the piano creating a soothing atmosphere in the library. He had begun to play almost absentmindedly, but he now seemed lost in the music.
The strains of the instrument blended perfectly with the gentle crackle of logs in the fire and the pools of light created by the candelabra around the room. Woodsmoke, hot wax and the distinctive smell of old books mixed together providing a cosy, comforting aroma as the shadows lengthened.
Percy was by no means a brilliant pianist, but he played with feeling; perhaps he had been taught as part of his unconventional upbringing. There was so much about him that she still didn't know, but as each new aspect of his personality was revealed to her she felt as though she fell in love with him a little more.
She wanted to share her happiness with him and to see, once again, that look of intensity glow from his eyes. As she struggled to find the right words she realised the only sound in the room was the crackle and shift of logs in the grate.
As she looked at Percy his hands moved over the keys once more and he began a simple, wistful melody. But just a few notes in his fingers seemed to lock and the tune was lost. Once more the music ceased. Marguerite was shocked by the look on Percy's face. He sat with his eyes closed, yet there were visible lines of strain on his brow.
Moving the short distance to the piano stool she laid one of her small hands over his fingers, which still rested on the keys. As she touched him her anxiety grew at the coldness of his skin.
Sinking down to her knees at his side, she clasped the fingers of his right hand between her two warm hands, and whispered: "Percy, what is wrong?"
"I cannot play that melody," he said, flatly.
She was puzzled. "But it seems so simple in comparison to some of the pieces you played. I don't understand."
"I'm sorry, mon coeur. I thought that with you here it would be different. But I still cannot do it. My mother used to play it."
Marguerite's thoughts flew to the portrait she had seen in his study, not many days since. She had been struck then at the strong resemblance between mother and son; why had it not occurred to her then that this would extend to more than looks? He had obviously inherited a love of music from her, but the memories of her made it difficult for him to play this particular, evocative piece.
She also recalled his slight constraint when they had arrived: perhaps this whole house echoed with memories of his beloved mother, snatched away from him so tragically. Just as she had been adjusting to his strength, now she found herself faced with his vulnerability.
She knew what it was to lose your parents at a young age - and her heart went out to the boy whose mother had been cruelly taken: first by illness, then by death. At least she had been able to rely on Armand, as they raised one another in place of their parents. Percy would have had no-one as his father, at first distracted by grief, had eventually succumbed to his broken heart.
Knowing that words would never fill the void left, she lifted a hand and gently touched his face. Feeling her unspoken empathy he responded by stroking her hair, touched with golden lights in places by the candles.
Gently he moved away from her and picked up the discarded shawl she had brought into the library earlier. He had a sudden need for fresh air, and the feeling of freedom he only experienced out of doors.
Wordlessly he led Marguerite from the library along the dimly-lit hallway to the south door. He stopped briefly and arranged the wrap carefully around her shoulders, before taking her hand and leading her down the shallow stone steps along the formal terrace and down a further, wider flight of stone stairs. Still silently, her hand in his, they walked along the shores of the lake.
It was a beautiful October evening, lit by stars which were reflected in the inky surface of the water; and by a bright moon, which gilded the windows and the elaborate carvings on the Hall with a silvery sheen.
He loved the night air - whether sleeping under the stars in France or driving his team of bays home to Richmond - and he loved the way his wife looked: her regal figure bathed in moonlight, her beautiful features highlighted with an iridescent glow. He breathed in and felt himself lose some of the tension which had been with him since they had arrived at Welbourne.
The lake was a huge stretch of water with a small summerhouse on one of the banks. During the day it would be humming with life as Mother Nature continued her busy cycle, but now, in the gloom of the evening, it was hushed and peaceful.
Seated on one of the ornamental stone benches around the lake Marguerite looked up at her husband. He had a commanding appearance as he stood looking out across the silvery water, moonlight shining on the pale tones of his fair hair.
It was a fascinating night, with remnants of the day's warmth still lingering in the dips and hollows of the landscape, and the cool night air felt soothing against her face. She did not completely understand what had triggered this new mood in him, and she felt as though his personality was somehow shifting in front of her eyes. Each time she learned something new about him she thought she was prepared for surprises: after discovering his foppish behaviour hid the keen mind of the daring Scarlet Pimpernel she had thought his character revealed to her. But now she was realising that there was so much more to this complex man she had married.
Then - as though the words were dragged from somewhere deep inside him - he began to speak in a low voice. Haltingly, at first, he told her about his mother. Of how his parents had first met, how theirs had been a love-match frowned on by both families.
He told her how his father had brought his mother here as a bride, more than thirty years ago. How he had remodelled the reception rooms and modernised the Hall. How he had made sure the finest piano was brought here for her as she loved music so much. They had been so happy, for two short years.
Encouraged by her wordless empathy he told her of his childhood, blighted by the disease which had stolen his mother from him. He sat by her on the bench, and she waited silently; her eyes fixed on his profile as he confided in her. He had so few happy memories of his mother - she had been well enough at times to pick out melodies on the piano, or remember snatches of a song. But these times became fewer as Percy grew older. They had travelled a great deal: to see a new doctor, to try a new cure, or to avoid the stares.
Percy had only been to Welbourne briefly, accompanying his father when he returned on business. On one visit he had found a piano, shrouded in holland covers, and, having nothing to occupy himself with he had started to play tentatively. But before he had managed many notes, he had been caught, and silenced.
Frank, then a young under-footman, had heard the music from the entrance hall and, abandoning his post, had hastened to stop it: in accordance with the master's orders. On seeing the small, fair boy perched on the piano stool, he had not known how to explain; instead he had offered to teach the youngster how to catch a fish from the lake.
On future visits Percy had sought out Frank, who was slowly rising through the ranks; and when he was old enough to require a valet and wanted someone he could trust, Frank had been the obvious choice. Frank, born and raised on the Welbourne estate, was eager to see more of the world and hadn't needed to think twice.
Since then, Percy had only been back when forced to by business needs. And he had deliberately kept those visits rare and brief, unwilling to face the memories which lingered here.