He opened the door and found Katherine waiting in the parlor, reading a newspaper by the soft glow of a single lamp. It was cold in the room and she wore a thin shawl of embroidered white wool over her shoulders. He closed the door softly, and stopped and hung his hat and jacket on the coatstand, saying nothing. There was no need to announce his late arrival with fanfare, he thought, better to slip in silently, Maybe then I can convince her I have been here some time already, although he knew he couldn’t, just as he knew that she was no longer reading.

Across the room, Katherine continued to stare at the newspaper in her hands. It was the Illustrated London News, and later she would tell him that she was reading “Reception at the Metropole,” where the music of a new piano was described, although not its make, and certainly not its tuner. For another minute, she continued to flip through the journal. She said nothing, she was a woman of impeccable composure, and this was how best to deal with tardy husbands. Many of her friends were different. You are too easy with him, they often told her, but she shrugged them off, The day he comes home smelling of gin or cheap perfume, then I will be angry. Edgar is late because he is absorbed in his work, or because he gets lost walking home from a new assignment.

“Good evening, Katherine,” he said.

“Good evening, Edgar. You are almost two hours late.”

He was used to the ritual, the innocent excuses, the explainings-away: I know, dear, dearest, I am sorry, I had to finish all the strings so I can retune them tomorrow, or This is a rushed commission, or I am being paid extra, or I got lost on the way home, the house is near Westminster, and I took the wrong tram, or I just wanted to play it, it was a rare 1835 model, Erard, beautiful of course, it belongs to the family of Mr. Vincento, the Italian tenor, or It belongs to Lady Neville, unique, 1827, I wish you could come and play it too. If he ever lied, it was only in exchanging one excuse for another. That it was a rushed contract, when really he had stopped to watch street players. That he took the wrong tram, when actually he had stayed late to play the piano of the Italian tenor. “I know, I am sorry, still working on the Farrell contract,” and this was enough, he saw her close the News, and he slid across the room to sit next to her, his heart racing, She knows something is different. He tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away, trying to hide a smile. “Edgar, you’re late, I overcooked the meat, stop that, don’t think you can keep me waiting and make it up to me with endearments.” She turned from him, and he slipped his arms around her waist.

“I thought you would have finished that contract by now,” she said.

“No, the piano is in lamentable shape, and Mrs. Farrell insists that I tune it to ‘Concert Quality’” He raised his voice an octave to imitate the matron. Katherine laughed and he kissed her neck.

“She says her little Roland will be the next Mozart.”

“I know, she told me again today, even made me listen to the rascal play.”

Katherine turned toward her husband. “You poor dear. I can’t be angry at you for long.” Edgar smiled, relaxing slightly. He looked at her as she tried to summon an expression of mock sternness. She is still so lovely, he thought. The golden curls that had so entranced him when he had first met her had faded somewhat, but she still wore her hair loose, and they became the same color again whenever she went in the sun. They had met when, as an apprentice tuner, he had repaired her family’s Broadwood upright. The piano hadn’t impressed him—it had been rebuilt with rather cheap parts—but the delicate hands that played it had, as had the softness of the figure that had sat beside him at the keyboard, the presence that stirred him even now. He leaned toward her, to kiss her again. “Stop it,” she giggled, “not now, and be careful of the sofa, this is new damask.”

Edgar sat back. She is in a good mood, he thought, Perhaps I should tell her now. “I have a new contract,” he said.

“You must read this report, Edgar,” said Katherine, smoothing out her dress and reaching for the News.

“An 1840 Erard. It sounds as if it is in dreadful shape. It should pay wonderfully.”

“Oh really,” standing, and walking to the dining table. She didn’t inquire who owned the piano, nor where it was, such were not questions often asked, as for the last eighteen years, the only answers had been Old Mrs. So-and-So and London’s Such-and-Such Street. Edgar was glad she didn’t ask, the rest would soon come, he was a man of patience, and not one to press his fortune, a practice which he knew led only to overtightened piano strings and angry wives. Also, he had just looked down at the copy of the Illustrated London News, where, below the story on the reception at the Metropole, was an article on “The Atrocities of the Dacoits,” written by an officer in the “3rd Ghoorka Regiment.” It was a short piece, detailing a skirmish with bandits who had looted a friendly village, the usual fare about efforts at pacification in the colonies, and he wouldn’t have noticed it were it not for its title, “Sketches of Burmah.” He was familiar with the column—it ran almost weekly—but he had paid it little attention. Until now. He tore the article from the page and tucked the newspaper under a pile of magazines on the small table. She shouldn’t see this. From the dining room came the clink of silverware and the smell of boiled potatoes.

The following morning, Edgar sat at a small table set for two as Katherine made tea and toast and set out jars of butter and jam. He was quiet, and as she moved through the kitchen, she filled the silence with talk of the endless autumn rain, of politics, news. “Did you hear, Edgar, of the omnibus accident yesterday? Of the reception for the German baron? Of the young mother in the East End who has been arrested for the murder of her children?”

“No,” he answered. His mind wandered, distracted. “No, tell me.”

“Horrible, absolutely horrible. Her husband—a coal hauler I think—found the children, two little boys and a little girl, curled together in their bed, and he told a constable, and they arrested the wife. The poor thing. The poor husband, he didn’t think she had done it—think of that, losing both your wife and children. And she says she only gave them a patent medicine to help them sleep, I think they should arrest the patent-medicine maker. I do believe her, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course, dear.” He held his cup to his mouth and breathed in the steam.

“You are not listening,” Katherine said.

“Of course I am; it is terrible,” and he was, he thought of the image of the three children, pale, like baby mice with unopened eyes.

“Alas, I know I shouldn’t read such stories,” she said. “They bother me so. Let’s talk of something else. Will you finish the Farrell contract today?”

“No, I think I will go later this week. At ten I have an appointment at the Mayfair home of an MP. A Broadwood grand, I don’t know what is wrong with it. And I have some work to finish in the shop before I leave.”

“Do try to get home on time tonight. You know I hate waiting.”

“I know.” He reached over and took her hand in his. An exaggerated effort, she thought, but dismissed it.

Their servant, a young girl from Whitechapel, had returned home to tend to her mother, who was sick with consumption, so Katherine left the table and went upstairs to arrange the bedroom. She usually stayed at home during the day, to help with the chores, to receive house calls from Edgar’s clients, to arrange commissions, and to plan social affairs, a task which her husband, who had always found himself more comfortable among musical instruments, was more than happy to let her manage. They had no children, although not for want of trying. Indeed, their marriage had stayed quite amorous, a fact that sometimes surprised even Katherine when she watched her husband wander absentmindedly through the house. While at first this notable Absence-of-Child, as Katherine’s mother described it, had saddened the two of them, they had become accustomed to it, and Katherine often wondered if it had made them closer. Besides, Katherine at times admitted to her friends a certain relief, Edgar is enough to look after.