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much great music, but none that has moved me to assign that purpose to it.”
    They were passing the rear entrance to the Palace ballroom that led to the gardens. A black servant came out then, came down the steps, and whispered something in the musician’s ear. The musician nodded once, and the servant went back inside. “My apologies, sir,” he said to Hugh, “but Mr. Wythe is asking me to join him and some other gentlemen to accompany the Governor in an impromptu performance requested by Mrs. Blair. Will you excuse me?”
    Hugh chuckled. “Of course. But you have the advantage of me.”
    The young man looked shocked, and he blushed. “Oh! A thousand pardons, sir!” He held out a hand. “Mr. Thomas Jefferson, of Albemarle.”
    Hugh smiled and reciprocated the gesture. They shook hands. “It was my pleasure, sir. When I visit Williamsburg again — perhaps when the Assembly sits in the fall, and the theater here has a program of plays — we can continue our conversation.”
    “Yes. I would like that.” With a brief bow and a last friendly smile, the young man turned and rushed up the steps and back into the Palace.
    Hugh shortly followed him. Inside, Reece Vishonn took him aside and, in a low voice, said, “Sir, I did not know that you had so much influence with the Governor.”
    “Nor did I, sir. If I have any influence, it is addressed to his more reasonable side.”
    The older planter scrutinized Hugh for a moment. “I have heard that Mr. Granby, the son, has expressed a desire to move to his father’s property up-country, to Frederick, and to vacate his seat in the Assembly for his county.” He paused. “Have you ever contemplated a political career, sir?”
    Hugh frowned, then laughed. “I can’t imagine a drearier prospect than a political career, Mr. Vishonn.”
    “Well,” said Vishonn, “I must agree with you there. I’d lief mind my fortunes than sit in a stuffy chamber listening to lawyers joust over little matters. That is why I have stayed out of it.” The planter pursed his lips. “But I do believe the time is coming when, like it or not, a political career may become necessary.” He paused again. “Do think on it, Mr. Kenrick.”
    Hugh did not think on it. That evening, in his room at the Raleigh Tavern, he took a sheet of paper and a pen and began making notes for an essay on the subject of a “life overture.” But he could not concentrate. He would think of a point and begin to develop it, when the image of Etáin would again break his train of thought — the image of a poised, confident, resolute girl with ribbons adorning her mob cap and hair, weaving for herself and her auditors a world of unsullied beauty as her fingers flitted with graceful, symmetric energy over the strings of a harp.
    Until now, he had not thought this could happen again. He did not encourage it. Etáin had looked at him many times this evening, especially while she was playing, her glance telling him that her music was meant for him alone in the crowded ballroom. He had merely smiled at her, permitting himself no more than the expression of happiness for her that a patron or benefactor might feel for the successful debut of a protégée.
    If he had no rivals, he would not have hesitated to ask for her hand in marriage. But he could neither forget his rival nor her words of years ago. He could only ponder: I lost one love to a lesser man, and endured it. Could I bear to lose another to a better man, or to an equal? He glanced at the notes he had made on the paper, and asked himself: Will a somber dirge haunt the overture of my own life?
    Two days later, driven by a desire for a resolution, and by a desire to see Etáin again, he called on the McRaes at midafternoon tea. He found her and her mother minding the father’s store while Ian McRae was down on the waterfront on business. Madeline McRae said, “The
Galvin
from Liverpool has arrived, and Mr. McRae is expecting cargo on it.” She sensed the object