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Rosalie missed the sound of her husband’s piano playing on Sundays. He’d a fine ear for music and a light touch on the ivories. His voice wasn’t a patch on his brother’s fine baritone, but he had the talent to make up for it with the music and produce a sound that was pleasing to the ear. She walked through the hotel at a sedate pace, preparing herself with each step to be Mrs Ponsonby, proprietor. Any crack in the calm demeanour she showed the customers would set tongues wagging and rumours flying. She was sure that George Boseman, ambitious and greedy lawyer that he was, had the ear of someone in the government—he was too well informed and overbearing to not have. Luckily, the president of the United Licensed Victuallers Association was a long-time friend of her husband’s and godfather