Sounds like we're in agreement.
One detail or two more about the Barnard: the young woman (sorry, I'm at work and can't look up her name) comes from a repressive small-village background -- when her mother dies in the course of the book and she travels home for the funeral, she finds that everyone in town assumes that she, as the single daughter, will now live with her father and look after him. (It's the sort of corny-but-satisfying moment that makes the reader want to cheer when she brushes aside all such assumptions, arranges for "daily help" for a few hours during his day, says "I don't see why a man should be incapable of heating some soup or making a sandwich at night," and goes back to her nanny job). So the family that employs her, intelligent and caring and welcoming as they are, seem a kind of haven to her -- she recognizes near the end that she fell in love with them, in a way. And as we see through her eyes, it's only in the course of the book that we see that they have their own deficiencies and danger for her, all the more so perhaps for being hidden. (But by the end she realizes that seeing them as evil is an overreaction too; they're imperfect, like most of us.)
On your other point, I can see why being pre-empted on the High C's title would be annoying. I do recall, though, that an early-1970s Luciano Pavarotti album was called "King of the High C's," so in a way he (or Decca/London Records) beat you both to it.