Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam had been surveying her with a critical eye during this movement. “It seems that foreign climates agree with you, Miss Harwick,” she said. “You’re quite unchanged from the last time I saw you–and Heaven knows that was above sixteen years ago.”

  A flush, possibly of anger, appeared on Miss Harwick’s cheeks momentarily before vanishing. “How kind of you to say,” she said. “The air in Germany is very invigorating. But I believe it is Italy which does the most good. Italy is for everyone. It is rustic and metropolitan in one breath.”

  Kitty, who had returned to her needlework after the initial curtsy, glanced up from it at this statement. The choice of words were undoubtedly designed to irritate her staunch sister, but the act provoked curiosity in Kitty. She remembered Hetta’s boldness of old, the habits Mrs. Fitzwilliam had vowed would not be altered. How uncanny that the sage prophetess behind those words should be present for this meeting.

  “I’ve never understood why everyone isn’t content to stay in their own country,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam puffed. “I’ve never felt the urge to run about in a stranger’s land and can’t see why a German or Frenchman would wish to inflict their manners on English society.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Hetta’s lips, a touch of the sardonic visible in the arch of her brows in response. Kitty’s own face colored in response to the caricature of humor before her, the fashionable woman laughing slyly at the huffing, indignant form of Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  There was a brief pause; then Louisa spoke again. “And so you are come to London,” she said, politely. “Are you pleased with your house? It is nicely situated in Mayfair.”

  “It is suitable,” said Hetta. “I have so little use for a house, you know. I am so accustomed to the villas of France and Germany–a rustic grandeur, you understand–and the townhouse I lived in before was much nicer. But I shall procure better furnishings and it shall at least be suitable for entertaining now and then.”

  Louisa’s face had altered with anger as she listened to these words, until Kitty could see the white flesh beneath her sister’s throat, the pinched lips drawn tight above.

  “A house in Mayfair not suitable,” she repeated. “I cannot understand how it is not.”

  Hetta smiled. “Mayfair has little charm for me,” she answered. “But perhaps it is because I have been so little time in England. Now that I have come here again, perhaps I shall better understand what is nice and what isn’t.”

  Her reply evidently checked Mrs. Hobbins’s indignation momentarily, although Kitty suspected there was another meaning in Hetta’s remarks which her sister had not yet realized. If so, Louisa chose not to pursue it, however, perhaps for the sake of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s interruption.

  “Now that you’ve come home, Miss Harwick, you’ve a great many old acquaintances to renew,” she said, snappishly.

  “I suppose I am renewing a few at this moment, for I believe that you are among my longest acquaintances.”

  The good woman had neither the swiftness nor sufficient time to reply before Louisa intervened, as if remembering her role as hostess required a forced politeness to mediate all guests.

  “Will you settle in London permanently?” The lady of the house directed her question at Miss Harwick. “Or have you another residence in mind, now that you have returned home?”

  Hetta tilted her head in a pretty gesture of uncertainty before answering, “I have thought of taking a place outside of London. A country place in one of the villages, for instance.”

  “But at least you will not venture outside of England?” said Louisa.

  “Perhaps,” said Hetta, “or perhaps not. I do not really know, I confess.”

  A silence followed this reply, emphasizing the terse disposition of all parties present, excepting Kitty. Mrs. Hobbins took up a piece of needlework abandoned on the nearby footstool; Hetta rose and moved slowly in the direction of Kitty’s seat near the window.

  “I recalled correctly upon our last meeting that you are fond of music, Miss Phillips,” she said.

  “Yes,” Kitty answered. She looked up from her apron briefly, not daring to be too forward in her reply since Louisa was unhappy with her guest.

  “Your piece at the party was skillfully played,” said Hetta. “I thought it quite charming.” She strolled on, past Kitty’s seat at the window, in the direction of the pianoforte in the corner, her fingers brushing idly against the keys and the wood trim of the music stand.

  “Are these yours?” said Hetta, examining the pieces of music propped open. A copy of Strauss’s waltz Kitty had procured recently from a shop, a faded sheet of Calcott which had been her mother’s.

  “They are,” said Kitty. She had given up the effort to sew the apron’s hem, setting it aside. “I play in the mornings often. I instruct my nieces and nephew also, now that they are old enough.”

  “I see,” said Hetta. She turned away from the instrument, glancing out the window momentarily before speaking again. “Did you enjoy Blakely and Senora Scavi’s performances?”

  “I did indeed,” Kitty answered. “Although I confess that I did think your manner of song and playing was equal–I was quite put to shame.”

  A slight sound issued from Louisa’s throat. “If one is talking of music, one must not forget that Miss Lufton’s performance was among the finest of amateur players. Her mother was a true proficient in her youth.”

  Hetta directed her attention to her hostess again with this remark. “How fortunate for Miss Lufton,” she remarked. “It is always such a comfort to inherit the happier aspects of one’s forebears, is it not?”

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam grunted. “I suppose those comforts have served you well enough,” the elderly woman remarked.

  Hetta did not blush, although an expression remarkably mild appeared on her face. “I suppose they have,” she said. “If I choose for them to do so.” With that, she curtseyed to Mrs. Hobbins and the room in general.

  “I must take my leave now, Mrs. Hobbins,” she said. “I am certain I shall see you often this Season. Mrs. Fitzwilliam–Miss Phillips.” With one last glance at each of them, she moved to the drawing room door, her grey skirts fluttering as she departed.

  “Dreadful as ever,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, after it was safe to assume their caller was gone. “Such impudence and conceit! Money has made her worse than before, mark my words.”

  “I fear we shall see much of her in society,” sighed Mrs. Hobbins. “Why can’t such dreadful people be ignored by everyone respectable when it comes to invitations?”

  Kitty resumed her apron work, although her thoughts were drawn away from stitches and to the subject of the party again, where the songs became faint melodies drifting and repeating in a pleasant cycle as she sewed.

  *****

  Two days later, a card bearing Miss Harwick’s name and an invitation to call upon her for an afternoon arrived–not addressed to Mrs. John Hobbins but to Miss Catherine Phillips. Louisa’s expression was rather different from the relief one might have expected upon reading the words written thereon.

  “Why on earth would she invite you, Kitty?” Louisa exclaimed. “You are my sister, of course, and deference is owed to you for my sake and the sake of our mother and father, but I think it is rather odd that she should address it so after the effort I took in calling upon her when she first arrived.”

  “I do not know,” said Kitty. Seated at the pianoforte, her fingers had ceased to pound out the notes to Mendelssohn upon the entrance of the maid bearing the card. The sound of the keys had died away in a low echo, rivaled by the sound of rain beating upon the outside windowsill.

  “You shall decline it in any case, I am sure,” said Louisa. “Miss Harwick is not a fit companion for anyone who is not seeking a fortune or suited to vulgar conversation. You should not like to be in her drawing room above a minute.”

  “Oh, but Louisa, I cannot decline, surely,” said Miss Phillips. “It is not pleasant, perhaps, to be in the society of such people, a
s you have said; but it is only proper of me to accept such invitations with grace. It would not do to seem rude or to snub those who have an advantage in society, for the sake of yourself and John, of course.”

  “I should not wish you to do anything so unpleasant,” said Louisa, greatly disconcerted by this reply, for she had anticipated her sister's complete agreement on this subject, as usual. Kitty was facing her now, hands clasped humbly on her lap as she sat forward on the pianoforte’s bench.

  “It is not unpleasant when it is one’s duty,” she answered. “I shall go and be as pleasant as possible for the afternoon. You must not trouble yourself to worry about my feelings, for they will not signify anything.”

  She was curious with regards to the invitation. It seemed a strange gesture from Miss Harwick to a woman with whom she had never been great friends in their youth. If it was merely politeness, it was stranger still that she had not included Louisa, who was at least the wife of an M.P. and exerted greater influence in society than her unmarried sister.

  That it was an invitation solely addressed to herself was the primary charm of the card born by its messenger. It had been a great many years since anyone had cared to invite Miss Phillips anywhere by name, or as anything but an afterthought as the sister of Mrs. John Hobbins. And so she wrote out a reply on a sheet of stationary.

  Dear Miss Harwick: I am honored by your invitation and will call at two o’ clock. With regards, Miss Catherine Phillips.

  The note was posted and Louisa was resigned to the event after a suitable period of unhappy reflection, during which Kitty retreated to her own chamber rather than hear it spoken of anymore.

  If it was Miss Harwick’s intention merely to sport with one who had fallen beneath her, then an afternoon of discomfort awaited her, of course. But it seemed a rather unlikely gesture in Kitty’s opinion, although her mind could not fathom another reason for the interest of a comparative stranger.

  Chapter Six

  Herr Magner Scheimann, despite much pressure from his concerned friends, was not persuaded to take up their invitation of a country cottage, but rented two chambers in Haymarket upon their advice. The lodgings were bare of furniture and with little recommendation with regards to either view or situation, but they were acceptable for the purpose of the composer, who arranged for a pianoforte to be brought there and scattered his few possession throughout the rooms.

  His view in situating himself near the artists’ haunts in London was to acquaint himself with possible music talent and encourage a budding musical alliance with one of the theater managers. Thus far, he had succeeded only in encouraging the further acquaintance of the student Blakely, whose admiration for the composer had prompted several visits with or without the company of Mr. Everton.

  “There is money to be had for such an endeavor,“ said Mr. Everton. “Don’t alarm yourself on that score, Scheimann. The Theatre Royal shall hasten to confirm the engagement.” He sipped his wine, the remains of mutton and boiled vegetables on his plate. Across from him, his wife added her own urgency to the matter.

  “You must have the best theater, of course,” she said, as if he were thinking of spurning its engagement for another. “You must perform it at the Theatre Royal–it must be where the most fashionable will see it.”

  Scheimann smiled. “I must take what shall be opportune,” he answered. “That will serve for my opera, Madam. It needs a place in public, if possible–else, it shall be merely a diversion between my symphonies.”

  He was a guest at the Evertons’s table as often as was socially acceptable; that is to say, as often as was polite on his part, although the warmth the Evertons’s expressed was that of close friends or old acquaintance rather than the newly re-acquainted. Through them, he was offered other invitations to households of middle-class means and upper-class aspirations; and through them, he received temporary release from his drab quarters.

  “There must be a performance in the royal theater, sir,” she said. “I must insist upon it.”

  “As for the money, there is the point in which your acquaintance the theater director shall make all the difference to you,” said Mr. Everton, resuming his own subject again. “Else, one of his patrons–a wealthy man who wishes some of the receipts, for instance.”

  The couple’s cross-speech manner had the effect of rendering their guest without a means of replying properly to either one.

  “At any rate, you must have comfortable furnishings in your rooms,” said Mrs. Everton, helping herself to apples and sauce in the dish set before her. “Herbert tells me that there is nothing but sheet music in every corner and your instrument in the very center of the room with scarce a chair for yourself.”

  “Never mind it, my dear,” said Mr. Everton. “What are furnishings to the apartment where only the work matters? I’m sure Scheimann doesn’t wish to be bothered by a lot of things about him.”

  “But he shall be a success in London this Season–his opera shall be a triumph, I am sure of it,” persisted Mrs. Everton. “He must have a style of living which reflects it.”

  The composer took a sip from his own glass of wine, his thoughts occupied with matters other than his furnishings. “I had no furnishings before I came to London,” he said. “When I taught for my living instead of earning bread by my pen.”

  “Oh, but you shan’t have time to instruct students in London, Mr. Scheimann,” said Mrs. Everton, quickly.

  Again, Scheimann’s faint smile returned. “I shall take no more students, Madam,” he answered. “Unless they be my proteges of the Conservatory.”

  “You shall have no more need of them,” said Mr. Everton. “Your opera shall make its true mark in London, I trust. You shall be a gentleman after London’s own heart by the end of this business, then take all of Europe by storm.” With a smile, he urged Scheimann to pour a second glass of claret, interpreting his guest’s relative silence as the famishment of an artist at work.

  *****

  Sixteen years ago, such talk existed only in the fancies of Herr Scheimann’s mind and would have seemed impossible given his situation. Poor, penniless, and possessing only dreams and fancies of grandeur, a desire to compose great sonatas, and to exist as the greatest pianist alive, he had set forth after his music studies in Frankfurt with the intended destination of Europe’s brightest scenes of theater.

  The city of Paris was a pleasant place for the fashionable in 1816, with charms especially provocative for the fashionable foreigners who gather among its villas and resorts in an attempt to refine one’s understanding of the world and live at ease with a position of wealth and the light responsibilities of a tenant and tourist in one.

  It was not always so for the unfashionable foreigner: the individuals whose business in Paris is that of the musician and the artist, the bohemian stranger whose reasons for dwelling in the city’s walls are not those of momentary pleasure. For them, there was only one recourse to survive one’s pocket expenses of bed and board, the need to launder one’s cravat or repair one’s shoes: the business of instructing the fashionable foreigners in the arts.

  Herr Magner’s reputation as a composer did not yet exist, but his reputation as a musician was credit enough. His pieces were good, although they were limited in public notice, his labors confined to secondary compositions for Paris theatricals and the coaching of operatic ingenue who desired to sing publicly when the stage was not receptive of their talents.

  It was six months of base struggle, then a year of moderate success brought him another source of income, although not from the fame of his compositions, as he had hoped. His reputation as the tutor of professional singers and musicians intrigued a handful of wealthier citizens eager for musical training. Notice was taken by a gentleman’s son stopping with friends for a month who had a desire to improve his music, then by a Frenchwoman whose husband was indulgent of her talents. The number of public performances to his credit steadily increased during this time, as did the general knowledge of his professional
proteges on the stage and in the society drawing room. Enough so that his reputation secured for him another client, an Englishman who knew him only as the music tutor of the now-popular concert singer Briseeli.

  The appointment was at two, with Scheimann embarking to the villa of meeting on foot. He knew a little of this Englishman from inquiry: a gentleman of London whose family's connection to trade was only lately severed. A man of affected sensibilities whose wealth was in “the funds” and whose tastes obliged him to live elsewhere in order to avoid the losses of said funds.

  Such a client, of course, was neither in the best taste nor the best profit; but a musician on the verge of begging could not afford to snub such an offer. The chance that such a patron’s offspring would be truly talented was limited and given to disappointment, he had discovered; but that was the unfortunate curse of such labors.

  “I have a fondness for good music,” said the Englishman, upon interviewing the composer in his library, a room which had been done over impressively with elaborate molding and carpets. “Your talents are highly recommended by the Comtesse De Perriere. She has a charming voice and manner of performance.”

  A single glance was enough for Scheimann to confirm all that he had been told about Mr. Charles Harwick prior to this moment. The moustache smoothed in a perfect tapered line, the sleek thinning hair and tailored suit of clothes had the perfection of one who avoids careless indifference in all its aspects.

  Mr. Harwick’s opinion of his tutor-to-be would be vastly different, thought Scheimann, who knew his appearance was remarked upon as carelessness as opposed to the careless indifference of genius. At twenty-five, Magner Scheimann was leaner in form, although his thick, square features were the same. The shadow of a beard unshaven, a mane of thick, black hair untended as it surrounded a face made thin by meager fare and long hours of exhaustive labor. The shabbiness of his suit, several seasons out of fashion, was an unflattering shade of drab brown.