Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  “I have heard you play, also,” Charles Harwick continued, “and I must say was impressed. Your genius is evident and the piece you performed–your own, I understood–was very promising.”

  The condescension of this remark received only a deep bow from Scheimann. “I thank you for your compliments,” he said. The gentleman, until now seated in an attitude of the patron benevolent, rose from his chair.

  “If you will come with me, Mr. Scheimann,” he said. “Then I will show you to the music room.” Obediently, the composer followed his master through the main passage of the house.

  The main rooms were indulged with every kind of elegance and taste which would please a family of privilege; whereas, the rooms confined to the family were less grand and showed more evidence of crumbling walls and weathered mortar. One such room was the music room, a large chamber compared to the library below, only furnished with green damask and faded wallpaper. Its central piece was a pianoforte of dark polished wood, at which was seated a young woman .

  “Hetta,” said Mr. Harwick. At the sound of his voice, the girl turned from her examination of an open sheet of music.

  “Mr. Scheimann, this is my daughter, Miss Harriet Harwick,” said the gentleman. “Herr Scheimann is the Comtesse’s instructor–the instructor of Briseeli as well.”

  “Briseeli,” repeated the girl. “The singer from Lady Caroline’s party. The one everyone says would make such a charming Juliet.” She spoke this in a tone of boredom. As of yet, she had not even glanced at the strange man standing before her with his hat and walking stick. When she did, a moment later, it was only with a brief, cool glance which seemed to look through him rather than at him.

  “The very one,” said Mr. Harwick. “Mr. Scheimann has been engaged to help you improve upon your music.” After this, the girl’s attention was diverted to her sheet music again.

  She was but sixteen or so, he surmised. A cold nature, no doubt, to match her pale complexion and crown of gold ringlets. He had seen a wrinkle of distaste evident around her lips at the sound of his thick accent when he greeted her.

  Scheimann cleared his throat. “You are a student of the pianoforte, Miss Harwick,” he said.

  “I am,” she answered.

  He spoke again. “Have you been taught music before?”

  “I had a voice lesson in Marseilles,” she answered.

  “Then you are a voice student also?”

  She tilted her head in a gesture which neither confirmed nor denied this question. “I was bored in Marseilles. There is so little to do when one is trapped in a provincial place.”

  This remark stung Scheimann–who was from a German village once upon a time–but he endeavored not to show it. “Then you have no wish to learn anything further of your skills?”

  “I do not know,” she answered. “I only wish to learn something if it pleases me; so I suppose it depends upon how pleased I am with your lessons.”

  A slight cough emerged from Harwick’s throat. “Hetta,” he said, in a tone which conveyed a faint warning. His daughter’s glance flickered towards him, then to her future instructor again.

  “I am pleased to study under you,” she said to Scheimann, as if reciting a lesson. “It is indeed an honor to have an instructor of such reputation to forbear with my humble skills.”

  He bowed. “The honor is mine, Miss Harwick.” Her response was to merely lower her head and shoulders slightly, without bothering to rise for the trouble of a short curtsy.

  She had ceased to take notice of him; and rather than linger any longer, he followed Mr. Harwick from the music room again.

  As they proceeded downstairs, Harwick turned to Scheimann. “She is quite talented, you shall find; and a quick study when she is eager to learn. She is a little high-spirited,” he admitted, “but that is a sign of true proficiency, I trust, and not at all the sort of thing which would drive an man of your talents away.”

  A warning wrapped in a compliment; no doubt he feared that even a poor musician might have limitations when choosing which daughters of wealth he instructed. For the present time, however, he need not worry, for Magner Scheimann had no scruples of this sort.

  “I am sure Miss Harwick is very gifted,” he said. “I hope that I shall be a tutor worthy of her skills.” He offered the Englishman the closest possible gesture he possessed to a charming smile–which no doubt Miss Harwick would see as a homely twist of the lips, exposing his overlapping yellow teeth.

  “Then you shall return on Thursday afternoon?” said Charles Harwick.

  “I will,” Scheimann answered. With a few words of farewell and a final bow, he followed the manservant to the door again and exited onto the street outside.

  He was only obliged to instruct Miss Harwick three afternoons per week, the rest of his time devoted to other wealthy men and women in need of music lessons. It would not be the end of the world that he would have a disagreeable student to attend; not for the fees promised by Charles Harwick, if he were solvent enough to pay them.

  Perhaps it might help him curb his brusque nature to bear such a graceless young woman’s lessons. With this thought of limited cheer, he tapped the end of his walking stick against a passing wall and struck up a melody of Mozart in a lively-whistled tune.

  Miss Harwick had proved an adept student; although that was not the impression he formed upon her first lesson. Seated in the Harwick music room, the pale green drapes drawn to allow natural light within, the young mistress of music showed herself indifferent to his presence by keeping her eye fixed upon the sheet music open before her.

  He was stationed behind her, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black frock coat, although he felt the thinness of its material as a consequence. He cleared his throat, then spoke, observing her distaste at the sound.

  “You are familiar with the composers, Miss Harwick? The masters, the modern musicians, and so on.”

  Her finger touched a key on the pianoforte, sounding a faint idle note. “Isn’t everyone familiar with the composers?” she asked. “I should think even the beggar on the streets of Rome must know the sound of Vivaldi.”

  He suppressed a snort of contempt, reminding himself that it was by patience that one’s bread is earned. “Then you play them as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “The sonata, the concerto, the opera–these are favored by your music collection? You have played them all?”

  “Upon one occasion or another, yes.”

  He allowed one hand to rest upon the pianoforte’s edge. “Then you will play for me now?” He made an effort to disguise the question as a command, although his courage was not great enough to carry the intention.

  After a brief consideration, she selected a piece of music from those on display and opened it before the keys. She began to play as he listened, careful to keep his expression a blank mask, a practice which kept his students from knowing what he truly thought of their performance in progress.

  Scheimann sensed Miss Harwick’s eyes moving briefly and stealthily to his face once or twice. It gave him satisfaction to know that she tried to hide it from him; and still greater satisfaction that she had been obliged to try more than once.

  She reached the end of the piece at length, then placed her hands upon her lap again.

  “You sing, also, you informed me,” he said. “Will you do so now?”

  “If you like.”

  She selected another sheet of music and opened it, hesitating before she began to play. The piece was Italian and it was evident that Miss Harwick endeavored to make her accent as authentic as possible for the performance. It was a light and lively choice–no doubt decided upon because it was also short. He wondered if perhaps she was less confident in her second performance than the first.

  When it was finished, she turned to face him, her shoulders held back in a graceful pose. It was evident that she was satisfied in her performance and meant to indicate that his feeling was of lesser consequence to her.

&nb
sp; “Well,” she said, “are you satisfied, Mr. Scheimann? I have been trained before, as you recall.”

  He said nothing; his fingers rubbed the pianoforte’s smooth surface as his gaze dropped to the carpet below. He remained like this for a minute, perhaps longer, during which time his student gazed at him in wait of a reply.

  “I did not like it,” he said.

  There was a glimmer of shock visible upon the young lady’s flawless countenance. He continued.

  “It was altogether a poor performance–your pianoforte is poorly trained and you play simply for the sake of impressing others. You have a tendency to pretend you know what you are doing when you do not. That is evident in your playing.”

  Miss Harwick’s face was pale with indignation, although her eyes would not meet his own.

  “As for your singing,” he said, “you might have a good voice–if you took pains to develop it instead of abusing it so. You have used it as a–a parlor trick, as they say, to charm others. Your notes are poorly formed, your projection is too quiet. I do not think your range would even allow you to sing a true aria.”

  Her lips parted, as if to reply. He could see the flush of anger beginning to develop in her cheeks.

  “My last masters did not find me wanting,” she began, with bitter tones. “I was informed that my voice was equal to more than one singer upon the stage.”

  “Your last master wished to satisfy your vanity,” he said. “Your friends likewise.”

  “And you?” she asked.

  “I wish to satisfy something else. You, Miss Harwick,” Scheimann said, looking at her as he spoke, “You are, I think, a young lady who would not wish to be considered inferior in her talents. Until now, I believe you have managed to convince yourself and others that you are better than you truly are.”

  She was quiet for a long time. The rage upon her face had not subsided, her gaze fixed upon her folded hands. When she raised her eyes, it was a movement of pride which straightened her neck and shoulders before him.

  “I should like to be better,” she answered, loftily. “If you can make me so, then I should be grateful.” Her tone implied that she was granting him a favor by submitting to his training. He could not escape the smile which formed around the corners of his mouth, rooted in mockery for this haughty young lady.

  “Then we shall begin with your pianoforte.” Shuffling through her music, he chose a piece which was appropriate–complex enough to challenge her without daunting her to the point of fear.

  She turned to the keys again, glancing over the piece of music before her. He could see she was not well pleased by the choice; she was still unhappy over the criticism, possibly the first sting of rejection which Miss Harwick had known in her girlhood. So he believed was the reason for her hesitation over the keys.

  “Will you train my voice–also?” This, after a moment’s hesitation. He knew it was a question, although the young lady had taken care to speak it in such a way that it resembled a command.

  “That is my position, no?” He answered, impassively. “But we shall begin with the pianoforte.”

  And so they did, once he repositioned her hands over the keys. She recoiled slightly from his touch, but permitted it. He was conscious of the smooth skin just above the lace cuffs, the rose and citrus scent of perfume clinging faintly to her gown.

  Under his instruction, she played it again; then again, when he corrected her. Thus, a quarter of an hour passed with neither of them saying more than was necessary for the sake of improving her music.

  Chapter Seven

  The address at Mayfair was large and elegant when Louisa’s carriage and its sole occupant, Miss Phillips, rolled to a stop before its doors. It was a neighborhood devoted to expense and taste, this particular street boasting a very fashionable set of neighbors who were undoubtedly made a little unhappy by the presence of this heiress with no name and a family on the fringes of the gentry until recently.

  Handed out of the carriage by the footman, Kitty approached the front entrance with a sense of hesitation. Her plain grey cloak and rather old-fashioned poke bonnet of similar shade of fabric and feathers seemed shabby for such a setting, her only ornament was a pair of pearl earrings, caged in small gold wire droplets.

  She was shown inside by the footman, only glimpsing the splendid entrance with its overhead chandelier, decorative sconces, and polished walnut banister before being escorted to another room. Its interior was equally elegant, with drapes of green bombazine framing the long windows and pale walls, a large pianoforte dominating one corner. It was a music room, recently fitted with new furnishings in green damask and gold trim. In the midst of this setting was Miss Harwick, facing the windows away from the door, seated upon a low stool with a harp inclined against her shoulder.

  In a pale green gown, her gold hair pinned high in an elegant coif, she seemed perfectly matched to the room. Her fingers crossed the strings of the gilded harp with light, swift movement, the resulting melody something akin to a foreign-sounding piece from the sacred songs of Eastern Europe. Kitty’s steps slowed as she listened, unconsciously influenced by the plaintive tune.

  The servant spoke. “Miss Phillips,” he announced. Hetta’s fingers ceased playing; lowering the instrument into its upright position, she turned and faced her guest with a curtsy.

  “Miss Phillips,” she repeated. “I am glad you have come. I see my servants have not taken your things already–how careless of them–” She motioned for a young maid in the hall to take Kitty’s cloak and bonnet.

  Kitty shrank inwardly as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, recalling that Miss Harwick had been wearing grey on her visit to Louisa–although a much more fashionable and fitted outfit than Miss Phillips’s wardrobe possessed.

  “You are a harpist, I see,” said Kitty, after a moment, smoothing the skirts of her grey muslin. “I believe the only instrument I have ever seen you play before was the pianoforte.”

  Hetta laughed. “When I was in Germany, I had a great deal of time in which to amuse myself and very little to do,” she answered. “I was bored, and so I chose to learn something new. My father procured an instructor for me. I was very tired of voice lessons and the pianoforte after a period of time.” Something new entered her voice with these words, but it disappeared with the next remark.

  “You are like a little grey bird in that dress and bonnet, Miss Phillips,” she said. “I believe you remind me of the pictures I have seen painted of the Quakers in their plain attire when they set forth for the Americas. I am surprised, for you were very fond of pink and yellow in the past.”

  Kitty smiled. “I was a great deal younger then, Miss Harwick. I suppose it suited me better, then.” A light pink sash was wound about the waist of Hetta’s gown, she noticed, the thin fabric trailing against the pale skirts.

  “Come and admire my pianoforte,” said Hetta. “It was not one of the finest in France, I am afraid, but a great deal better than the one I had in England in my father’s house.” She ushered her guest towards the instrument, its dark polished wood giving off a sheen in the cold white light from the windows.

  “It is very beautiful,” said Kitty, her voice almost as soft as the fingertips touching the surface of the wood. “You must feel very grand when you play it.”

  “Play something,” said Hetta. “Play anything you like. I have a great deal of music, but if that bores you, then play something of your own choosing.” Her fingers moved carelessly through a stack of sheet music on display above the keys, several pieces recently purchased and bearing the new appearance of being a shop’s finest selections. Among them was a sheet marked with the name of the composer from the party they had both attended, although Kitty was greatly surprised to see it appeared to be written by a masculine hand and not a printed piece from the shops.

  Hetta, however, seemed inclined to choose another, turning over a selection from one of Bellini’s compositions.

  “Nothing popular, please,” said Kitty, with a blush
as the newer pieces were moved forward. “I do not know them as well as I know the folk tunes and past operas.”

  Hetta did not remark upon the request, but selected an older sheet of music which was also present. It bore the marks of being displayed often in the past, perhaps when Hetta was a student not yet tired of her voice and pianoforte.

  The piece before Miss Phillips was a selection from Gluck’s Euridice, of which her own collection held several movements. In a moment, she had found her place upon the keys and began playing. The sound which reached her ears was not as thundering as the piano in the Evertons’s music room, but was the tone of an instrument of a quality surpassing her own.

  Beside her, Hetta turned the pages, her gaze following the lines of music. Kitty thought she might began to sing, for the piece was well-suited to a soprano’s range, but she did not. She merely listened as Kitty played, her attentiveness marked beyond that of her careless attitude at the Evertons’s party. This, Kitty observed in fleeting glances at her companion in between reading the lines. Nervousness had overcome her on this occasion of playing, daring her not to look away from the notes for more than brief moment.

  She finished the piece without mistake or grave injustice to the composer’s intended style. As the instrument fell silent, she folded her hands on her lap and offered Hetta a shy smile.

  “I am so accustomed to playing the pieces I have always known,” she said, as if to explain her hesitation over the selection. “It is singular taste, I know, when the most popular pieces are what everyone wishes played.”

  “I recall you played many folk tunes; but you were overly fond of religious music when we were young, it seems. Given greatly to the droning chords of sacred songs of Bach and Beethoven which the great organists play with somber frowns,” said Hetta, with a little laugh.