“I do not think one can be overly-fond of sacred music” answered Kitty. “Is not music merely feeling? If one feels the true nature of a song deeply, then it is natural to play it.”
The playful humor of Hetta’s countenance softened in response, although there was nothing of her guest’s grave manner in her face. “Perhaps that is true,” was all she replied, her expression as open to interpretation as the gentleness of her reply.
Kitty’s cheeks grew warm. “I did not mean it as a reproach,” she said, feeling perhaps she had been too assertive in her opinions. “Only that it is the nature of all of us to love the music that fits us best. I have felt that my faith is a great comfort; and so my music is chosen of it as I might choose Scotch or Irish airs to recall the pleasures of my youth.”
Her passion on this subject caused her to blush, the fervor of youth overtaking her placid manner for a moment. She was half-afraid of Hetta’s pert reply despite the pleasure of speaking her mind. Either way, she supposed, she would be made uncomfortable by this predicament.
“Well spoken,” said Hetta. “I think that is the most truthful and well-expressed argument upon the subject that I have ever heard. Perhaps if curates and vicars had put it so, I would not be so harsh upon their music but see it in the same kindly light as their parishioners.” There was humor in the smile which followed, but also something gentler and altogether more genuine which put Kitty somewhat at ease.
“I have a great interest in your character, Miss Phillips,” she said after a moment, gazing at Kitty intently. “Much more interest than I have for anyone I have met in London society.”
“I confess I am surprised to hear it,” said Kitty, who could not disguise this reaction in her tone.
“I believe you and I might be great friends,” Hetta continued. “If such an acquaintance is not disagreeable to you and you should not mind my calling you by your first name.”
“By all means,” answered Kitty, with a perplexed laugh over this request. She turned her attention to the pianoforte again. “Will you play something?” she asked of Hetta. “You play so well. I would like to hear one of your favorites if only for the sake of enjoying the instrument as a listener.”
“I should like you to play, if you will,” said Hetta. “There is a piece here–it is a Scottish air, but quite easy for one unfamiliar with it to play and sing.”
“I have not sung in a great many years, Miss Harwick–Hetta,” she answered. “I should prefer not to sing, if you do not object.”
“Very well,” said Hetta. “You may only play, if you prefer. I shall oblige for the lyrics.” She seated herself on the bench beside Kitty as her guest moved to make room for her.
They played duets for a quarter of an hour after the light Scottish air, which Hetta sang. They played a piece from Dibdin, a concerto of Mozart’s, and one of Playel’s sonatinas. Hetta assumed the voice and caricature of an Irish maid for a comic reel much to the glee of Kitty, who felt as if a page of her youth had been turned back.
Her mind, in brief snatches of time, half-believed itself in the past; the figure beside her was transformed by imagination to her friend Catherine Barton, with whom she had once played a duet at a house party. The flash of green fabric in the corner of her eye became a dress Louisa had once worn when they had sat side by side amusing themselves at the pianoforte.
These thoughts were fleeting, however; again, reality was upon her with the knowledge that she was seated with one whose recollections must differ far from her own. It was melancholy or loneliness which generally made one play songs which were no longer fashionable for an audience. Perhaps this was why her fingers faltered upon the keys, as if her sadness struck a false note where a familiar one had been so easily within reach a moment before.
“You are tired,” said Hetta, kindly. “I shall ring the bell for tea.” Rising from the bench, she lifted a servants’ bell from a nearby table and rang it.
Kitty lingered at the pianoforte a moment longer, then rose with more reluctance that her hostess had exhibited with the same gesture. It was not often that she played as long as she wished nor had anyone to listen to her or accompany her.
A maid carried in the tray and set it before her mistress, then curtseyed and departed. Seated on the green damask sofa, Kitty was at leisure for a moment to admire the grandeur of her surroundings, far beyond the simple furnishings of Enderly, a sizable estate which tended towards sparseness and drab furnishings in its rugged climate.
“It is a beautiful house,” said Kitty. “I am surprised that you would think of giving it up.”
Hetta poured a cup of tea. “I am not sure London possesses the attraction I had imagined; nor the opportunities one always hopes can be renewed when they return to the scenes of their past,” she answered, handing it to Kitty. “I intended to do as I pleased.” The incongruous past tense of this statement seemed unnoticed by her as she poured a cup of tea for herself.
“Then you were serious about going into the country,” said Kitty, “if London society is disagreeable?”
Hetta smiled. “I do not know what I shall do,” she answered. On this subject, she had nothing further to say, it seemed.
They both were silent for a time, until it seemed uncomfortable even to Kitty to be seated for so long in the same room with someone without speaking. The task of conversation must fall to her, so she ventured to speak of the safest subject of interest.
“I noticed you enjoyed the music greatly at the Evertons party,” she said. “When I first saw you, you were listening quite entranced to the pianist’s selection.”
“For my taste, Senora Scari was the most talented present–even more than Mr. Blakely. But the young lady playing the harp showed more promise than I expected,” said Hetta.
“I was pleased with them all,” said Kitty, who did not possess such a scope of musical understanding to judge them so unequivocally. “Louisa had been told there was a great composer present, but I did not have the fortune of an introduction. She said he was a rather severe figure.”
“Herr Scheimann,” said Hetta. “Yes, he is, I suppose. He has not the gift of social graces and charm. He was never charming, I think.” Her remarks seemed self-directed since her voice sank lower despite the distance between herself and Kitty.
“Then you have met him?” said Kitty.
“I have,” answered Hetta.
“Is he as talented as others have claimed? I confess that I have never heard his music, although I have seen his name upon the sheets displayed in the shops.”
“He is greatly talented, a genius of music, as they say. You saw him at the party–a scowling figure with black brows and face which turned observers to stone.” This last bit she spoke playfully, the satirical edge of old returning to her voice.
Rising from her chair, she moved to the pianoforte. Choosing a piece of music from the pile, she held it out to Kitty.
“This would please you,” she said. “It is part of Handel’s choruses from Israel and Egypt. Well suited to a solemn pianoforte performance, only I never play it. You should have it, for you would enjoy it more than I.”
The abruptness of this gift left Kitty momentarily without words of reply. The music–several pieces of the composer’s work–was far more expensive than many similar compositions in her possession.
“I could not take something this extraordinary except upon loan,” Kitty began.
“I wish you to have it,” repeated Hetta. “If we are to be friends, then you must accept it as my gift.” She seated herself and took up her cup of tea again. “I shall call upon you later this week and loan you several of the most popular ones that you may copy if you like.”
“You are too kind,” said Kitty. “I have nothing to loan you in return, for I have so little that is not already common enough among anyone else’s collection.”
Hetta smiled. “I did not ask you for anything in return,” she answered.
She did not mention if Scheimann’s compositions we
re among the popular pieces; Kitty did not think to ask during the remaining portion of her afternoon visit and only thought of it later on in the evening, when she was cutting paper figures for a production of The Merchant of Venice. A period of time in which she gave her visit with Miss Harwick a great deal of thought as her fingers worked to paste the paper figures to a cardboard backing, trimming the edges carefully to meet George’s critical inspection upon the morrow’s production.
*****
Miss Harwick’s much-anticipated afternoon call was not to be. The post was delivered upon the next morning, a letter for Louisa among the correspondence meant for Mr. John Hobbins, M.P.
“Our sister Anna is indisposed,” she said, her eye perusing its contents rapidly at the breakfast table.
“Of what nature?” asked Kitty, genuinely concerned by Louisa’s quiet tone. “Is she quite ill?”
“No, it is merely the approaching confinement that ails her,” returned Louisa, lowering the letter, “but it says here that she is so weakened that she requires assistance, more than the maid can give her. No doubt it is an ignorant country girl she has hired.”
Kitty’s fork and knife had grown still over her plate of egg and ham. Without her sister speaking, she knew what words would come next; and the thought of it gave her a strange dread.
“You must go to her, I fear,” said Louisa. “It shall be the best thing for her.” She folded the letter again and placed it beside her teacup.
Kitty was silent. “When should I leave?” she asked, after a moment.
“I shall write to Anna tonight and inform her that my carriage will bring you, for the post would only carry you as far as Chesterford and you should have to hire a cart from there,” said Louisa. “It shall be a great fatigue for the horses, but John shall not mind since it is for my sister. Anna shall expect you in two days’ time.”
“So soon?” said Kitty.
“I know; it shall be a great loss to little George and the girls,” said Louisa. “Not to mention myself, for I find it very unpleasant indeed to be without a companion. But these sacrifices must be made for the sake of Anna, poor dear.”
“Of course, you are right,” said Kitty, who suppressed the element of reluctance in her quiet reply. “She must not be left alone; there are so many children and there is no one else.”
At her desk, she wrote a letter of explanation and apology for Miss Harwick, to excuse herself from their engagement. Then she began to pack her things in a trunk brought for her by Mr. Hobbins’s manservant.
She had asked when she should go; but the question she did not dare ask was how long? There had been no discussion of her return, nor of whether she wished to leave at this time. Only of what things she should take and whether a gift should accompany her to cheer poor Anna and her children.
The Season could hold no charms for her; Louisa was aware of this, as was everyone else concerned, including Kitty herself. The Season had lost its charms long ago, when she ceased to be young and eligible. It was of no consequence to herself or anyone else that she should be away from their London house at this time. Except that for the first time in many years, she had the brief promise of an agreeable time in the form of Miss Harwick’s music.
Her grey silk made over in the latest fashion by Louisa’s seamstress was folded in the trunk, along with the blue spotted muslin and a newer brown satin from her conceded purchases for the Season. She packed her two plain muslin gowns and work aprons, sensible items which she expected to wear. She packed her ribbon-trimmed bonnet and her few pieces of real jewelry remaining from her mother–things which she did not expect to need, but would not have Louisa criticize her for omitting. As a descendant of the Phillips’ name she was expected to be well-attired for the family‘s sake, even in a provincial community where no one had ever heard of such a family except through her sister’s transplanted presence.
The candle sputtered in her hand, wavering in the breeze of her movement as she collected her prayer-book and her shawl left downstairs on the sofa in the drawing room. Her eye fell upon the stack of sheet music visible atop the pianoforte in the shadows: the Israel and Egypt score from Miss Harwick foremost in the pile.
Kitty moved towards it, reaching out to touch the edges of the paper. Her fingers turned over the pages, placing the candle upon the surface of the instrument as she examined each volume below in turn. A musty odor clung to the ones which were her own, removed from the music chest. The unfamiliar newness of the pages from Miss Harwick’s collection drew her gaze as they sat propped before the keys.
On impulse, she gathered them in her arms with the rest of her things, her lips blowing out the candle in a puff of smoke. In the darkness, she made her way upstairs with these final possessions.
In the morning, there were apologies made to a disappointed George and his sisters over the promised afternoon performance of Merchant, and a final present of a lace shawl for Anna to be wrapped and tucked in Kitty’s bandbox. Her trunk was fastened to the coach; a final farewell was spoken to Louisa, a hand waved to the three children and she was gone.
The carriage rolled steadily along, and although it had not traveled more than a few yards, Kitty glanced back and watched as the scenes of familiar London streets disappeared behind her. She would do so several more times before giving up altogether. The London townhouse had fallen far behind her; her destination a place unknown to her as anything more than an address upon her sister’s correspondence.
Chapter Eight
In the county of Essex, there lies a village outside Chesterford by name of Beiberry Mile. A fair and gentle prospect of green hills and cottages, of fine farms and rustic gentry who observe a code of manners and propriety somewhat different from London society, but with equal seriousness in its practice.
The sun was shining with a pleasant warmth on this afternoon in the country, dispelling the grey chill of the London morning. The sensation of its rays upon Kitty’s face was a welcome relief in her solitude, dispelling some of the somber thoughts which occupied her mind.
Her gaze was drawn to the countryside rolling past. Green fields of hay rising tall, flat green surfaces of land occupied by livestock, a young boy in the plain garb of a country child visible standing among one flock. His face was upturned to the sky before taking in the sight of the carriage with a curiosity in his expression which no doubt mirrored her own.
The coach passed through the village square, for surely that must be the purpose of this central scene of quiet activity. The shops with their open faces of wares, a milliner’s and a shop of dry goods, an apothecary’s sign and stables with a smithy at work, all within the comforting shade of large chestnuts and oaks.
A woman with a large basket trundled along the lane, her face glancing more than once with interest at the sight of the strange carriage and the view within of a woman in a green traveling dress. A sense crept over Kitty that she was noticed by more than one citizen, from a servant girl to a well-dressed gentleman upon a horse, making her draw back against the seat again as the carriage rolled on towards the village outskirts.
The landscape of the fields north of the populace was rugged and forsaken by comparison, with wild and scraggly trees rising here and there from fields of green grain or empty pastures enclosed by low walls of stone. These fields might be her brother-in-law’s, she imagined; and such imagining seemed more likely the truth when the carriage diverted from the road to a wide path or lane lined with overgrown poplars. Through the curtain of green leaves and golden sunlight, Kitty caught a glimpse of the house, which became altogether visible when the carriage rounded the bend.
A wide, plain edifice of pale brown stones and flat walls, as if a medieval fort polished to appear younger, curtained with ivy and cables of clinging greenery creeping above the doors and windows. A great tangle of green vines and shrubbery in the gardens below, with wild roses and creeping flowers tumbled along the stone walls and the outbuildings. Poultry ran about its grounds, a great spotted white
pig penned near a weathered stable. A group of children in varying ages had been engaged in a rowdy game of cricket until the rumble of the carriage’s approach became audible, sending the tide of small forms towards the house with haste.
The horses slowed to halt in the packed dirt courtyard before the estate’s entrance. From the open door, a young maid in an oversized apron and cap hurried forward to be of assistance, followed by a woman in a grey-green gown with fitted seams which did not hide the expanse of her figure beneath. Beneath the embroidered lace cap of a matron’s status was the face of a girl–or at least, a girlish woman whose delicate features were framed by perfect wheat-colored ringlets.
The woman held out her hands as she fluttered forwards, eager to grasp Kitty’s own once the footman had handed her down from the carriage. Their fingers clutched in brief, fervent greeting, then the girlish woman engaged her in a frank embrace, undeterred by the presence of the manservant and the harried young maid assisting to remove the trunk.
“It has been a great many years,” said Kitty, who dared not trust her voice any louder than a low murmur, for fear of its breaking. She drew back to gaze at her sister–Anna, whose face was alight with pleasure despite the fatigue now evident around the corners of her mouth and eyes. She touched her sister’s cheek, for there was evidence of a tear in the corner of one eye, dispelled only by one of Anna’s bright smiles.
“Too long, Kitty, far too long,” said Anna. “Come–you must come and have a cup of tea. For there is so much we must say after so long an absence and you must be fatigued after such a long ride from London.” She took her sister’s hand and led her forward, across the noisy threshold of a house evidently alive with children and more than one servant.
Kitty Phillips had arrived at her destination: the rural estate of Mr. William Giles, its house known to all of Beiberry as Marebrook Manor.
*****
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