But the great focus of the evening was upon introductions; for more than one guest was accompanied by a So-and-so, M.P. or a Sir Such-and-Such or a Comtesse de Formerly Someone, whom the Evertons would now add to their social circle. Then, of course, there were those who were genuine acquaintances of feeling or merit, whom Mrs. Everton was eager to connect to the nobility for patronage as soon as possible.
Among these was Miss Harwick; who arrived slightly late and was delayed in the hall momentarily as her hostess maneuvered to reach her.
“Miss Harwick, Lord Hollinsworth is here,” she said, “and he begs an introduction.” She ushered her guest through the tide of others, until the noble gentleman and his party were before her.
“May I present Miss Harriet Harwick, your lordship,“ she said. “Miss Harwick, Lord and Lady Hollinsworth and their son–Lord Alfred.” Hetta, aware of the honor of the introduction, curtseyed deeply in response to their polite notice.
“I believe you are more charming in person than you are at a distance, Miss Harwick,” said Lord Hollinsworth. “Such a splendid picture you make this evening–like a golden sculpture, as my son described you. Your appearance is far beyond the scarlet bird I glimpsed at Lady Phyllis’s fete.”
“Your compliments are all kindness, sir,” she answered, with another curtsy.
“We have heard much of your talents, Miss Harwick,” said Lady Hollinsworth, whose voice and manner betrayed significantly less delight in the lady before her than either husband or son expressed. “Will you do us the honor of performing this evening?"
“If your ladyship so wishes,” Hetta answered, mildly. She was careful not to glance at the young lordship-to-be, who was fixed upon her with an eager eye. It would not do to incur the wrath of a noblewoman upon this evening of general triumph.
“Sing us something from Norma,” suggested young Lord Alfred. “It is now a great favorite of yours, I suspect, Miss Harwick. For I spied evidence of its great powers upon your face during the performance.”
For a brief moment, Hetta’s color faded with a look of discomfort over this jest of the young nobleman’s; her expression altered itself with a charming smile almost immediately.
“I think no one who heard tonight’s performance could fail to be moved by it,” she answered.
“That is true for those who are not privy to Herr Scheimann’s masterpiece,” said Mrs. Everton, with a gentle smile. “I have not heard it, of course; but Mr. Everton has seen evidence of its composition and has declared it to be a masterpiece yet unfinished when compared to the Paris performance.”
“Does it have a title, Ma’am?” inquired Lord Alfred, with a yawn. “I never have interest in any opera or play unless it have a good title.”
“It was Les Danse et Fleur,” said Mrs. Everton, hesitating with uncertainty. “But that is likely to be changed in England, you know. I have heard that sometimes theaters change the names if they do not like them. But we mustn’t speak of it any longer–Herr Scheimann does not like to hear it discussed.”
“Then we must speak of Bellini’s opera again,” Lord Alfred said. “A subject which shall no doubt meet with Miss Harwick’s favor.” He favored the lady in question with yet another knowing smile–for which, she imagined, he was much known among his friends.
Herr Scheimann, until now, had been listening to their conversation from a short distance away, where he stood with his host and a man he suspected was being foisted on him as a potential patron for the opera.
“What did you think of Bellini’s efforts, Scheimann?” asked Mr. Everton. Scheimann’s head turned from the general direction of the Hollinsworth party to his host.
“I think it will be well-received,” he said. “Deservedly so–for it is one of his best. A pity, however, that he fell into the clichés of so many before him who extol the faithfulness of women.”
Everton laughed. “What, would you have him do the opposite, Scheimann?”
“I would.” Scheimann’s dark gaze flickered about the room as if defying any guest in the immediate vicinity to contradict him. “We are fond of maligning the faithless man in our art, as Scripture bids us; we should be equally fond of maligning the faithless woman. She is common enough in civilization. Should we not write of its truth, that women have hearts equally cold, if not more so than man’s?”
“Enough, good sir,” protested Everton with a laugh. “You would mark all women as love’s murderess with such talk.”
Their conversation was loud enough for anyone within a few feet to overhear, including Mrs. Everton’s party–it was his wife’s protest which he feared more than the controversial statements of an introverted genius. Indeed, Miss Harwick’s gaze seemed lifted to their view a moment later, although her eyes immediately flitted aside, as if the true object of her interest lay a little distance from them.
“I did not speak of love; still, I would not have it declared untrue,” said Scheimann. “If it is true that women are equally capable of scorning love for that which is fairer in their eyes.”
Some of their conversation had now reached the ears of his hostess, whose fan clicked open and into activity with a swiftness betraying her emotions. “Whatever can Herr Scheimann be thinking?” she declared, loudly enough in hopes of attracting his attention. “Alter Norma in such a manner? Who could advocate such a change, for a work as splendid as his La Sonnambula?”
“I believe Herr Scheimann wishes the roles reversed in the play, Ma’am,” Hetta answered. “He would prefer to see Pollione the sufferer and Norma the faithless.”
“A woman as the betrayer?” echoed Lord Alfred. “That seems rather ungentlemanly of him to confess.”
“Do you not think a woman can possess a cold heart?” asked Hetta. “That a woman can inflict pain–” here, her eyes darted away from his gaze to another part of the room–“with such ease and as little inclination as Pollione in succumbing to the temptation of a fairer prize?”
Lord Alfred’s expression was that of a man who knows not whether to answer honestly or answer with the inclination of his own fair prize’s urgings. A glance from Hetta’s vivid eyes might have decided him–but that was before his hostess spoke again.
“Let us have some music,” urged Mrs. Everton, who preferred her guests to talk of something less cunning than double entendres. Hetta accepted this surrender willingly, inclined to take the arm offered by Lord Alfred despite the uncertainties expressed upon his mother’s countenance.
“Mark my word,” said Herr Scheimann to his host, “there will come a time when the opera will recount the pain men endure at the mercy of woman. We shall see her for what she is–fair and foul–when it happens.”
“I believe most theater must pain you,” said young Blakely, who was standing close by in hopes of being noticed again by the great musician. “The Greeks are fond of men’s fickle feelings, I observe. And there’s no accounting for Mozart’s scenes with Tamino having been enchanted to–” At this point, they became aware of the pianoforte being played in the adjoining music room, with its dimmed lights and chairs and sofas prepared for the audience.
It was a woman’s voice which began singing a song from tonight’s performance of Norma. Not the intricate and complicated song which comprises the soprano’s role of Norma, but the song intended for the tenor’s role of Pollione.
“Meco all’altar di Venere,” she sang, which those versed in Italian interpreted as “With me before the Shrine,” its scales adapted to accommodate the clear soprano of Miss Harwick.
Her Italian was skillfully rendered; as was the melody of the song, which Scheimann knew must be played without any piece of music to guide her except that which existed in her memory from the night’s performance. But it was not that which caused a sudden flush of red to burn the composer’s cheeks.
“On the sad air came stealing, while in a deep mysterious tone,” she sang, “re-echoed through the temple, ‘Pollione, thus makes example of traitors false to Love.’”
“Spl
endid,” said Blakely, in soft tones of admiration. “She is quite admirable–to bring about such an improvisation.” He moved towards the open doors of the music room, where the shapes of guests were visible seated for the night’s music.
“I believe Miss Harwick is improving upon your suggestion, Scheimann,” chuckled Everton, who had drawn closer to the door. Not so the composer, however. After standing rooted in the same spot a moment longer, Scheimann turned abruptly and made his way half-forcibly, half-gracefully, to the door to the main hall.
Everton had only a moment to stare at his departing guest in shock, then he slipped into the music room and approached the chair where Mrs. Everton was seated beside an esteemed alto whose voice was requested for the evening.
“Something has given Scheimann alarm, my dear,” he whispered low. “I suspect he may leave our party early tonight.”
“What?” Her voice, despite its quiet tones, was aflutter with concern. “But he must play for us first–Lord Hollinsworth is most eager–” In her distress, she did not even finish the thought.
Outside the drawing room, in the main hall, Scheimann had paused; although his hat and walking-stick were in his possession, he had not taken this opportunity to leave.
Instead, he rested both hands upon a nearby table where his things lay, gripping it with a force which turned his hands white, his head bowed as if with concentration or prayer. A great furrow divided his shelf-like brow with lines as he scowled over some internal vision.
A female step in the hall alerted him to another presence. Mrs. Everton’s concern over his absence had taken the form of persuasive action, apparently.
“I suppose I must apologize, if I have offended you.” It was not Mrs. Everton who spoke, but Miss Harwick.
She stood in the hall, a few feet away with her hands folded contritely before her. He raised his head and turned towards her. Aware that no others, no servants or guests, were present here.
“Did you address me, Mademoiselle?” he said, somewhat coldly.
“Our hostess believes I might possess the power to pacify you,” she said. “Otherwise, I confess I would not approach you in this fashion, as you no doubt realize.” The honesty of this statement cost her the effort of meeting his face momentarily, as a faint laugh like a tremor escaped her lips.
Scheimann remained silent, his emotionless gaze unwaveringly fixed upon her.
“I fear you have taken offense over the song,” she said. “And so I have come to apologize.” She drew closer with these words.
“I was not aware that you were in the habit of making apologies,” he answered.
“I do when they are necessary.” Her voice was quiet, although without the seriousness of his own.
“When they are necessary,” he repeated. “Of course, Mademoiselle. But it is not necessary on this occasion.”
“I can only assume that you have not forgiven me, then,” she said, directing her glance with an air of carelessness, “for my offenses in the past.”
There was no response from Scheimann.
Hetta remained motionless. “The contrite student stands before her teacher to receive her chastisement,” she said, at length. She did not look at him with these words.
With a polite bow, he replied. “I believe you are beyond my correction, Miss Harwick.” He entered the drawing room again, leaving his hat and cane upon the table as if he had no intention of leaving the house a moment before.
“He is rather severe,” whispered one of Mrs. Everton’s friends to her hostess. “I think I should be afraid if he looked at me with such a frightening aspect.”
They were seated in the music room, watching as Scheimann arranged his sheet of music before the pianoforte’s keys. At this moment, the composer looked almost savage, his face red above the white cravat, his mane of hair disarranged rather wildly about his face.
“But listen–such brilliance,” whispered Mrs. Everton in response. For the composer’s hands had touched the keys and unleashed a rather wild and fantastic melody; a storm of musical notes which abated after a moment in a softer, almost tender selection which altered his expression altogether.
“He is rather wonderful,” admitted Mrs. Everton’s companion, during this interval. “Imagine if you could persuade him to a duet with Miss Harwick. What a striking performance they should make–and a striking pair for the listener’s gaze. Brutal genius and beauty’s elegance in a picturesque scene.”
“It would be worthwhile for those with musical taste,” whispered Mrs. Everton, “but I think the rest of the party would prefer Lord Alfred’s handsome form and tenor beside her.”
*****
In her robe of watered silk, Miss Harwick sat before her mirror in the early hours of morning, as the first rays of dawn stole in a creeping, cold fashion across her floor.
There was no trace of the fine jewels from the previous night in her hair; no gold or pearls dangling from her ears or around her neck. Her gold curls were unpinned, flowing in a thick tangle of hair past her shoulders.
“There are mornings,” she said, “when I cannot bear to see myself.”
Her maid Jacqueline, who was brushing her hair, replied. “I did not know ladies despised seeing beauty in the glass. That is what any proud woman sees when she looks there.”
“I suppose it is because I despise other things,” answered Hetta. “That I despise myself so when I look.”
Her eyes were lifted to the glass with this speech, where the first signs of age were evident in her appearance after a long night of wakefulness: the purplish rims beneath her eyes, a dull pallor to her skin broken only by the rosy flush of fatigue. In her eyes, a look more akin to sorrow than the satisfaction of an heiress whose present existence was cast in Fortune’s bright favors.
Jacqueline’s brush strokes slowed. “Then what is to be done about it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” answered Hetta, dully. Her fingers played with the jeweled pins on her dressing table, the bracelets of turquoise and Indian sapphires.
“I think I shall leave London,” she said, after a period of silence. “I shall take a house somewhere else. In the country. In a place where no one knows me and I might distract myself from other things.” She did not say what things she meant; but having a purpose fixed for the moment had awakened a spirit of determination in her voice.
“What about the plans you have in London?” asked Jacqueline. “What will you do about the house and the money you have given to the solicitor?” A bold question for a ladies’ maid, perhaps; but Jacqueline had been accustomed to taking such liberties of conversation with her mistress in France.
“The solicitor does not need my presence to do as he is instructed,” Hetta answered. “I shall leave the servants with the house. And take only you, perhaps.” She drew her hair from the reach of Jacqueline’s brush and bound it up herself.
“Send him a message for me about taking a house; then bring me pen and paper, please,” said Hetta. “I must make my apologies to my friends and acquaintances if I am to leave town.”
Chapter Eleven
Little Amelia, it would seem, was not adept at the pianoforte’s keys. For a half-hour, her aunt had endeavored to teach her; but the child had succeeded only in playing a half-scale and sucking a cut traveling across her thumb in between.
After much coaxing and demonstration, Kitty admitted defeat for the day and heard Richard and John recite their geography lessons. Amelia, who had shown little interest in her musical instruction, however, banged forth with a noisy performance of nonsense with her younger sister in closing, until her aunt removed her from it. Anna’s warning about her children’s trying manners had begun to plague Kitty’s thoughts, although there was no remedy for the situation except her own efforts. The party’s effects upon Anna had been fatiguing, so she was again upstairs, propped against her pillows.
“I believe it is the spiced cake to blame,” she said, “I am sure Mr. Harris would have advised me not to eat it. It should not
matter, except I had intended to call upon Mrs. Allgood with you.”
“We shall go another day,” soothed Kitty, who was tucking the bedclothes around Anna.
“It cannot wait,” said Anna. “She shall be greatly offended if you do not call upon her today, after you have made the acquaintance of half the village at the Servennias. She feels it keenly, now that she can no longer go into society; moreover, she has expressed a great interest in you.” Anna’s voice had developed a hint of deep social impression which served to entice Kitty’s curiosity on the subject of this unusual resident.
Mrs. Allgood, it seemed, was the oldest living resident known to Beiberry Mile, now that Neily Conner of a reputed one hundred and five had been buried last winter. Her house was not the largest and far from the finest; her family name no longer existed in the county except for herself. No children living, surviving relatives scattered across the realm, there was nothing left to her except confinement to her home as a result of being bedridden, the scattering of servants which remained in her pay, and the presence of a single hired companion who was a widow.
Accounts of individuals with such lingering maladies both drew Kitty’s compassion and invoked an unconscious loathing which made her recoil. Recollections of her mother were still strong, as if the odor of the sickroom clung to her gown at times; the notion that a frail voice might cry out for her at any moment in those peculiar wailing tones of morbidity took hold of her for the briefest instant, drawing the blood from her limbs with a sense of cold.
The plight of Mrs. Allgood in her forlorn cottage, however, also took the form of deep pity for one who awaited death in such lonely circumstances. It was this notion that Kitty forced her mind to dwell upon as she crossed the lane to the overgrown wood where the ancient cottage stood.
Last Miss Phillips Page 11