Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  “Miss Harwick,” said Kitty. “This is indeed a surprise.” She was stammering slightly, although she endeavored to speak without betraying her startled feelings. Miss Harwick curtseyed in greeting to her hostess and friend, then favored them both with a smile.

  “You must pardon my rudeness in this impromptu visit, Mrs. Giles,” she said. “I have heard that the rules of society are suspended in the country, although only for the sake of other rules that are no doubt much stricter.” With this, she turned to Kitty.

  “You look extremely well, Miss Phillips,” she said. “I believe the country air agrees with you–or is it merely the absence from London which does?”

  Kitty hesitated. “I do not know,” she answered, then asked “Are you breaking your journey by paying us the compliment of your call, perhaps?”

  She could not fathom a reason for Miss Harwick to be here; it was apparent from Anna’s face that she, too, could not imagine one. Her glance flickered to Kitty between polite attention paid to her guest, as if she believed the answer lay with her sister.

  “I believe I told you once that I intended to go into the country,” said Hetta. “As you can see, I have taken your example for a model and taken a cottage not far from here. A place called Pennicott with an excellent view nearby, my solicitor has informed me.”

  “Pennicott–that is but a mile from here,” said Anna. “It is part of Lord Grantly’s estate and stands near Reiker’s Hill. I did not know his lordship had desired a tenant for it.”

  Hetta smiled. “I met his lordship’s terms for a season’s tenant most satisfactory,” she answered. “And so we are to be neighbors, Mrs. Giles. You must call upon me while your health permits it–and you must give me introduction to all the village society.”

  “I should be happy,” Mrs. Giles answered, although her tone was of one very doubtful about the reality of this statement, given the elegance of the guest before her in this humbly-furnished apartment.

  “There is a very pretty ground about this manor,” Hetta continued. “Will you favor me with your company, Miss Phillips? For I have had a very long journey and wish some exercise.”

  “Of course,” said Kitty. With a glance at Anna–whose eyes were wide with amazement–she departed with Hetta.

  Once her arm was clasped in a companionable manner by the woman beside her, her friend’s presence began to seem real in this unexpected setting of Marebrook Manor. A warm breeze fanned the ribbons of Kitty’s bonnet as it ruffled the leaves of the poplar and oak groves along the lawn. Hetta turned her face upwards, as if catching its presence.

  “I cannot deny my surprise over this decision,” said Kitty. “The Season is only begun in the minds of so many in London, so I cannot imagine you leaving it.”

  “I told you I was sick of London,” said Hetta. “What could be more reasonable than leaving it? A great many balls and parties shall go unattended by myself, my house in London shall be untenanted for a time–these are hardly troublesome matters, Kitty.”

  “The society of Beiberry Mile may be more tiresome,” said Kitty. “There are no grand parties here; only little affairs. There is a great deal of gossip and very few families of name or rank who would feel themselves worthy of addressing you.” She glanced at Hetta. “Will such a small sphere not seem confining to you?”

  Hetta did not reply directly to this inquiry. “Perhaps I shall give a small party at Pennicott,” she said. “I am sure that there are a sufficient number of families of good rank–if not, then I shall merely make do with those who are not.” An impertinent smile appeared on her lips with these words.

  “You are pleased to see me again, are you not?” she asked, pausing to face Kitty.

  “Of course,” Kitty laughed. “Why should I not be? You do not think that I wished you not to come into the country, I hope.”

  They had reached the end of the lawn, where the shrubbery grew thick along the edges of the woods. Obliged to turn back, Hetta directed their path towards her waiting carriage. In the distance, Kitty could see a figure at one of the upstairs windows further from the children’s chamber. Anna, she surmised, was no doubt watching.

  “What shall you do for amusement while you are here?” asked Kitty.

  “A great many things. I shall ride and go for long walks for the country air. I shall call upon my landlord and my neighbors and no doubt improve my mind by a great many books. There is my music, of course; that is where you might help me if you choose.” Hetta’s face, during this reply, betrayed something of its former restlessness.

  “I used to be greatly happy in the countryside as a girl,” she continued, as if speaking to nobody in particular. “The English countryside is as nice as the Highlands or the Irish Sea, I am sure, so I shall be content to do nothing at all if I wish.”

  “There is someone else here with association to the Highlands,” said Kitty, whose cheeks burned faintly for a moment. “The surgeon in the village has been at school there, I am told.”

  “Perhaps we recollect the same scenes,” murmured Hetta. “But then, he was at Edinburgh, no doubt; or some little medical establishment of rumbling old physicians without proper society to amuse him.” The former mirth returned to her voice with these words.

  She pressed Kitty’s arm gently with her hand. “You shall call upon me at Pennicott, I hope?” she said. “There is a converted spinnet in the parlor, my landlord has informed me by letter, so we shall play duets and Irish airs often.”

  “I would be glad to come,” Kitty answered. It was spoken with sincerity, with gladness lingering under the surface of those words.

  They were before the carriage now, with Hetta clasping her hand in farewell before releasing it.

  “I believe we might make something of this place if we choose, Miss Phillips,” she said, affecting a formality which seemed charged with playfulness at its depths. “We are among the very little of ‘good society’ in such a place like this; and they must take what they can get.”

  Kitty did not laugh at these words, although she felt a desire to do so. The thought of herself and Miss Harwick–whose name had at one time been spoken with coldness in London circles–as the pinnacle of anyone’s society seemed ludicrous when compared to their past connections.

  “As they say in France, au revoir,” said Hetta, as the footman handed her into the carriage again. Her hand appeared at the window, waving farewell; Kitty raised her own in similar fashion, until the carriage and horses were well beyond seeing it. Then she turned and betook herself to the main halls of Marebrook again.

  “What on earth did she want?” Anna was waiting for her, eager for answers as Kitty shook free the damp grass clinging to her skirts from the lawn. “Why did she call here? Harriet Harwick never cared to associate with our family before now.”

  “We were acquainted again in London, before I came away,” answered Kitty. “She merely called upon me as a friend since she has come into the same part of the country.”

  “But why has she come?” repeated Anna. “What does she want in Essex, now that she has a fortune in London?”

  “She wishes to be introduced among our friends and to partake of society here,” said Kitty, untying her bonnet’s ribbons as she spoke. “It is not an unusual request, given that she is a stranger here.”

  Anna rested her hand upon her back, as if to support the weight of the child whose presence was beginning to reveal itself beneath her gown. “I should never have thought such a thing was possible,” she said. “I had heard she had come into a large fortune and lived abroad–but to come away from there to a country village–”

  “It is possible that she is as surprised as we are to have made such a change,” suggested Kitty.

  Anna Giles’s reflection was shared by many in Beiberry Mile, once news of the London lady tenanting Pennicott became general conversation in the village. There were a great many speculations on why a woman who possessed such elegance and fortune as claimed would remove herself to such a far-off pla
ce. Health, grief, and eccentricity were all tried and disproved: until the common explanation, given the disposition of the lady when calling or called upon, was that of a well-born lady seeking rest after being abroad.

  The general opinion declared Miss Harwick upon meeting her to be a lovely, charming woman whose appearance scarce suggested she was beyond the normal years for matrimony. This opinion in itself was enough for Beiberry Mile to extend its hospitality without reserve; but being a friend of “the squire’s sister” entitled her to the privilege of being considered an honored guest instead of a newcomer.

  “I shall extend an invitation to my dinner on the twentieth,” said Mrs. Servennia to her husband as she sat knitting lace in their drawing room. “There is so little society in Beiberry with whom she could feel truly comfortable, it is the least I can do.”

  “Very thoughtful of you,” answered Mr. Servennia, who was more interested in the article in his journal than the inclusion of a stranger–even a wealthy one–among his wife’s guests.

  “She might make an advantageous marriage in society someday,” continued Mrs. Servennia. “In fact, I am sure of it; then, perhaps, we shall maintain an acquaintance with her and merit an invitation in return sometime when we are in town.”

  From her seat some distance from the evening fire, Lucy’s voice piped up. “Mr. Hooker has said the lady musn’t wish to marry; that she turned down a proposal before, ‘tis said by one o’ his servants who has a mother turned cook in London.”

  “Not everything Mr. Hooker says is indeed correct, Lucy,” said Mrs. Servennia. “We do not know the lady whose character is so maligned, do we? As for marriage, not everyone has the poor opinion you seem to hold of the office–for there are many who instead possess an openness of character which encourages it.” This rebuke silenced her niece again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In his drab little flat in Haymarket, Magner Scheimann was bent over a sheath of score, his pen resting upon its uppermost corner without any action. A large inkblot was forming there, but the composer’s mind was unaware of it, focused inwardly on an unseen tune.

  These were the daily circumstances of the composer: he had given up going into society, to balls or operas or drawing-room parties where his musician’s reputation was much in demand. He used the excuse of his opera to justify such reclusive feelings; but there might be another reason entirely for such symptoms of withdrawal, had anyone in London sufficient knowledge of his character.

  His fingers twitched after a moment; the pen came alive again, stroking the lines with the shapes of notes rising and falling. An almost indecipherable mark made above one before he raised his head at the sound of a knock.

  “Come in,” he called. The person on the other side of the door pushed it open without hesitation, proving themselves to be a visitor comfortable with the informal standards of Scheimann’s flat.

  “Hello, sir,” said Blakely. “I’ve come with the score for my operetta; I’ve made the changes you’ve suggested and I would like your approval of them.”

  Scheimann grunted. “Close the door and lay them on the table, please.” He shoved his pen into the bottle of ink, taking no note of it splashing upon an open sheaf of music as he rose from his seat.

  Limbs cramped with fatigue, his coat stained and no cravat where the soft collar of his shirt was allowed to be open. The presence of ink stains on his face and hands and general wildness of his hair would give further credit to the stories of mad composers and Scheimann’s own brusque nature. He did not care, however, his attention given only to the young man’s roll of music with a stony expression and loose jaw extending the carved lines of his face.

  Young Blakely had positioned himself near the pianoforte. He was given to respectful silence; but the painful silence of waiting for the verdict of one who is both a master of the arts and one’s tentative acquaintance is too hard.

  “I spoke to Mr. Everton on the street this morning,” ventured Blakely. “He has told me that he believes you have a patron for your opera if the manager is reluctant. Mr. Cushley, who made his fortune in the mills, I believe he said. Quite mad about your performance at Mrs. Everton’s little fete, really.”

  “It is possible.” This was all the reply volunteered by Scheimann as he read over the score.

  “Now that you’ve engaged the Theatre Royal, all that remains is to finish the work’s revisions, eh?”

  “The engagement is not final.”

  “Oh, but it is, I’m sure of it. If not because of your own efforts, it will be after Cushley speaks to the manager. Everton is acquainted with him, I believe. Laporte–no, Laporte is absent just now– "

  “It is Bochsa. The musical director.” This was the gentleman with whom Scheimann had made the original London engagement for the show many months prior, although he continued to act as if it were an unsettled business whenever anyone spoke of it.

  Blakely swallowed hard. Scheimann’s fingers had begun to move automatically, softly tapping the side of the score as if beating the time or conducting the notes written thereupon.

  The young man had lapsed into silence at this point, amusing himself by looking at the various prints pinned to Scheimann’s walls, then at the open portfolio of music on the pianoforte’s surface.

  “Then it is now The Songmaid instead of Les Danse et Fleur? It is settled then,” he said, peering at the open pages of score which Scheimann’s fingers had been in the act of writing. “I see a great deal of emphasis is put on the soprano’s role...an instrumental cue...and blindness–that is quite an original touch on the stage for the heroine. Parisian audiences must have been highly diverted by it.”

  He moved aside the ink-stained pages to examine the older sheets below. They were pieces evidently written by the composer in the past, with varying shades of ink and on varying documents in size. Blakely drew one of the large, professional sheets from this pile, the water stains upon its cover proclaiming it to have been exposed to hardship in the past. Scheimann’s bold hand had emblazoned the composition’s name across the cover, Les Danse et Fleur.

  Blakely propped it above the keys and seated himself before it, his fingers placing themselves on the keys according to the notes. He picked out the first few lines faintly, to himself to satisfy curiosity, but it was enough to rouse the attention of his host.

  “What is–stop that. Enough.” Herr Scheimann had allowed the score to furl itself closed in his hand as he crossed abruptly to the pianoforte. He closed the sheaf of music and withdrew it from the pianoforte’s display in the same motion.

  “It bears the opera’s original title,” said Blakely. “Is it part of the original concept? Or inspiration?”

  “It was merely–a passing fancy,” said Scheimann, who had shoved the piece of music in its place in the portfolio again. “It has nothing more to do with the opera.” He had become aware of Blakely’s papers in his hand again, which he placed before their rightful owner.

  “Your work has promise,” he said, brusquely. “You must take care to broaden your tastes. There is too much Bach in this work.”

  The young man took the papers and rose from his host’s seat. “I am exceedingly grateful for your advice, sir,” he said. “Exceedingly. I shall get nothing better at the Conservatory than from your instruction, I am sure.”

  Scheimann’s face did not betray any sign of warmth or movement of feeling with this praise. “That is well enough,” he said, although not unkindly. “You must go and practice; I must go back to my music also, as you see.”

  When young Blakely was gone, Scheimann again bent over his work; but the pen did not move from the bottle of ink for some time. His thoughts were consuming his vision, but they were not the same thoughts which inspired the lines now seemingly invisible before him.

  Eventually, he reached over and closed the open sheaf of compositions from the past, then rose and moved to the window as if the view of the street might afford him more inspiration than the words he had already written.r />
  “What is the story of this opera? Is it something very grand, I hope?” queried Mrs. Morton at the Everton’s dining table, who was eyeing Scheimann through the lens of a rather antiquated if bejewelled quizzing glass. “I hope it is not another of the Greek tragedies.”

  “It is in French, Mama,” explained Mrs. Everton. “It is–about a blind singer, I believe–or musician–who must save the life of someone rather important.” She glanced at her husband for help, who broke free of his conversation with the barrister Gridley to come to her aid.

  It was a small party this evening, only the closest friends of the Evertons present, which meant an unusual assembly of artistic souls and globetrotters, of the coarse-but-wealthy, the brilliant, and the ever-hopeful of becoming “genteel” in society. Not an occasion for the true elements of “society” which the Evertons were prone to seek with their grand parties and invitations.

  “Ah, a little of both, I think, dear,” said Everton. “She comes to the aid of someone who had rescued her from poverty or ruin, I think.”

  “Which is it, Mr. Scheimann?” asked the guest seated across from him. "I did not have the good fortune to be in Paris recently, so I do not know of it." Scheimann stirred from his silence reluctantly.

  “It is poverty,” he answered. “His lot is that of a poor composer who brings her talent to royalty–but is driven into debt and poverty by certain troubles. He is despairing–and she comes to him as a savior at the moment he consigns himself to death.” This was spoken gloomily enough, followed by silence as he took a sip from his glass.

  “A blind singer like the Songmaiden of Sweden,” guessed Gridley. “I have read something of her. Dreadfully ugly scars from smallpox mired her face, I believe, to the point that she could not bear to be seen as a child. Such a romantic ideal this shall make upon the stage. Was she not also a harpist?”

  He referred to Antoinetta Charlotta Seurling, whose reputation as a Swedish miracle of music was generally known only to extensive travelers like the Evertons who took pains to acquaint themselves with the population and its tastes. Such habits are shared among friends, as is the unconventional topic of an opera not yet in existence to the minds of theatergoers. For what is an opera without public performance?