Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  He chose not to confirm this clever deduction on the part of his student. “Your voice,” he continued, careful to maintain a gentle tone, “has a great deal of promise. I think we shall begin to do something with it now, if you are willing.”

  The color returned to her cheeks, only in a blush he correctly surmised was one of pleasure. “I thank you, Mr. Scheimann,” she said, with careful dignity which wished to not give too much away.

  He nodded. “That will do,” he said.

  He did not wish to tell her then what he felt upon listening to her sing, nor what he believed her voice might be capable of doing upon his training. The pianoforte had benefited from her lowered reserve and become skillful; her voice, he suspected, would benefit even more so.

  The voice lesson itself, however, began with criticism. “Your taste is not what limits you, Miss Harwick,” he began. “Scotch airs and folk music are not hindering your voice. It is a difficult instrument to master. We must know what you are before we know who you are, in this case.”

  These cryptic statements of Herr Scheimann no longer had the confusion and false disdain of his student as a response, whatever she might say of him in private.

  “Then what shall I do?” she asked. Her instructor took her place at the pianoforte and gestured for her to take his customary place beside it.

  “The scales, Miss Harwick,” he said. He struck a note to indicate her range. Hetta responded by singing in response to his key. “Do-re-mi-fa-so-la...”

  He repeated this exercise, forcing her to sing higher, then much lower, then returning to somewhere in between. When her voice cracked beneath the strain of a sharp register, he ceased the exercise.

  “Your station–your breathing–is not correct,” he informed her. “It will hinder you from reaching notes which you are capable of singing. It limits your voice to the confines of a drawing room or else a small music chamber. You can do better, I think.”

  Scheimann stood before his pupil, placing his hands on her shoulders to adjust her distance and posture accordingly. “Breathe in, Miss Harwick,” he commanded.

  She took a breath. His eyes watched her movement carefully.

  “Out, if you please.” She released it slowly. He sighed.

  “You breathe from your chest,” he said. “It rises and falls–so–but it does not fill you with the air necessary to sing. A great soprano would be reduced to a pitiful crowd with such a voice.”

  Her eyes followed his movements, the expanding stomach beneath his waistcoat, the gesture of his hand, without any real comprehension except that of a young lady who imagines her frame expanding in such a ridiculous manner.

  He sighed again, this time impatiently. “Turn, if you please, Miss Harwick,” he said, steering her so that she was gazing towards the window instead of at his face.

  “Breathe in,” he commanded. When she did so, he placed his hands upon her waist.

  “Do not touch me!” She moved to pull out of his reach, a jerking reaction in response to his touch. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a look of contempt.

  “Miss Harwick,” he said, patiently, “if I cannot rest my hands there, then I cannot know when you are breathing properly. Even when I tell you, ‘breathe so’ it will have no meaning.”

  His hands rested lightly against the surface of her dress, the sensation of the silk beneath his fingers like liquid. “Now if you please, Miss Harwick,” he said, softly, “breathe in, slowly.”

  She hesitated; then obeyed. Keeping his hands as distant as possible from her actual form, he felt the rise of air expanding her frame.

  “Lower, Miss Harwick,” he said, gently. “Breathe in lower.” He could feel the change, the subtle shift in her breathing audible to his ear.

  “Out,” he said. “Evenly, if you can.” The breath vanished from beneath his hands, slowly and steadily.

  “Again,” he said. Again, she repeated the same movements, breathing in and out until it became a steady rhythm, the silk of the dress rising and falling so that it faintly brushed his fingers each time.

  After a moment, he drew away. “That is sufficient,” he said. “We shall try the scales again.”

  He seated himself at the pianoforte and began with the lower range. Hetta sang the notes, her voice climbing steadily with each changing key, until it resonated high and trembling in the music chamber, loud enough that the ceiling seemed to contain it and send it below again, although she seemed hardly to be exerting any air in the effort.

  Abruptly, Herr Scheimann stopped playing the notes for her. “There,” he said. “We have found you, Miss Harwick. At least, we have found a little proof of what you might become.”

  It surprised him that she did not inquire what he meant, nor show interest in whether he was pleased or displeased by her measure; instead she was standing before him with her hands clasped, as if they were discussing tuning the pianoforte next week.

  “Practice your breathing,” he said. “You must practice it every day. On Tuesdays, we will begin with your voice and on Thursdays, we shall continue with your pianoforte.”

  “Both at once?’ she said. “It is so little time.”

  “They will go together, Mademoiselle,” he answered, with a smile that altered his stony features into a pleasant face. “You will see.”

  Downstairs, in the drawing room of the house, Mrs. Harwick had been listening to the sound of her daughter’s voice echoing from above.

  “Hetta seems much improved,” she said to her husband, who was perusing a letter with an expression somewhat sour in response to its contents. “Perhaps we ought to think about a little musical soire for her. It would be the kind of event which would attract a great many prospects, I think.” Her tone infused these harmless words with a subtle meaning sure to catch her husband’s notice.

  “It had better do so,” was the biting response from the usually genial Charles Harwick, "for if a baron cannot supply her tastes, she must hope her prospects are indeed high."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dear Kitty,

  I am glad to hear that you are quite settled at the manor and that our sister is well. Also, that you are improving young Richard’s lessons, for he was quite ignorant upon the occasion I last saw him, compared to our own dear George.

  Tuesday, we dined with the Lockleys in Mayfair and I danced two quadrilles since there was a want of partners at the ball. I have torn a small hole in my best frock and must have it mended, for John has accepted an invitation to Lady Sanford’s ball for Monday next. We are greatly honored by her attention, for she possesses the best manners and elegant appearance of the lesser peerage.

  I saw a great deal of Miss Harwick in society after your absence. She is considered very charming and popular and can make herself an agreeable companion upon the occasion; although she still has the conceited air of the Harwicks in public, which is a sign of very ill breeding. She has been here often in the past week, for we had her to tea this fortnight past and she dined with us on Wednesday and played a very pretty waltz or two. She has mentioned you above twice when we have met; but I think it shows a deference of mind that she made a kind inquiry after your health, as I am sure you will agree.

  We were all to form a walking party in the park upon the sixteenth and breakfast at Sir Hufton’s, which Miss Harwick has informed me has the finest music room in all of London. Lately, however, she has lately gone away from London to the country and we must wait her return.

  George and the girls are quite well and send their love.

  With affection,

  Mrs. John Hobbins

  Louisa’s letter arrived on the same morning as Mrs. Servennia’s invitation to dine: two pieces of correspondence which Kitty had little time to peruse in between children’s lessons and supervising the maid Tillie in her work. Patience was confined to the kitchen when not needed at Mrs. Allgood’s–a situation which Kitty was beginning to wish was reversed for the two maids of all work, although she would not wish such poor help on a
nyone else.

  Miss Harwick’s invitation had been the first delivered, even before the squire’s, since one of Mr. Servennia’s manservants brought it to the front door of Pennicott. He came away with few details of its occupants, except the sound of music coming from within, much to the disappointment of his mistress.

  “Still, she is said to be very elegant,” emphasized Mrs. Jenner, as she accepted a cup of tea from Mrs. Servennia. “I have only just seen her–outside the dry goods, where her maid had been sent to purchase a length of ribbon–but she returned my greeting with such courtesy.”

  “I do not think anyone could be more elegant than our Miss Phillips,” ventured Mrs. Thompkins tremulously–for ‘the squire’s sister’ in law was no longer a newcomer in the village’s eyes although still something of a favorite among its residents.

  “I made no such claims,” said Mrs. Jenner. “Upon my word, Miss Phillips is very fine, but has she got Paris silks in her wardrobe? Are her linens tailored by nuns in foreign convents? For I have heard those very things about Miss Harwick’s wardrobe–from none other than one of the squire’s maids.” She lowered her voice to confidential tones with this last part, casting an eye in the direction of Lucy Foster in her corner.

  “Miss Harwick’s connections are not quite as good as the Phillipses,” said Mrs. Servennia, “but her father was a gentleman and very respectable–even if he did live among foreigners.” She poured a cup of tea for Mrs. Thompkins, whose eyes appeared to swim in tears beneath her widow’s cap.

  Lucy made no comment on any of these remarks herself, although she listened with great interest instead of reading her book on ladies’ manners which her aunt had purchased for her this last week. She was in favor of Miss Phillips, who had been kind enough to loan her two sheets of music which purchased both pleasure for herself and favor with her cousins. Such kindness was not easily forgotten.

  When Anna pressed her to accept the invitation, Kitty did not refuse.

  “You can take our carriage,” Anna continued, as she lowered her cup of tea. “William shall have no use for it since he is away again; and I shall not have my sister walking a mile when the evenings are so damp.”

  “Miss Harwick has offered me a seat in hers,” said Kitty. “You need not have Martin harness the horses merely for me.” Unable to find her pair of scissors momentarily, she bit off a strand of thread from her spool of plain white for darning aprons.

  She was not so content with her decision the night of the party, as she gazed at herself in the looking glass. Her grey silk seemed drab, possessed with the power to drain the color from her features and hair. Its style was becoming, but modest and plain. Her earrings and gloves, although not old-fashioned, seemed infused with the antiquated for the former and the decidedly serviceable for the latter.

  “The carriage is waitin’, Ma’am.” The servant girl Patience was in the doorway, lifting the edges of her apron in a curtsy. “You look very nice, Ma’am,” she ventured, somewhat timidly, as she stepped aside for Kitty to pass. “Elegant, if I might say so. Even with the likes of Miss Harwick’s feathers.”

  Kitty smiled. “Thank you,” she said. On impulse, she reached to gently press the maid’s arm in a gesture of kindness before descending.

  *****

  Goldleaf’s windows were alight again with lanterns and candles, its drawing room packed with the few families and citizens whose breeding Mrs. Servennia thought fit for her London guests–and a few others with whom one must make do to complete the crowd.

  “Mr. Turner, a pleasure to see you,” said Mr. Hooker, greeting his fellow guest who was lately arrived with a polite bow.

  “The pleasure is mine, sir,” the surgeon answered.

  “You’re quite welcome on these occasions, for you make a twelfth at dinner easily enough when one is in need of it,” continued Mr. Hooker, with a pleasant grin. “Is that not what is said, my dear?” This last line was addressed to the senior niece who kept house for the barrister and who had conveniently slipped away at this moment.

  Mrs. Servennia, who might be of the opinion that Mr. Hooker also was an extraneous member of the party, endeavored not to show her dismay over this exchange while before her elegant guest.

  “We are pleased that you have accepted our invitation, Miss Harwick,” she said. “I know our society may seem but small compared to your own, but we do hope that our manners and modest means of entertainment shall meet with your pleasure.”

  “Indeed, Ma’am,” Hetta answered, “I think I have already found what I wished in Beiberry’s society, for I feel quite satisfied.” Her smile was polite, her tone charming, but her demeanor bore resemblance to artificial perfection, like a performer in a mask.

  “You will play for us tonight, won’t you?” pressed Mrs. Servennia, even as she pressed her guest’s hand with this latest invitation.

  “Of course. I should be honored,” replied Hetta. As she withdrew her hand and glided away, her appearance encouraged a flutter of comments among the less socially-qualified guests.

  “Satin from Paris–and in such a shade of blue,” whispered Mrs. Thompkins from her place on the sofa, for the widow was inclined towards the romantic side of fashion.

  “Those tucks may be all the fashion in London or Paris, but that embroidery seems a bit heavy for Mrs. Servennia’s drawing rooms,” observed Mrs. Jenner in an equally low voice as she stood by. Her own ample figure sensibly clad in her best muslin and a bonnet trimmed with shirred ribbons–in her youth, Mrs. Jenner had declined to wear silk in protest to its limited serviceability, much to the relief of her now-deceased lord and master.

  “Ah, ladies, for shame–talking of silks and laces at a party itself is like talking of minces and meat pies before the dinner is served. It only serves to sour the stomach on the fine opportunities to come, does it not?” Mr. Hooker asked.

  In the midst of all of this, Kitty found herself close beside Lucy Foster as they waited to be shown in to dinner. Her hostess’s niece wore a sprigged muslin undoubtedly made over from one of her cousins’ wardrobes, its shades of pale green ill-becoming her complexion.

  “Miss Harwick’s dress is very fine,” observed Lucy. “It must be a real expense to dress in such things; my aunt says it’s not polite to talk about it, of course.”

  “I’m afraid my advice would not be very different from her own,” said Kitty, although she had grown accustomed to such remarks from Miss Foster's curiously blunt tongue and knew that Mrs. Servennia's reproof was customarily more severe than the crime warranted.

  “My aunt tells me a great many things, Miss Phillip. Only except the proper manner of being a lady. Oh, she tells me what I oughtn’t do, but what I am to do seems always a mystery.” The girl’s voice dropped lower with this remark.

  Kitty gazed at the upturned face, the earnest countenance marked by freckles and the blue bows which drew back her long curls. She, no doubt, had received little instruction compared to her cousins, whose demeanor was considerably more graceful and fashionably-clad.

  “I think you might take an example which would aid you more than such instruction,” said Kitty, gently. “You might look to someone who has genteel manners and proper behavior–Mrs. Allgood’s companion Mrs. Josephs, for instance, has a very fine character indeed. It might be easier, perhaps, to see an example rather than read of it in a book.”

  “I suppose so,” said Lucy, slowly. “I never thought of looking to strangers before. It seemed improper, not having my aunt’s opinion on everything.” The suggestion, although controversial, clearly had a certain appeal to the young girl's thoughts.

  “Miss Phillips, Miss Foster.” Mr. Turner approached and greeted them with a bow. “I hope that I am not interrupting a very private conversation?”

  “Indeed, no,” answered Kitty. “I am pleased to see you here. I was hoping to introduce you to my friend–who is arrived lately from London.” Her glance fell upon Hetta, who was nearby making polite conversation with one of the Miss Servennia
s.

  “She has been also to the Highlands and greatly favored them in her youth,” she added, as further explanation.

  “A fellow Scot at heart,” said Mr. Turner, with a smile. “It should be an honor.” As they moved before Hetta, he bowed politely.

  “Miss Harriet Harwick, Mr. Miles Turner.” With this simple introduction, they were made acquaintances; Hetta curtseyed to the surgeon, whom she was studying with a look of interest.

  “Mr. Turner is the gentleman I mentioned before,” said Kitty, who was struggling very hard to keep the blush from entering her cheeks. “The one who has lived in Scotland.”

  “Indeed,” said Hetta. “Then you are a native of the country?” she asked, addressing the surgeon.

  “Nay, Ma’am,” he answered. “I was a child in Northumberland. I cannot call Scotland my home for more than a few short years altogether near the end of my boyhood. But the memory of the place is pleasant enough; and its borders are as familiar in my mind as the markers of my own village road.”

  He glanced at Kitty. “I have spoken to Miss Phillips of it often,” he said, “when we are not conversing of poetry.”

  “Poetry?” repeated Hetta. “Then you are a reader of verse also, Mr. Turner? Then we learn a great deal more of interest with each passing remark.” Her eyes were upon Kitty’s face with these words, where her companion’s color could be seen rising and paling with the swiftness of emotion.

  “Are you an admirer of Wordsworth or of Keats?” inquired Mr. Turner. “I am for the former gentleman–as is Miss Phillips, I believe.” Now it was his eye turned upon Kitty, who found herself unable to speak at this moment.

  “I am for neither, sir,” Hetta answered. “I care for poetry only in the lyrical sense; I am afraid that in any other than its musical form I was quite a dunce.” She opened her fan and sent a languid breeze over herself as she glanced towards her host and hostess.

  This abrupt change of manner left only Kitty and Mr. Turner in the conversation. Mr. Turner turned to Kitty again with a smile.