Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  “I would still have supposed that you would have been given the opportunity for more,” said Hetta.

  Kitty’s skin flushed. “I have perhaps fancied myself to be in love at one time or another,” she answered, vaguely. “But there was a great deal of difference between fancies and reality, as time endeavors to teach us.”

  Hetta said nothing in reply; she turned her attention to the view below again.

  “I sometimes think I might go to the Highlands again,” she said. “There are pleasant associations there for me–in the midst of unpleasant ones–that I should like desperately to feel again.” There was a force of passion in her speech which betrayed deeper feelings than those for its scenery.

  “You spoke of it with such longing before,” said Kitty, “I rather wondered that you did not go there again, instead of coming to this place.”

  “It was there I–” began Hetta, then broke off her words. “I wished to come here to forget recollections of a different nature,” she answered. “I did not wish more of the past. But there are some reflections which I can bear now.”

  Her back was to Kitty, her Tartan scarf having trailed onto the grass like a green and gold snake amidst the grass and uneaten apples.

  “A great many years ago, I made a rather unfortunate mistake," she continued. "It was a moment of impulse which led me to feel–to feel something which I have never again felt for anyone. It led me to a rash promise which I then could not keep.” She did not turn around as she spoke; the breeze had drawn free locks of her hair, the curls fluttering in the breeze around her coif of hair.

  “The memory of it is always strong in places such as this, even though much time has passed and I could not recall his face if I tried. I have always imagined that he has forgotten mine also."

  Her face was still turned from Kitty, who could see only the calm profile of her companion. "In all the promises I have broken since then," she said, "I have never regretted it on my part except for one other occasion. There shall not be another, I am sure.” With these words, she looked at Kitty; a sad smile upon her lips, a strange sadness in her eyes.

  A story of Hetta’s name associated with Gretna Green had been told long ago; until this moment, Kitty had given it no credit except that of a young girl intrigued by it as gossip. The human feeling behind it had never occurred to her until now, the possibility that the parties in the story had suffered something by it other than fear of a scandal.

  “I am sorry,” said Kitty. “Truly I am.”

  She reached out her hand and touched the arm of the woman facing the scenery below. To her surprise, Hetta took hold of her fingers, as if she found comfort in another’s presence.

  “So am I,” said Hetta. There was something in her voice which made Kitty’s heart ache in sympathy. Regret still painful beneath the scab of time, incongruous with the outer picture of beauty unhindered by the years. In this moment, they were equals; they understood each other, without any distinction of past or future.

  *****

  “I have heard that you are a gentleman, sir. And I shall endeavor to believe it.”

  Mrs. Allgood was propped upright in her bed, the worn counterpane drawn high upon her chest. Beneath the ruffled nightcap, a face shriveled like a mask of skin pulled over bone surveyed the visitor stationed near the foot of her bed.

  “I am honored that you have consulted me, Ma’am,” answered Mr. Turner. He had placed his hat upon the nearby stool and his black bag discreetly at the foot of the bed, lest the presence of its internal objects frighten his frail patient.

  “I have taken the counsel of my friends on this matter,” continued Mrs. Allgood. Her eye was directed at the nervous figure of Mrs. Josephs, who stood respectfully in the doorway behind him.

  “Many very respectable patients have called upon me, Ma’am,” said Mr. Turner. “Mr. Hooker the barrister and Mrs. Servennia. I trust that they were satisfied and would not discourage you from seeking my opinion.”

  Until now, he had stood at respectful attention. When Mrs. Allgood beckoned him forwards, he drew closer and bent with solemn attention to examine his patient.

  “Your fall has left you with a great deal of bruising,” he commented. “But with no broken bones, I think–for it does not hurt when I press upon you here, does it?”

  “It does not,” said Mrs. Allgood, whose voice quavered fearfully.

  “Then it is less harm done then might have been.” He drew back a little in order to meet her eye.

  “Mrs. Josephs has told me that you have a great deal of pain; and that you have nothing left to remedy it from Mr. Harris’s prescriptions.”

  “There is a little left,” interrupted Mrs. Josephs. “But it is so little–”

  “Then I can give you something more to dull the pain,” he said. “And I shall give you some salts to help relieve your faintness as well.”

  His manner was that of a gentleman, both frank and delicate with matters which might offend the poor woman’s dignity; by the end of his examination, she had made up her mind that he might be consulted again in the future.

  “It is a great favor that I should send for you,” she told him in confidence, as he closed his physician’s bag. “Not only to Mrs. Josephs, but to Miss Phillips. She has spoken very highly of you.”

  “Miss Phillips has my highest regards,” he answered. “There is nobody with greater presence of mind in all Beiberry Mile I am convinced.” He retrieved his hat from the stool and bent to take his patient’s hand in farewell.

  “You would do well to choose a wife of such character, sir,” said Mrs. Allgood. “It would soothe the feelings of your female patients in Beiberry. And do great credit to yourself as well, to have a respectable girl of good manners.”

  “Then perhaps I might dispense with your advice to meet matters halfway and offer Miss Phillips herself my hand,” he replied, with a good-humored grin. “That would suit matters well enough, would it not?”

  His patient did not reply, but the surgeon did not appear to think one necessary as he made his bow of farewell.

  “Good day to you, Mrs. Allgood,” he said, then departed to speak with her companion downstairs.

  It was with consternation that Mrs. Allgood afterwards summoned Mrs. Josephs to her bedside–a woman whose countenance seemed considerably improved by the surgeon’s reassurances upon departing–and took her hand.

  “My dear,” she said, in a quavering voice, “Mr. Turner has said something to me–something which I hope he does not mean with all my heart.”

  “What?” Mrs. Josephs grew pale. “What did he say, Mrs. Allgood?”

  “He said,” she lowered her voice, “that he wished to ask Miss Phillips to marry him.”

  Mrs. Josephs’ expression altered its manner of concern, although it did not show relief with these words. “Surely he was merely in jest,” she said. “He would not wish to seriously offer her marriage.”

  “I am not convinced by his manner,” answered Mrs. Allgood. “Oh, dear–what must I do? Such an idea–and he had seemed such a proper sort of gentleman–” She did not seem capable of talking about it any longer.

  Such a private conversation might have been confined to the Allgood household; only word of it was carried by the cook to a girl who served as laundress to a household in the village, and then over her mistress's fence to Mrs. Thompkins and her maid as they confiscated goose eggs from her poultry house. From there, it was reported to others with haste.

  “It cannot be true,” declared Mrs. Jenner. “The whole idea is ridiculous. He is but one and twenty–if that–and she is nearer to forty, I suspect. It would be a silly thought for him altogether.”

  “It is out of the question because she is a lady,” said Mrs. Servennia, coldly. She had paused outside Mrs. Jenner’s gate beneath her parasol, with her personal maid who was burdened with an armful of purchases. “Miss Phillips is the sister of the squire’s wife; she has been educated in a ladies’ school in London. Whereas Mr. Turner is in t
rade–and heaven knows what else.”

  “But he is such a respectable man,” said Mrs. Thompkins. “He does not seem uncouth–”

  “He has cut up the dead, Ma’am,” said Mrs. Servennia. “Such teaching is not fit for a London drawing room–or for an equal footing with any woman of genteel breeding.”

  “I had always thought he might fancy Farmer Cullee’s eldest,” said Mrs. Jenner. “She’s a stout practical girl and quite comely by comparison to Miss Phillips. Any young man of sense would choose such a girl.”

  There was no substance to the rumor, of course; nor was there any that night, when Mrs. Servennia related these suspicions to her husband.

  “I feared it would come to this,” she said. “He has not proposed to any of the farmer’s daughters since he has come to Beiberry. Perhaps giving him invitation into society has encouraged him somehow to pay his attentions to a gentleman’s daughter.”

  “There is no truth to it,” Mr. Servennia answered, lowering his paper. “A young man like Mr. Turner would never propose to a woman who is above thirty–not when every country girl between sixteen and twenty-six is to be had for his word.”

  “At least we may take comfort that he has not addressed himself to any of our daughters,” said Mrs. Servennia, lifting her needle from her embroidery again. “But if nothing but good connections would do, you would think he might have had the decency to make an offer to our Lucy.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mr. Nicholas Bochsa, whose eccentricities were legend and whose word with regards to the Theatre Royal was–in some respects–law, was the driving force and final word which secured The Songmaid’s debut in London. This was not the power of the ambiguous Lord Cushley’s influence nor Mr. Everton’s suggestions; in this case, it was the reputation of the composer himself which had secured the place.

  “A French opera by a German composer–it will either be magnificent or amusing,” he had declared. “I should declare the former.”

  An admirer of Scheimann’s “Duet for the Harp and Piano”, Bochsa had taken a personal interest in Scheimann and paid his respects by letter as a result of the composer’s compliment to his own instrument, the harp. Correspondence between them resulted; friendship was born, and a theater was secured for the unwritten opera, although not by formal agreement in the director's initial letters.

  It was Bochsa who, once matters were settled and his composer in London, brought pressure to bear with regards to the music omitted from the final opera.

  “It was an error–albeit one of Fate’s most fortuitous–that you gave me the score in advance of coming to England,” he told the composer over dinner at one of the few clubs of any respect which claimed emigrated gentlemen and successful musicians among its members. “Had I been given only the final Paris version, perhaps I would not feel the loss. But this song for the harp–it is the soul of your piece, Monsieur.”

  “I do not wish it there,” answered Scheimann. “I wished it removed, which is why it is now absent. You may give your preference to “The Songmaid’s Lament” or any other performance you choose; but I will not have the other.”

  “But why not?” persisted Bochsa. “Not the song, I suspect ... no, it is another matter. A personal quarrel. A feminine presence, perhaps.” He pointed his dinner knife in Scheimann’s direction, as if pinpointing the answer with this motion.

  Scheimann, however, evaded the desired response. “There are a great many reasons,” he said. “The difficulties of staging such a duet, to begin.”

  “It is not difficult,” snorted Bochsa. “You must–you will–choose this song over the others, Scheimann. You simply must see its greatness and embrace it. It shall be the embrace to the audience, even if the lament of the songmaid is played in their drawing rooms afterwards–this piece shall equal it in time.”

  Financial backing for this endeavor had been secured, but not only by the theater manager himself; else, Bochsa would not be so eager for the expense of such a production, animated flowers or no. Much of the expense was being assumed by a wealthy donor who had agreed to a fourth of house receipts and whose solicitor was now present at Scheimann’s first rehearsals.

  “It is Mr. Cushley’s, certainly,” declared Everton, who paid his friend a visit upon the first day of rehearsal. “He may hesitate to trust the manager's handling of things; for bankruptcy is so common now and the receipts often disappear, I’m told. When Laporte was here, they were always quite solvent, I‘m sure. But a businessman can never be too careful.”

  “The theatre would pay the expenses,” said Scheimann. “I do not see the need of a businessman.” He cast a wary eye at the solicitor, who was seated in the auditorium with the stiff appearance of one out of place.

  “The theater won’t risk the kind of marvels which your Bochsa has in mind,” said Everton. “And Cushley–when I last saw him, before he left for the Continent–was quite intrigued by the thought of staging the sort of grandeur which Mozart impressed on Vienna. If he has placed money in it, he would wish to see it comes off properly. The sort of thing which seems fantastical onstage.”

  Scheimann retreated into a moody silence at this point; deliberately turning his back on the offending solicitor present, he occupied himself with the music before him and the company of performers who were intended to bring his production to life.

  The leading soprano Allera, in her gown of gauzy fabric, was suitable for the role in voice and manner, although her interpretation of the Songmaid’s lament was not to his taste as of yet. The company possessed a fine tenor for the role of Louis, whose gangly figure seemed incompatible with the voice reverberating through the hall.

  “It is a pity she is not a mezzo-soprano,” said Bochsa, of his lead actress. “But a coloratura is sufficient, I believe.” His pride for his company disguised as a scoff of indifference.

  Another girl took up a sheet of music at Scheimann’s request, a small figure who appeared scarcely old enough to be more than the company’s ingenue. She assumed the posture of a professional singer as a string of verses bubbled forth.

  “This girl singing the Queen’s part,” said Scheimann. “Her voice is too frail; she cannot reach the audience. Look–she is short of breath there–you see it?” He pointed towards the girl’s chest, which expanded swiftly like a heartbeat between lines.

  “She is young, yet,” answered Bochsa. “And a little uncertain at moments, but her performance is well-received and experience is the cure, you know.”

  “She ought to be singing in a salon,” said Scheimann, “rather than up there, with professionals beyond her merit. What are you thinking, you musical directors, to let her be here?”

  “Lageanie has performed thrice in French opera; she has been Elisabetta,” retorted Bochsa, whose temper flared with this criticism. “Theatre Royal does not employ parlor singers among its company–who ever heard a voice worthy of coloratura in a drawing room? Or a mezzo-soprano?”

  “I have,” answered Scheimann. “Once. It is rare, but not impossible.” He motioned towards the singer waiting behind Lageanie.

  “The other girl–the alto–she is fair,” he said. “I shall change the Queen’s song to favor her voice.”

  "Lageanie would do nicely for the duet for the flowers," said Bochsa, slyly. “But I suppose that no one short of Colbran would please you composers, would it? A prima donna of the highest degree? Very well. I will have you engage the other for the Queen on this occasion.” He waved his hand permissively.

  Casting would continue; as would hints of the future costumes and the elaborate sets which would include the garden scene, much to Scheimann’s reluctance. French opera must be the spectacle of French opera, Bochsa declared, so it must not disappoint. Grand orchestra and chorus, dramatic effect and ballet magnifique must enthrall an audience enraptured by scenes of splendor and lyrical magic.

  The composer spent the day huddled over the pianoforte, coaching his performers into the desired sounds of his opera. By afternoon, the
soprano had improved in his estimation, and he had found reason to forgive the offending little Lageanie, whose voice might enhance the duet easily enough.

  To his disgust, the solicitor remained throughout the earliest part of the performance before speaking with Bochsa after an hour or so. It was only when he was gone that Scheimann gave his full attention to the performers at hand as he strongly considered requesting the theatre to ban any subsequent visitors from this chamber.

  *****

  In 1816, the Harwicks were yet in Paris; and the seventeenth birthday of Miss Harwick was observed by her father with the present of a splendid gilded harp for her music room by way of acknowledging her advancement in her lessons.

  “It shall be picturesque, shall it not, Mama?” asked Miss Harwick, who struck a pose with the instrument inclined against her shoulder. “I shall be an Irish priestess in a tableau; if it were only smaller, I should be a Greek goddess before the temples.” It was indeed picturesque, the sight of this golden-haired girl in her pink gown and roses, her hands posed charmingly around the strings.

  “Had I known you wished a minstrel’s harp, I should have obliged,” said Mr. Harwick, whose tone had lost some of its geniality towards his petted younger daughter. Hetta chose to take no notice of this complaint, giving her attention more fully to her mother’s praise of its perfection in the music room.

  Scheimann had been made aware of the purchase in advance and approved of it. “Miss Harwick must broaden her performance, certainly,” he informed his employer. “She will take to it easily, I think; a duck in the water would have such instincts as a musician at the strings of such an instrument.”

  He had been present only from a distance at its presentation, awaiting his moment of announcement to enter the music room for Miss Harwick’s afternoon lesson. When the fanfare of her parents’ praise was removed, it was the music teacher who was ushered in to replace them. He paused in the middle of the room and bowed to his student.