Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  “My sister’s estate is in Yorkshire,” answered Kitty. “Near Scarborough. It is not even a half day’s journey from this place. I have spent a great many years there.” Every year since her mother’s death; such an event, however, held no associations for Hetta’s memory.

  "It is the place where you have secluded yourself when not in London," guessed Hetta. "I knew Mr. Hobbins possessed a country estate, but I did not know his property lies in York."

  She was silent on the subject throughout their meal and their visit to the shore. But Kitty's remark had not been forgotten; and it was this and no other reason which directed the carriage onwards to the eastern corner of Yorkshire.

  The view of Enderly was expansive from the hilltop on which she stood; yet forlorn, as if the windows of its untenanted rooms were sightless eyes gazing upon the broad lawn and hillsides dotted by sheep.

  “A lovely house, I am sure,” Hetta spoke. “But there is something very dreary about it.”

  “It is a dreary place,” answered Kitty, quietly. “I have called it home enough years to know it as such. There is an emptiness to this land, these blank fields without tree or landmark. It is a place you must be born to love, I think.” It seemed lifeless to her gaze, as if rendered dead by its owners’ removal, as opposed to slumbering in their absence.

  “Do you wish to be here again?” Hetta looked at her. Kitty did not turn away from the view of the house.

  “It is not a question of that,” she answered. “It is never a question of that. There are things which must be; and we are resigned to them, given time.” Below, a flock of sheep moved in a trailing stream of white.

  “I have never believed that,” said Hetta. “We can change a great many things. We cannot be trapped into complacency because of the unspoken rules of fate.” Stubborn resilience was threaded in her voice, her chin tilted higher as she spoke.

  Kitty looked at her at length, for the passions of Hetta’s nature seemed to surface with these words. It was the imperiousness that had ruled the girl Hetta; the forceful presence which had defined itself through a strong will and ill temper in the tales of gossips.

  “We are not all so inclined to self rule,” said Kitty, softly. “Some of us give way, for the consequences of any other choice are not bearable. The power to undo some choices does not lie with us.”

  In Hetta’s glance was an emotion unfathomable to her perception. It might be pain or pity; perhaps a look of rebellion towards such an opinion from one who might fear its truth.

  A flock of birds was startled from one of the trees along Enderly’s lawn. The gaze of each lady standing there was drawn to the movement, watching until the last trace of the flock vanished high above in the overcast horizon.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Scheimann's mood did not improve with rehearsals, despite the minimal trouble of his performers and the general ease of his production. True, the soprano at first protested the range of the flower song was beyond her voice, then Bochsa's little Lageanie failed miserably in her first attempt at the duet. There was great dismay over the scene painter's depiction of the cave's wonders and a heated dispute with the dresser over the flower costumes for the ballerinas and still more drama over the painted scenes of the royal court–but these are nothing in the world of theater compared to the tragedies which doom an opera's premier.

  "It is coming together splendidly, don't you think?" Bochsa mused during rehearsal. His elbows rested upon the piano, Scheimann's figure hunched over its keys as he scowled at the open score–for the orchestra was in the act of slurring the Songmaid's theme.

  When there was no answer from the composer, he spoke again. "I think you are displeased with our work," he said. "You haven't spoken three words altogether. Never mind the progress, nor that we’ve exceeded those limits of your Paris performance–your temper is given to such moodiness I cannot fathom the reason."

  "I have no complaint," Scheimann answered. This terse reply was touched with fatigue; enough so that his companion assumed it was merely long hours of labor and anxiety rendering him taciturn.

  This was true, although not entirely the cause of his melancholy. Such feelings were buried in his labors, in which he scribbled furiously over new compositions darker than previous attempts, then others which sounded with a radiance breaking forth like the dawn.

  Work alters any mood; transforms the brooding eye into a glance of fierce concentration, then gentle doubt, then the exhaustion of one who seeks relief in sleep at the close. The composer's features were ink-stained, his clothes in disarray; he required only a short sleep, then departed again to rehearsals and the general construction of his opera.

  "Scheimann needs rest," said Mrs. Everton. "We have scarce seen him in a month, he is so consumed with his opera."

  "There is nothing to be done but to finish it," said her husband. "He shall have enough recreation at his disposal when it is a success. You shall persuade him to do nothing but sleep and stroll about the grounds at our country place when it is finished."

  "Indeed I shall," said Mrs. Everton, emphatically. "I shall tell him not to play a single note, even though everyone else invited shall be wanting him in the music room at every hour. It will not do; any other guests must be content with more humble musical endeavors."

  "It is a shame Miss Harwick would not consent to join us," said Everton. "There is nothing to compare to her voice and she would put your pianoforte to good use if she were there."

  "She has been too long in the country and has grown tired of it," surmised his wife. "That is no doubt why she plans to return to London. Why change the scenes of one country manor for another? She should prefer a change to London's season above it, I'm sure, and does not wish to accept another."

  "At any rate, Scheimann will have no want of congratulations when his opera debuts," said Mr. Everton. "His labors will seem worthwhile when his music is celebrated by more than his friends."

  "I am sure that his friends are the best judge of his talents," answered Mrs. Everton.

  *****

  Herr Scheimann's time was greatly occupied in the spring of 1816. He had several more students, some promising and some not, most of them the offspring of wealthy patrons. The lively Miss Harwick's musical soiree had given him a greater reputation as an instructor, if not as a composer.

  It was not only the training of his students, but with his compositions in the evenings and nights he spent in his room working on a great many pieces at various times. A particular work held his attention above all others, a complex arrangement for one voice, then two, then with a variety of strings and orchestra parts being created also. He strained over it, feverishly, his eye alight with a peculiar intensity as he applied his pen to the music lines upon the page.

  During the time this piece consumed his passions, it had been many weeks since he had given Miss Harwick a music lesson. Her progress was such that he did not question the reasons why he was summoned less frequently to her home, since her voice had ripened to the aspirations he had only half-believed the previous autumn. At the pianoforte, her performance left nothing lacking except the mastership of years which only time could give her.

  In the early hours of Monday morning, as the first signs of dawn appeared on the horizon, he finished his masterpiece. On Tuesday, he gave a lesson to the son of a wealthy French admiral. And on Wednesday, he went to the Harwick's house upon request.

  Charles Harwick was in the library, posed with the casual superiority of one who summons a servant before them. He offered a polite smile to the composer, but did not motion for him to be seated.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Scheimann," he said. "I hope you are well?"

  "Tolerably so," answered Scheimann. He tapped his stick against the floor. "You wished to see me?" he said, dispensing with the polite formalities of conversation.

  The two men had not exchanged words since the night of Miss Harwick's drawing room performance. The composer's opinion of his employee had been lowered contemptuously
by that occasion; but he was willing to submit for the sake of his student more than the sake of his wages.

  His employer leaned back more comfortably. "I did," he said. "As you know, it has been a great many months since you began instructing my youngest daughter in music," he said. "Admirably so, I might add."

  "You are pleased with Miss Harwick's progress?" said Scheimann, boredly.

  "Of course I am," said Mr. Harwick. "She is as accomplished as any young woman might hope to be. That is greatly to your credit and I shall be happy to give you a recommendation anywhere in the city."

  Scheimann bowed. "Thank you," he answered.

  "We shall be sorry to lose you, but I am sure you would prefer to give your full measure of time to students more qualified than Miss Harwick," continued his employer.

  "You are–ending our arrangement?" Scheimann said. There was a note of doubt in his voice, as if he had misunderstood the words.

  "Even you would admit that Miss Harwick's training requires nothing more," said Mr. Harwick. "She plays and sings with all the talent necessary for a young lady of her position. I fear there is no purpose in pursuing anything further."

  "Miss Harwick's talent is much greater than what she has accomplished," said Scheimann, still reeling from this announcement. "Her skills in other areas have not yet begun. Her voice must still be trained; her understanding of music is yet that of a listener and not a true performer."

  "My daughter is not a performer, Mr. Scheimann." Mr. Harwick smiled. "She is a young Englishwoman whose life interest lies with other matters. I am sure we can procure your services on a monthly basis, or perhaps every few weeks to monitor her practice."

  "What does Miss Harwick say?" he asked.

  "Miss Harwick? I am certain she would agree," Mr. Harwick answered. "She finds matters rather tiresome after too much exposure, as her friends know." He drew a journal from the table beside his chair and opened it, pointedly ending their discussion.

  There was music coming from the room upstairs. He climbed towards the sound and opened the door to the music room, where Hetta was seated at the pianoforte.

  "Miss Harwick," he said. He stepped forwards with a smile of greeting. She turned towards him with one equally pleasant.

  "Mr. Scheimann," she said, playfully, "You have not been here these many weeks. You have neglected your student most shamefully for another, it seems."

  His face flushed red, an awkwardness creeping over him. "I must apologize," he said.

  "Have you come to frown at my latest sonata attempts? I have not practiced it as often as you commanded me, for I fear I have been often engaged in society this month."

  He was gazing upon her with a look inspired by her appearance as much as her words. In the light of the drawing room, her crown of golden curls glowed with an ethereal light, her blue eyes burning with merriment. To see her posed before the pianoforte in this rose-colored gown, it was as if he was embarking upon their first meeting in this room again.

  "I have not come to scold," he said. "Instead, I have brought you something. You wished something lively for your harp, I believe; and here is something better."

  "One would not believe someone with your fearsome countenance would be so generous, Mr. Scheimann," she said. "Have I not music enough to play with such a library as my own?" This last part was prompted by the appearance of a sheaf of music from beneath his coat, which he placed before her.

  "Do you recognize this, Miss Harwick?" he asked, gently. "You have seen it before–but in another form."

  A little frown appeared on her face as she studied it. "It is–it is our little lesson on compositions, is it not?" she asked, after a moment. "Yes, I see my own little passage there." She turned more pages, finding the depths of composition's mastery, the full score of an orchestra presented on its lines.

  "It is all of them," said Scheimann. "I have put them together with my own and made it as you wished. There is the harp and strings, there is the horns and flute. There is your voice, with a part for better accompaniment than my own, I hope." With this, he emitted a faint laugh.

  Hetta's fingers touched the paper's edge gingerly, as if afraid to do more than that. "You wrote this for me," she said. "A composition for me?" Her voice betrayed confusion.

  "It is yours," he said. "Your playfulness, your liveliness, your passion." He spoke with force, although with a tone so gentle and altogether unlike his own that she could not mistake the change.

  "I do not understand," she said, slowly.

  "It is all that you might wish. I have written it for your gifts–it is even in French–"

  She looked at him, frowning. "But what is the reason for this?" she asked. "I cannot play all of these parts, nor can I accompany myself." This time, it was Hetta's little laugh which punctuated their exchange.

  "But you might perform it with others," he suggested. "When you are ready, there shall be a concert. A public performance, perhaps. Your pianoforte and voice still requires training, but there is time."

  "Publicly perform?" she repeated. "That is unlikely, Mr. Scheimann." Her gaze dropped low with these words, her tone one of carefully-affected indifference.

  "Your talent is great, Miss Harwick," he answered, softly. "I will not lie. I have no better student, nor have I ever met one who might, with effort, match such skills as you possess."

  The color entered and vanished from her cheeks in a quick succession of emotions. "You are all compliments today, Herr Scheimann," she said. "You have never had such praise for me before."

  "I should have," he said. "It might have made the difference to your music in a way I did not foresee." He did not mention what her father had said to him below. In his ears, the words of the Harwicks' regarding their daughter's talent was in contrast to the feelings he felt were visible on the girl's face before him.

  "I have endeavored to be good, of course," said Hetta, whose eyes were trained upon the floor again. "I have wanted to be a proficient whose music would please you."

  He was standing beside her, as close as he dared; but now he bent lower to meet her face. "You might be more than a student, Miss Harwick," he said. "There are many who do not wish you to learn, but that is nonsense, do you understand?" His hands were upon her shoulders now, his fingers against the soft fabric of her sleeves, aware of the warmth beneath them.

  "I am not a performer, sir," she said, insolently, raising her head. "That is not something in my future as it was for that poor Swedish girl–the one whose music you had me learn."

  "But you could be," he answered. "With the right training–the right influence. You might be a true musician who is admired for her gifts. Whose compositions draw as much praise as her voice."

  Their words upon the staircase that night after the party returned to him with clarity. The pain in her voice, evident in the wake of Mr. Harwick's disdain for her performance, her eagerness for his own compliments. It was driving him at this moment, with all the force of a human touch driving deeper emotions in the heart. He saw a glimpse into this future, the girl's voice upon the stage, her presence beside him at the pianoforte with open scores awaiting pen and ink. The stages and lights, the triumph of her career before emperor and king.

  "You would use your influence for me?" she said, her voice taking on a strange tone which was new to his ear. "Do you think my father would allow such a thing? That my friends would allow me to do this?"

  "I would be your friend if that is what you wished, Miss Harwick," he said, his voice trembling with the portent of what he was on the verge of offering. "I would be more. I would give you my hand, my heart. I would be your partner in any future which your music might desire."

  These words had been in his mind for some time, unconsciously weaving themselves into his feelings, else he could never have uttered them. In this moment, they seemed natural to him, now that the terrible effort of speaking them aloud was past. He could not move his gaze from her figure, the flushed cheeks and quick pulse evidence in her countenance.<
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  Her eyes were fixed on him. "Marry you?" she said. "You suggest that I become an actress–and marry you?" Her tone, he realized, was not one of growing surprise, but repulsion. The dread of realization passed over him like a curtain rippled forth in the winds of a storm.

  "Your music–" he began, in a voice which did not wish to obey.

  "How dare you suggest such a thing?" Her hands were shoving his own from her shoulders with a force of motion, her body propelling itself away from him as she rose from the pianoforte.

  "I thought of your future," he answered, weakly, "of your talents which are limited instead of praised." He touched his hand to his forehead, where beads of sweat had sprung in this growing state of confusion.

  "That I would give up my position to earn my living upon the stage–you insult me! And to think that I would ever consider you–" Here she stopped speaking and turned away, the crimson rage he had witnessed in the past now consuming her features, "you–you are not even a gentleman, you are a teacher and a–a musician."

  "As are you," he answered, with equal passion, as if this argument was proof enough of his prior truths.

  "Can you not feel a connection between us?" he asked. "It is unspoken, intuitive–an understanding which exists whenever we are before this instrument. We are equals in the music–and such equality might be in more than our song."

  She did not speak, although he waited in silence for her answer.

  "Do you not see how it could be so after these months?" His voice was yet gentle, although the brunt command of his harsher feelings stirred beneath.

  "I see nothing of the kind," she said. In response, the last shades of passion vanished from his face.

  "I do not read your mind, sir, nor do I take any interest in what thoughts are there," she continued, as if the very notion offended her. The thought that he might be her equal, that there was an implicit understanding between them at times which suggested a kinship of spirit.