Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

At home, Kitty busied herself with several tasks, repairing her silk gown and finishing some small presents meant for her nephews and nieces. She did her best to liven her spirits with memories of Christmas elsewhere, but such memories seemed cold to her, as if the last flames in the hearth died away in ashes. Only Christmas itself was merry; and it was a merriment tempered with thoughts of her precarious position both here and in London.

  Such thoughts served to dampen even the most pleasant of spirits in Kitty as she played games with her nephews and nieces and surprised them with several oranges procured especially for the day.

  She was selecting gloves as a present for Louisa but a few days after Christmas when she encountered Mr. Turner himself. The moment she saw him enter the shop was at the moment she was already in the act of crossing to its door. There was nowhere to turn or hide. The meeting could not be prevented. Upon sight of her, his face was altered by a warm and open smile.

  "It has been a great many weeks, Miss Phillips," he said, with a bow of greeting. "I have not seen you since my return to Beiberry at all."

  "Indeed, you have not, sir," she answered, her voice all but stammering this reply. She wished to move past him and escape, but could not; there was nothing in his manner which would either hasten or prevent her, since he seemed unaware of anything wrong.

  "Are you well?" he asked. "Are your sister and brother-in-law in good spirits?"

  "They are," she answered. "They are all well." Her gaze dropped from his own to the floor as a sense of discomfited shame swept over her.

  "Are you well, Miss Phillips?" he asked, with a note of concern.

  "Yes, I am well," she answered, "only I must go, sir. It is kind of you to inquire after my health."

  She endeavored to pass him; he laid his hand upon her arm to detain her.

  "Please, delay a moment," he said. "I fear that something is troubling you." The warmth of his hand, a friendly touch felt through her sleeve, increased the heat in her cheeks.

  "I am well, sir," she repeated, although her downcast eyes and shaking voice might attest otherwise as she attempted to draw away, fumbling hastily with the drawstrings of her reticule for something within.

  "Miss Phillips," he repeated, his voice low and urgent. "What is the matter with you? Tell me–we are friends, you may confide in me." His grip upon her arm grew firmer, drawing her closer than she wished. In his eyes, a reproach which would hold her fast if she looked into them for a moment longer.

  "Have I offended you?" he asked. She could no longer bear his gaze, nor his touch any longer.

  "It is nothing," she answered, hastily. "I am only–greatly hurried by some matter. Good day to you, sir." She was aware of several pairs of eyes upon them in the shop, watching them speak.

  She pressed something in his hand quickly before turning and exiting the shop. The copy of Keats's poems, having been in Miss Phillip's drawstring reticule only a moment before.

  Outside, Kitty hastened away with a sense of self-reproach that seemed unfathomable to her logical mind, except that it involved denial and heedless excuses made in response to another's kindness. Was this the price of satisfying her name and her character? She, who was not capable of inflicting pain upon others without guilt, now felt the sting of this hasty departure from one who had been her friend. What he must think of her now? How he must puzzle over her behavior!

  In the shop, Mrs. Thompkins was among those who observed their encounter as she purchased a length of calico. The shopkeeper's wife tied up her bundle while eyeing the exchange between the two customers at her door with equal interest.

  "It is true, then," said Mrs. Thompkins quietly to her companion, when the surgeon had exited the shop. "They have parted ways. It is for the best, I suppose, but it grieves me to see them unhappy."

  She did not know what it cost Kitty not to glance over her shoulder to see if he followed; or to pretend that she did not hear when he called after her once upon the street. The harsh winds of December stung her cheeks with a force capable of drying her tears by the time she reached the outskirts of the village.

  *****

  In the howl of the same harsh December winds, Mrs. Allgood struggled to rise from her bed at the close of day and fell beside it, her cries lost and inaudible in the storm's gusts for almost an hour before Mrs. Josephs found her.

  "Ma'am, you are ill again," she declared, with concern. "We must get you up–Patience! Patience, come here!" She called loudly for the servant girl below, with a voice stronger than her mistress's despite its seeming softness of tone. There was a clatter upon the stairs as the girl hurried to her aid.

  "Gently," she gasped, her arms wrapped around the woman's shoulders. "We must lift gently, for she says it pains her." Even as she spoke, the elderly woman moaned loudly.

  "Leave me," she said. The ancient tones broke and threaded together again faintly in the wind's howl. "I am not too cold." She shivered even as she spoke, her silence turning to cries of pain when her companion and servant attempted to lift her again.

  "She's in a bad way," said Patience, after a moment, perspiration appearing on her forehead despite the room's dying fire. "She must've broken somethin' in the fall. We must get Mr. Harris–"

  "Mr. Harris is away," moaned Mrs. Josephs. "Only today in the village I heard him say he was off to Chesterford and with the storm, I'm sure he's not returned."

  "Then I'll go to Beiberry for the surgeon," said Patience.

  Mrs. Allgood stirred. "No," she murmured. "Send for no one. Send for no one, Mrs. Josephs." She clung to her companion's arm with all her strength as she spoke these words, until the woman's face grew ashen in response.

  "You must have aid," she stammered, faintly. "You have been hurt and there are bones which may be set right–"

  "No one, Mrs. Josephs," the elderly woman repeated. Her hand trembled. "Promise me. Swear to me if you must."

  Mrs. Josephs' gaze met that of Patience with a look of fright and misery; in the servant girl's eye, she could see a spirit of resistance to such an idea. She took hold of Patience's hand.

  "We must do as she wants," she said, endeavoring to control her shaking voice. "We must obey. In a little while, she shall sleep, perhaps." This was spoken in a manner which suggested only relief and not betrayal at this time.

  Patience did not reply, although when she rose, it was only to draw the coverlet from the bed and tuck it around the elderly woman's body.

  Here they remained: three figures upon the cold floor of the ancient cottage's upper room, its fire coaxed to life but not complete warmth by Patience's efforts. The only sound was that of the wind's cry and the moans of Mrs. Allgood, which grew increasingly louder and longer as the hours passed.

  "It will not be long," Mrs. Josephs said, administering a dose with trembling hands from Mr. Harris's prescription. "He shall come back in the morning," she reassured her mistress, whose face was not visible in the darkness beside the bed.

  In the early hours before dawn, a faint rasping breath escaped Mrs. Allgood's body. Her eyes opened wide, staring in a fixed manner beyond her companion and the servant girl, as if trained upon the thatch above her.

  Mouth open, a strangled sound emerging in the form of a stifled moan, then a sigh. It was with this sigh that silence was ushered into the room. The elderly woman's form grew still beneath the blanket. Her hand relaxed in the grip of her companion.

  "She is cold." Mrs. Josephs trembled. "She is grown cold, Patience." There was something utterly helpless in the older woman's voice, the uncomprehending tone of one who does not yet realize their circumstances.

  "She has, Miss," answered Patient. Quietly, she raised her small hand and endeavored to close the eyes of her elderly mistress.

  It was thus that Mrs. Allgood, of proud lineage, longsuffering, and dignity, left her ancient cottage at last.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "Do you think he suffers nervousness?" asked Mrs. Everton. She was fanning herself rather anxiously in the box of Lord Hollin
gsworth in the Theatre Royal. It was the Season again in London; Parliament was seated, parties were given, and the theater's stage lights were ablaze in all their glory to beguile patrons of music and art.

  "Nervousness? Nonsense," replied her husband. "Scheimann is not a nervous man, I think." He patted his wife's hand indulgently, the silk glove shape fluttering upon her seat with each instrument's sigh or groan in the orchestra below.

  The curtains rose: on the stage, a dimly-lit scene of poverty and despair. In the midst of it, a woman tattered and disheveled, huddled there, head cast down. She raised herself from her slumped position and begin to sing in a soft, plaintive voice which trembled with powerful emotion yet checked.

  In English, the song would be known as "Is there but a little light?" in its translated version; but it would be still better known as "The Songmaid's Lament" after this evening's performance. The melancholy air was intended to be the theme of his play: indeed, the soprano's performance suggested it would be hard to forget for its audience.

  Her plaintive sadness was sung without the music to detract from the voice of the soprano Allera; whose name on the stage was beginning to place itself beside more celebrated songstresses.

  The actress rose to her feet, hands outstretched as she gazed upwards at a shaft of light faintly forming as her voice rose with words of hope and longing. The light reflected cleverly below by a mirror wielded by two theater workers, as if the Heavens had opened to her as her song's melancholy lifted.

  "Now the orchestra," murmured Scheimann under his breath in an almost sing-song tone. He knew every cue; yet watched them performed as if he held a mental power over the production which might break or save it according to his attentiveness.

  He stood in the wings, just beyond the stage where his masterpiece was taking form before the Theatre Royal’s audience. Its balconies and boxes, its main gallery, all filled with listeners, but he was only half-aware of them as he witnessed the scenes onstage.

  When Allera's song died away to great applause, his eyes sank closed momentarily, as if in satisfaction for the great soprano’s concluding notes. He opened them again as the orchestra struck up the theme for the chorus of beggars and sailors in the bohemian district of Louis the poor musician.

  Anticipation had begun to form in Scheimann’s breast. Not pleasantly, but anxiously, it stole over him as the song carried the opera towards the scene which would inevitably follow. He dreaded this moment, knowing that Bochsa awaited it with the triumph of a musical director who has made his point.

  The curtain fell, a flurry of changes followed in hushed tones, then the curtain rose again. The stage was set. "The Flower's Dance,” was before the audience, the composition Scheimann had originally banished now restored as the centerpiece.

  There sat his soprano in her muslin gown, her simple harp against her shoulder. The stage was bare of scenery and held only performers, the chorus and dancers in their flower costumes–for the songmaid was seated in a flower garden left to ruin, her voice playful, speculating upon the dialogue of the flowers around her as she endowed them with feelings and longings.

  At the cue of her music and voice, the flowers began to stir. Petals unfurling, leaves and stems extending. The solo became a duet: the dance and pantomime between the flowers began, the blossoms awakening gracefully in cue to her music as the romance between two roses began.

  The music fell and rose with a steady tempo, the melody light and fanciful. Each note from her voice, whether plaintive or merry, seemed to burn in Scheimann’s hearing. The trill of the woodwinds, the strings shivering and rising in imitation of the breeze, stirred with restless and unhappy energy.

  If it were possible for him to slip away, he would flee this place; but he seemed rooted by his music, carved there for the duration of his opera by his masterpiece's power.

  Costumes of green glittering fabric and pink silk petals, sequined green forms and rose-tinted white films like the gossamer of closely-packed blossoms. The little Lageanie was dressed in the elaborate costume sewn to resemble a large red rose which unfurls its petals as it joins Allera's voice in song.

  That it was meant for another voice, he could not forget. He had pictured this performance in a different manner, dreamed of it with a different passion when his pen first touched its pages.

  Allera’s voice became the happiness of the garden, the blossoms’ fear of the winds and storms which endeavor to tear them apart. The afternoons of golden sunshine were in the flute and harp, the fearful vibrations of the wind performed in the tremor of the woodwinds as the dance accompanied the song‘s glorious melody. Scheimann’s gaze turned inwards with the sound, unaware of the vivid costumes which Bochsa's costume mistress had labored to imbue with reality, so that even the lily petal skirts of the ballerinas trembled in response to the imaginary winds of a rain shower.

  He could not shut his ears against the voices, both singing in reality and singing in mockery in his thoughts. It forced him to listen to the song whose beauty gave him pain even as it had beckoned him to include it once in the score. He had been right to banish it from the Paris performance. He wished fiercely he had removed it before Bochsa read it, that he might not endure this moment.

  The song ended with the chorus of flowers closing their blossoms again, their voices fading away with the sound of the blind maid's own. The strings and harp vibrated their final notes in the same manner, until there was silence.

  Silence was Scheimann’s release. There was a faint tremor in his frame as the calm fell.

  This was the moment in which her future savior the poor musician is revealed, entranced as he listens at a window opposite the garden below. The tenor Louis was prepared to sing his first notes, but he was forced to wait a long moment. The applause had come; and was maintained loud and long in its enthusiasm.

  Such a sound ought to give the composer pleasure, but Scheimann was beyond such a feeling, still beneath the pain of hearing the performance. Whether pleased or not, who could say? There was nothing in his face to betray the answer, except the careworn lines which had deepened in the last five minutes.

  It was the only occasion of such response which seemed to pain him, for the applause which followed the Songmaid's performance in the royal court did not affect him with any chagrin. The lengthy appreciation still later, this one for Louis’ plaintive aria for the ill fortunes dividing him from the Songmaid, cost its composer little more than an impatient stir for the performance to continue.

  When the curtain rose on the final scene of the opera, a subtle change came over his form and countenance. Here, the anticipation was that of one hopeful. Here was the sum of his efforts; his final triumph, if success was to be his own.

  Onstage, the set was assembled as a massive cavern: a splendid and gloomy scene painted upon flats, paper mache sculpted into the jagged teeth and rising columns of underground formations. These are the impediments to the path of the Songmaid as she wanders sightless and frightened in search of her lover the musician lost within their depths. It is her turn as the savior in this drama of music.

  Scheimann‘s breath grew still, as if aware that all might be lost if the audience did not appreciate this scene. There was yet time to fail; and he was a man who knew how easily the final failure of one's endeavors may come.

  Allera’s final performance began in the same manner as the first, with the trembling tones of "The Songmaid's Lament.” Scheimann had altered the words to reflect the Songmaid's fears that her friend would cast himself forever into the darkness from whence he rescued her.

  There was no true echo of a cave, although the soprano endeavored to meet her composer's demands that her voice ring clearly and loudly as the Songmaid's emotions deepened. No amount of stage trickery or manner of projection could fool the audience into believing her voice truly echoed through a vast cavern; yet, they seemed to believe it without these things, as evidenced by the intent nature of the listeners from gallery to humble floor seat as her voice reached its
crescendo.

  When her lover, kneeling at the edge of the cavern's pit, hears her, the song becomes a duet. His voice faint, then growing stronger with the lines of hope. As the song draws them together, they find each other in the darkness. An embrace with their final joyous chorus, the cue for the stagehands to reflect the shaft of light below: to the composer’s imagination, the light of the world above the underground cathedral, the lovers’ release from darkness and despair.

  The audience did not wait for the song’s final notes to die away. Applause built swiftly, until it consumed the theater with passion. Long and thunderous it came, so that this time, Scheimann’s eyes sank closed with the sound.

  This moment, at least, was what he had wished, what he had envisioned. The appreciation could be second only to his satisfaction with the performance. A satisfaction which softened the composer's countenance ever so slightly as he stood alone in the shadows of the theater’s wings.

  Onstage, his performers took their bows, hands joined and costumes all the more vivid for the closeness of the lights along the edge of the stage as they basked in this appreciation for their efforts.

  "It is a success, Scheimann," said Bochsa, who had appeared in the wings from out of nowhere it seemed to clasp the composer’s hand heartily. "You hear them, they’re astounded by your talents. Go and bow with your Songmaid, so they know who crafted her anthem."

  "I have no wish to be seen," answered the composer, gently. "Let them have this moment." He remained in place, listening to the triumph of his opera from a distance as Bochsa resumed his role in receiving hearty congratulations and of celebrating the success of this evening.

  When Scheimann turned to make his way from this point of observation, he became aware that another person was present behind him. A woman in a gold gown, her fan folded against her as she gazed upon him.

  How she had come to be there, he could not imagine; how she had found him, he didn’t know, unless she had slipped from her box to bribe someone to bring her to this spot. To see her before him but a moment after the opera was the curse of the artist's apparition, the ghost which haunted his composition unconsciously in its labored hours. It melted away the light of his triumph, as if the sounds of applause died entirely from his hearing with this moment.