"It was her ladyship's idea to invite you when Six Mile was in a grand state for its guests," said his lordship. "But Miss Harwick's advice made her decide upon it all the sooner. Only two weeks ago, she wrote to urge us to have you come."
"I am greatly surprised," Kitty managed to answer.
"She writes the ladyship most regularly since she went away, for news of her condition and the village affairs," answered his lordship carelessly. "When Miss Harwick was informed that her ladyship's health had taken a decline and she was a-bed again, she urged her to send for you to cheer her ladyship upon the long afternoons."
"Music 'tis the tonic that soothes many afflicted," said Mr. Hooker. "She's recommended you as the dose to the physician's spoon, Miss Phillips."
"Perhaps so," said Kitty. "I will call and play for her ladyship sometime if she wishes." She endeavored to offer a kind smile to the gentleman before withdrawing.
Her manners were greatly affected by this strange piece of communications on the part of her former friend; so much so that she did not enjoy the fine port which Lord Grantly's housekeeper served, nor the mutton and game in which his lordship took great pride.
"Best pointer in the county," he boasted to his guests, "and with a fine rifle such as my own, a good bird can be had on any part of these grounds. I am assured of it."
"'Tis an assurance which many a poacher in these parts vouches," whispered Mr. Hooker beside her.
Little of the house of Six Mile Grange was shown to the guests, for many had visited before and the fatigued spirits of her ladyship prevented those who were new from venturing beyond the main hall and dining rooms. After the luncheon, Lord Grantly desired to show off his stables to those guests who admired his horses and gave general invitation to all the guests to make themselves at home on the grounds if they wished.
"The glass houses might interest you, if you are fond of flowers and rare specimens, Miss Phillips, Lady Louise," he said. "But the frozen gardens and orchards of Six Mile Grange were not without the charms of winter. Bare and simple, 'tis no prettier picture from a carriage window than the winter in the English countryside."
There was a commotion of movement and voices as the party decamped, with servants bringing hats and walking sticks, the ladies' fur-trimmed capes from the hall. The remaining meal was upon the table, glasses of his lordship's wine and ale, a joint of meat half-carved.
Kitty lingered in the parlor nearest the dining room, her fingers touching the keys of a small pianoforte displayed there. A finer instrument was no doubt placed elsewhere in the house; but this one had open before it a sheet of folk music as if someone had been playing recently.
Her fingers touched the keys, idly sounding the notes on display, whose meaning became visible to her with a warm blush before she finished playing them. "The Curragh of Kildare" sounded forth in a single line of the song; her fingers ceased playing.
Despite the cold, she went out of doors also, following the example of most of his lordship's guests. Already the men were at the stables, the two ladies having walked in the direction of her ladyship's gardens. It was in another direction Kitty went, towards one of the large hothouses attached to the manor.
His lordship took great pride in his gardens, but none could compare with the selections in his glass houses, which were tended by himself and a few specially-chosen hands who would take equal pride in their work. Orange and lemon trees from exotic places, lilies potted and coaxed into bloom in the cold months, lush green leaves and rose canes thick and twining and spreading forth from pots and low beds built to house them.
The smell of damp earth and the remains of a warm fire stoked against the coldest nights greeted Miss Phillips as she entered and closed the door, inhaling the sweet scent of narcissus forced into bloom by clever gardening skill. Even a little sun upon the glass warmed the hothouse chamber, inviting her further within. Thick roses of pink and white petals were now fading from bloom, evidence of stems having been cut away with blossoms for display indoors.
No one but herself was present in this room, with no other step but her own upon its floor. When she heard the door open again, she turned with the expectation of greeting Lady Louise or the barrister's niece. Instead, the surgeon Mr. Turner entered the chamber.
All the color had vanished from Kitty's cheeks. She did not know what to say, nor why he was here. Only that it was not a dream or an imagined fancy that he was before her.
"You are here," he said, in a voice which expressed intense feeling in its softness. "Then I did not imagine it–the song played downstairs. I thought perhaps another guest–" He did not give further voice to this thought. “Someone of the party said you walked this direction and I chanced it might be so.”
"I did not know you were among the guests." Kitty's reply trembled with agitation rather than surprise.
"I attend her ladyship," he answered. "I have been here often, for a great many months. I have not seen or spoken to you since–"
"I am sorry," Kitty began, having withdrawn a little ways from him in her confusion. "I was not honest with you as a friend in those moments, I spoke to you with so little realization of what I said or felt." Her thoughts were unable to gather themselves in this moment, either, for she was aware that he had moved closer as she spoke.
"Miss Phillips," he said, "Catherine." A note of hopefulness in his voice with this word. She raised her eyes to his own and did not look away. He had closed the distance between them; his hand touched her face, traced her skin with a soft motion. Then, with a movement of energy beyond these efforts, his fingers curved around her face as he leaned down and kissed her upon the lips.
The haste of his movement ought to have inspired her to pull away, but she did not; for even as shock resounded through her frame, so did the realization that she had imagined this once before in thoughts so unconscious that she could not even recall how or when they came into being. Her hand touched his, a motion which encouraged him to draw her closer until there remained no space between them.
When he released her, they were both without breath. "I have admired you since we first met," he gasped, "but it was when we met again, that a deeper regard for you was born and has grown within me since. But I was ashamed to speak of it, for my work."
"I regard your work as the highest and best I have known," she answered. "I would not have you change it for all the world." There were tears upon her cheeks, tracing downwards past his fingers.
"Kitty," he said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Oh, Kitty, would you lower yourself? Would you be my wife? I have thought of it again and often since I've returned, but I would go away from this place if you wish never to hear those words."
Her fingers gripped his hands with considerable energy in response. "No," she cried. "I would not have you go for such a reason. My heart–" her lips trembled, "–it is very much the same as yours."
Her arms were around his neck as he embraced her again. There was none to witness this moment except the insects which crept along the leaves, the sparrow trapped by chance in the chamber hours before. The fogged glass of its panes touched by heat and coolness together prevented any human eye from seeing the outcome of the village's speculations on the hearts and minds of genteel Miss Phillips and young Mr. Turner.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scheimann's sleep was interrupted by his own thoughts. A restless force of energy which conspired to keep him as little refreshed and obsessed with his work as before the opera's success in London. Atop the coverlet of his bed in the Evertons' country guest room, a silk dressing gown covering him from the cold as he drifted in the state between wakefulness and dreams.
A new opera had begun to take form in the carriage ride to the countryside: a vision of battle scenes and pounding marches, a village girl transformed into a goddess of war, an inspiring figurehead, a Joan of Arc whose destiny is of false hopes. He had put notes upon paper for the rest of the evening, consumed his dinner in preoccupied silence with the rest of the g
uests before devoting himself further.
"You are here to rest," Mrs. Everton had scolded him, when he requested pen and paper.
"A new composition does not wait for rest, Madam," he answered, with a bow. "It will be born, no matter where its composer may find himself. I cannot refuse it, and so I must write it."
She had met his request with reluctance, for she had intended for him to enjoy the fire and the conversation of a budding young musician who had been asked as a guest, rather than retreat to his room so swiftly. Had she seen the condition of his fingers–ink-stained–his bedraggled appearance, rumpled shirt and dark circles beneath his eyes, she would have scolded him for neglecting his rest more than ever.
Work is the cure of many ailments; but those wounds which are buried deep beyond the penetration of eye or physical cure can be made worse by such efforts. Madness may be born, bitterness may graft itself along the scar. Scheimann would take such risks, however, rather than feel the humility of his plight.
He was half-aware that one of the guests was playing the pianoforte downstairs, its song carrying to the rooms where their fellow guests were no doubt yet asleep. His hostess might even be the culprit, for she had emphasized that her humble talents would entertain others since he was not to feel compelled to play at any point.
The song changed after a moment's time. Another refrain had begun, a tune which was not commonly played by English music lovers, nor commonly seen among their music collections. Scheimann's sleepy mind pieced it together from his memory, an exercise which had the effect of awakening him entirely. He sat up amidst his scribbled pages on the new opera, listening intently to the song below.
A woman's voice had begun singing. The words were lost in part as they drifted from the music room. He remained rooted in this attitude of listening a moment longer as the voice rose and fell with the song's melody.
Brushing aside his papers, he rose and opened the door to his room, the music growing more audible as a result. He drew the silk dressing gown from his bed and put it on over his nightclothes–although he was hardly proper attired in its long folds, he went slowly downstairs, where no other sounds of voices or movement were present, save the songstress and her performance.
The door to the drawing room was half-open; his hand was trembling as he laid it on the surface and pushed it open, for the sounds on the other side were unmistakable. Had been unmistakable, he knew, from the moment he first understood the words.
She was seated at the pianoforte, facing the doorway as she played. A profile of golden hair pinned high above the collar of an elaborate dress of flowered black Oriental silk, its sleeves turned back to reveal her fingers upon the keys. The melody and chords of 'Sang i en melankolisk stund’ emerged beneath them. The 'Song in a Moment of Melancholy' from the blind songmaiden of Sweden.
Hetta was singing the final line, not as he had translated it for her long ago, but in the original Swedish. "Then as the first ray of dawn a light broke through the mist and friendship came," she sang, "and with its radiance calm and joy filled my heart."
She held this last note a moment longer, then allowed it to tremble to silence. Only the pianoforte separated the two of them: the astonished composer and the elegant student.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. She rose from her seat and ventured a little nearer, her hand resting upon the pianoforte.
"I would have chosen a different life," she said. "Had I truly understood what it meant. I chose what I had always known. And do not think I have not regretted it many times in my bitterest thoughts."
He sought to avoid her eyes. "Then we have both regretted. It is so much the better that we forget."
"Forget that we have known each other?" asked Hetta. "Or forget that we have each felt this connection in our own way? For I would not wish to forget what you have taught me. Indeed, I cannot; it is ingrained too deeply."
Her voice, with its softness, forced a struggle in his breast. Scheimann's face was turned aside from her own as far as possible, so that his carved profile and unkempt mane were all that might be visible to the woman before him.
"You have said that I spurned you; you have spoken of my crushing your heart once," said Hetta. "Would you do the same to mine now?"
He swallowed. "That has never been in my power, I think," he answered. "Even when I had your regard as your music instructor, it was not in my power to do more than persuade."
"Was it not when there was a connection between us?" she said. "We have shared the same passions, the same language, Herr Scheimann. We have before known each others' thoughts without speaking them aloud."
These words produced a shiver through Herr Scheimann's frame, as if a phantom of the past rose before him. His gaze remained turned away, although her reflection was visible to him in the window's panes as she drew still closer.
"Between us, there existed an intuition, an understanding–a passion whenever we are before this instrument. We have been equals in music," her voice trembled a little beneath its surface, "and we might be so again."
He turned to her, looking into her blue eyes where no hint of mischief or merriment was visible. Their gaze was fixed upon each other for a long moment.
"Miss Harwick," he said, "Harriet–" His voice, brusque and guttural, growing softer with each word spoken, pronouncing her English name with difficulty since it had never before crossed his lips.
In response, her arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders. His own closed around her in a tight embrace, all but lifting her by his strength. His face pressed against her golden crown, her cheek resting against his silk-clad shoulder as she clung to him, neither of them speaking nor wishing to draw free of the passionate hold between them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The wedding between Miss Phillips and Mr. Turner was a simple affair. The bride wore a grey gown which was serviceable for traveling and a new bonnet which her sister Mrs. Giles helped select; the groom his best Sunday coat.
They set forth in their new life as one, beneath a shower of spring petals tossed by well-wishers outside the Beiberry church. Kitty carried a bouquet of lilies and narcissi sent by Lord Grantly's estate, which she presented afterwards to Lucy Foster.
"She looks vastly pleased," said Mrs. Jenner, who was among the first to congratulate the new couple. "There is something almost young about her–but I suppose it is the new bonnet, which is very comely."
"Miss Phillips no more," said Mr. Hooker, with a genial smile, "for Mrs. Turner has taken her place. Well, they know what they're about, I suppose. " Arching his eyebrows at the two widows as he placed his hat upon his head again.
"A thousand happy returns to you," said Mrs. Thompkins, beaming at the new bride with an earnest smile–for the widow was a romantic at heart, whatever practical philosophies must be held. "I hope ye shall be as happy together as my own marriage was in its brief days."
"Thank you, Ma'am," said Miss Phillips, ne Mrs. Turner. "That is a kind thought indeed." She pressed the lace glove hand warmly as it took hold of her own.
The wedding breakfast was held at Marebrook Manor by the squire and Mrs. Giles. Whatever hesitation the village might have felt on the subject of this unusual union did not prevent their friends from attending with kind wishes; nor did it prevent speculation upon what happiness might lie ahead.
"They shall go to Scotland in a month's time," said Mrs. Servennia, "where he has a friend who is giving up their practice for an inheritance. It is quite successful, I am told. We shall be without a physician again if Mr. Harris shall leave us, too."
"Mr. Turner might return again," said Mr. Servennia. "There's many a man who comes and goes from the village in his lifetime. Mrs. Turner may wish to be near her sister in time."
The name Mrs. Turner yet held novelty to Kitty's ears, but there was a great deal more to fill her heart and mind. Everyday sensations seemed new to her, each word more significant at this moment than it had in the weeks before her happiness had come into fruition.
"Shall you be sorry to leave?" the surgeon had asked her. "It would not be difficult to stay. I am as fond of the village as any native."
"I should wish to go where you go," she answered, softly. "Scotland would please me as readily as this village. As any village, good sir." Her hands held his own, aware of the pressure of his fingers with each gentle movement.
They decided upon Scotland; for even the love of the village could not make them immune from the lively discussions which followed their engagement. For what else could be said of such a union between a poor young surgeon and a well-born, middle-aged woman, except that theirs was a strange choice given what each would be supposed to want in life.
"At least Lucy shall not end up in the wilds of Scotland," reflected Mrs. Servennia to her husband. "Although he shall have a pretty practice, I suppose. But then, his lady has enough money for the both of them."
She had sent a china basket filled with painted fruit for the bride's future drawing room. Mr. and Mrs. Giles gave them a present of linens and a silver tea set; Louisa, despite her unhappiness, sent a pair of silver candlestick holders. They received a great many other gifts, but the incomparable one was delivered in the form of a new pianoforte, its wood elegantly polished.
There was no name attached to it, but it arrived from Italy two weeks after the marriage was announced. Without question, Kitty knew it was a gift from Miss Harwick, wherever she dwelled now in Europe; and heartily wished that an address had been sent with it also.
"She meant her actions kindly," said Kitty. "I did not know it at the time. I wish I could tell her that I am sorry for speaking so harshly." She touched the smooth lid of the piano, a great many recollections in her mind.
The afternoon in Hetta's drawing room where the woman declared her interest in Kitty, the duet they played at the splendid pianoforte's keys. The final kindness was the suggestion sent by letter to Lady Anthea, for Kitty felt she knew the intention behind its words.
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