by Diane Gaston
‘Especially not the maids.’ She told Lacey of the plans for the next day. ‘We must pack a portmanteau for me. I will write my mother a letter, which you may tell her about if she asks for me, but not before noon. I’ll send word where to deliver the bag. I have not the faintest idea where it will be. We must sneak a portmanteau into this room without anyone knowing. Can you do it?’
‘I can, m’lady.’ She returned a calculating look. ‘But what did you mean by a promotion?’
‘If you wish it, you may come live with me. I’ll need a lady’s maid. Because you will be maid to the lady of the house, you must receive more pay for what you do.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘I would live with you and Mr Campion?’
‘When we are settled.’ Phillipa did not know where they would live. She did not care as long as it was not here.
And as long as it had a pianoforte.
Chapter Thirteen
Xavier searched out the jarvey who had driven them to and from the gaming house. He hired him for the day so that he would be directly at hand. None of the distances they would travel were too far to walk, but he would not have her walk this day.
At precisely eleven o’clock in the morning the hack pulled up to the Westleigh town house. Xavier had no more alighted than the door opened and Phillipa emerged.
Against the pale-grey brick she was a bloom of colour. Her dress was pale pink with a matching coat fastened only at her bosom so that its skirts billowed behind her as she walked towards him. Her face was hidden under her bonnet and her customary netting.
He strode towards her and took her hand in his. ‘Look who drives us.’
She lifted the netting up to see the driver. ‘It is you!’
He pulled his forelock. ‘It is, indeed, miss. I am yours for the day. And what a day it is, eh?’
‘I am happy to see you.’ She sounded happy.
Xavier’s heart swelled. ‘Phillipa, you look lovely.’
She cringed at his words.
He bit his tongue. He did not wish anything to spoil her day.
‘Come. Let us set off. Johnson knows all the stops.’ He helped her into the coach as he had done so many times before.
‘Where are we bound?’ she asked.
He took her hand again. It trembled under his. ‘Allow me to surprise you.’
* * *
The coach stopped on Piccadilly in front of a red-brick church.
Xavier said, ‘This is our first stop.’
He helped her out. ‘St James’s,’ he said.
‘We are to be married in a church?’ Her voice was breathless.
‘We are indeed.’ He’d made the right choice. ‘We’ll enter on the south side.’
They walked up to an elaborate Ionic doorway and went inside.
As soon as they entered, the church’s organ exploded into Handel’s music.
Phillipa gasped. ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba!’
The organist had informed Xavier that the organ dated back to the late 1600s. The man suggested playing Handel, but Xavier had not known what pieces he’d select. As it was, the first piece was rather appropriate.
Phillipa laughed, but the sound was almost a sob. ‘Oh, Xavier!’
She threw her arms around his neck and he held her close against him, surprised that the music pleased her that much. She wept on his shoulder and he could feel her whole body shaking. Curse her mother for depriving her of this—this food for her soul.
The feel of her in his arms affected him more than he’d ever have expected. He did not want to release her.
But she did pull away and they walked slowly towards the altar, the music wrapping itself around them like a warm cloak against harsh weather. In the centre of the church, she paused, her eyes closed and he waited, letting her have the moment to herself.
The first piece ended and the second began, much softer than the first.
‘Water Music.’ She smiled and she took his arm as they walked down the aisle, past the Corinthian columns, beneath the vaulted ceiling with its rich plasterwork, to the altar where the clergyman waited, prayer book in hand.
* * *
Phillipa let the music sink into her, filling all the empty spaces inside her. She had not expected this. She thought he’d bring her to the Masquerade Club and they would be married in the drawing room there. She’d start weeping again if she dwelled on how wonderful this was of Xavier.
Nothing could have been better.
As they neared the altar the clergyman stepped forwards to greet them. He was a young man, younger than Phillipa herself, she’d guess. Newly ordained, perhaps, and so very obliging to perform this ceremony on such short notice.
Standing nearby were MacEvoy and Belinda, one of the Masquerade Club’s croupiers. MacEvoy winked at her and Belinda smiled. They knew her, she realised. Xavier must have told them.
‘Are we ready?’ the clergyman asked, glancing from one to the other.
‘One moment.’ Xavier took the netting on her hat and lifted it away from her face. ‘I must see you,’ he murmured.
Her impulse was to cover her face, not to hide her scar, but to preserve her identity, although that was silly, because soon the world would know that Adonis-like Xavier Campion had married the scarred Phillipa Westleigh.
Xavier indicated he was ready. Was she? Her heart pounded. It was not too late to change her mind. Save the handsome Adonis for a Venus worthy of him.
The music swelled.
No. She would not change her mind, selfish as it was. She needed music too much.
‘Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God...’ The words the clergyman spoke were the same they’d heard only a few days before, when Ned and Rhys married, both for love.
Not for a pianoforte.
She faced Xavier as he repeated his vows. ‘I, Xavier, take thee, Phillipa, to my wedded wife...’
The sun shone through the stained-glass windows, casting his face in a riot of colour. His blue eyes were as clear and bright as the glass and they gazed upon her with abundant good will.
It was her turn to make the vows that would alter her existence. And his.
She made her voice strong. ‘I, Phillipa, take thee, Xavier, to my wedded husband....’
When she finished her vows, the clergyman asked for the ring. Phillipa expected a thin gold band. Xavier, instead, placed a large ring festooned with diamonds upon the prayer book.
The clergyman handed the ring back to Xavier. He spoke. ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow....’
He placed the ring on her finger. It sparkled in the light, like a musical composition with many notes. She stared at it. Why had he chosen this ring? This very special ring?
The clergyman recited the prayers with more meaning than had been evident in the other weddings. The words sound more personal, created just for them.
‘...Those that God has joined together let no man put asunder...’ And finally to the end. ‘I pronounce that they be Man and Wife together.’
The music grew louder, more joyous. The allegro from the Music for the Royal Fireworks, composed over half a century ago, but still as beautiful and happy as one could wish.
Xavier captured her hands and squeezed them. ‘We have done it, Phillipa.’
She pulled him down to whisper in his ear. ‘Thank you, Xavier.’
MacEvoy and Belinda hurried up to them with congratulations. They all went back to the church office to sign the papers. In no time at all Xavier and Phillipa were back in the coach, headed to the next destination.
* * *
It was back to her mother’s town house. Phillipa’s spirits sank. Was he going to leave her there?
‘I thought you might want to collect some of your things,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to have it all sent to us eventually, but I did not have time to find us a place to live.’
‘You have done much more than was necessary.’ She swallowed, relieved. ‘I have a portmanteau packed, but I do not want to go inside. I do not want to speak to anyone or to have them see me. Especially my mother.’
He moved to climb out of the coach. ‘I am counting on your mother being out.’ He jumped down and turned to her. ‘I will go in. How do I ask for it?’
‘Have Mason send for my maid. She will hand over the bag.’
He strode to the door, walking with a masculine power that seemed unique to him. He sounded the knocker and, as she had hoped, Mason opened the door.
The butler glanced to the coach and met her gaze. She smiled at him. His expression softened and he nodded. A very few minutes later Xavier reappeared with the portmanteau. As he carried it to the carriage, Lacey appeared at the window, waving.
Phillipa waved back.
Xavier climbed back in. ‘Here it is.’
‘My mother—?’ Phillipa started to ask.
‘Not at home.’
She leaned back against the leather upholstery. ‘Good. I wrote her a letter. My maid will see that it is put into her hands.’
The hackney coach started off.
‘Where to next?’ she asked.
He grinned. ‘Another surprise.’
* * *
The coach took them back to Piccadilly and stopped in front of the Pulteney Hotel, so fashionable that the Tsar of Russia himself once chose to stay there rather than at a royal palace.
‘We are staying here?’ she asked.
‘We are.’ He opened the door. ‘One night, at least.’
They said good day to the hackney driver and entered the hotel, its hall as grand as the hotel’s reputation. Soon they were escorted up to their set of rooms.
The servant opened the door and Phillipa entered first.
She gasped.
Prominently displayed in the room was a pianoforte, the prettiest she had ever seen. Its mahogany rectangular case was adorned with chevron-string inlay and hand-painted with pink roses above the keyboard.
She crossed the room to it, running her fingers down the keys.
‘It is yours,’ Xavier said.
She swung around to him. ‘Truly?’
‘Unless you want another.’ His voice turned deep. ‘I asked for the best one in the shop, but if there is another you would like—’
‘There could never be one more beautiful.’ She played a few keys. Its sound was wonderful, as well. ‘You have been too good.’
Her throat twisted and she thought she would dissolve into a puddle of tears if she said more.
‘Feel free to play.’ He gestured for her to sit. ‘Your music is there.’
‘My music?’ He’d thought of everything.
‘And a book of country dances. Something frivolous I bought on impulse.’ He pulled up a chair nearby. ‘Play. Whatever you like.’
A maid appeared and Xavier handed her Phillipa’s portmanteau. While the girl unpacked her clothing, Phillipa pulled off her gloves and sat at the pianoforte’s bench. From memory, she played a few bars of The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. ‘Did you pick the music for the church?’
He shook his head. ‘I left it to the organist. I know very little of music.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The pianoforte had a lovely sound. ‘You thought of music.’
She began to play the minuet from Haydn’s Surprise Symphony, which she knew by heart. She was happy and this was happy music.
When she finished, he said, ‘You make me feel like dancing.’
She started playing another piece. ‘If I could play and dance at the same time, I would. I do not think I have ever been so happy.’
* * *
Xavier dismissed the maid and settled in a chair to enjoy hearing Phillipa play. He watched her face as her fingers flew over the keys. All the nights she played at the Masquerade Club, he had longed to see her face, to watch her expression as the music poured out of her.
He was not disappointed.
Her pallor disappeared and her face was flushed with pleasure. Her eyes shone with joy. She looked beautiful.
When he’d called upon her yesterday, she’d looked as if she were shrinking into herself. She’d looked as if she were dying. The music filled her, like nourishment. Ironically the music was also a feast for anyone lucky enough to be her audience. He felt content, just for listening to her.
He was satisfied with himself. It had been a new challenge for him to arrange a wedding with music and a set of rooms with a pianoforte in less than a day, but he’d done it.
He poured himself a congratulatory glass of brandy from a sideboard and sat back to simply take in the music.
He had the strong sense again that he was listening, not to music, but to her emotions. The emotions swirling inside her flowed into her fingers and emerged as music.
Even in the joyous pieces she chose to play there was an undertone of melancholy, as if she could not imagine being happy for very long, but that was another challenge he intended to meet.
This marriage would be a good one for her. And for him. He cared nothing for what others might say of it. He was determined to succeed as a good husband, one who made certain nothing hurt Phillipa again.
She looked up from the music and smiled at him.
Today was an excellent start.
Chapter Fourteen
Phillipa played all the music in her head, all her sheets of music Xavier brought to the hotel for her. He interrupted her once to tell her he must go out briefly, but she lost track of time and did not know how long he’d been gone. When he returned he sat in one of the brocade-upholstered chairs, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She resumed playing, soaking in the music like a flower parched from lack of rain.
She lost herself in the music again until she felt the touch of his hand on her shoulder. ‘Our meal has arrived. You need to eat something.’
He’d ordered a lovely meal, dismissing the servant, saying he would serve the meal himself. Turtle soup. Salmon. Roast beef with side dishes of courgette and potatoes. Peach tart waiting for dessert.
The scent of it roused Phillipa’s appetite. ‘I am suddenly famished.’
‘I can imagine,’ he responded. ‘It has been hours since breakfast.’
She pressed her stomach. ‘I did not eat very much breakfast.’
In fact, she’d not thought of food all day. She’d hardly thought of him either, or of being married, so lost was she in the music. It shamed her to realise it.
He uncovered the tureen of soup and served her. ‘Have you enjoyed the pianoforte?’
She felt tears sting her eyes. ‘I cannot tell you how wonderful it has been. I have missed the music so very much.’
His expression warmed. ‘I am glad it made you happy.’
When had anyone been concerned with her happiness? Her father certainly never gave her a thought. Her brothers thought of her as much as brothers think of sisters. Her mother’s attention had not been concerned with her happiness, but with a determination that she mix well in society. The only person she could recall who’d ever purposefully wanted to cheer her had been Xavier. When they’d been children, she’d worshipped him for it.
He poured her a fine claret.
She could not talk of the pianoforte or his kindness or she would weep in a manner he could not possibly understand.
‘I wonder if my mother has yet discovered my absence,’ she said instead.
Had her mother read the letter? Was she gloating in triumph or angry that her daughter had acted without her?
&n
bsp; ‘I suspect your mother will approve,’ Xavier said, piercing a morsel of salmon with his fork.
‘She will approve of the marriage,’ Phillipa responded. ‘She will probably take full credit for it.’
He turned their conversation to her music. What she preferred to play. What she liked to write. It made it quite comfortable to converse with him.
* * *
When it was time for the last course, that lovely peach tart, Phillipa stood. ‘You must allow me to serve.’ She cut him a piece and placed it on his plate.
‘Where did you go when you went out?’ she asked him as she cut her own piece. ‘If—if I may ask, that is.’ Did she have the right to ask where he went, what he did?
‘Of course you may ask.’ He took a bite of the tart. ‘I went to the Morning Post. An announcement of our marriage will be printed in two days’ time.’
She froze, her fork in midair. ‘Everyone will know.’
‘The sooner the better, do you not think?’ He looked concerned. ‘Everyone must learn of it eventually.’
‘I suppose.’ She expected the notice would generate a great deal of gossip. The Adonis married the scarred spinster. Can you imagine it? What was he thinking?
He reached over and clasped her hand. ‘I am happy to announce it, Phillipa. Let the whole world know.’
He was merely being kind again. Surely he would find the talk uncomfortable.
She slipped her hand away and cut him another piece of tart.
She changed the subject. ‘Will you be at the Masquerade Club tonight?’
A quizzical look came over his face. ‘Not tonight, Phillipa. MacEvoy will watch things there. I am not needed.’
She thought he would go about his routine. This wedding was not like Ned’s and Rhys’s. It was more like a favour he’d done her.
Tea arrived and the servants removed the dinner dishes.
Phillipa’s eyes kept wandering to the pianoforte. It was much more comfortable to play her music than to think about him.
Her husband.
He placed his cup in its saucer. ‘Teach me to play something.’
‘You?’