‘Sing it again! Sing it again!’
She sang it again. And again. And might well have been singing until midnight had she not, turning, caught sight of Amos standing still as a drawn figure by the door, the lines of his face bright in the light of the lamp he carried, and stopped, almost choking, in mid-bar.
‘Oh, please – don’t stop—’
‘I was – playing with the children,’ she said, stupid with surprise and shock.
‘Yes. I heard.’ He walked into the room, set the lamp upon the table. He moved always, she thought, with grace. She took her hands from the keys and folded them, very still, in her lap. His bright head gleamed in the rain-dark room. He smiled delightedly, his blue eyes persuasive. ‘Would you sing something for me? You’ve a lovely voice.’
‘I – thank you—’ She had no control whatsoever over the deep flush of colour that rose in a tide from her throat to her cheeks. She turned from him, back to the piano. Cleared her throat. She loved to sing, and he had asked her. She could, after all, make a small gift to him.
Astonishingly, the children quieted.
‘Her father bin a noble knight, Her mother bin a lady bright—’ She sang the sad little love song that she and Anne had laughed so often and so heartlessly over as if it were the story of her own life into a silence that was absolute and spellbound. As the last note died, reluctantly she raised her head. He was watching her, the brilliant eyes sober, bright and questioning. She looked away. There was a small, strange silence.
Then, ‘Do you know this one?’ he asked, and sang in a light and pleasant tenor, ‘As I walked down a fair London street, A charming little oyster girl by chance I did meet, And into her basket I slyly did peep, For to see if she had any oysters—’
Picking up the simple tune as he sang, through the second and third verses she picked out, softly, a few accompanying chords. By the end, more boldly, she had mastered the tune. The end of the story, telling how the oyster girl, having outwitted her would-be seducer, picked his pocket and left the tavern, paying his bill with his own money as she went, delighted her and she threw back her head and laughed unrestrainedly, forgetting for the moment the burden of her shyness with Amos.
He was riffling through a pile of old, damp-marked song sheets. ‘Let’s try something together – ah yes, this—’ He set a sheet before her on the music stand, his arm brushing hers. ‘Zach – light another lamp. There’s a good lad. Now, Kitty – let’s have a note—’
She struck a chord and their voices rose harmoniously. ‘On Richmond Hill there lives a lass, More bright than May Day’s morn—’
The communion was absolute, the mingling of their voices as instant and intimate a contact as if they had clasped hands. As she sang, so his voice blended perfectly with hers, the pretty, biting melody complementing their improvised harmonies. As the song ended first Hepzibar and then her twin and the others applauded noisily. ‘More! Sing some more!’
Amos smiled down at Kitty. ‘You choose.’
The warmth of her delight in him shocked her. She shook her head, her smile fading. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to get supper.’ She heard in her own voice the odd and unnecessary brusqueness of nerves, saw the brief flash of surprise in his eyes.
Jeremiah pouted. ‘Oh – oh!’ And, ‘Oh, please, Kitty,’ Hepzibar begged.
Kitty stood up, closing the piano lid, her movements jerky. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps another day.’
In the dark hallway that led to the kitchen door his soft voice stopped her. ‘Kitty?’
She stood for a moment, hand on the door handle, ridiculously and humiliatingly unable to turn to face him. When she did she knew her smile was wooden, her tone brittle. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s my birthday – next week. I wondered – well, it’s so long since we’ve had a musical evening – there’s been no one to play the piano since Ma died, you see—’
Kitty gave a quick little shake of her head. ‘I doubt that your father would—’
‘Oh, but yes!’ he rushed on, ‘of course he would. Please, Kitty – it’d be such a pleasure for us all.’ In his enthusiasm he had moved very close to her. For a panic-stricken moment she was afraid he was about to take her hand. She backed against the door. ‘That piano was my mother’s. She had a lovely voice too, though nowhere near as good as yours – Pa used to love to listen to her. And the children – they’d enjoy it, too, now wouldn’t they? You could teach them some songs—’ He stopped, waiting, watching her, his face openly and boyishly pleading. ‘Please?’
Trapped, she could do nothing but agree. ‘I – well, yes, of course’ – she stumbled over the words – ‘if you’d really like to, and if your father agrees.’
‘Oh, he will, I’m sure he will! Thank you.’
His smile, had he known it, was more than thank you enough. Kitty left him standing there, shut the kitchen door firmly and decisively in his face and set about the pots and pans with a clatter that might have been heard in Colchester.
Chapter 5
(i)
Rather to Kitty’s surprise Jonas did indeed agree with no argument and even with pleasure to the idea of a musical evening. And to her almost equal astonishment the next few days were the happiest she had spent since leaving Suffolk. Blithely unpredictable as always, the Isherwood children took to her singing lessons like small ducks to water. All but Jeremiah had reasonably tuneful voices, and what he lacked in musicality he made up for in volume and enthusiasm. There was a certain amount of brotherly and sisterly squabbling regarding the choice of solo voices – the children being nothing if not supremely confident in their own abilities – but this was soon settled by the choice of a solo each, and the rehearsals continued relatively peacefully. When Matt called to take her for a walk on Sunday in weather that had at last turned enjoyably spring-like and warm he remarked upon the change in her.
‘Why shouldn’t I be happy?’ she asked in response to his comment. ‘I’m settling down here. I like it. It suits me.’
He glanced about him, his mobile face caustic. ‘This dead-and-alive hole?’
She made a quick, only half-playful lunge at him, clipped his ear smartly. ‘Yes. And there’s no need to be rude. We can’t all be gay blades.’
He looked at her, curiosity in his eyes. ‘You really like it here?’
She shrugged. ‘Yes,’ she said, staunchly.
‘But – don’t you ever feel – well, cut off? Lonely?’
She shook her head. ‘Why should I? The family are always—’
‘I’m not talking about the family. I mean – you work for them, don’t you? However fancy they wrap it up. I mean – mates—’ Ever restlessly energetic he vaulted in a single exuberant leap over a stile, and then waited with some impatience and no offer of help as she followed him, necessarily more decorously. ‘Mates,’ he repeated, as they strolled on in the sunshine, ‘someone of your own. What goes on here? Are the islanders friendly?’
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that.’ She bent to pick up a piece of twig, switched it idly in the grass as she walked. She saw no reason at all to tell her brother that apart from the fairly civil but meaningless exchanges she shared with the tradesmen who called at the house she had barely passed a word with anyone but the Isherwoods since the day she had arrived. ‘They tend to keep themselves to themselves.’ And no reason either to mention the covert glances that she knew followed her when she took the Isherwood children down to the hard to play, the sudden silences that fell as she passed, or walked into a shop. What did it matter? She was bound to be an outsider in this ancient, almost tribal community, with its rivalries and its gossip. She was perfectly content to be so. And happier, certainly, than she had been these many months.
It took an incident two days before the much-anticipated birthday celebration to show her, however, that old scars had not, as she had been too ready to believe, entirely healed and that her peace of mind was as fragile and easily shattered as fine-blown glass.
Late one afternoon, w
ith pale April sunshine lighting the distant seascape and touching the new-budding trees with gold, she turned from the small kitchen window from which she had been watching the children playing in the yard to find Amos standing, quiet and still, in the doorway behind her. She started violently. He stepped forward with a quick gesture of concern. In his hand he held several sheets of music. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.’
‘It’s all right. I didn’t hear you, that’s all.’ As always the sight of him stirred her to a turmoil that affected voice and nerves and drove her to fury at her own weakness.
‘I wondered if you’d got a minute spare to run through these with me?’ He held up the dog-eared song sheets.
She forced a smile. ‘Of course. If you’d like.’ She walked briskly past him and led the way to the parlour and the piano. Slim, bright fingers of sunlight probed through the west-facing, latticed windows. She perched uncomfortably upon the piano stool, back ramrod straight.
‘It’s a fine evening,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I told you, didn’t I, that the island was a prettier place when the sun shone?’
‘Yes.’
Her monosyllabic replies apparently disturbed him not at all. ‘Just wait till summer comes. You’ll never see a finer sight than sails on the Blackwater in the summer sun.’
She did not reply, but busied herself at the piano, clearing the music stand of music, settling herself upon the stool, clearly dismissing his attempt at friendly conversation. He watched her for a moment, his expression entirely unreadable. Then he came close behind her, leaned over her shoulder as he put a piece of music upon the stand. ‘Let’s try this one, eh? It’s The Pretty Ploughboy. D’you know it?’
She played a quiet chord. ‘Yes. I’ve heard it certainly—’
And then, despite her stubborn defensiveness, the miracle happened again; they were instantly absorbed, all restraint falling from them as they shared the gift of music. Within minutes, in easy companionship, they were playing and singing, laughing at a wrong note, a stumbling phrase, enjoying again that extraordinary communion of spirit as their voices rose in impromptu harmonies.
‘It was early, early, in the spring, When my true love went to serve his king—’ Laughing he snatched the song sheet from its rest and tossed it on the table. ‘No, no. Not that one. It’s too sad. And anyway – it’s got no tune at all. Try this one—’
The sun dipped to the mainland skyline, shimmering in lucent glory upon the distant waters, painting the skies with an artist’s palette of red and gold. In the breaks in their music they could hear the shrieks of laughter of the children as they played outside and, distantly, the sound of a herd of lowing cows as they plodded heavily to the milking parlour; while here within the sunlit room the music wove an enchantment that brought, fleetingly, happiness such as Kitty had all but forgotten could exist. Her voice rose, strong and clear and beautiful, perfected and tuned by her desire to please the young man who watched her, smiling his pleasure, sun-gilded head turned towards her, cornflower eyes intent – not, for this precious moment, another’s husband and father to her children, but simply the object of all Kitty’s desires, all her first, fierce, tender infatuation.
‘That was grand!’ he said when she had finished. ‘You’ll sing it for us on my birthday?’
‘If you’d like me to.’
‘I should say so! Oh – and that reminds me – Pa asked’ – he was sorting once more through the sheets of music – ‘ah – here it is – I’m sure you must know it—’
As she stared at the piece of music he placed before her the laughter and the happiness fled from her as if it had never been. She sat like a statue.
He did not notice. ‘You know it?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded peculiarly distant in her own ears. She cleared her throat, violently, laid wooden fingers to the piano keys, fluffed the introduction inharmoniously and had to start again. ‘All round my hat I will wear the green willow—’
The drawing room at the Grange. Anne’s fair, laughing face. Her brothers – her now-dead brothers – chaffing her for her slight, child’s voice. ‘Let Kitty sing! Let Kitty—!’ Sir George, bluff and hearty, with his dogs and his guns, his contraband brandy and his endearing passion for a long-lost city. Then Anne’s face again, as she had seen it that day on the dunes above Dunwich, stunned and desolate with grief. ‘Oh, young men are false and they are so deceitful—’ She stopped singing abruptly, in mid-breath. A few bars later, with treacherous tears blinding her, she stopped playing also and sat, rigid, fighting the waves of misery and homesickness that crashed over her.
‘Kitty? What is it? What’s the matter?’
She hardly heard the words. Blindly she stood, stumbled away from him to the window, resting her head upon the wooden frame and crying like a heartbroken child. ‘I’m sorry,’ she tried to say, her voice hiccoughing with the helpless violence of her tears. ‘I’m sorry—’
He was beside her. With no thought and no predesign she turned to him, to the human comfort of his arms, his soft, consoling voice. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. It was several long minutes before the storm passed. She stood trembling then, tear-drenched eyes closed against the rough warmth of his cotton shirt. Then, slow and dreamlike as the transition between sleep and waking she became aware of where she stood – within the close circle of his arms, his heart beating steadily and strongly beneath her wet cheek. Aghast, she tried to pull away. With no effort he held her. She felt, light as the touch of a butterfly, the brush of his lips on her disordered hair. Beyond her own trembling she could sense his; even in her inexperience recognized the surge of excitement that was its source. She lifted her head to protest, and could not, caught by the expression on his sun-darkened face as he looked at her, by the dramatic line of bone, the brilliance of the blue eyes.
A moment before he bent his head to her she knew he would kiss her, and she could no more have stopped him – or herself – than she could have stopped her own breath. With all her helpless, innocent first love in her eyes she watched him, waiting. His mouth was warm, and unexpectedly soft as a girl’s, yet oddly and excitingly demanding. Nothing – not Anne’s ill-informed if interesting speculations, nor the hasty and entirely unsatisfactory experiments with Tom, the stable lad at the Grange – had in any way prepared her for this assault on her senses – an assault of savage sweetness such as she had never known could exist. For the space of perhaps a dozen heartbeats they clung together, enmeshed in the golden light that poured through the window, before he released her and stepped back, his sun-bright face flushed.
The kitchen door slammed. ‘It’s mine, I tell you! It is!’ Sounds of a scuffle, and a muffled crash. An aggrieved shriek. ‘I’ll tell Kitty of you! I will!’ A lifted, tear-filled voice. ‘Kitty! Kitty!’
‘Kitty—’ Amos began, softly and fiercely.
The howls from the kitchen grew louder, punctuated by sounds that could only mean a stand-up fight.
Her eyes never leaving Amos’ intense face, Kitty backed away from him.
‘Ki-tty!’ Another crash.
With no word to Amos Kitty turned and fled.
* * *
A new kind of agony now. No longer the half-acknowledged, childish longing for a lovely, unattainable object, but an obsessive memory she could not erase, a restless physical need, the more painful for not, in her innocence, being clearly defined, coupled with a shame so deep she hardly knew how to face him, or the others, certain that her sin – for sin it certainly was to lust so for Maria Isherwood’s young husband – must clearly show, burned upon her face like the brand of whoredom she had read of in the Bible. It was as if the touch of Amos’ lips had opened some fearful Pandora’s box of emotions and longings, the existence of which in all of her nearly eighteen years she had never even suspected. She had not known it possible to want anything – need anything – as she now wanted – needed – Amos Isherwood’s touch. It was her nightmare that she m
ight betray herself, crawl to him, beg him, embarrass them both with the appalling intemperance of her feelings. For certainly, of course those moments in the parlour could not have meant to him what they had to her. With her stupid, childish weeping she had simply aroused in him an understandable desire to comfort which, in the warmth of the moment, had translated itself to a transient lust. What man with Maria Isherwood to warm his bed would so much as glance at skinny, inexperienced Kitty Daniels? And with that bitter thought came another unwelcome emotion; jealousy gnawed her, despicable and deadly. What in God’s name, she found herself wondering wretchedly, was happening to her?
The musical evening, so happily anticipated, was for her and, she assumed, for Amos a purgatory of embarrassment from which she could not escape soon enough, though everyone else, even the difficult Maria, seemed to enjoy it greatly. Kitty played and sang mechanically, eyes riveted to the music before her, every nerve in her body painfully aware of Amos, standing tense as a strung wire next to her. On the rare occasion she glanced at him he avoided her eyes. In the intervals between songs he went immediately to Maria, perching upon the arm of her chair, even once sitting on the floor at her feet, a sight that no matter how she tried to prevent it turned a bitter blade in poor Kitty’s heart. By the end of the evening she had decided in her own mind that she must leave. To endure the cruel torment of his close proximity was more than she could bear. She could not, of course, go immediately – Martha’s child was due in about four weeks, and Kitty suspected that to abandon that strangely lonely woman at this stage might trigger disaster – but as soon as may be she would go. Matt still talked occasionally of London and of the high old times they’d have just as soon as she saw sense and agreed to go. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
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