A London Season

by Anthea Bell

  “Oh, don’t you know his Freischiitz?” exclaimed Persephone. “Why, I believe there were four or five versions performed in London two years ago—but of course I was in Bath, so I never saw any of them,” she said with regret.

  No one was tactless enough to point out that but for the Unfortunate Business she might have stayed longer in London, and have had the chance of seeing one of these productions. Sir Edmund, however, was able to set her right on one point. “In fact, there were no less than six versions done in English that year, or so I was told when taking the box for this present piece—but they went under a number of different titles. One was called The Black Huntsman of Bohemia, and another, if I remember correctly, The Demon of the Wolfs Glen and the Seven Charmed Bullets, and another—no, I’m afraid I forget the rest.”

  “And there was The Fatal Marksman, or, The Demon of the Black Forest,” offered Persephone, rather surprisingly. “I know that,” she explained, “because a fr—someone I met in Bath had seen it, at the Royal Coburg Theatre. It is hardly to be wondered at, you know,” she added with the engaging air of gravity she assumed when pronouncing on musical matters, “that nobody could fix on a good title in English, because it is not easy to translate Freischiitz!”

  “Fry-what?” inquired Charley, lost.

  “Yes, well, you see what I mean!” she told him. “The word signifies a person who has made a pact with the Devil, and in exchange for his soul gets magical bullets which never miss their mark, so he is a man who shoots freely—without aiming, that is to say—and that is the meaning of the title, because the young man called Max in the opera has struck just such a bargain. Or no, wait! Another huntsman does so on his behalf, and obtains the bullets, and there is a tremendous scene when the spirit is conjured up, very wild and romantic indeed. I wish so much that I could have attended a performance,” she repeated wistfully, regarding her relatives with amazement as she reflected that none of them had gone out to see the work when it was practically upon their doorsteps, and in six versions at that! Except, she concluded, Sir Edmund. “Which one did you see, sir?” she asked, turning to him.

  “I didn’t see any of the English versions, but I have seen the opera in Berlin, where it was first performed,” he said.

  “Oh, how I envy you!” cried Persephone, and Elinor, watching, saw with some amusement that Sir Edmund had evidently risen suddenly in his ward’s esteem, as a man who seized his chance to attend performances of such works as Weber’s.

  “And I suppose this fellow-what’s his name, Max?—gets carried off by the Devil, eh?” Lord Yoxford asked.

  “No, because he is betrothed to a very virtuous girl called Agatha,” Persephone told him. “Hers is a very affecting part, and her love saves Max in the end. She has some beautiful music ... I wonder if I can recollect any of it?” And stepping swiftly towards the pianoforte in the corner, she lifted its lid and began tracing out a few notes, feeling her way into a simple, improvised accompaniment. “No, that’s not it,” she said half to herself, as she struck a false note. “Wait ... ah, yes, I have it!” And she began, quietly at first, to sing. ‘Leise, leise, fromme Weise—”

  “Eh? What?” said Charley, baffled.

  “Oh, it is in German, you see,” she stopped to inform him, absently. “It signifies Softly, my pious song—or something of that nature.” And, more confident in her accompaniment now, she allowed The Voice full rein.

  Not even Charley would have dreamt of interrupting the song as it rose, strong and steady, soaring to heights of pure and lyrical sound. Since she was singing in German, none of her hearers but Sir Edmund, whose diplomatic career had made him fully conversant with that language, was able to understand the words, but the music held them all spellbound. The Viscount and Viscountess had never before been exposed to the full power of Persephone’s singing voice, for in obedience to Miss Radley’s gentle hints, and herself instinctively aware that it was not a suitable instrument to be brought into play in a polite drawing room, she had hitherto reserved it for the privacy of the Yellow Parlour. They might not be used to finding themselves moved by music, but they were much impressed. Not in general a very imaginative woman, Lady Yoxford found herself fancying that the spirit of song itself had invaded her saloon. After the last notes had died away, there was a moment’s complete silence in the room.

  “Upon my word!” uttered Lord Yoxford, at last. “Good gracious me!” said Isabella. “How very pretty that was, my dear!”

  “Pretty? Beautiful!” Elinor could not help exclaiming. “Beautiful indeed,” Sir Edmund agreed, and even Charley contributed a hearty, “I say!”

  Flushed and a little confused, as if she had but just come down to earth from some heavenly region of harmony, Persephone closed the lid of the instrument, and said shyly, “Th-thank you. Well—now you can see why I fancy you would like Herr Weber’s new opera! You must come too, Cousin Isabella, indeed you must!”

  “I didn’t know you had learnt German,” said Sir Edmund, interested.

  “Oh!” Persephone seemed to catch her breath. “Well, I haven’t—that is to say, I know hardly any, only the words of a few songs.”

  “There must be an English version of that aria?”

  “Yes, I dare say. Several, I suppose, if there were so many productions of the piece here. But—but I learned the German words when I was in Bath. ” She seemed to think for a moment. “At the house of Mr. Ford, who taught music to the girls from the Seminary.”

  Later, when Sir Edmund contrived to be alone with Miss Radley, he discovered that she, too, had gained the impression that Persephone was picking her words with care, as if to skirt round a subject while avoiding an outright lie.

  “So what do you think of the music master himself as candidate for the part of lovelorn swain?” he asked her directly.

  “Oh, nothing at all, I’m afraid!” she said, with the delightful laugh he realized he had been hoping to hear ever since he entered the house that afternoon. “For one thing, there had been—had been a little difficulty over a previous music master, or so I collect from Persephone’s animadversions on Miss Madden and the bee she had in her bonnet about even the most unexceptionable persons, if they happened to be young men! For another, Persephone herself tells me that Mr. Ford is old and has a great many children.”

  “Yes, that hardly sounds the epitome of romance! And I take it—if your other deductions are correct—that he has scarcely abandoned his wife and all the children to go walking in Wales. All the same, there was—how shall I put it?—a kind of glow in the child’s eyes when she spoke of learning the piece at his house.”

  “There was, wasn’t there?” Elinor agreed. After a moment’s thought, she began, “Perhaps—” Simultaneously, Sir Edmund said, “It may be—” Finding themselves speaking together, they both stopped, laughing, and he then continued, “It may be that she learned it from someone else in Bath.”

  “Precisely,” said Elinor, “for you observe she didn’t say she learned it from Mr. Ford, only at his house. Oh dear!” she added in dismay. “If the young man is musical too, that makes it so much worse!”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes! For as you know, I was persuaded that music would take her mind off this unsuitable love affair.”

  “I suppose we can be certain,” said Sir Edmund thoughtfully, “that it is unsuitable?” And when she made no immediate reply, he answered himself. “Yes, no doubt we can; otherwise Romeo would have come pelting up from Bath, petitioning me for Juliet’s hand!”

  “Yes,” Elinor agreed. “But if he is musical, you see, the case is different from what I had supposed. For I can’t help thinking that a shared interest is—well, a great attraction. Oh dear, what is to be done? I do not like to pry into Persephone’s affairs, but if only we knew more about this young man—and at present we know next to nothing of him—it would be so much easier to help her, poor child! However, it would certainly be fatal to ask her outright.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” of
fered Sir Edmund, after a moment’s thought. “The estimable Mr. Stanfield, in Cheltenham, should have various documents ready for me to sign pretty soon now; I might just as well visit him and deal with the business in person as have him send them to London, and then I could continue to Bath, and pay a call upon this Mr. Ford. For all we know,” he added meditatively, “among the many children, there could be a grown son of Persephone’s own age, who is musical too.”

  “That might well be it,” she agreed. “I own it would set my mind at rest to know whether Mr. Ford can say anything to the purpose—but you would not go all the way just to set my mind at rest, I hope!”

  “No, though I will admit that that must ever be an object with me,” he said gravely.

  She could not be at all sure how serious he was, but laughed. “What a poor creature you must think me! When the very reason that you engaged me was to relieve you and Cousin Isabella of such problems.”

  “I had no idea, then, that they would persist. For you really do fear we have underestimated the strength of Persephone’s attachment, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes, I do. I am sure she has written to Bath, you know, and had no answer. You should see how she watches for the letters to come every day. Oh, if only she could meet some eligible young man like Lord Conington—”

  “Do you favour Conington too? But forgive me, I interrupted you.”

  “Well, I certainly would favour him, as your sister does, if Persephone showed any real feeling for him beyond mere liking. But she doesn’t! I was going to say, if she could only meet and marry someone who was eligible in every way and shared her passion for music, then...” She saw that Sir Edmund had idly picked up her book from the side table where she had recently laid it down, and was looking at the title, very much as if Persephone’s affairs had ceased to interest him. It was Voltaire’s Candide. “Well, then,” she finished, smiling, “I should hold, like the good Dr. Pangloss in that tale, that all was for the best in the best of possible worlds!”

  “But you imply that such a happy outcome is unlikely.” He put the book down, and suddenly, disconcertingly, bent his very blue gaze on her. “Cousin Elinor, I do begin to feel I’ve asked you to undertake a more onerous task than I knew. You don’t regret agreeing to it?”

  “Dear me, no!” she said, laughing, though a little breathlessly as her eyes met that steady gaze. “How can you ask, Cousin Edmund? So far as I am concerned, I am very sure that all is for the best in the best of possible worlds!”

  8

  Elinor was to regret those words. Had anyone, she wondered, ever tempted Providence so rashly? For it was only the next day that the meeting took place which overset her peace of mind entirely.

  She had gone, with Persephone, to the weekly Assembly at Almack’s. They were not accompanied by Lady Yoxford, who professed herself exhausted by the tiring manner in which they had been racketing about town, but Lord Yoxford’s coachman had driven them to the Assembly Rooms, and Sir Edmund, who was dining with Canning the Foreign Secretary and several other prominent members of the Government, was to join them later and escort them home. By now Elinor felt quite at ease in the company where she and her charge found themselves. Lady Cowper came over to them, and endeared herself very much to Miss Radley by the warmth with which she spoke of Sir Edmund, mentioning several tributes paid to his gifts and diplomatic competence by the Honourable Frederick Lamb, perhaps Emily Cowper’s favourite among her brothers. Persephone had no shortage of dancing partners, since several other ardent young gentlemen besides Lord Conington were in constant attendance on her. As the country dance into which Conington had been privileged to lead her came to an end, and the music of the band playing in the gallery above the dance floor died away, she rejoined her chaperon, protesting that she was quite breathless, and must sit down for a moment.

  “I declare, if dancing in April is such warm work as this, I don’t know what it must be like in May and June!” said Miss Grafton, fanning herself with the pretty little tortoiseshell fan she had found in the Pantheon Bazaar, and which went so well with her primrose gauze dress and amber beads. “I tell you what it is, Elinor: I should never have allowed Bates to lace me so tight!” She looked down, with dissatisfaction, at her tiny waist. It was small enough, in all conscience, without any lacing, but Isabella had insisted. Isabella might (and did) occasionally think, wistfully, that it was a pity the high-waisted fashions which had so long held sway were now outmoded. They had been so extremely comfortable! What was more, she had once remarked to Elinor, it was really too bad that when she herself had a waist every bit as small as Persephone’s, it was modishly concealed beneath ethereally flowing draperies, whereas now that she had borne six children and in the course of Nature the measurements of her figure could not be quite what they once were, the waist of a fashionable dress had descended to its proper place on the wearer. But Lady Yoxford was not one to be defeated by the perversities of fashion, and like the rest of her female acquaintance in Society had resolutely adopted tightlacing.

  Anxious as she was, moreover, that Persephone should appear to her very best advantage at Almack’s, she had prevailed upon her to accept the expert ministrations of her own lady’s maid for this evening, and Persephone was now regretting it. “I never would have allowed her to lace me up, either, if I had been going to sing tonight,” she added. “Not on any account! Elinor, let us see if someone will find us some lemonade. Oh, look! Do you know those people? They certainly seem to know you!”

  But Elinor hardly seemed to have heard her. Persephone saw that she was already staring, as if transfixed, at the couple on the other side of the room. After a long, penetrating stare at Miss Radley, the gentleman had bent to say something into his companion’s ear, and she instantly glanced up and then quickly crossed the floor towards Elinor and Persephone.

  She was a tall, fair girl of about Persephone’s own age, her features pretty without being anything out of the common way, but she had an endearingly ready, open smile which lent charm to her face. The smile was much in evidence now, as she approached Elinor with both hands outstretched, saying, “It is—it surely must be you, Miss Radley! I cannot be mistaken! Grenville said he was sure he recognized you, and the moment he pointed you out to me I was very sure that I did!”

  Gathering her scattered wits, Elinor said, a little faintly, “Good gracious, can it really be you, Charlotte? But I fancy I ought to call you Miss Royden now. Why, how you have grown!”

  Even to her own ears this last comment sounded inept, but she had to say something, and was finding it difficult to speak at all. However, her words drew a charming laugh from Miss Royden, who said, “Yes, I have, haven’t I? When I came to live with Mary—she is married now, you know, and I have been residing with her since Mama died last year—well, Grenville said he thought I should tower above all my dancing partners, and while it isn’t quite as bad as that, you can see for yourself that it’s bad enough!”

  “How delightful to see you again!” Elinor managed to utter. She did not sound at all convinced of the truth of what she said, which seemed to Persephone odd, since nothing could have been more taking than the young lady’s frank amiability, or her evident pleasure in seeing Miss Radley. “But I am wool-gathering! Persephone, let me make Miss Charlotte Royden known to you. Eight years ago, she and her sister were my pupils when I was a governess. Miss Royden—Miss Persephone Grafton!”

  “Oh, do pray call me Charlotte still,” begged Miss Royden, smiling. “How odd it would be if we were to stand on ceremony now.”

  “Odd indeed!” a man’s voice drawled behind her. And what in the world was there in that, Persephone wondered, to make Elinor stiffen? The movement was almost imperceptible, but Miss Grafton thought she had not been mistaken.

  “Miss Grafton, this is my brother Grenville,” Charlotte Royden introduced her escort. “You will certainly remember him, Miss Radley, for he can’t have changed as much as I have done.”

  “Of course I remember him,�
�� said Elinor, civilly.

  “Of course,” the gentleman echoed her. He had crossed the room in his sister’s wake, but at a more leisurely pace, and now stood with his gaze travelling lazily from Elinor to Persephone and back again. “How charming to encounter you once more, Miss Radley! Or have you, I wonder, now changed your state, and are you married to somebody?”

  “No, Mr. Royden. Persephone, let me introduce Mr. Grenville Royden to you.”

  “Ah—the Nightingale of Upper Brook Street!” said Mr. Royden, gallantly. “For so I have heard you called, Miss Grafton.”

  “Have you indeed? How nonsensical!” laughed Persephone.

  “No, no, I assure you; your fame has gone abroad. What a pity we can have no chance to hear you play or sing tonight! But I must hope for that pleasure on some other occasion.”

  “You are fond of music, Mr. Royden?” There was an instant warmth in Persephone’s eyes. Elinor, watching, had perforce to hide her vexation at seeing that Grenville Royden had plainly lost none of his ability to please.

  But he was changed, she saw, since their last meeting eight years ago—changed more than she had at first supposed. Of course he looked older; he must now be thirty years of age or more. He was still remarkably handsome—yet scrutinizing the face and figure that had dazzled her when she was Persephone’s age, Elinor found their charms decidedly tarnished. One did not at first perceive it, because of the excellent cut of his evening dress, but he had filled out and become less lean and athletic. Self-indulgence? It was not at all unlikely. Though who was she, thought Elinor, to hold self-indulgence against anybody else, living as she did a life of ease at Yoxford House under what, she had a dismal feeling, were dreadfully false pretences? Mr. Royden’s fashionably cropped hair was not quite as thick as it had been, and his complexion had coarsened; in repose, his full mouth drooped, taking on a certain expression of petulance. It was the mouth of one who had always been accustomed to getting what he wanted. But there was still a challenging brightness in his eyes, and a challenge in his smile too as he turned from Persephone back to Miss Radley.