by Darcy Burke
The clock in the sitting room gave a gentle chime, and Clara recalled herself. She ought to go hear how Nicholas and Master Reynard were progressing with the Air. But first…
Her reticule lay untouched where she had left it in the sitting room. Clara took it into her bedroom and locked the door. Graphite and notebook in hand, she notated the sweet, poignant melody that had swirled about her in the carriage. Darien Reynard’s melody.
After a moment she turned the page and scribed the gull’s song, and the sigh and rush of the waves. There. Those bits were down on paper now, and she needn’t worry about losing them. She tucked her graphite away and glanced around the room. It wouldn’t do to leave the evidence of her composing out in plain sight, or even in her reticule, where an inquisitive servant could discover it. She pressed her lips together. The bed. Heavens knew there were enough pillows to conceal almost anything.
The linens were wonderfully soft against her hand as she slipped her notebook deep into the pile of pillows. But she had delayed too long. It was time to go hear Darien Reynard play her newest work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
In recent years, critics have found Master Darien Reynard’s playing, while still brilliant, lacking in spirit. However, his recent performance at King’s Theatre showed a new, revitalized Reynard, at the top of his form in both technical virtuosity and musical heart. One can only hope this is a lasting change.
-Ariosa Reviews
The next evening, the black coach deposited Clara, Nicholas, and Master Reynard beneath the dome-topped portico of the Royal Pavilion. The white marble glowed translucent in the twilight, as if lit from within. Nicholas hesitated beside the familiar bulk of the coach, and Clara could not blame him. The exotic building before them seemed more like a prison than a palace.
Tonight, Nicholas would play before the king.
But it would do her brother no good to give in to her own anxiety. She gave him an encouraging smile and slipped her arm through his.
“Come,” Master Reynard said, a slight furrow between his brows.
He strode forward, and liveried servants hurried to swing the tall double doors wide. The three of them were ushered into a large, octagonal foyer featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the last reflection of silvery dusk.
Clara took a deep breath as she stepped over the threshold. She shivered, but the act of entering the Pavilion, however fantastical a place, had no transformative effect. She was not magically changed into a princess from a fairy tale.
Master Reynard marched ahead, violin case in one hand, his bearing supremely confident. She and Nicholas were carried along like flotsam in his wake.
“Look,” her brother whispered, jerking his chin up.
She blinked up at the ceiling, which resembled the draperies of a huge, exotic tent. A curious, boxy chandelier glowed at the apex, and tassels hung down at the corners, nearly sweeping the floor.
“It’s quite a spectacle,” Master Reynard said, handing his greatcoat to the hovering servants. “The former king spared no expense to build his pleasure dome, as you’ll see.”
As the master drew her brother’s attention to the fanciful brass fireplace, Clara slowly unfastened her pelisse. It had just arrived that morning, part of a posthaste delivery from Madame Lamond’s. Clara’s touch lingered on the silky fur trimming the edges before she gave it up to the servant. She would appear truly vulgar if she carried her overgarment about the pavilion, folded bulkily under one arm like some inanimate lapdog, but she found herself reluctant to let go of it.
Thank heavens for the modiste. Clara was only able to attend the performance that night because the delivery had included an evening gown. Her blue silk dress, no matter how lovely, would not have served for a function of this elegance, but the new teal and silver taffeta gown with gorgeous puffed sleeves was perfect. The lace at the neck was finer work than she had ever seen, and the wide, embroidered sash did not seem nearly as ostentatious as she had first thought; particularly not compared to their surroundings. She gave the room a wry glance.
For a moment she imagined entering the Pavilion dressed in her old Sunday best. They would have hurried her off to the servant’s quarters. Shame curdled in her stomach; not for who she was, but for the foolish confidence her family had demonstrated when agreeing to this scheme. They’d had no notion, and now Nicholas was about to perform before the king!
A man garbed in the royal livery bowed to Darien Reynard. His gaze flickered over Clara and Nicholas, then returned to the master.
“We have been expecting you,” the servant said. “This way, if you please.”
Clara squeezed her brother’s arm. They both needed the reassurance that they were not completely lost here, adrift on a sea of courtly opulence.
It was difficult to keep from gawking as they trailed Master Reynard down a long gallery. The pink walls were riotous with Oriental motifs, the skylight overhead painted in a rich cobalt pattern. The servant led them between two staircases fashioned of iron to resemble some foreign wood, and along a short hallway.
“The Music Room.” The man opened a red lacquered door painted with gold, and gestured them in. “His Majesty will appear shortly. Please, make ready.”
Nicholas hung back for a moment, then surged forward, pulling Clara with him as he hastened after Master Reynard. There was no turning back.
The master checked his stride and nodded to Nicholas. “I’ve always thought playing in here was like performing inside an empress’s jewelry box.”
Glancing about, Clara agreed. Though the air was thick with heat and the smell of mingled perfumes, it was an extraordinary space. An enormous gas-lit crystal flower floated high in the center of the room, its soft colors glowing opalescent. Smaller gasoliers circled it, lilies of light depending from the domed ceiling where gilt dragons curled, their jeweled eyes winking. A large number of people gathered beneath the fanciful decorations, filling the space with a counterpoint of conversations.
A gentleman detached himself from a nearby group and made his way to where they stood.
“Master Reynard, what an honor. We are so fortunate you are here.” He glanced over his shoulder to where a young woman watched, her expression eager. “My acquaintance is shy, but she wishes to communicate her ardent enthusiasm of your music.”
“My pleasure,” Darien said. He nodded to the young lady, who blushed and clasped her hands in delight.
As if an invisible signal passed through the room, heads turned toward them. Conversations hushed, then redoubled, and there was a general movement toward where Darien Reynard stood.
“Beg pardon,” the liveried servant said, clearing a path in front of them. “Excuse us. Master Reynard must prepare.”
Clara felt the weight of curious stares as they proceeded toward the shining piano at the far side of the room. Her feet sank into the plush carpet, and for a guilty moment she was relieved to be only the composer’s sister. Nothing was expected of her but to turn pages for Nicholas.
In contrast, Master Reynard seemed completely at ease as he made his way to the back of the room, acknowledging greetings as he went. His dark coat was a welcome patch of calm amidst the excess, his serenity lending her strength. Clara kept her eyes fixed on his back, glad when they fetched up at the reassuring solidity of the grand piano. The keyboard was a bulwark between them and the crowd. She glanced at Nicholas, seeing near-panic in his expression.
Nothing could erase the terrifying fact that the king himself would soon grace them with his presence. The king. Her newest composition was about to be debuted for royalty. The thought held equal parts fright and elation.
Nicholas slid onto the piano bench, his shoulders stiff. Clara drew up a chair upholstered in Chinese silk and positioned it so she could easily stand and turn pages for her brother. The air was stifling, and she found it impossible to sit calmly. Her fingers twisted around and around, like the carved serpents twining about the nearby columns.
Master Reynard remo
ved his violin from its case, tightened his bow, and shook his hair back from his face with a toss of his head.
“An A, please.”
Nicholas played the note for the master to match, the ordinary act of tuning up lending a veneer of normalcy to the proceedings. Master Reynard played a run of notes, liquid and clear, and Clara closed her eyes, letting the sound briefly soothe her. Hopefully Nicholas felt the same effect. He was very pale, his lips pressed tightly together. She prayed he would not be ill.
At Darien Reynard’s first notes, the crowd moved to the chairs facing the piano. A richly dressed fellow who seemed to be the master of ceremonies stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and Gentlemen! His Royal Majesty, King William the Fourth. Her Majesty, Queen Consort Adelaide.”
Everyone rose and turned to the doors at the back of the room. Clara and her brother hastily stood, and Master Reynard tucked his violin under his elbow.
In the hush following the announcement, the king entered, his wife on his arm. He was stately looking, his white hair carefully styled, his features still strong above the collar of his heavily brocaded coat. The queen was rather younger, and reserved in her manner.
As the monarchs progressed into the room the lords bowed and the ladies sank into deep, reverent curtsies. Clara spread her skirts, the fabric rustling, and hoped her curtsy would not offer insult to the ruler of the British Empire. Gaze fixed on the figured carpet, she was certain the sound of her heart knocking in her throat must be audible to the entire room. At last, after an interminable length, the master of ceremonies spoke again.
“Please, be seated.” After the rustles and whispers subsided, he continued. “It is with great pleasure that we present this evening’s entertainment. Playing for your delight, the world-renowned violinist, Master Darien Reynard.”
Vigorous applause followed his pronouncement, and the master stepped in front of the piano. They had decided yesterday he would begin with a solo piece, to give Nicholas a chance to hear the acoustics and ready himself.
Master Reynard swept another bow to the king, lifted his violin, and began. The Telemann Fantasia No. 7 was a perfect choice, Clara thought as the ornate melody filled the room. It curled, notes swirling and opulent, the music perfectly fitting the surroundings.
From her place beside the piano she had an excellent view of the audience. And while Darien Reynard was compelling from any angle, she found herself watching the crowd as they watched him. Most of the ladies in attendance, and a fair number of the gentlemen, looked, in a word, smitten. Some regarded him avidly, as if he were a particularly appetizing dish; others gazed with dreamy expressions. She located the young man from earlier, sitting beside his sweetheart near the front. They were surreptitiously holding hands, the intimacy nearly concealed by her wide skirts.
The king nodded as he listened to the master play. The queen leaned forward, a wistful look on her face. A few scattered listeners had their eyes closed, but they did not sleep. All were enthralled by this single man playing a solo violin—so simple an act, and yet so stunningly complex. Darien Reynard held the king and the assembled court in the palm of his hand with an ease she found breathtaking.
The piece finished, too soon. The master waited for the applause to subside, then swept one hand toward the piano.
“Your Majesty, members of the court, it gives me great pleasure to introduce a tremendously talented new composer—Mr. Nicholas Becker.”
Nicholas rose from the bench and made a stiff bow to the royal couple. His hands shook as he resumed his seat.
Master Reynard nodded at Nicholas, then turned back to the king. “We will play for you his newest work, the Air in E minor, never before performed. It is a true honor to premiere it in such company.”
He brought his violin to his shoulder and waited for Nicholas to begin the first chord.
And waited.
The silence stretched while Nicholas sat, frozen, at the piano. Clara dug her nails into her palms, as the expectation centered on Nicholas grew more focused by the moment. Oh, please, play. Above, the glittering stares of the dragons turned malevolent. Her stomach tightened as if she had swallowed a stone. What would happen to them if Nicholas were unable to perform?
It simply did not bear thinking of. He would play. He must.
She leaned forward and set her hand on his shoulder, then spoke the word their father used when commanding them to play.
“Commence.” She strove to imitate Papa’s severe inflection.
The echo of the music master’s voice penetrated Nicholas’s fear. He let out a shaky breath, then spread his fingers over the keys. The first chord rang out, and Clara leaned back in her seat, her palms damp inside her gloves.
The first few measures were not as clear and confident as they had been in rehearsal, but at least he was playing. The violin joined in, the melody soaring and spiraling up to the gilded ceiling, and the tight line of Nicholas’s shoulders eased. The Air was launched, and Clara could breathe again.
After the first page-turn she ventured a glance across the room. She could not say for certain, but it seemed the king was pleased. Yet even the King of England could not hold her attention long, not while Darien Reynard stood, splendid in his dark coat, and performed her music. He played all the yearning she had written into the Air, infusing it with depth and passion.
Last night he had played it ably, stopping to work out passages and discuss with Nicholas the phrasing and dynamics. She’d had to bite her tongue to keep from answering, but Nicholas had done well enough in her stead. That morning they’d spent two more hours shaping, polishing, and it was a revelation to Clara to hear Master Reynard take the notes and make them his.
He colored her music with his own hopes and hungers—invisible and unknown, but audible in the sing and pulse of his violin. It was enthralling. She barely remembered in time to turn the last page for Nicholas.
The piece finished, and there was silence. Clara held perfectly still, breath bottled up in her throat. Then the king rose, clapping loudly, and the rest of the court followed suit, their approval free and genuine. Clara exhaled, as Darien Reynard strode to the piano. Taking Nicholas by the elbow, the master drew him forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Nicholas Becker!”
The applause redoubled, and the tips of her brother’s ears turned pink. Master Reynard clapped him on the back, then turned and met Clara’s gaze. She’d proven her worth; he had to admit as much. He nodded to her, acknowledgement in his moss-green eyes, and she flushed with warmth.
They had done it. Their first successful premiere. She grinned at Nicholas as he returned to the piano.
“Oh, nicely done! You played the Air very well.” No need to mention the uncertain start. “I’ve no doubt the king was pleased.”
The residue of nervousness lingered in her brother’s shaky smile.
“It was acceptable,” he said in a low voice. “The next concert should be easier at any rate. No kings in the audience.”
She patted the piano bench. “Master Reynard is commencing the finale.”
He had decided to conclude the performance with a solo piece by Handel; something well known and sure to please, in the unlikely event the Air was not well received.
By the end of the Handel, Clara had to blink herself back to earth, the notes still ringing through her. She shot a glance at her brother. To her relief, he seemed quite recovered.
Master Reynard took several bows, and gestured again for Nicholas to join him. At last the applause faded, and the audience stood as the king and queen exited the room. The master tucked his violin away in its case, then tipped his head to Nicholas.
“Now we repair to the gallery, where you may continue to accept the praise that is your due.”
Nicholas’s eyes met Clara’s in a quick, uneasy acknowledgement, then he nodded at the maestro. “Certainly.”
Clara trailed behind them into the white and gilt gallery, the colors soothing after the
saturated intensity of the Music Room. She found an unoccupied settee in one corner, and Nicholas fetched her a cup of lemonade before the crowd closed in around him. Master Reynard, too, was swept away, and she could not help but notice how obviously the ladies vied for his attention. There was nothing left for her to do but to perch on the cushion and sip her lemonade. Alone.
For a moment Clara indulged in imagining that she was acknowledged as the composer, receiving the admiration and accolades. But how quickly it would turn to shock and condemnation. Worst of all would be the look on Darien Reynard’s face upon learning how they had lied to him. No. This was how it must be. Useless to try and imagine otherwise; their deception was too well begun.
She took another sip of lemonade, savoring the cool, tart sweetness, and looked about the room. The people were different even from the crowds in Mayfair. It was not every day she had the opportunity to observe the court at a close distance. Or any distance, for that matter.
They were dressed in the pinnacle of fashion, the men in proper long-tailed coats, the ladies in a bright array of puff-sleeved gowns and glittering jewelry. Queen Adelaide looked splendid, despite her sad eyes, in a blue velvet gown with gauzy lace sleeves. Diamond combs sparkled in her elaborately coiffed hair.
Clara’s own chignon was far too simple, though she had added ostrich plumes dyed to match the teal of her dress—and blessed Madame Lamond again for including them. Still, her coiffure was noticeably lacking compared to the profusion of rolls and curls so popular with the ladies of the court.
Darien Reynard laughed—how quickly she had come to recognize that sound—and she glanced over at him. She could make out a bit of his black coat, a gleam of light on his dark hair as he bent his head to answer yet another gorgeously gowned lady. Clara sighed and turned her now-empty cup of lemonade between her gloved palms. The air in the gallery was close and sticky, and she longed for the sharp sea wind. At least on the beach her solitude had felt like part of the greater whole.
That morning she’d risen early, finally free to follow the call of the ocean. All night the waves had hushed through her dreams, beckoned her to the shore. In the early light the water lay pale and lucent. The strand behind the hotel had been quiet but for a few people: a boy prodding at the pebble-littered beach with a stick while his mother looked on, a white-capped girl hurrying head-down, her cloak wrapped about her thin figure.