by Karen Odden
The silence hung between us as we looked at each other. “How long have you been listening?” I asked, remembering at the last second to alter my voice.
“Isn’t that one of Mozart’s?”
I kept my surprise to myself. I wasn’t about to be caught underestimating Jack again. “It’s his sonata in C major.”
He came into the alcove and let the curtain close behind him. His dark eyes were thoughtful. “You weren’t just playing. You were practicing.”
I made no reply.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he said. “Do you have an audition?”
I nodded, reluctantly. “For the Royal Academy.”
A look of understanding lit his face. “Is that why you’re playing here? To earn tuition?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll begin in the fall.”
“If I’m accepted.”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t you be?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t going to tell him that of the twenty students enrolled last year, only three were women. But he seemed to be waiting for an honest reply, and at last I uttered part of the truth: “They’ve never admitted anyone my age.”
To my relief, he didn’t laugh, and when he replied, his voice was neither falsely reassuring nor condescending. “Well, they certainly have students your age. And I’m not the judge my uncle is, but I’d say that you’re as good as any of them, if not better than most.”
“I guess we’ll see,” I replied, unsure how to accept his compliment. I gestured to the wrenches in his hand. “What are those for?”
“Oh, the piano,” he said carelessly, pointing the wrenches toward the pedals. “The damper was sticking yesterday, so I thought I’d thump it a few times.”
I gaped. “What?”
He laughed, a warm sound. “I’m joking. The wheel was loose on one of the unicycles.”
“Oh!” I couldn’t help but laugh back.
Through the black curtains came the sound of the front door opening and the usual shouts and scrapes of the chairs against the floor as the audience began to crowd inside.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the door?” I asked. “Fending off the pickpockets?”
He shook his head. “Sid’s there. I’m tending to the bar tonight. I just finished unloading a crate of wine.”
“Jack!” Mr. Williams bellowed as if on cue. “Where the devil are you?”
Jack gave me a look that was equal parts amusement and exasperation and drew an eyebrow iron corkscrew, with a bit of cork blunting the sharp end, from his pocket. He waved it at me, and then he parted the curtains and was gone.
Chapter 7
That night, Stephen’s act was very well received, with shouts and cheers at his final bow. He gestured toward me in thanks; but we didn’t exchange a word until after the show, when he drew the curtain aside.
“Hello, Nell.” His eyes were glittering, and there was an air of ebullience and triumph about him. He laid a hand on the fallboard and bent toward me, his mouth close to my ear, so he could be heard above the racket of the stage properties being wheeled off. “They loved us tonight, did you notice?”
I shifted away from him and nodded. “They were singing along.”
His eyes fell on the rose that still lay on the piano. I touched it. “Did you leave this for me?”
He grinned and raised an eyebrow. “I told you, you’re like an English rose. Do you like it?”
I felt a twinge of disappointment that I didn’t pause to reflect upon. “Yes, thank you.” I smiled. “It’s lovely.”
Surreptitiously, he leaned forward again, almost close enough for a kiss, and touched a piece of hair that had escaped my pins. “Careful there.”
I pushed the lock back up into my hat.
“I can’t have you getting fired,” he said as he returned to standing. “You don’t even know how much luck you’ve brought me. Say, can you dine with me tonight?”
I looked up from tying my portfolio. “I don’t think so. It’s late.”
“So? You’ve been here for hours. You must be hungry.”
At the thought of food, my stomach made a perceptible complaint.
“There, I can tell you are by your face. Come with me.” His voice became persuasive. “Please. It’s my way of saying thank you.”
I hesitated. Matthew had been coming home well after midnight for weeks. But . . .
He glanced toward the stage, where Sid and the others were dismantling the scenery from the final act. “It’s perfectly respectable, you know,” he said, his voice low. “Two blokes having dinner after the show.”
“I know. It’s just that my brother gets home from work, and I need to be there.”
“What time is he usually home?”
“Not until at least one,” I admitted. “Lately.”
“I’ll have you home by midnight. I promise,” he wheedled.
My stomach growled again. “All right,” I relented and followed him out of the alcove.
We’d almost reached the door to the street when it opened and Jack appeared. Seeing us, he stepped back and held it wide for us to walk through.
“Hullo,” Stephen said and moved so that he and I were farther apart.
Did I imagine it, or did Jack’s eye note Stephen’s rose under the ribbon of my portfolio? But he simply nodded and said, “Night.”
Something about his tone of voice brought a flush to my cheek, and I was glad for the cool night air. Perhaps Stephen sensed my agitation because as we entered the Mews, I felt him dart a series of oblique glances toward me, and his exuberance faded, replaced by a covert scrutiny. I had a moment of misgiving, suddenly wishing that I were heading home to have a plain bowl of bread and milk and go to bed. It was on the tip of my tongue to say so, but just at that moment, Stephen asked, “You’re becoming friendly with Jack Drummond, aren’t you?”
His voice carried a challenge, and I had the sense again, as I’d had on Thursday night when the three of us were in the alcove, that Stephen had feelings about Jack that seemed out of proportion to the circumstances. My curiosity kept me walking beside him.
“No more than with anyone else here,” I said. “Why?”
He shrugged the question away.
“No, Stephen, really,” I said, unwilling to let the matter drop. “You seem to dislike him a great deal, though I can’t imagine you’ve had much to do with him.”
“You’re right, I haven’t,” he acknowledged. “But—well—I didn’t tell you the other thing I heard about him. That he has a habit of striking up—er, friendships with the women performers. And if they don’t like it, he has Mr. Williams fire them.”
I stopped dead and stared at him, a sick feeling roiling inside me.
“It happened last year with a singer.” His expression was apologetic, as if he regretted having to tell me. “I’m only saying this to put you on your guard.”
We had reached Regent Street, and I was grateful for the noisy rumble of carriages and cabs that precluded talking. I understood the warning Stephen wanted me to take from this. But could the story possibly be true? It didn’t seem to fit with what I knew of Jack. And I could practically hear Matthew’s voice in my ear: This is the problem with hearsay; the best it can do is to introduce all sorts of suspicion, and at least half the time it’s false.
When at last we turned onto a quieter street, Stephen said, “You look like you don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. But it’s an ugly story,” I said. “I’d hate to think anyone would abuse their influence that way.”
He snorted. “There are a lot of ugly stories, and plenty of his kind abuse their influence, as you say, to hurt decent people.”
The strain in his voice suggested that he had received this sort of treatment himself, and recently enough that the injury was still raw.
“Well, let’s never mind them for now and enjoy ourselves,” I said lightly. “Where are we going?”
He seemed glad enough t
o take my cue and smiled down at me. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it. The chef studied with Urbain Dubois, who worked for the Hohenzollern family, and the food is excellent.”
We crossed into Mayfair, and he led me up a street that was broader and finer than mine, with elegant porticos set back from the footway. He stopped at number 74 and pushed open the door.
It had once been a house but had been converted to a fine eating establishment. A thick Turkish carpet covered most of the marble floor of the foyer, an electrified chandelier sparkled overhead, and the rooms to my left and right held tables set with fine white linen and silver candlesticks that shimmered in the light from the wall sconces. Somewhere a quartet of string instruments played a concerto that I’d never heard, performing it so well that I wondered how Stephen seemed not to notice it. But then again, he’d been here before. As we waited for the proprietor, I surveyed the diners—the men in black coats and the women with their bare shoulders and glittering jewelry—and suddenly became aware that Stephen, in his own elegant coat and trousers, was dressed far more suitably than I, in my secondhand music hall attire.
Feeling the blood rise to my cheeks, I muttered under my breath, “Stephen, I don’t belong here.”
“Nonsense. If you’re with me, you belong. I used to come here all the time with my father.”
There was no time for me to answer, for the maître d’hôtel came toward us. A look of consternation flashed across his face, but was replaced immediately by a polite smile: “Good evening, Mr. Gagnon.”
“We’ll sit in the back room, please, Wilson,” Stephen said, with the air of someone accustomed to being given his choice here. Again I found myself wondering why on earth this man was playing violin at a music hall for a few pounds a week. I couldn’t remember ever having met anyone so full of contradictions.
Wilson stiffened, and his voice became even more proper: “I’m afraid that room is full.”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “You mean my father is here.”
The maître d’s face remained impassive. “I think you would be more comfortable in this side room.” He gestured to the room on our right, and I prepared to follow him. “I have an excellent table near the fire—”
“We’ll sit in this room,” Stephen said, pointing to the left.
The maître d’s lips tightened, and he inclined his head. “Very good. Please come with me.”
He seated us at the lone unoccupied table, only large enough for two, near a window. I felt the draft immediately as we sat down. Why the need to sit in this room, at this uncomfortable table? And why would the maître d’ be so intent on keeping Stephen and his father apart? Nonplussed, I drew my napkin onto my lap before I realized that the waiter had intended to do it for me.
He laid the white cloth across Stephen’s lap, and as he turned away, Stephen’s expression grew obdurate. “I’m sorry about that. But I want to see my father. And this is the only way I can. He’ll have to walk through this room to get to the front door.”
He must have seen how I felt about serving as a pretext for coming here, for he hastened to add, “I would have come alone, if you’d said no. I haven’t seen my father in over a month. And he usually has a late dinner here on Mondays.”
“But why can’t you see your father when you like?”
“Because he’s disowned me. Cut me off without a shilling, as they say in novels.”
“Disowned you?” I echoed skeptically.
“It’s a rather long story, and not even particularly interesting—”
The waiter interrupted to serve us wine, and as Stephen went silent, I heard a particularly beautiful passage from the quartet.
Impulsively, I asked the waiter, “What is this piece of music?”
He finished pouring before he answered. “I don’t know. But I can find out if you’d like.”
“Yes, please.”
He left us, and I took a sip of wine. Matthew and I rarely had it at home, and I savored the tang of it across the front of my tongue, the warmth as it slid down my throat.
“I’d like to tell you—if you really want to hear it,” Stephen said.
It took me a moment to realize that he was referring to his story. And though his tone was diffident, I had the growing impression not only that I’d been brought to dinner to hear it and sympathize but also that I was being conscripted into some private drama of Stephen’s designing—rather like one of Hamlet’s players, an unwitting accomplice in catching the king.
“Of course I want to hear.” I sat back and arranged my napkin in my lap. “Especially if it has to do with how you ended up at the Octavian.”
My genuine interest reassured him, and his eyes dropped to the wineglass that he was turning in a slow circle on the table. When he finally looked up, his expression was sober, even sad.
“You told me you live with your brother,” he began. “Do you get on?”
“Yes, mostly.”
“Well, I have a brother, too—a very smart, charming elder brother—and we don’t. The truth is, he’s always been my father’s favorite.” He shrugged. “But it’s to be expected. They’re very much alike.”
“What’s his name?”
“Alfred. Same as my father—and his father.” He took a sip of his wine. “Back in the thirties, my grandfather began a shipping company. It did quite well, but when my father took over, it grew from four vessels to twenty. That’s when he began to move in better circles, which is where he met my mother, who is a relation—albeit somewhat distant—of the Earl of Hardwicke. About eighteen months after they married, my brother Alfred was born.”
“How much older than you is he?”
“Two years.” He paused. “We’re as different as night and day. He was always a fine student, especially in maths and history, and from the start, he was intrigued by my father’s business, whereas all I cared about was music. I played my mother’s piano from the time I was only two years old. When I was five, she bought me a violin and took me to Monsieur Rambeau. Do you know who he is?”
I shook my head.
“He’s one of the best violin teachers in London. His family fled France during the Revolution.”
“Of 1848?”
“Of 1789. His grandparents came with the clothes on their backs, a violin, and a gold ring, which—so the story goes—his grandfather pawned for a new bow the minute he got to London, so he could fiddle in the street for their supper.” An admiring smile crossed his lips. “At any rate, I began to study with him, and when it became clear I had talent, my mother spoke to my father about sending me to the Royal Academy. At first he refused to even consider it. His business holdings had grown so large, he felt he would eventually need both sons at the helm. His idea was that my brother could manage the financial end of things, and I could do some of the traveling required because I have an ear for languages. But my mother prevailed, and though my father refused to put more money than was absolutely necessary toward my ‘useless fiddling,’ as he called it, he allowed me to go to the Academy when I was twelve.” He paused for a moment, his eyes distant. “Everything was quite brilliant, until my sixth year, when a lie was spread that I’d organized a gambling party to steal my best friend’s violin.”
I stared, surprised by this odd turn to the story. “Why would anyone do that?”
He shook his head. “I’ve no bloody idea. I wasn’t even allowed to confront my accuser. I was simply thrown out.”
“But that’s absurdly unfair,” I said. “Surely there must have been a way to appeal, or—”
“They had what looked like proof. A pawn ticket among my things—that I’d never seen before—and the word of another one of his friends.” He shrugged, but his voice gained a bitter edge. “So I went to work for my father. I had no choice. Every day at seven o’clock, I accompanied him to the office, and every night I dreamed about escaping. All those numbers and dollars and crates and pounds of tea and bolts of silk.” A short, hard laugh escaped his lips. “I tried to care, b
ut I just couldn’t. And then I made a bookkeeping error and lost nearly five hundred pounds.”
My hand flew to my mouth. That was an enormous sum.
He winced. “I know. It was terrible. But—if it did nothing else, it showed that I had no business being there in the first place.” He leaned forward, his expression earnest. “Don’t you see? If my mind was so far away that I was going to make a mistake like that—well, I was never going to be any good at it!”
I found myself agreeing. “What did your father say?”
He sighed and sat back in his chair. “He was furious, of course. I told him the only thing I cared about was the violin, and he told me I could go to the devil, or wherever I liked, but he washed his hands of me. So my mother gave me some money, and I found a room with a friend I’d known at the Academy. I played for a while in a quartet at the Golden Bough.”
I nodded. It was one of the smaller music halls in London, patronized by those who liked classical music.
“But then it was time to move on, and I didn’t find a place right away. So I busked at Covent Garden until Mr. Williams found me.”
“You’ve had a rotten run of luck,” I observed, feeling genuinely sorry for him.
A flicker of a smile appeared. “Well, it seems to be changing. I think the Octavian is a good place for me—at least for a while. And I have you to thank for it.”
I smiled in return. “Well, if I helped you, I’m glad.”
At that moment, our first course, a fish soup, arrived. As the waiter set it down, he murmured, “I asked about the music, sir. It is a new work by a composer named Dvořák. Number five in F minor, and it was composed last year.”
I’d heard of Dvořák but not this piece. I committed its name to memory, to find later, and thanked the waiter with a smile.
As I had not eaten since teatime, the smell of the broth made the saliva come into my mouth, and I applied myself to it eagerly. The soup was creamy and thick, and the pieces of fish came apart, sweet and salty, against my tongue.
Stephen seemed as hungry as I was, and we ate in silence for several minutes. Finally, I wiped my mouth with my napkin and said, “Well, forgive me for saying so, but it seems rather hopeless. If your father is determined to think the worst of you, why do you want to see him tonight?”