Love in a Major Key

by Fiona Hill

  Daphne herself was furious. It occurred to her that William was consciously attempting to coerce her into accepting his suit in the same way that Lady Ballard had coerced Lord Midlake. Whether or not this was so, she was in a raging passion by the time he finished his speech, and it was all she could do not to jump up and contradict his every word. After all the effort she had spent trying to conciliate him! After being at such pains to spare him embarrassment! She made sure of one thing in her mind, if she did not do so aloud: she would not allow herself to be forced into any such betrothal; in fact, she would not allow herself to be forced even to speak to him, were she ever so rude in avoiding him. She excused herself from the supper-table early, wishing all the while that Latimer were not so drunk. If he had been sober she would have begged him to come up to her room, so that she could vent her spleen to some one. As it was, however, he was in a haze of euphoria, and would make a very unsatisfactory confidant indeed.

  While Daphne paced her room angrily, wondering whether or not to leave Carwaith Abbey at once, her brother hit upon a notion which was destined, though he could not know this, to prove infelicitous in the extreme. Rising from the table soon after Daphne herself, he went to Sir Andrew’s study and made use of that gentleman’s pen and ink to write a letter. It was to his parents, and the fateful phrase ran thus: “William Ballard announced tonight that he has offered for Daphne and that she is considering his suit; everyone expects that she will accept him soon, as there seems to be good reason to believe that she will.” This missive he then sealed and handed into the care of Frolish, who put it with the other letter the Keyes’ had written that day. Long before Daphne was awake to learn of it, it had been sent.

  When at last every toast had been made that any one could imagine, the supper-table was abandoned and the company returned to calmer pursuits. Lord Midlake complained of a slight queasiness—due to having drunk a bit too much, no doubt—and retired early to bed after kissing his betrothed dutifully. She, already more than sated with his company for one day, turned this opportunity to good account by slipping upstairs herself and paying a visit to Daphne. The two young women had much to discuss.

  India refused to admit that she was otherwise than thoroughly content with her new future. “You do not know how it has been for me, my dear,” she said. “Time was running out. I am not old, but I am certainly not young; and I think you have seen enough of my parents by now to know how inviting the prospect of eternity with them appears to me. Midlake will be better by far—by far, I assure you.”

  “I am glad you still feel so,” Daphne returned. “I only hope you may continue to.”

  “I will; don’t fret. But now I think you must tell me what has gone on between you and William! That was rather a bizarre announcement he made tonight.”

  Daphne had made a space in her rage to consider her friend’s circumstances, but now her blood surged up again and she fairly spat her words. “Bizarre! I should think so. Insane comes closer; ungentlemanly, tactless, idiotic, self-defeating, insufferable…any of those, all of them! India, you know how dearly I love you, and you must believe how little I should like to quarrel with you—but your brother’s behaviour tonight has passed all bounds.” She paused, not because she had no more to say, but because too many-words were burning her tongue for her to chuse among them.

  “I was afraid of that,” India said simply. “I did not think you would have changed your mind so quickly.”

  “I have not changed my mind at all. Your brother talked to me at such length, and in such terms, that to promise him any thing less than to think of him seemed like murder, at the time.”

  “I suppose you wish now you had murdered him,” India sighed.

  “I am afraid I do.”

  “Yes. Well, you mustn’t feel badly. I know exactly what you are talking about. This isn’t the first time William has tried to bully people about…he doesn’t mean to, you know. It’s just his way.”

  “He might try to govern it.”

  “He gets it from my father.”

  They were both silent for a moment. “I won’t give in, you know,” Daphne said fiercely.

  “No, of course you must not. Try not to loath him, however; he probably believes you are sincerely attached to him, and are only too shy to admit it. I know it seems incredible, but hordes of men think that about the most unlikely women.”

  “Yes. Well,” said Daphne. An instant later, when she felt her anger die quite away, she confided sheepishly, “I was thinking of leaving the Abbey at once. Of course I will not now.”

  “O no, you cannot!” cried India. “There is some thing you do not know…I have been saving it for the right moment. I’m not sure this is quite the sort of moment I had envisioned, but—well, you are aware that William is about to reach his majority, of course.”

  “Yes,” said Daphne, puzzled. “On the fifth, is it not?”

  “Exactly. And you are aware, too, that my parents have been planning a large celebration of the event?”

  “Yes; you told me so yourself once. Any way, your mother mentioned this evening that she meant to turn it into a double celebration—for you and Lord Midlake. But I do not see—”

  “You will in a moment. O Daphne, I don’t know whether I will make you angry when I tell you this, but my mother suggested to me, while we were still in London, that we engage the services of a really good pianofortist. She asked me whom I should chuse myself, and I—O my dear friend, don’t bite me when I tell you this—but I proposed Mr. Christian Livingston. He is coming here next week.”

  Chapter IX

  News among the ton travels rapidly, even when—one might almost say, particularly when—it is not quite true. No sooner had Lady Keyes received her son’s brief post script to the earlier, longer letter, than she sat down at her writing-table and scribbled a note to her grandmother. It was delivered to the drawing-room of Dome House not two days later, and when Lady Bryde had opened it, and had made her way through the courteous salutation, the polite inquiries, and the requisite mention of every one’s health, she came to the following:

  Having had two letters from Carwaith Abbey today, I am delighted to be able to inform you that the match you had hoped to see made between Daphne and William Ballard is well on its way to successful completion. I must confess, dear ma’am, that you were right to press us to visit London, since it has brought so many people so much happiness.

  Below this was another paragraph, concerned mainly with the bailiff of Verchamp Park, who had succumbed to a fit of apoplexy and had to be replaced, and then the formal closing of the letter, which was almost so long as to make a paragraph in itself.

  Lady Bryde folded the letter and tucked it into the volume she had been reading—a book entitled Travels through Africa, by a Mrs. Hodgeson. The expression on her withered countenance was one of delicious anticipation. She rang for Hastings, who came immediately, and invited him (for the first time in his thirty years of service to her) to sit down. The interview which ensued, behind the closed doors of the drawing-room, lasted about two hours.

  Lady Bryde had a very clear mental image, while she did these things, of what scenes must be going forward at Carwaith Abbey. As it happened, the dramas she imagined were very far from the true case. Daphne, instead of being absorbed in pleasant reverie about her future life with William, was entirely preoccupied with Christian Livingston, whose arrival was imminent. She had interrogated India a score of times regarding him: “Did Mr. Livingston know Miss Keyes was to be at the Abbey?”

  India was not certain.

  “Was Mr. Livingston expected to stop at Carwaith for any length of time after the celebration?”

  India believed so.

  “How long, then?”

  Miss Ballard would ask her mother—who said that, of course, he would stay as long as any of the guests, since that was the custom in these things.

  “Were there guests who meant to stay long?”

  Lord and Lady Frane were expected t
o stop a week.

  “Ought Miss Keyes to leave the Abbey directly, before he came—in spite of the odd impression it would give?”

  Miss Ballard would never forgive her.

  “Well then, was she quite certain there was no means of finding out whether Mr. Livingston knew Miss Keyes would be there?”

  “For Heaven’s sake, Daphne!” cried India, when her friend had asked this question for perhaps the hundredth time. “If he does not know you are with us, you may be certain he soon will.”

  “But India,” said Miss Keyes in distress, “what will he say to it? How shall I behave towards him? I gave him the cut direct, you know, at Vauxhall.”

  “Very likely he did not even notice.”

  “He could not help but notice.”

  “Then he will pardon you. He will understand.”

  “How can he, when I do not understand myself?”

  “My dear Daphne, we must try to sort this thing out. Now precisely what do you want from Mr. Livingston? Will you be happy to see him?”

  “I don’t—O dear, truly I do not know. In London, just before my illness, I made sure I never wished to see him again.”

  “But now you think perhaps you would like to.”

  “Yes—that is, no. No, India, I cannot see him. I swore an oath that I would not.”

  “Indeed?” she asked, surprised. “To whom?”

  “To myself.”

  “O, well if that is all…why did you do such a thing?”

  “Because I cannot believe he wishes me well; because if he were a friend to me, he would not have proposed such a painful…I do not even know what to call it.”

  “But I am a friend to you, and I proposed just the same thing.”

  “Yes, but that is different. You are—I understand you better. You are a woman. You can have no…no unspoken motive.”

  “And can he?”

  “But of course! He—” she faltered.

  “Come my dear,” said India, taking her hand and leaning towards her. “There is a carriage in the drive and I believe it must be Charles’ parents. I ought to go and greet them, but before I do, let me say one last word. Christian Livingston is a pianofortist. He has been engaged to play here by my parents. If you do not like to, there is no need whatever for you to speak to him. If you find you should like to, however—if you find yourself drawn to him, well then go to him. He has nothing to gain by a liaison with you except the mutual pleasure it will afford both of you. Of course you must do nothing—decisive—until you are married…and my dear, you really might consider marrying William, under the circumstances. He is not a bad fellow, after all, and it would make him very happy.” Daphne was about to protest, but India continued before she could speak. “But if you still do not like the idea, then refuse him. Mr. Livingston will wait, and when you do marry—as I am sure you will—you may pursue your acquaintance with him then. There, that is all I have to say on that head, and I sincerely hope you will stop fretting about it. I really must go and meet the Stickneys now…forgive me for running off.” On these words she rose, leaving Daphne alone.

  Mr. Livingston arrived on the day following this conversation. Very little fuss was made over him, since the Earl and Countess of Colworth had driven up five minutes before him, and Lady Ballard’s cousin Clarissa descended from her coach five minutes later. Lady Ballard received them all equably; Frolish and the footmen under him ran up and down-stairs all day, arranging baggage and instructing the various servants who accompanied their employers as to the location of the kitchens, the stables, and the back-stairs. The great celebration was to take place tomorrow; in all, about sixteen persons, not counting the house-party, sat down to supper that evening. Those who lived close enough to the Abbey to make it feasible would arrive the next day; very few were the guests who could manage to come and go on the evening of the gala itself. Carwaith simply teemed with people, but Lady Ballard was nothing if not a competent hostess and she never once forgot herself. Every detail had been planned, and every thing went on as she had foreseen—except that one place at the supper-table was empty, and had to be removed. That place, of course, belonged to Daphne, who had kept to her room ever since Christian’s arrival. India had warned her that he would be treated, in general, as a guest (since this was a country house)—which meant that he would take his meals with the others. The fact that “the others” did not include Miss Keyes tonight disturbed William Ballard more than any one else; Mr. Livingston had noticed Latimer, but he did not know that his sister was with him.

  It did occur to him, however, that she might be, and he took pains after supper to discover if it were so. Several of the guests had gone directly to bed, being fatigued from travel; a number of them lounged about the billiard-room and not a few strolled through the gardens. Mr. Livingston—whose status in the present circumstances was so unclear that very few of the invited guests knew whether, or how, to talk to him—wandered alone from the supper-room into the Eastern Parlour, where he found, among others, Mr. Latimer Keyes. He hesitated before addressing the younger man: his position in the company was as murky to him as it was to any of the others, a fact which he found most disconcerting. He reasoned at last, however, that if Lady Ballard expected him to dine with the others, she must also expect him to become acquainted with her guests; arming himself with this logic, he tapped Latimer on the shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Latimer, turning. “O, it is you. Aren’t you the fellow who—”

  “I am Christian Livingston,” said he.

  “Ah yes. I don’t believe I’ve actually had the pleasure—”

  “No, I think not. You must pardon me for introducing myself,” he went on, “but I thought I recognised your face. You are Mr. Keyes, are you not?”

  “I am,” said he, pleased to have been remembered.

  “I would have asked our hostess—or rather, your hostess—to introduce us, but she has been so very occupied.”

  “Indeed,” Latimer agree. He had been standing, with several others, round a young nephew of Sir Andrew’s who had produced a number of curious playthings made of wood and phosphorous, which he called matches. They made a flame when struck against any thing rough, and were quite fascinating, though apparently useless. Now Latimer detached himself from the group and stood a little apart with Mr. Livingston, who was some six inches taller than himself and looked down upon him amiably. “You are to play tomorrow night, sir?” he asked.

  Mr. Livingston bowed. “To say truth, I am a little at a loss for what to do with myself now, however. I am not accustomed to being among Society, except when my services are required. This is the first time I have played any where but in London; it is rather confusing.”

  “Really? The first time? Then you have never been to a country affair before?” asked Latimer, as if he had been to dozens of them.

  “Never at all,” Christian agreed. “Are you a friend of Master Ballard’s, or a relative—?”

  “O, I do not think they would have invited me if it had not been for Daphne—my sister, that is. She is a bosom bow of Miss Ballard’s, you know, and,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “it looks as if she is about to accept William. He offered for her yesterday.”

  This information affected Christian strongly, and in several ways. First of all, he was inexpressibly delighted to learn that Daphne was indeed present; he had been entirely unaware that she might be, for though he had been lucky enough to overhear that she was leaving London, he could not discover where she had gone. Along with the pleasure of that, however, came the rather grating news that she might be about to marry. Though he had counselled her to do so himself, he could not quite be glad about it. Lastly, it occurred to him that she might be marrying precisely because he had advised it, in which case…the possibilities were enormously intriguing, and he found himself consumed with curiosity. “Is that so?” he answered politely, as if it were nothing to him. “I am not certain I have met your sister…where did she sit at supper?”
r />   “O, she was not at supper at all. I suppose you cannot have met her, if you thought she was.”

  “Quite so. I hope she is not unwell?”

  “No—at least, I do not think so. I believe she has the headache, and wished to sup alone. Nothing serious, though, or I am sure she would have told me.”

  “Of course,” said Christian.

  “I say, didn’t you play at her come-out? I don’t go in much for music myself, but I could have sworn it was you.”

  Mr. Livingston smiled. “It may well have been. I played at so many come-outs this Season, I could not really be certain.”

  “O well. No doubt when you see her you will remember if you did—or perhaps she will,” said Latimer carelessly.

  “Yes. Perhaps she will.” Mr. Livingston smiled again, bowed, and excused himself. He went into the drawing-room to try the key-board of the Abbey’s elegant pianoforte, which was of oak, with mahogany and tulipwood marquetry. After a few minutes, during which he tried to become accustomed to its action, he realized suddenly how tired he was and went up to bed. He was disappointed, when morning came, to find that Daphne had not come down to breakfast; he sat again at the instrument in the drawing-room to stretch his fingers a bit and to while away the hours until she should appear.