by Mary Balogh
He would doubtless have been laughed at if he had presented a mere boy, of whom no one had ever heard and whose voice, though undoubtedly lovely, was also untrained.
No, he would not have been laughed at. His audience would have been spellbound, as he had been just minutes ago.
He felt an unaccountable wave of sadness—yes, sadness, not chagrin, he thought, testing the word in his mind—at the knowledge that he would never hear that voice again. How the shepherds of Bethlehem, he thought with an unaccustomed flight of fancy, must have found their lives blighted by their inability to hear again the heavenly host of angels after the night when they had proclaimed the birth of a baby in a stable.
His mind ached with the memory of that youthful, pure voice.
Fanny was still feeling cross and out of sorts the following morning. And a little guilty, though she had no reason to feel that at least, she assured herself. How dared he address her in the middle of Bond Street, even if Katie had pulled at his greatcoat and introduced herself. How dared he assume that she would jump at the chance of putting Matthew on display for his rakish friends.
Oh no, that was not quite true, of course. After Lord Heath had stalked away in high dudgeon at having his will crossed, Mr. Parkinson, one of the quieter and more genteel of the carol singers, had informed her that his lordship did indeed have a reputation as a connoisseur of good music. He gave an annual concert in his London home at which he gathered some of the most prestigious performers in all of Europe. Invitations to his concerts were much coveted.
Matthew might have sung at such a concert.
But Matthew was an eight-year-old child. She had no wish to put him on display as if he were some sort of circus performer, even if the audience was to be a knowledgeable and appreciative one.
Matthew himself had seen the matter differently, of course. He had been severely disappointed and had made her know it by pouting and being unusually quiet for the rest of the day. The most irritating fact was that he had said nothing, and so she had not had the opportunity to work out her irritation on him. And how dreadful to think that she might have done so.
She had scolded Katie and given her the usual lecture about talking to strangers and about ladylike conduct. And the child had been punished when they arrived home by being made to sit on a hard chair in the nursery for a whole hour without talking and without occupation.
But Katie had borne the scold with quiet, wide-eyed patience, and when Fanny had stood in the doorway of the nursery after half an hour, trying not to give in to weakness and release her daughter early, it had been to find Katie sitting with her eyes tightly shut, her hands pressed together, and her lips silently moving, for all the world as if she were in prayer. She had been deeply involved in some game and had clearly not been suffering unduly from the punishment.
Now today Fanny felt depressed. She had deprived her children of company over Christmas; she had taken Matthew away early from yesterday’s carol singing although he had been wildly excited in anticipation of it; she had been forced to punish Katie; and she was more aware of her own loneliness even than she had been every other Christmas since Boris’s death.
The truth was, she thought with sheepish annoyance, that she had had a foolish tendre for Lord Heath during her girlhood. All the young ladies of her acquaintance had, of course. Everything about him—his looks, his wealth, his arrogance, his elegance, his reputation—had given him an irresistible appeal. She had been very sensible. She had dutifully looked about her for a suitable husband and had equally dutifully fallen in love with Boris when it had become obvious that he was the one. But it was about Lord Heath that she had woven dreams right up until the time of her wedding. She could recall feeling mortally envious of Miss Dryden, one of her friends, with whom he had danced on one occasion.
And yesterday, she thought with brutal honesty, she had noticed how everything about him had only improved with the passage of nine years—including the harsh perfection of his features and the arrogance of his expression. And she had felt breathless and weak at the knees.
How despicable! The very thought made her feel embarrassed, just as if someone had caught her at it.
She sighed and made her way to the nursery. She had half promised to meet a few of her lady friends at the library, but she felt the need to spend the time with her children and to try to mend bridges. She was intercepted before she arrived there, however, first by the sound of the door knocker below, then by the sound of male voices—more than one—and then, as she stood still waiting, by the appearance of John’s butler, who had come upstairs to announce to her the arrival of the vicar of her church. She looked down at herself, decided she was presentable enough, ran her hands over her hair to make sure that no curl had broken free of her careful chignon, and went down to the visitors’ salon.
The Reverend Josiah Barker was not alone. As he bowed and greeted her with his usual hearty smile and voice, she became aware of another gentleman standing some distance away, before the window. A large man with a many-caped greatcoat. Him. She scarcely needed to turn her head to ascertain the fact.
“Mrs. Berlinton, ma’am,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands together as if washing them, “may I have the great honor of presenting to you his lordship, Baron Heath?”
Lord Heath bowed. Fanny curtsied and felt astonishment—and anger. And that weakness in the knees again. He seemed to half fill the salon. He seemed to have sucked half the air out of it.
“A quite astonishing stroke of good fortune, Mrs. Berlinton,” the vicar said. “His lordship heard our dear carolers on Bond Street yesterday and was so impressed by their singing that he has engaged them to sing during a concert at his town house tomorrow evening. He has agreed to make a most generous donation to our repairs fund.”
His lordship was looking at her quite intently, his lips pursed.
“And his lordship has specifically requested that your dear son sing his solo piece,” the vicar said. “I can only applaud his taste, ma’am. It is a great honor for our carolers and for your young Matthew in particular.”
How dared he! He had tricked her, made it almost impossible for her to say no.
“It is an evening concert?” she asked the vicar, ignoring her other, silent visitor. “I regret that it will be too late for Matthew, Mr. Barker. But the carolers have functioned very well without him for twenty-seven years. I am sure they will acquit themselves very well indeed without him tomorrow evening.”
Lord Heath spoke for the first time. “But I have made my invitation to the carolers conditional upon their bringing your son with them, ma’am,” he said.
Ah. So he had her. Miss Kemp and everyone else would be ecstatic. The Reverend Barker was fair to bursting with pride—and with excitement over the projected boost to his repairs fund. And really she had no good reason for preventing her son from sharing his talent with true music lovers.
But she seethed with resentment at the trickery.
“I see,” she said as icily as she could, her eyes directly on Lord Heath’s so that he would know that indeed she did see. Obviously he had discovered that she was a widow, that her brother-in-law, Matthew’s male guardian, was from home. Doubtless he had thought—quite correctly—that she would be easily vanquished.
“I should like to speak with your son,” he said. “There is little time for rehearsal, but I would like to discuss with him what he will sing. I would like you to bring him today or tomorrow—or perhaps both days—so that he may practice in the music room and accustom himself to its acoustics.”
Her chin shot up. “And has this invitation been extended to the whole group of carolers, my lord?” she asked. “I shall send to Miss Kemp and find out when they are planning to call at your house for rehearsal.”
He pursed his lips again. “A group of carolers may simply be themselves, ma’am,” he said. “A child soloist—”
“—will also simply be himself,” she said sharply.
He raised his eyebrows and
looked at least twice as arrogant as usual. Doubtless he was unaccustomed to being interrupted.
“Miss Kemp has kindly offered to accompany you and dear Matthew for rehearsal, Mrs. Berlinton,” the vicar said. “She will call upon you early this afternoon to see if today is convenient to you. The child does indeed have an angelic voice, my lord, as you so perceptively remarked. And a disposition to match.”
“May I speak with him, ma’am?” Lord Heath asked, a trace of well-bred impatience in his voice.
Fanny compressed her lips. Perhaps, she thought, she would feel the honor if this offer were being made by anyone except him. She could not reconcile her image of him as elegant rake with that of connoisseur of musical talent. And she did not appreciate the idea that she was being treated as some sort of servant, providing her son to offer entertainment to his tonnish friends. She wondered if she would be kept waiting in the kitchen while he sang.
She was being foolish, she decided. It was an honor. Matthew would be thrilled. And it would happen only once. It would not be wrong for a child to participate in a Christmas concert. Christmas was about a child.
“I shall fetch him down myself,” she said, addressing herself to the vicar. “Though I do not know what there is to discuss. He will sing what his lordship overheard yesterday. That is all.”
“Yes, do fetch the boy,” Lord Heath said, sounding faintly bored as she turned to the door.
Katie had not been at all sure her prayers would be listened to, let alone answered, since she had been sitting in the punishment chair when she had said them. Sometimes she wished Mama would simply spank her when she was bad as Aunt Mercy did with the cousins, but Mama never did spank.
But perhaps God had thought the tedious time in the chair punishment enough, because He had answered her prayer. At least she thought He had answered. That gentleman had come this morning—Matt had returned to the nursery after being taken down by Mama and had said that it was the very same man who pointed his cane at Miss Kemp and looked at her, Katie, with his huge, magnified eye.
And now this afternoon they had come, the three of them, with Miss Kemp, to the gentleman’s own house and had been shown into a huge room with a pianoforte set right in the middle of it and a big thing beside it that Mama said was a harp. Matt was going to sing, and he was so horribly excited that he had been unable to eat his midday meal even though Nurse had tried to coax and even force him.
Katie did not know how coming to this house so that Matt could sing was going to make the gentleman into her papa, but she trusted God. At least she thought she did. She still remembered uneasily that He had wanted her first papa and had taken him away without a by-your-leave.
Even after the gentleman had come into the room and bowed and she and Mama and Miss Kemp had curtsied and Matt had bowed, she did not know how he was going to be her papa. He looked far smarter in his clothes than Uncle John did, but he did not smile and Mama did not smile and for some reason there was a terrible stiffness in the room despite the fact that Miss Kemp was telling the gentleman what a splendid room it was. But she did not have to tell him that. He must have known it for himself.
His eyes warmed when he looked at Matt, though, and he spoke to him as if he were a real person.
“Well, Matthew,” he said, “do you find the room daunting?”
“No, sir,” Matthew said, but Katie could tell from his voice that he did really, though she could only guess at the meaning of that unfamiliar word.
Katie did not listen closely to what followed. They talked about what Matt would sing. He would sing only one song, Mama said, sounding firm as she did when Matthew tried to wheedle her into letting them stay up a little later at night. But the gentleman said there would have to be something else called an encore. Miss Kemp said something about the harp, causing the gentleman to frown. And then he had Mama and Miss Kemp sit down on two chairs close to the pianoforte and had Matt stand beside it. And Matt started to sing the song about the little tiny child. His voice wobbled almost as Miss Kemp’s always did and the gentleman told him to stop, to draw a few breaths, to take his time, and to try again. After that Matt sang more properly. The gentleman went to stand a long distance away, near the door.
Katie wondered if she had been mistaken, if perhaps he could not be her new papa after all. He had not once looked at her. She could not quite imagine him wrestling with Matt or tossing her at the ceiling. Though she wished he would try it. He looked very big and strong. If Uncle John could catch the cousins, she was sure this gentleman would catch her. She would not even shriek in terror. She would know that he would not drop her.
She wandered away from her place after a minute or two. Mama did not notice, or anyone else either. They were all listening to Matt, whose voice sounded very loud in this great room. She walked toward the gentleman. She wanted to test her own feelings. She rather thought she would be frightened when she got close, but she was not sure. His pantaloons were very tight, she thought. In fact, if they had been pink, she would not have been quite sure they were not simply skin. The thought amused her and she reached out a hand to feel them, to assure herself that they really were just pantaloons and not biscuit-colored skin.
He looked down at her, startled, and she almost jumped back in alarm. But she did something else instead, something really very silly because Nurse had told her long ago that it was a babyish thing to do. She stretched both arms above her head.
The gentleman continued to look down at her, just as if he did not quite know what it was she wanted—or as if he did not want to know. God was playing tricks with her, Katie decided, and was about to let her arms fall. She thought she very well might cry, but that was a really babyish thing to do and she would not do two such things in a row. She was four years old and no baby.
And then he stooped down and picked her up. She was amazed at his strength. Up she went with seemingly no effort at all, just as if she weighed a feather. She came to rest seated securely and comfortably on one of his arms, with her face only inches from his own. He turned away when she gazed into his eyes, and looked back at Matt. They were blue eyes. She liked the idea of a papa with blue eyes.
Matt faltered and Miss Kemp had to remind him of the words. He started again.
There was something strange about the gentleman’s face. It looked different from Mama’s or Nurse’s. Katie stared at it until curiosity got the better of good manńers. She touched his jaw with one finger and ran it lightly downward. Smooth. She ran the finger upward. Not quite so smooth. She pressed harder and pushed her finger upward again. There was a funny tickling feeling.
And then she looked up to find the gentleman’s eyes on her. “Well, little one,” he said very softly, “did I not shave closely enough for you this morning?” And for the merest moment—she almost missed it—his eyes smiled at her.
It was at that moment that Katie fell irrevocably in love with him and decided that she must, she simply must have him as a papa. Uncle John had never almost smiled at her in quite that way. And she had been quite right in her guess yesterday. She felt wonderfully safe up where she was.
“No, sir,” she whispered, not knowing quite what his words had meant but giving the reply she thought he wanted. His lips twitched. He wanted to smile outright, she thought, but would not do so for some reason.
A few minutes later Katie was sure that she was bound for the punishment chair again as soon as she arrived home. Mama spun about, her eyes grew as large as saucers, her hand flew to her mouth, and she jumped to her feet. Miss Kemp was saying something to Matt about expression. But the gentleman spoke up.
“I beg you not to agitate yourself, ma’am,” he said out loud. “She is safe here with me. You will find, Matthew, that in a room that has been designed for music, as this one has, you do not need to sing with full volume in order to be heard. I would like you to sing again, forgetting the presence of your mother and of Miss Kemp, forgetting my presence. Let yourself feel the room and what it requires of you. Listen
to your own voice and work with the room. Relax and let your own musical instinct guide you.”
Miss Kemp sat down without another word. So did Mama. Katie gazed at the gentleman, who had understood that Matt felt small and bewildered and frightened. He had not softened his voice as adults usually did when they wanted children to think them kind, but Katie had understood his kindness anyway. So had Matt. He visibly relaxed.
“Well, little one,” the gentleman asked quietly before Matt started singing again, “and what do you want for Christmas?”
A doll, she almost said in answer to the familiar question. But she stopped herself. “It is a secret,” she told him. “But I will whisper it to you if you wish.”
He raised his eyebrows. They arched very nicely. She must look in the mirror to see if she could do that.
“I want a new papa,” she whispered to him.
“Indeed?” His eyebrows lifted even higher. “And do you have anyone in mind, pray?”
She nodded firmly and felt a shiver of excitement all along her spine. But soon it was a shiver of something else. His look of near amusement disappeared and his eyes flattened if eyes could do that. They looked as if they had flattened.
“Indeed?” he said again.
Matt started to sing again then and Katie could tell immediately that he had forgotten his excitement and indeed everybody and everything except the carol he sang. The gentleman watched him intently, and she could tell that he had forgotten all about her. She was glad of it. He did not want to be her papa, she thought. She had been very bold and had almost told him that that was what she wanted, but he had turned chilly and flat-eyed and had said, “Indeed?” in that voice she would try to imitate when she was alone with her dolls. How she would make her dolls tremble!
She felt again a little like crying but stayed still until Matt came near to the end of his song. Then she wriggled.
“Down, please,” she demanded, trying to use the same expression and tone of voice as he had used when he had said, “Indeed?”
He set her down without a word and she scurried back to her mother, wishing that she had asked God only for a doll for Christmas. She was more sure of getting a doll than a papa. There would be less chance of disappointment. But it was too late now. She had made her wish and set her heart on having it granted. She was going to be awfully disappointed.