‘That piece causes trouble for quite a few players, you know, but I wanted to hear you play it for it helps me understand your competence and what you have learned thus far.’
Kitty sighed.
‘Do not be so critical of yourself, Miss Bennet! Not at this stage, please. There will be time for that later on, when we advance.’ He laughed, hoping to elevate Kitty’s mood. ‘Do not underestimate your skills. We have only just begun but with practice you will make progress. It seems to me you have an innate understanding of the way the music should be played, an appreciation of what the composer wanted – and this is very important. It is something I cannot teach, but only you can feel. Do you see?’
Kitty saw this as a compliment and her confidence rose a little.
‘I should like to hear you sing,’ he continued and, without giving Kitty time to protest or demur, he moved behind the pianoforte and led her in front of it.
‘Anything you like, Miss Bennet. A song you learned as a child; something you are fond of; something you have heard lately?’
Kitty was mortified. She felt her colour rise but, with it, a determination not to appear young and foolish in front of Mr Adams. Even so, she hesitated; yes, she could sing – everyone could sing – but did she sing well? She thought not.
‘Anything that comes to mind,’ he reiterated. ‘When you are ready, breathe deeply and begin.’
Kitty took a deep breath as instructed, looked at the ceiling, opened her mouth. And stopped. She looked at the ground, fighting with herself to continue.
‘I have a better idea,’ said Mr Adams, unperturbed and rifling through his sheet music. ‘We will sing together. Do you know this one?’ Kitty looked and nodded. ‘Very well, then. With me, on the count of three.’
They began. Henry Adams’ pleasing tenor filled the room and Kitty could hear her clearer, lighter voice as she accompanied him, wavering slightly at first and then rising in strength and volume as she began to realise that they were in harmony. After two verses, Mr Adams stopped singing but gestured to Kitty to continue, and she found that not only could she continue, but that she was quite carried along by the melody. Her whole being was given over to achieving the notes and taking pleasure in the sound and song she was making. As the last note trembled and died, Kitty felt a mix of triumph and fear, hardly daring to look at Mr Adams for his reaction.
The music master remained silent for a moment, an agonisingly long time when one is hoping for praise and encouragement but fearing none will be forthcoming, and eventually said: ‘That was well done. Not perfect, as I am sure you are aware, but there is a crystal quality to your voice that is not often heard. With practice, believe me, it can be made even clearer. A fine soprano, indeed. If you are prepared to work.’
‘Oh, I am! I am!’ Kitty assured him, laughing in relief. ‘If you really think that I can improve?’
‘Certainly, I do. It will take some practice and application, but I venture that you will be surprised at your own capabilities. However, I think we have done enough for today. Do you agree?’
Kitty did most certainly agree and, having determined on further practice two days’ hence, the conversation turned to the newly formed Philharmonic Society, whose inaugural concert was taking place that evening, and then to Georgiana Darcy who, Kitty informed Mr Adams, was expected in London within a week.
‘I understand Miss Darcy is proficient in the pianoforte,’ said she.
‘That is so. She has been playing for many years now. She now has a fine Broadwood grand in the Berkeley Square house. No doubt you will see for yourself once the party has arrived.’
‘I am sure I shall, although I would not presume to play it. I do not wish to expose myself to ridicule.’
‘I think that unlikely. Your playing is entirely competent; you merely lack practice and some easily learned skills. You will be surprised at your abilities. Unlike many young ladies, it seems to me you enjoy playing and if that is the case an audience is quite unnecessary.’
Kitty had to admit that she did enjoy playing, something she had repressed for many years in the belief that she had no talent. Her sister Mary, who had studied music assiduously and could no doubt match Mr Adams on theory and historical detail, was a mechanical and plodding player whose performances could render an audience silent for entirely the wrong reasons. Mary had never let critical self-assessment stand in the way of recitals. The last time her sister had taken possession of a pianoforte outside Longbourn was at a ball at Netherfield and it was not a happy memory, although the only person unaware of that had been Mary herself. Kitty had no wish to make a similar discordant mark but perhaps, if her teacher were to be believed, she might not.
‘What of you, Mr Adams. How do you come to play and sing so well?’
‘I really cannot take too much praise for the gifts nature has afforded me but I must credit my father for teaching me most of what I know. He is a fine musician himself. He has been the organist at the French Embassy Chapel for many years as well as at the Oxford Chapel in Marylebone. He tells me that as a very young child I would make noise with whatever “instruments” came to hand – anything from a kitchen pot to a whistle, I understand – so he was forced to give me a recorder and when that became too much he taught me to play the spinet. So you can see that I ought to have improved considerably with so much practice and attention. I have been fortunate, too, in being afforded opportunity to keep playing through teaching and at the church.’
‘I should like to have heard you play the kitchen pots,’ said Kitty, smiling.
‘I am not sure you would,’ returned he. ‘My mother was quick to remove them from me. Said I hurt her ears. J’ai mal aux oreilles! I do not speak French, but I know that phrase very well!’
‘Your mother is French?’ Kitty was not sure she had met anyone of French extraction before; this made Henry Adams even more interesting.
‘Yes, from Normandy. My father met and married her there, and they came to live in London a year later. She is a fine singer herself.’
‘My mother does not sing, but she would have confiscated any pots or pans my sisters and I were playing, I am quite sure. She has very delicate nerves and does not tolerate noise well, unless it is of her own making.’
‘But you had a pianoforte in your home?’
‘Indeed yes, we still do. My eldest sisters are quite proficient and used to teach me a little when I was young but – I am not sure why really – I stopped playing for quite a while.’ It was when she was recovering from her illness, Kitty remembered, and Elizabeth and Mary would jostle for whose turn it was to play and, as she feared she could not compete well, it had been easier to let them be and just listen. Why was I such a passive creature? Kitty wondered.
‘It is getting late. I will take my leave of you now,’ said Mr Adams, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I look forward to our next meeting the day after tomorrow.’
‘Yes. Forgive me,’ said Kitty. ‘I was quite lost in memory for a moment.’ She bade him farewell and he was gone. She thought back to the evening she had first heard him play, and smiled. Yes, she very much wanted to improve her musical skills and if the audience consisted solely of Henry Adams, well let it be so.
CHAPTER 16
A few days later, Charles came to the breakfast table looking most pleased with himself. He had secured tickets to the Philharmonic Society’s second concert at the Argyll Rooms in Westminster. ‘I tried dashed hard to get some for the inaugural performance last week but the subscription was sold too quick,’ he told Jane. ‘By chance I met Sir Edward at the club and – I don’t know how – but the fellow said he could offer me four places – something about friends of his having to return to the country earlier than they had expected, family fracas of some kind. I wish them well of course, but fine luck for us, I say. Of course, I took them straightaway. We are not engaged elsewhere on Monday, my dear? I am sure we are not.’
‘No, indeed,’ answered Jane mildly. ‘What an amiable gentleman S
ir Edward is. It is most kind of him. His daughter and her husband are still in town?’
‘Indeed, they are, and will be attending the concert with him. Has Mrs Bridgwater mentioned it to you, Caroline? You will come with us, I trust? And you, Kitty, I have included you in our party of course. There will be three Mozart pieces, some Haydn and Bach. I have details of the programme somewhere, I will find them for you this morning.’
Kitty’s enthusiasm for the entertainment more than compensated for Miss Bingley’s world-weary acquiescence. To visit the Argyll Rooms and hear a concert there was yet another delight for Kitty, another piece of London and its culture that she anticipated with pleasure. She had read the reviews of the inaugural concert, which had featured Beethoven and Boccherini, as well as Mozart and Haydn ‘whose sinfonias blazed like a comet in our musical atmosphere’, and was exceedingly pleased to be going to something so new and exciting. She would discuss it with Henry Adams when she saw him next; she was sure he was acquainted with some members of the society, perhaps the musicians themselves.
She found herself very much looking forward to her lessons with Mr Adams – she had seen him twice now and he would be at Brook Street again that day – and her appreciation of music, of scales and tones, was increasing rapidly. As was her appreciation of Mr Adams himself, whose hair had a most becoming habit of falling on to his forehead when his playing became animated. Such personal attributes may have caused her momentary distraction from her playing, it is true, but her wish to impress and please him with her musical progress spurred her on more than any other maestro might have done. Altogether, it was a happy mix of natural talent, youthful enthusiasm and the frisson of mutual regard. Kitty dared to believe that Henry Adams rather enjoyed her company, too, and not only as a music master.
Alas, he was not a man of fortune, not even a small fortune, and Kitty was no heiress who could rescue him from impecunity. Had Mrs Bennet the ability to read her daughter’s thoughts, it is hard to know whether she would be alarmed or enraptured at Kitty’s practical view of his prospects and her increasing acceptance for the need, if not the desirability, of an advantageous match. With two of her sisters so very well married, it was perhaps entirely understandable that Miss Catherine Bennet would be looking beyond the previous, purely superficial, attractions of an officer in a red coat. Still thinking about the agreeable albeit poor Mr Adams, and the Philharmonic Society’s concert, Kitty wandered over to the pianoforte and gave herself up to practising.
As it turned out, her next lesson was either too demanding or Kitty’s patience was too short. In any event, she was hard put to restrain her annoyance over her own shortcomings. Luckily for both parties, Mr Adams had more experience in teaching young ladies how to overcome their frustrations with musical instruments than Kitty had in exercising forbearance. He had heard outbursts of despair before – much worse than Kitty’s disheartened remonstrances to herself – and was able to weather such storms and calm the waters. In Kitty’s case, the solution was really quite simple: he bade her sing the lively Scottish air she had learned a couple of days before, which proved not only an excellent way for her to vent her spleen but a chance to give her voice its range. The lesson ended to the satisfaction of both, even if Kitty was a little exhausted and in need of an hour’s respite before she could attend to her appearance for dinner.
***
The following Monday, the Bingley party arrived at the Argyll Rooms at a fashionable hour and were quickly espied by Sir Edward. Bingley and he greeted each other warmly, indeed Sir Edward was openly pleased to see all four of them. His enthusiasm was always evident; Kitty liked this trait in him. He begged leave to present the two gentlemen by his side. ‘My nephews, Mr Frederick Fanshawe and Mr William Fanshawe,’ he declared them to be. ‘Known this pair since they were boys. Rascals when they were younger. Rascals! Isn’t that so?’
The Fanshawes made no comment to this jovial introduction and simply bowed. Kitty saw two gentlemen, of between twenty-five and twenty-eight years, each with fair complexions and fair hair, who dressed and carried themselves in a way that bespoke wealth and privilege. There the similarities between the brothers ended: the elder, Frederick Fanshawe, was very tall, sturdily built and – if this can be possible – almost too handsome, his nose aquiline like his uncle’s and his hair worn just so. There was in his expression a slight hauteur and the knowledge that his looks commanded female attention. William, the younger brother, whose height and frame were not in any way lacking, appeared small in comparison with his sibling, and his features, though quite regular and pleasing, were not so haughty; he had an altogether more gentle mien. At any rate, the younger brother smiled a welcome; the elder merely nodded.
‘Thought I’d get these two to the concert. This one,’ Sir Edward indicated William Fanshawe as he spoke, ‘does not need any persuading to hear music well performed but as for his brother! Eh, Freddie?’
‘My uncle does me a disservice,’ countered the elder Mr Fanshawe, with a slight smile to the Bingleys and Kitty. ‘I am very happy to be here tonight.’
‘As are we, as are we,’ returned his uncle.
Miss Bingley began commenting on the evening’s programme to the Fanshawe brothers and Sir Edward turned to Kitty.
‘Very glad I am to see you again, Miss Bennet. You are well? Come along now, tell me what you have seen since you arrived in this wonderful capital of ours.’
‘I hardly know where to begin!’ said Kitty, but she found a place to start. ‘We have been to the theatre, the one in Covent Garden; my brother Mr Bingley arranged a viewing of art – he is particularly fond of landscapes – at one of the private galleries near Pall Mall, and there is to be an exhibition of Joshua Reynolds’ work soon! No doubt you know that?’
Sir Edward nodded, and Kitty rattled on. ‘Just seeing all the places I had only heard of before, such as the Tower and Buckingham House. I have seen the Horse Guards parade, such a spectacle! There have been parties and concerts, and now this one!’
He smiled at her enthusiasm. ‘Where else to be in the season but London, eh? It’s noisy, can’t be denied, and the air’s a bit smoky, to be sure, but where else to be! I know some people prefer Bath. Those two nephews of mine,’ he said, nodding towards the Fanshawes, now conversing with Bingley and Jane, ‘they like a few weeks in Bath.’
‘Indeed,’ said Kitty, who knew nothing of Bath except its location. ‘Where do they reside when they come to rest?’
‘Up in Yorkshire, estate near Doncaster. Suits them very well, not too far from the races, you know.’
Kitty did not know but allowed herself to be told. Frederick, William and their sister Felicia were the children of Sir Edward’s sister Alice and her husband, Sir Frederick Fanshawe. From the manner of his telling, Kitty observed that Sir Edward was fond of his sister and her offspring and made it his business to visit whenever possible – which, given the demands on his time did not seem at all onerous, was quite frequently, though he said he preferred to travel only in the summer months. He gave Kitty a fuller description of the house and the grounds than she thought to receive, but she listened and smiled attentively. She wanted him to talk more of the two Mr Fanshawes, but could not think of a subtle way to turn the conversation to them.
‘We should go in, don’t you think?’ said Sir Edward, interrupting his own monologue. Kitty looked and saw there was a gentle movement towards the concert room itself; the ladies in their pastel silks and vibrant satins had, almost as if some silent signal had been given, begun to attach themselves to the arms of their menfolk and rustle en masse to their seats.
Mrs Bridgwater was coming towards them to claim her father’s attention, bringing with her Jane and Bingley. Kitty noticed Miss Bingley was devoting her conversation to Frederick Fanshawe. He must have more than looks to recommend him then, she thought; Caroline was not one to waste her charms on paupers.
Mr Bingley handed Kitty a programme and a few moments later the audience was entranced by the overt
ure from Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Kitty didn’t profess to understand the technicalities of the score, she just enjoyed the music, and although this took nearly all her attention, she could hardly be blamed for a covert glance around, just once or twice. A sideways look at Mr Bingley proved him to be content, quite engrossed; most of the patrons, she noted, were similarly absorbed. Nearly all! A glimpse at Frederick Fanshawe showed him to be more preoccupied with his coat buttons than with the music. She was wondering at this – and him – when he suddenly turned his head to find her observing him. Embarrassed, Kitty averted her gaze and paid proper respect to Mozart.
The audience, who had been largely and unusually silent during the performances, gave vent to their appreciation as the first part concluded. Many were very proud of themselves for simply being there; others were applauding the initiative as much as the music.
‘I am surprised,’ Kitty remarked to Jane, ‘that a city such as London has had no proper symphony orchestra before this. We have talented musicians enough.’
‘I agree with you entirely there, Miss Bennet,’ said William Fanshawe, who had appeared at her side. ‘And we have the cream of the crop here, I think? I was quite entranced throughout. Do you feel the same?’
‘I do, sir,’ said Kitty, pleased at his attentions and company. ‘Which was your favourite piece? The overture? Perhaps the notturno?’
‘I think the overture. Do you agree?’
‘I do. It was remarkable. And do you like opera, sir?’
‘Ah, you may have caught me there,’ responded Mr Fanshawe, with an apologetic smile. ‘I shall answer yes and no, if that is not too perverse. I appreciate the skill and presentation but I am not sure that I appreciate everything I should.’
‘And I appreciate your frankness,’ returned Kitty. ‘For myself, I am no connoisseur. I have seen but one opera, though I would certainly like to see another.’
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