Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  Eventually, the delighted but overtired children were dispatched to bed with a nursemaid whose poise and gravitas curbed any propensity on their part to grizzle, and Lizzy rang for more wine and sweet cake. The musician stretched his arms until the muscles in his back cracked, got up from the pianoforte, and ambled over to join the ladies.

  ‘We’ll sleep well tonight, shan’t we, Charlotte?’ remarked Lizzy. ‘I feel better than in months. What a tonic this evening has been! We must repeat this entertainment every night while we are grass widows. That is, of course, if Herr Rosenstein will be kind enough to oblige us. He is here to mend Pemberley’s instruments, not to amuse a gaggle of women and children.’

  ‘I assure you the pleasure has been shared, Mrs Darcy,’ said Herr Rosenstein. ‘I miss the company of children when away from home.’

  ‘Forgive me – I have been remiss in my enquiries,’ said Lizzy. ‘Have you and your wife children of your own? In fact, I am presuming too much, advancing too fast; I do not even know whether you are married.’

  Charlotte felt a rustle along her nerve-endings as she listened for his answer: ‘I am not married, and I have no children. I have lodgings in the ancient town of Salzburg, but they are bachelor quarters, and I go whenever I can to the home of my elder sister and her husband outside town, in a very pretty part of the country. They have five children, the eldest a boy of twelve. Spending time there is a relief given that so much of my work is – is the word cerebral? It demands devotion to the unseen. Certainly, it is invisible to the eye, if not the ear.’

  ‘But surely your work is far from invisible, Herr Rosenstein,’ said Charlotte, attributing her fresh sense of ease to the excellent Rhenisch the Pemberley wine steward had produced. ‘Did your father not build Miss Darcy’s harpsichord? Where would we be without those who produce the instruments with which we make music?’

  ‘Indeed, Frau Collins. But I wrestle not only with horsehair and wood: I am also a composer. And are you, one who plays the pianoforte, not yourself struck by the transitory nature of music? That the air or song you play or sing exists only as long as you perform it, and there are ears to hear it?’

  ‘But surely the melody lingers in the mind, in the same way as the words of a favourite verse. Memory is the friend, the keeper if you will, of music here.’

  ‘Then you are arguing my case. What we do is akin to creating invisible furnishings for the mind and soul.’

  ‘This is too deep for me,’ cried Lizzy. ‘Pray tell us of the new musical works coming out of Europe. And explain why our Teutonic friends seem to dominate the world of music. Mr Darcy says the Germans outshine us all.’

  Conversation turned to opera and the theatre, subjects to which Charlotte could contribute little. She listened ruefully as Herr Rosenstein described his travels in Europe, the great concert halls and opera houses he had visited, the performances he had witnessed, musicians he had met. She was quite ashamed of her own narrow education, as he named cities that for her were no more than places on schoolroom maps blurred by time, and spoke of oratorios, symphonies, and concertos she had neither heard, nor heard of.

  Listening to her friend’s responses and questions, she reflected, not without some pain, that marriage had broadened Elizabeth’s horizons; Mr Darcy had been generous in throwing his resources open to expand a mind eager to stretch. Her education had been supplemented in numerous ways, and she had drunk it all in thirstily.

  Charlotte’s thoughts drifted to her own spouse, and how little a few years at Oxford had been able to do for a young man raised by a father who had revelled in his own ignorance and rigidity. Habits of diffidence had made it impossible for Mr Collins to furnish an inferior mind with new ideas and principles, much less bold ones, and her heart squeezed for her husband, so eternally dependent on the approval of those he considered his superiors.

  How very different was this young musician. Herr Rosenstein’s standing, in English society at least, might be close to that of a servant or a tradesman, but his education, in life, as well as at the hands of tutors and universities, outstripped that of most gentlemen Charlotte had met. He spoke with an ease and verve that reflected confidence in his own abilities to form impressions and rely on his opinions, while retaining the ability to communicate these impressions and opinions to listeners without appearing to lecture.

  The fire had almost gone out, the wine and tea had all been drunk, and the three of them were yawning luxuriantly by the time they retired to their respective quarters. But not before Mrs Darcy, pressing his success with the children, asked their new companion to join them for meals in the future, an invitation Charlotte found herself hoping would be productive of more such pleasant encounters.

  CHAPTER XI

  CHARLOTTE SLEPT DEEPLY AND DREAMLESSLY, but woke early and restless long before the rest of the household was stirring. She threw open the shutters of her room to a morning of thin gold sunshine, with mist rising like smoke from the lake and river. The early light made the wet grasses sparkle brilliantly, and she found she could not bear to be indoors. She dressed without summoning the maid allotted her, then snatched up a Kashmir shawl Lizzy had passed on to her: soft and sumptuous, it was altogether too fine a garment for a clergyman’s wife, but the colour – a light sky-blue – had sat uneasily with Mrs Darcy’s dark eyes, whereas it suited Charlotte’s to perfection, bringing out a hint of pink in her complexion.

  She wrapped it around her shoulders and pattered down the grand staircase, helping herself to a piece of fruit from one of the elaborate dishes that ornamented the imposing entrance hall. The front doors were still forbiddingly closed, and she did not want to summon someone to unlock them, so she headed towards the more utilitarian quarters of the house, finding an escape via the simple expedient of unlatching a tradesmen’s entrance close to the vast sculleries.

  Once outside, she was drawn to the lake, the fountains not yet playing on a watery surface that exactly mimicked the sky, only heavier in its stillness. The mist was still rising up in twists from the water, dissolving into the air. Charlotte stood for a long time, not quite certain what it was she was watching; but she knew the ease with which she breathed was not entirely due to the freshness of the air, or the vistas along the slopes of the long valley in which the estate stood, or the resounding shouting of birds.

  And then she became aware that one of the birds’ songs was too melodious to be entirely natural, its notes speaking of human breath; it was a musical instrument, some sort of pipe, that she could hear. She walked in the direction of the sound, but it was deceptive; sometimes it sank beneath the chatter of nature, sometimes it called from the left, then the right. At moments, it sounded so close she would turn in a circle, puzzled not to be able to see the source; at other times, it faded into the distance.

  Her pursuit led her towards the upper and wilder part of the garden, through arboretums and along hedged paths, and eventually up rock steps shaded by mature chestnut trees. A gloomy grotto did not tempt, but as she crested the ridge on which it stood, she saw spread before her a vast maze. The sound of the piping was now tantalisingly close.

  Charlotte advanced down the slope towards the entrance to the maze. The trimmed edges of box rose high above her head, but the sun glittered on the leaves, and the overall impression was enticing rather than daunting. Wondering if she should be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs or pebbles, she stepped inside, and began to work her way towards the centre, encouraged by the continuing cascade of notes.

  She took a few wrong turns, finding herself trapped in blind ends that made her impatient and slightly anxious. It became imperative to find the source of the music, but she did not consider why, other than as an object to her journey. As she turned back from one dead end to seek another route, the angle of the early rays revealed footprints in the dewy path. By following these, as well as the music, the sound of which was growing stronger and more compelling by the minute, Charlotte navigated herself closer to the heart of the maze.

&n
bsp; One more turn, then a slide through a narrow opening in the hedge – and there, on a bench in a small chamber like that in the epicentre of a snail shell, sat Herr Rosenstein. He had his recorder at his lips, fingers marching up and down its wooden stem.

  He did not cease playing, or make any concession to greeting other than to slide sideways, a wordless invitation to Charlotte to sit. She did so, the narrowness of the bench obliging her to seat herself close enough to him that she could hear the breaths he snatched between notes, feel the emanation of effort coming from his body as he swayed slightly to the music. The muscles of his arms worked under the fine muslin of his shirt, and his fingers, although moving faster than the eye could see, did not blur, but rained down like fine ivory hammers.

  Charlotte found that watching his hands obliged her to stare sideways at the man himself, so she closed her eyes once again and immersed herself in the sounds he was drawing from his recorder, in the rose-gold glow of the sun filtering through her eyelids, in the fainter accompaniment of birdsong. And still the notes flowed, busy, swift, almost too much so, their pressing impulsion making Charlotte’s ribs ache slightly, as if she had climbed a hill too fast.

  She had no idea how much time had passed before silence fell. And stretched. Several times, she opened her mouth to speak, to launch into courtesies and commonplaces, remark on the beauty of the music or the surroundings, and each time she remained quiet. The birds went on chanting dizzily.

  Herr Rosenstein felt no urge to commence conversation either. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and polished the mouthpiece of the pipe. Charlotte felt a flush rising from her bosom to her neck, and unfurled her shawl. Still they did not speak.

  Then he put the recorder back to his lips, and began to play again, and it was the melody from the Mozart sonata he had played for her on the piano in the schoolroom. This time, unadorned, its purity was paramount. Charlotte found herself welling with a sensation so strange, piercing, and unfamiliar, it was not until hours later that she identified it as joy. It was certainly not something she had ever expected or anticipated in her life; since Tom’s death, she had not even courted the notion of happiness, content simply to endure.

  And now speech became impossible. Words could supply no sequel to the music, the sun on her face, the gold and green of the fresh garden, the softness of the shawl sliding down her shoulders. In the distance, a plume of water burst into vision between the trees, scattering silver-blue against blue: the lake fountains had been set in motion.

  Still without having said one word, they took this as their cue to rise and leave the small enclosure that cupped them both. The paths of the maze were too narrow to allow them to walk side by side, and Charlotte had in any case no sense of how to find her way out. Herr Rosenstein went first, making turns with an ease that suggested long familiarity, and led them to the exit without hesitation. Here he offered her his arm, and they made their way back towards the house, still in silence.

  Yet there was nothing uncomfortable between them: they both paused at the same moment to watch the force of the fountains throw mercury beads into the air, the breeze blowing the spray so that they both felt a faint wetness on their faces; after a few minutes, they resumed their strolling at the same moment. Their steps matched as they gained on the vast house, with its elegant proportions. Coneys nibbled at the turf, their white scuts bouncing as they hopped away, leaving the guarding of the house to watchful stone lions. They stopped one last time to watch a blackbird alight on the head of the statue of a nymph, survey the lawn for breakfast, then supply them with a dazzling coda of song.

  They entered the house, which was now beginning to stir as fires were lit and pitchers carried, via the same tradesmen’s door Charlotte had used to make her earlier escape. The clatter of feet and basins, the scents of porridge and bacon emanating from the kitchen, broke the spell of a morning in which only music – bird, fountain, flute – could speak. Charlotte suddenly felt the urgent need to say something, especially as they were about to part ways in a dwelling so large she was uncertain as to when she would next see her companion. He turned to her at the foot of the stairs, and bowed. And all she could manage was a reciprocal curtsey. It had to suffice.

  A little later, in the chapel, with only herself and Mrs Darcy in the balcony above the servants, she looked for him to no avail.

  ‘Does Herr Rosenstein never attend household prayers?’ she asked Lizzy as they repaired to the dining room for breakfast afterwards.

  ‘My dear Charlotte, the man is a Jew, like the rest of his family,’ answered her friend. ‘Did you not realise? He cannot attend any Christian ritual.’

  Charlotte was confounded. If she tried to remember what she knew about the tribe of Israel, she could think only of the patriarchs and prophets of the Old Testament, and fleeting impressions of cartoons of swarthy, bearded men in the news-sheets. A vague memory stirred of a play by Mr Shakespeare.

  ‘I do not believe I have ever met a Jew before. I am not entirely sure what that means,’ she told Lizzy.

  ‘They do not believe in the triune God, but in the deity of the Old Testament,’ said Lizzy. ‘They are a clannish lot, I understand, and use the Hebrew tongue for their prayers, no matter where they hail from. Mr Darcy has visited some of their homes on his travels abroad, and he says they eat no pork.’

  Charlotte was to receive proof of this with her own eyes when Herr Rosenstein joined them by invitation at breakfast shortly thereafter. He greeted the ladies with courtesy and kind enquiries as to their health, received coffee gratefully, and eschewed bacon and sausage, confining himself to smoked herring and boiled eggs. He also refrained from any mention of his morning performance in the heart of the maze, or Charlotte’s finding him there. She, meanwhile, was too taken with contemplation of the new mystery of his religion to find this omission in any way strange. She had a dozen questions to ask about what it meant to be a Jew by blood and faith, but did not know how to broach the topic.

  Lizzy, however, had no such qualms: ‘Herr Rosenstein, Mrs Collins did not understand that you are a Jew,’ she announced. ‘We impose still more upon your good nature with our impertinence; we may now ask questions of both a musical and theological nature.’

  The musician fixed his eyes on Charlotte, and she coloured. ‘I have little understanding of the topic. A confession indeed for the wife of a Christian clergyman! I know our doctrines, of course; but when it comes to the other religions of our fellow men, especially those from foreign lands, I am at a loss. Does this mean you are heathen, Herr Rosenstein?’

  As her words emerged, she blushed still deeper at their clumsiness, but he laughed so heartily that she too began to smile, relieved that she had not given offence. ‘It depends on what you mean by heathen, Frau Collins. The Jews share a holy book with their Christian fellows, and in our own homes and temples, we utter prayers and carry out rituals you might indeed find familiar. We are not godless barbarians, far from it. In truth, I doubt whether any tribe, no matter how remote from civilisation, is heathen in the true sense of the word. The most primitive community will have some one-eyed idol, some altar, that represents to them a moral code shared with, and enforced by, their fellows. While you might indeed fear for our souls, we Jews are nonetheless a pious people.’

  Elizabeth declared that she needed more coffee if she was to listen to further disquisitions of a spiritual nature, and talk turned to fresh topics, but not before Herr Rosenstein had smiled at Charlotte and said, ‘Did you really not know I was a Jew? I should have told you my name: Jacob.’

  CHAPTER XII

  THE NEXT DAY, LAURA ASKED her mother if they could visit the ‘piano man’ and watch him as he worked. Sarah was occupied with a book of martyrs she had ferreted from the housekeeper’s parlour (and which would no doubt be productive of nightmares), but Laura hung about Charlotte, presenting her request with a combination of sweetness and steeliness her parent knew only too well.

  Eventually, after extracting promises
that they would visit briefly only if Herr Rosenstein permitted it, Charlotte took her daughter up to the schoolroom, and knocked with diffidence. Upon receiving the instruction to enter, she led Laura in, and presented her daughter’s request – to witness him at work – with many apologies.

  ‘We understand that we may not disturb you, that your labour takes all your powers of concentration and focus,’ she explained. ‘But Laura would not rest until she could see you at work, I fear.’

  Herr Rosenstein smiled at her daughter and explained that their timing was perfect: he was almost finished with the schoolroom piano, and was about to embark on the infinitely more painstaking and time-consuming task of repairing Georgiana Darcy’s harpsichord.

  ‘But surely you will not want to be disturbed while undertaking such delicate work,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Ah, this task involves long periods of waiting,’ Herr Rosenstein replied. ‘I have to glue the wood where it has cracked, in very small sections. Only once it is dry, can I risk first sanding the belly of the instrument with the finest of papers, then sealing with varnish, repainting, and then at last correcting the pitch of the strings. It will take great patience, and company will be much appreciated. I fear, though, that it will be too tedious for you and your daughter.’

  Charlotte demurred, as did Laura, who was overcome with excitement at the prospect of exploring new quarters of Pemberley.