Charlotte

by Helen Moffett

  The musician set the flailing and roaring Laura upright, and encouraged both girls to paddle in the shallows at first, lending a steadying hand whenever they slipped and squealed. Soon they were overcome by that natural human urge whenever two or more gather in a body of water, and began to splash each other and their tutor. Charlotte had to speak stern words when it occurred to them that their mother and Mrs Darcy might also want their share of scattering drops.

  The lesson began in earnest as Herr Rosenstein held first one, then the other child steady in the water and taught them first how to float, then how to kick. The sprays raised by their feet caught the sunlight, gold against the green and brown river, and although the mirth of the girls continued unabated, it was punctuated by the demands of breathing and the commands of their teacher.

  It was now the turn of Charlotte and Lizzy to laugh at the antics taking place just beneath the parapet of the bridge, and Charlotte felt another knot in her spine slide loose. She shaded her eyes with her hand to watch more closely. The musician’s soaked form suggested some creature at home in water; Charlotte had only a vague sense of what oceanic creatures such as seals or dolphins looked like, but the musculature of his arms as the water ran down them conveyed the sense of a glossy animal, the curves of his back and shoulders as he hoisted the children about and directed their kicking bodies not unlike those of the darting fish their sport had driven away.

  As if echoing her thoughts, at that moment he dived like the proverbial fish, disappearing underwater, and Charlotte leaned so far forward to watch for his re-emergence that Lizzy was moved to hook a cautionary hand in the folds of her skirt.

  The sun went behind the clouds starting to mass on the hills that rose in stately lines towards the Peaks. The girls set up a clamour of protest as their mother called to them that their swimming lesson was over, but it was largely for show – a little breeze was now ruffling the surface of the water and raising gooseflesh on skin.

  The children were bundled in linens and ushered away towards the house, where hot water in ewers and a fire in the nursery awaited them, while Herr Rosenstein, drops of water glinting on his lashes, accepted a towel and wrapped it around his neck and shoulders. Charlotte noticed that wet, his brown hair turned a shade closer to black. His bare feet were narrow and the colour of bone. Encased in wet clothes, his body seemed both more solid and sleek than usual, and she found her own skin prickling in sympathy with his. There was a curious sense of having witnessed him stripped of a layer that had nothing to do with clothing and more to do with having watched him at play in the water; she found herself wanting to stare at him at the same time as she was suddenly shy of doing so. For the first time, she wondered what age he was; clearly younger than she had first surmised.

  She looked over at Lizzy, who seemed to feel no such curiosity; she was offering Herr Rosenstein the services of a footman to help him out of his wet garments, and he was demurring: ‘Thank you for your kind attention, but there is no need, Mrs Darcy. If my fire could but be made afresh, that would indeed constitute luxury.’

  Even though Charlotte repeatedly apologised for the encroachment on Herr Rosenstein’s time, he willingly repeated this lesson every fine afternoon for the rest of the week – including one memorable day when the trio swam in the grand lake, rejoicing in the spray from the fountain – until both girls could dog-paddle themselves to the nearest bank unaided. Charlotte no longer had to suffer too much anxiety when her daughters chased each other along the banks of the river or around the ponds.

  One evening that week, Charlotte went to bid her daughters goodnight and, to her surprise, found Sarah fretful. Laura, worn out by the day’s excitement and exertions, was already sound asleep, but her sister clung to her mother and was inclined towards tearfulness. This behaviour was not characteristic of her dreamy and stoic daughter, and Charlotte, with an internal sigh, knew she needed to get to the bottom of the matter.

  Strangely enough, the alarm of the river episode played no role in Sarah’s troubles. It seemed that the discovery earlier that week of a dead squirrel in the garden was part of the problem, and the lurid book of martyrs that Charlotte had glimpsed secreted under the bed furnishings was no doubt an aggravating factor. She lay down next to her daughter and wrapped her arms around her.

  She did not have long to wait: ‘Mama, did it hurt when Tom died?’

  Only like being immersed in boiling oil. Over and over again, Charlotte thought, still amazed she had survived the scalding agony of those first months. But that was not what her daughter was asking. She reassured Sarah, yet again, that Tom had felt no pain in perishing, that there had been no suffering – while silently thanking Providence that this had indeed been the case. As she had often done before, she explained that Tom had simply fallen asleep and never woken.

  ‘But Mama, if I fall asleep, will I wake up?’ Sarah went to the heart of her anxiety, and Charlotte stroked her daughter’s soft dark curls, so like Tom’s, in an upwelling of compassion.

  ‘Of course you shall. Tom did not wake because he was not well. We all knew that he was not strong, that he was weak because of his poor head. Whereas you, my treasure, are as strong as the trees in the garden and the carthorses on the farm. You shall sleep and wake every day until you are an old, old woman.’

  ‘The trees in the garden? But what if they blow down?’

  ‘Think of the big chestnut tree at home. The one in which Papa and Mr Brown put up a swing, where you and Laura like to play in the shade in summer, and collect the conkers in autumn. How it stays unmoved no matter how much the winds howl at it. Its leaves may blow off in storms, a small branch here and there might crack in the winter frosts, but the tree stays strong, held safely upright by its firm trunk.’

  Charlotte lowered her voice to a murmur as Sarah’s lids closed for longer and longer intervals, the tracks of her tears drying. ‘And in the spring, think of how the new leaves and flowers burst out like candles, and the squirrels and birds come to play and rejoice in the new growth. You will be like that tree, you and Laura both. Always strong and firm, and always renewing yourselves.’

  And God help me, if that is not the truth, I shall perish myself, she thought as she kissed her daughter’s forehead once more, then got to her feet, deftly extracting the troublesome book at the same time. She stood for a long time in the dusk, listening to her children breathe, matching her exhalations to theirs, before she left the room.

  CHAPTER XX

  CHARLOTTE HELD TOM CLOSE, RELISHING the peace brought her by his arms winding around her neck, the weight and warmth of his body. But as she rocked him, he turned to a bundle of red rags, his arms became strangling ropes, and she jerked awake, her heart battering in her throat. She could hear a child crying, she could swear it, and was on her feet, pulses pounding, before she could stop herself.

  Slowly, she orientated herself; she was in her handsome chamber at Pemberley, a bar of moonlight lying across the bed and its hangings. All was still; the faint wailing she imagined she had heard was simply a remnant of her dream. She stood, listening, the sweat of alarm cooling on her body, now bracing herself not against fear, but against the wave of grief her dreams of Tom always brought upon waking; those moments when she reached helplessly for the elusive fragments that restored him to her, only to have them run like water through her fingers.

  She knew she would not sleep again easily, and flickers of anxiety still nagged at her: perhaps something was amiss with the girls? She would not rest until she had seen for herself that all was well. She fished for her slippers, lit a candle, and found her wrap. Then she set off down the long corridor in the direction of the nursery quarters.

  Letting herself quietly into the room where the girls slept, all was peaceful repose. The two slumbering forms, one dark and one light head on the bolster, breathed in untroubled unison. There was nothing to fear here, but Charlotte sank into a chair to watch her daughters nonetheless, and allowed herself that rarest of treats: an indulgence of
memory, recalling times when all three of her children had played and romped together, Tom’s sisters treating him with that mixture of affection and exasperated tolerance typical of all elder siblings, as well as that special solicitude they afforded him because of his condition.

  She remembered a day, nearly a year ago, when the three of them discovered the pleasures of rolling down the new-turfed slopes between the flower-garden and the orchard, and how at first, anticipating the work of scrubbing at grass stains on clothing, she had wanted to halt their game. But their shrieks of delight and glee had stilled her words of reprimand. And then there were the times they had commandeered Mr Brown’s wheelbarrow, the girls hoisting Tom inside and then pushing him all around the garden, a game that always ended with their tipping him out onto a soft spot of ground, a liberty to which he never took exception, responding rather with peals of laughter.

  Lost in a reverie, Charlotte was startled when the door swung open and the light of another candle bloomed in its frame. It was the younger of the two nursemaids, Ella, a pleasant girl, who was in turn surprised to find Mrs Collins curled in a chair.

  ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am, is aught amiss? Are the bairns quite well?’ she whispered.

  Charlotte, also whispering, reassured the young woman that she had been unable to sleep, and had come to check on her daughters. Ella in turn explained that sleeping in the antechamber, as instructed by Mrs Darcy, she had been woken by the light of the candle. But now she was all concern: ‘Sleeplessness is a terrible thing, ma’am. Shall I heat you some milk or make you some tea? Mrs Reynolds has the keys to the main pantry, and Carruthers the keys to the wine cellar, otherwise I would offer you brandy. But there is milk and a loaf of sugar in the servants’ larder.’

  Charlotte was about to demur, but the thought of something warm and sweet to drink was suddenly irresistible, and she accepted the offer, grateful for the kindness that prompted it.

  ‘But let me come downstairs with you, and we can both take something hot to drink,’ she said. ‘The girls are clearly sleeping soundly, and I do not wish them woken.’

  The pair of them padded down towards the vast domestic quarters of the building, the light from their candles streaming across the panelled walls, the eyes of the long-dead figures in the portraits following them, gleaming with temporary life.

  As they descended in the direction of the Great Hall, they became aware of faint music and a soft glow. They glanced at each other, puzzled, and Ella clutched at Charlotte’s arm in alarm, but Charlotte was made of sterner stuff and pursued the sounds, tracing them to their source in the red saloon. Here they found Herr Rosenstein at the piano, playing a quiet and haunting melody, his own candle guttering in the sconce.

  It was hard to say who was more startled, and there were many apologies and counter-apologies and explanations before they established that they were all fugitives from Morpheus. The musician explained that he had come downstairs while the inhabitants of the house slumbered, assuming he was sufficiently far from the sleeping quarters to be able to play without creating any disturbance.

  Charlotte invited him to join in their plan to imbibe a wholesome drink to encourage sleep, and he readily agreed. They took up places in front of the banked fire in one of the kitchens, resting their elbows on the rough table while Ella prepared the milk.

  The drink was every bit as creamy as Charlotte had hoped – Pemberley’s Jersey herd was among the finest in the county – and Ella had grated the sugar with a generous hand. She began to enjoy the sense of being on a midnight adventure, the disruption of conventional routine and ritual. Her children were safe, the wisps of her dream had dissipated, and she had all the comfort of convivial company.

  ‘May I ask, Herr Rosenstein, what piece of music you were playing when we found you? I am no connoisseur, as you know, but I thought it very fine, and would like to hear it again another day.’

  He thanked her, and explained it was one of his own compositions, one he hoped to adapt for a string quartet and sell to the Kapellmeister of a small court orchestra back in his native Austria.

  ‘It is unlikely that I will able to perform it with them myself, but Herr Hummel is a generous and rational man. I do not think he will hold my tribe against me in considering my offering.’

  Charlotte was puzzled, and said as much. ‘Forgive me, sir, but I do not catch your meaning. I do not understand the allusion to your tribe.’

  Herr Rosenstein glanced at Ella, who, having drunk her milk, had put her head down on her arms and fallen asleep as quickly and neatly as a cat.

  ‘Frau Collins, the structures of patronage for us musicians on the Continent are deeply embedded in those of the Christian church. Orchestras and organists are often employed by various cathedrals, or by Catholic nobles. The pieces most regularly commissioned are for performance in church, celebrating the feast days of the Christian year.’ He cradled his cup in his hands, his eyes dark hollows in the diffuse light emanating from the embers of the fire.

  ‘No one is going to ask a Jew to compose a Mass for a special occasion, or even a hymn for a wedding or christening. As a craftsman, I am welcome in almost all homes and places of Christian worship: no one considers my Semite lineage when strings snap or go out of tune and must be replaced or repaired. And the musicality of my kind is in fact lauded; in almost every court orchestra, a Jew, or two, or three, sits in the first row of the strings or straddles a violoncello. But as a composer, I have to rely on such few crumbs of patronage as are thrown my way by more liberal employers.’

  The note of not quite bitterness, but asperity, in his voice caught Charlotte. She felt once again vastly ignorant of the implications of his religion, and indignant on his behalf. She had to content herself by assuring him that she had found the piece he was playing beautiful.

  ‘I must say, Herr Rosenstein, that such loveliness as I heard coming from the instrument when you played tonight is certainly productive of spiritual refreshment. I feel consoled having listened to it.’

  He looked up at her words. ‘Frau Collins, I am sorry that you are in need of consolation. But glad that my humble piece has contributed to the easing of your spirits.’

  They held each other’s gaze in a silence broken by the soft tumble and hiss of the fire; then Ella sat upright with a little gasp, and knuckled her eyes. It was time for their strange band to disperse back to their natural stations in the great and preternaturally still house, and they took up their candles and parted with mutual expressions of gratitude and good wishes for a peaceful night. Yet Charlotte was wakeful for several hours thereafter, but not unpleasantly so, as the music that had flowed from Jacob’s fingers played and replayed in her mind.

  CHAPTER XXI

  AT BREAKFAST, YET ANOTHER LETTER from Anne de Bourgh awaited Charlotte. This one ran to two sheets, and she unfolded them with some curiosity as to what could have engrossed the other woman’s pen to such an extent.

  My dear Mrs Collins,

  I hope this finds you and your daughters in good health and spirits, and enjoying all the comforts Pemberley has to offer. What follows is certain to come as a surprise: this letter comes to you from the South of France. I have flown the coop, perhaps inspired by your example. And to think in my last, I was begging you to send me the names of works on travel abroad. Now, here I am, in a small and ancient town perched high over the Mediterranean Sea, with vistas as far as Corsica, and tawny stone buildings that date back to times when this stretch of the coast was pillaged by Saracens, and every cottage was a fortress. The air smells of the sea; how strange that these foreign waters are so differently scented to our own – one would think that the ocean would be a constant.

  How did this come to pass? My regular physician, the good Dr Pike, visits my mother to be informed of what ailments afflict me; he then attends to me in order to pronounce her diagnoses and lay out her suggestions for treatment, a regime that has not troubled me much in the past. However, Dr P has been laid low by dropsy, and he sent a
new sawbones in his place, a much younger man. The fellow is as tractable as his predecessor but, in this case, he attended me without first hearing my mother’s recitation of what treatment I required. I was thus able to drop into his mind the utter necessity for me to decamp to a warm, dry climate to strengthen my chest. This was a feat I take some pride in, given the balmy summer weather Kent is presently experiencing.

  Poor Mrs Jenkinson! She loathed our last trip abroad – and that was in the winter months. I did suggest that we find a younger and sturdier travel companion for me, but my mother would not countenance this.

  So we travelled via packet-boat to Calais, and then by coach to Paris. And now I must confess to you the full extent of my crimes. Prepare to be shocked, and do not judge me too harshly. My mother recently had the family jewellery appraised and, for once, I paid attention. As you know, it is no boast but mere statement of fact to attest to my considerable wealth. Yet vast acres, rents, and an army of faceless clerks who ensure that tradesmen’s accounts are settled do not translate into the jingle of cash in the pocket. And I am learning that it is not buildings and crops, but banknotes and coins that translate into opportunities for freedom. So once my rings and fobs and what-nots were returned to me after the notaries had departed, I selected the smallest and ugliest trinkets and sewed them into the hems of my garments, a trick I garnered from a rather gaudy romance. Let it not be said that novel-reading is not instructive.