"Oh, no, no!" she said angrily. "Look where those idiots put my harp! Right by the fire! Hurry, Clint, come and move it right now."
Obediently, he snatched off the purple velvet cover, lifted it, and gently placed it away from the fire in front of the judge's desk. Her dark eyes stormy, Eve took off her gloves and practically threw them and her muff to her maid. Then she strummed the strings of the harp and groaned, and Clint winced. "It sounds like a cheap Irish fiddle," Eve fumed.
"Yeah, it's definitely sour," Clint agreed. "But you've got time to tune it, Eve. They haven't even started the puppet show yet."
Eve retorted, "I have time to tune it! Whatever makes you think I tune my own harp? Mr. Lilley does it for me. We'll have to find him."
"You know he's working with the boy's choir and the Choristers," Clint said. "Besides, how hard can it be? I've seen you tune a string or two when they went flat during rehearsal."
"Tuning one slightly flat string is very different from tuning the entire harp! I can't do it!"
Clint moved to take her hands. "You can do it, Eve. C'mon, I'll help you."
She stared up at him. His eyes were intent on her face, and a slight smile played on his lips. "Yes, I can do this," she said softly. Turning, she ordered, "Beattie, wait outside." The maid silently disappeared, closing the door behind her. "I certainly don't want anyone seeing me fumbling around doing this," she grumbled.
"Except me," Clint said cheerfully. "You won't fumble around."
Eve moved around to the back of the harp, where the tuning pins were. She had told Clint that once Mr. Lilley had been standing in front of the harp, reaching over to the tuning pins, and he had tuned one wire much too sharply. It had snapped and whipped out, leaving a thin red streak on his jaw. After that he had always stood behind to tune, and Eve had no intention of standing in front and having a wire mark her face or put her eye out. She touched the pin for middle C and plucked it.
"No, no, it's—aaaahhhhh," he sang a long note, and Eve tuned to it.
She went up an octave, found the correct peg, and plucked the string, turning the pin slightly to raise the tone. Frowning, she plucked the string again and again.
"You're plucking the wrong string, Eve," Clint said with a hint of impatience. "That's the D string."
Petulantly, Eve said, "I can't help it, it's all backwards. And I can't possibly reach over to pluck from the front, where it makes sense."
"Then just—oh, here, let me," Clint said, and went around to the back of the harp. He put his fingers on the correct tuning pin, then reached and plucked the correct string. Eve had not moved; he stood behind her, reaching around her to finger the harp strings. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. She stayed very still as he tuned, expertly and quickly. After a while she stole a look at his face; it was drawn up in fierce concentration, his eyes a dark midnight blue. With very small slow movements she moved back until she was against him, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.
"I didn't know you could tune a harp," she said softly.
"Neither did I. 'Course, you're not making it very easy on me. Kinda hard to concentrate. That perfume you're wearing is hypnotic." Still, he efficiently plucked strings, played chords, tried octaves.
"I wish I could hypnotize you, Clint," she said. "Then I could make you do whatever I wanted."
"Mmm-hmm," he said absently.
She decided to wait until he had finished, and it didn't take him long. He brushed the strings, and the familiar web of notes filled the air in the room. "Now try it," he said with satisfaction.
She turned and put her arms around his neck. "In a minute," she whispered. Then she pulled his head down and kissed him passionately. Clint responded with heat, for he was a full-blooded man and she was voluptuous. His hands went around her waist and he pulled her close to him. She moved to whisper, "My parents are going to a friend's plantation next week for a New Year's celebration. Will you come visit me, Clint?"
"Never say no to a lady," he said, and kissed her again.
They were still kissing when the door opened and Choirmaster Lilley popped in. "Ah—er—ah—" he said, blushing a fiery red.
Neither Eve nor Clint blushed. They merely let go of each other and turned to the poor little man. "Yes, we're ready, Choirmaster," Clint said with a devilish glint in his eye. "As you can see, we're already warmed up."
Without a word, Mr. Lilley whirled and almost ran out the door.
Eve said, "You're wicked."
Clint said, "Madam, you would know."
CHAPTER FOUR
The Christmas puppet show was wonderful, and when it was over the children shouted, "More! More! Again, again!" but the puppeteers took their bow, men came to remove the theater, and the narrator made his bow and left the stage. The children rejoined their parents, and the City Council members, judges, dignitaries, notables, and wealthy planters and their families all filed into the front of the stage to take their seats on the benches that had been brought out from the courtroom.
Marvel came running back to Jeanne, her eyes shining. "What's next, Mama?"
"The Calvary Choristers are going to sing for us, and it's my understanding that they are very good, as good as a professional opera troupe," Jeanne said, taking her hand. "Would you like to go get close to the stage, over on the side there by the stairs?" Of course no one could stand at the front of the stage and block the view of the important persons seated on the benches.
Ruefully, Marvel looked at the wide empty front expanse of the bandstand. "Angus says that we call them 'swells.' He wouldn't tell me what they call us."
"Angus O'Dwyer is ten years old and he doesn't know everything," Jeanne said dryly. Taking Marvel's hand she said, "Come with me. I'll get us close to the stage and hold you up so you can see."
The bandstand floor was four feet high, which was about ten inches over Marvel's head. Jeanne wormed her way through the gathering crowd until she had a spot right at the corner, with only three people in front of her. She hoisted Marvel up to rest on her hip, just as she had done when she was a toddler.
The Choristers were coming onto the stage, beautifully dressed women in wide hoop skirts and frilly bonnets, and men in fancy double-breasted topcoats with brass buttons and beaver top hats. Behind them came three violinists, and Jeanne was a little surprised to see that they were dressed in workingmen's rough clothing. Last was a little doll-like girl with golden curls, dressed in maroon velvet and carrying a flute. She took a seat on one of the four chairs for the instrumentalists and her feet didn't touch the ground. The violinists strummed a few strings, the little girl made a couple of experimental notes. Then the choirmaster in a white surplice came to stand in front of the group.
He held up his slender baton for long moments, and then at his signal the choir started singing "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear." After a few bars Jeanne and Marvel exchanged satisfied looks. The Calvary Choristers were indeed good musicians, the men's voices deep and sure, the women's clear and clean. Even the three violinists, who looked as if they would be more at home fiddling a romp in a saloon, played well. The sweet notes of the flute were perfect.
When they were on the next-to-last stanza of the song, Marvel and then Jeanne were momentarily distracted by a small stir at the steps. They couldn't see exactly, but people moved away from the steps, murmuring slightly. Then the hymn ended, and a man walked up the steps carrying a great purple-clad triangular-looking thing, bearing it easily aloft as if it were a standard. Behind him came a proud-looking lady sumptuously dressed in velvet and furs, and her maid followed behind, her head down. The crowd murmured in low tones, and Jeanne heard someone say, "It's a harp."
The man set the harp down and began to untie the gold satin ties that held the fabric to the harp's shape. Jeanne studied him curiously. He was a muscular man, with dark flashing eyes and rugged features. He wore a shabby but clean brown wool jacket, canvas duck trousers, and sturdy brogans. Instead of a hat he wore a dark flat cap. At first glance
, from his dark features, he seemed a looming, brooding man, but he wore a cheerful bright red muffler with a big sprig of holly tucked into it, and when he looked up at the lady he smiled, and looked warm and pleasant. She stood watching behind, like a distant queen, her hands tucked into her opulent white fur muff.
The man stood and pulled the velvet casing off, and it was a grand concert harp, the pillar almost six feet tall and covered with gold leaf. The pillar was topped with an elaborate golden crown. He knelt to check the pedals, and for the briefest moment he glanced around the crowd. When he saw Marvel, his eyes crinkled a little at the corners, and he winked at her. Marvel's eyes widened and then she giggled. Now the man looked straight into Jeanne's eyes. She met his gaze squarely, but then grew a little uncomfortable and felt herself blushing. But she didn't turn away from him. For some odd reason, she felt drawn to him. But he gave her a quick nod, then looked down at his task.
"He winked at me, did you see?" Marvel whispered to her, for the crowd was waiting and watching quietly, with only low murmured words.
"I did see. I'm sure it's because he thinks you're the prettiest girl here," Jeanne whispered back.
"Do you think he's married to that beautiful lady?"
Jeanne almost laughed aloud. "No, darling, they aren't married. I think he's probably just carrying her harp."
"But—" Marvel started to say, but just then the man stood and retrieved a small padded stool from someone at the foot of the steps that was holding it up. He placed it behind the harp's pillar, then turned to the grand lady. Slowly she took her hands out of her muff, handed it to her maid, took off her gloves and handed them, then raised her arms to pull the ermine cape back off her shoulders. Taking the man's hand, she delicately took a seat on the stool and pulled the harp to rest on her shoulder.
The man turned, walked to the center of the stage where he stood alone, took off his cap and held it with both hands in front of him, then turned and nodded to the lady. Soft haunting harp music wafted delicately on the still air, and the man began to sing.
Ave Maria! Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena . . .
At the first sound of his voice, Jeanne, and many others she was sure, took a sharp indrawn breath. She felt Marvel gasp. His voice was resounding, rich, and powerful. It rolled over them, and they forgot the cold. He sang into a profoundly reverent silence.
Jeanne didn't understand the ancient Latin words, but it made no difference. Whoever or whatever this man was, his voice was a gift from God. The sweet strands of the harp were his angels' accompaniment. The tenor notes soared, then became fathomless depths, and then the last "Ave Maria" was held so long and with such unwavering strength that now Jeanne almost forgot to breathe. A few last whispers from the harp, and the song was done.
Heavy silence reigned in Court Square for long moments, and the man bowed his head. Then the applause began, and men's hoarse shouts of "Bravo! Bravo!"
Marvel turned and in the cacophony Jeanne could not hear her but saw her mouth, "Gunness!"
Jeanne nodded. "Gunness, indeed!"
"MAMA, WHAT IS THAT?" Marvel asked with wonder.
Jeanne looked at the vendor's table, where she had seen big round balls of Christmas puddings wrapped up in muslin. But now that the entertainment was over and everyone was making their final purchases, the smiling matron attending the table had unwrapped a pudding. She placed a sprig of holly on the top, poured brandy all around it, and then lit it. Now the sumptuous thick ball glowed with a ghostly blue light. "That's a Christmas pudding, darling one. It takes several days to make, and you eat it at the end of Christmas dinner."
Marvel started to say something, but her eyes focused up beyond Jeanne's shoulder and her eyebrows raised. Jeanne turned, and to her surprise, she saw George Masters bowing low. She had forgotten that he'd said he would see her at the Regale. In fact, she had dismissed it as mere politeness.
"Mr. Masters, good evening," she said.
"Good evening, ma'am," he said. "I am so happy that I finally found you, Je—ma'am."
Jeanne smiled a little at his discomfort. It was an odd situation; at work all of the maids were called by their given names, but in polite company it was considered boorish for a gentleman to call a lady by her first name. "I am happy to see you too, Mr. Masters," she said warmly. "May I introduce to you my daughter, Miss Marvel Bettencourt. Marvel, this is Mr. George Masters."
Marvel made a neat little curtsey and peered up at him. "Mr. Masters? We prayed for you the other night. Well, we didn't really pray for you but we prayed about you because you gave my mama some money. That was you, wasn't it?"
Master's firm features were ludicrously twisted with confusion after this speech, and he stuttered, "Um—ah—yes, Miss Marvel, I suppose it might have been me. Uh—Miss—that is, it is Mrs. Bettencourt, I'm sure—isn't it? Of course it is! It's just that I saw you, and I thought that she was your sister."
Far from being discomposed at all this, Jeanne was amused. "No, she is my daughter, Mr. Masters. I am widowed."
"Angus says that men always think Mama's my sister," Marvel told Masters disdainfully.
"Angus?" he blurted out.
"Angus O'Dwyer, ten years old, man of the world," Jeanne told him.
Masters stared blankly at Marvel, then asked Jeanne, "And how old is she?"
"She takes after me, I suppose," Jeanne answered lightly. "She looks younger than she really is, at heart."
"I'm six years old now," she told Masters proudly. "I'm going to school in March. Mr. Masters, have you ever eaten a Christmas pudding that's been on fire?"
"Have I—well, yes. That is, not an entire pudding, but a portion, yes, I have." He glanced up at the table, where several people had now gathered and were purchasing their puddings. "They're really very good, Miss Marvel."
Marvel transferred her steady gaze to Jeanne, who said encouragingly, "You may buy one if you wish, Marvel."
Marvel skipped over to the table, and they heard her reedy high voice ask, "May I see that one, please?"
Masters smiled at Jeanne. "She's an intriguing lady, like her mother."
"Thank you, sir," Jeanne said, nervously raising her hand to touch the holly and ivy garland. She felt very self-conscious wearing it.
He studied her gravely. "And may I compliment you on your holly and ivy, Mrs. Bettencourt. It suits you particularly well. I've never seen your hair before, it's lovely." He held out his arm. "Would you allow me to walk you around the displays? They have some fine wares here."
Jeanne lightly rested her hand in his arm and they walked slowly toward the table where Marvel was still considering all the puddings. "You may, because for the third time tonight we are going to each and every table to peruse each and every item on it. I gave Marvel some money, you see, and told her she was responsible for choosing how to spend it. She's a most careful shopper."
"I see," he said gravely. "Then I suppose it wouldn't be quite the thing for me to offer to buy you ladies some Christmas gifts."
Jeanne replied sharply, "No, sir, that would not be quite the thing, for many reasons."
Instead of being taken aback, George Masters looked pleased. "Thought not," he said under his breath. Marvel ran to them then, holding the wrapped pudding in both hands. "This is the fattest one," she said. "I looked at all of them. Now—" she looked uncertainly toward the fruit vendor, and seemed confused what to do with her bulky burden.
Masters made a small bow and said, "Miss Marvel, may I carry your pudding for you?"
"You wouldn't mind?" she asked.
"Not at all, it would be my honor." She handed it to him, and he continued walking with Jeanne, following Marvel. It should have been funny, Jeanne thought, but he was a man of dignity, tall, with a proud posture, and somehow he didn't look silly cradling the muslin ball.
He looked down at her, saw her perusal, and smiled a little. "I don't feel a bit awkward. I've seen men carrying bigger and more ludicrous packages, following their ladies. And
at the rate Miss Marvel is going, I think I may be carrying other things before the night is ended. Would that be all right with you, Mrs. Bettencourt? May I escort you and Miss Marvel this evening?"
"Why—yes, I suppose so, Mr. Masters," Jeanne said, a little perplexed. She had thought that he would say a kind word or two to her and Marvel and then return to his friends.
He continued quietly, "For a long time now I've been hoping that we might meet on a social basis. It would never have done for me to have asked to see you while you were working. But tonight is different."
"But it's not," Jeanne said abruptly. "We are far from meeting on a social basis, Mr. Masters. At least, on an equal social basis. And there is nothing different about tonight. I am still a chambermaid, and you are still—"
Curiously, he asked her, "Yes? I'm a what?"
"A—a swell," she finished defiantly.
He stared at her, and she stared back at him, and then suddenly Jeanne giggled and George Masters chuckled. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Masters," Jeanne finally said. "I'm afraid that came out all wrong. I'm the one who sounded like the worst snob, only in reverse."
"You're right," he agreed lightly, "but I forgive you."
They followed Marvel around, talking about the foods and decorations and the Choristers' performance, until Marvel had made all of her purchases. George Masters ended up carrying a Christmas pudding, two oranges, a gingerbread man, and a handful of butterscotch drops.
"Mrs. Bettencourt, please allow me to buy you ladies a hot drink," he pleaded. "I'm cold, and I know you must be, and I should very much like to shift all of Miss Marvel's purchases so that I'm carrying them more carefully."
Jeanne said evenly, "I believe it's time for us to go home, Mr. Masters. You've been very kind, and I will take Marvel's purchases now."
"But I hoped you would allow me to escort you home, Mrs. Bettencourt. It's the least you can do to oblige me, you know, after calling me a swell," he said insistently.
Marvel was listening carefully to the conversation, her curious gaze fixing on Masters and her mother as they spoke. Now she announced, "We live in the Pinch, Mr. Masters. It's a long way."
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