by Stella Riley
‘Even,’ she suggested reasonably, ‘if you go with me and I promise not to touch anything but the books?’
For a seemingly endless moment, he stared mutely at the threadbare carpet, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched in his pockets. But finally, hauling in a long breath, he said, ‘Very well. Come with me.’
Following him across the hall, Arabella experienced a small quiver of trepidation. She’d been told what lay behind that locked door but wasn’t sure she believed it. As far as she was concerned, it could be anything. For all she knew, he might be holding satanic rituals or painting lewd pictures on the walls. So when he turned the key, opened the door and gestured for her to precede him, she had to force herself not to hesitate.
Since half of the windows were shuttered, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. But when they did … she saw that there was indeed a harpsichord. It stood forlornly in the centre of the room and somehow commanded her attention, blinding her to the bookshelves filling two of the walls.
Behind her, Julian closed the door and pointed. ‘You wanted books. There they are.’
‘Yes.’ She ventured a few steps nearer the instrument, close enough to see that, though attached, all the strings were lying loose. ‘Ellie thinks you are mending this.’
‘I am mending it,’ he said tautly. ‘Please don’t touch anything.’
Still faintly incredulous, Arabella said, ‘Do you know how?’
He stared at her as if she was deranged, words tumbling through his head. If someone handed him the right parts and materials, he could build a harpsichord from scratch. It might not be pretty; but it would play perfectly – which was the only thing that mattered.
Eventually, he snapped, ‘Of course I bloody know!’ And then, flushing, ‘I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t … I didn’t mean … it’s just that yes, I know exactly what I’m doing. Only a complete idiot would blunder about inside an instrument like this if they didn’t.’
‘No. Of course,’ she said hastily. ‘I’m sorry. It was a stupid question.’ She looked back at what she was beginning to suspect was a labour of love. ‘Is this what you did before you came here? Repaired harpsichords?’
‘No.’ He drew an odd impatient breath. ‘Do you want to look for books or not?’
‘Yes.’ But she didn’t do it. Instead, putting her hands behind her back so as not to alarm him, she circled the instrument, absorbing what it told her until light dawned, blinding in its intensity. She said softly, ‘You play, don’t you?’
He didn’t answer but she could feel the tension in him from eight feet away so she kept her eyes on the once-exquisite casing of inlaid fruitwood, now marred with deep scratches and marks from carelessly-placed glasses. ‘It must kill you to see it in this condition.’
Forcing himself to speak, he muttered, ‘The outside isn’t important.’
‘Perhaps not – but it’s a pity.’ Arabella looked at the pristine dual-keyboard, gripping her hands together to stop one of them reaching out. ‘You’ve cleaned the keys.’
Julian choked back an acrid laugh. He had done more than that. He’d dismantled both keyboards. For nearly a month, the ivory and ebony keys had lain on an old sheet like extracted teeth, as he meticulously cleaned, restored and checked the underside of each one for any sign of worm. Putting them back where they belonged had taken a week. If he told her that, she’d probably think him mad.
Instead, she looked at him with respect and said, ‘How long have you been doing this?’
He opened his mouth to tell her to take what books she wanted and go.
‘Since I first realised I was trapped here,’ he said. And promptly squeezed his eyes shut for a second, appalled that he’d said the words out loud. ‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessarily dramatic. Would you mind leaving the books until another day? I have … things to do.’
Arabella nodded. She was beginning to realise that she had been tapping on a nerve and it was about to snap. Turning to go, she said, ‘Thank you for showing me, my lord. The work you are doing here is truly remarkable.’
She was four steps down the hallway when she heard him say, ‘Julian. Lord Chalfont is … somebody else. I’d prefer you called me Julian.’
Then the door closed between them and the key turned in the lock.
* * *
Julian was used to the routine at the Misses Caldercott’s villa. He wasn’t allowed to touch the harpsichord until he drank a cup of tea and ate a slice of whatever tart Cook had baked the previous day. He had the time this took down to a minimum, scalding his mouth with the tea and disposing of the tart in four bites. Miss Abigail then reproved him for ruining his digestion and Miss Beatrice patted his hand and called him a foolish boy. Then and only then did they let him alone to play.
He had vaguely noticed some days ago that the angle at which the harpsichord stood had been altered slightly, putting his back to the window. This morning, the sun streamed in behind him and a pleasant breeze played on the nape of his neck. He loosened his fingers with a series of rapid scales and arpeggios, followed by the playful Courante from one of Bach’s Suites. Then, with barely a pause, he embarked on the scherzo he had composed shortly before leaving Vienna. It was the first time he had risked playing anything of his own … but the ladies need not know who had written it and he wanted to know if it still satisfied him. It did; in fact, it made him smile, so he played it again, more quickly this time. Then, before Miss Beatrice – it was always she who asked – could demand enlightenment, he did something else he hadn’t tried before and launched into the Allegro from Mozart’s newest concerto. This would be something else the ladies were unlikely ever to have heard … and Mozart’s genius would render his own efforts easily forgettable.
Though a challenge, playing any part of a concerto without the orchestra wasn’t impossible; it merely required rather more concentration than usual. It had taken Julian months to get hold of the music and nearly a fortnight to completely master all three movements. But he considered the piece one of Mozart’s best … lively and complex but holding a melody that stuck in one’s mind afterwards. Perfect, in fact.
When the last notes died away, he sat motionless letting the echo of them clear from his head. He was still doing it when a man’s voice said loudly, ‘Why’s he stopped?’ And was swiftly followed by a chorus of annoyed shushing. Julian turned sharply towards the open window, half-stumbling to his feet when he saw upwards of a dozen villagers gathered among the rosebushes in the Misses Caldercott’s front garden.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Miss Abigail from behind him. ‘I told Millie to keep them quiet.’
For a handful of seconds, heart thudding inside his chest, Julian remained rooted to the spot as if he didn’t know which way to turn. His audience didn’t wait for him to decide. It burst into ragged but wholly enthusiastic applause, over which somebody shouted, ‘Play another, m’lord!’ … the call quickly being taken up by others.
From the back of the little crowd and into a brief, expectant lull, Paul Featherstone trapped Julian’s gaze and said, ‘No point in crawling back into your shell now, Julian. So take a bow and give them an encore, why don’t you? God knows, entertainment is a rare commodity hereabouts.’
Julian looked out on the hopeful faces in the garden. For an instant, they became the audience he’d performed before in Vienna; three hundred ladies and gentlemen, powdered, perfumed and clad in bright silks and satins. Something faintly hysterical stirred inside him, producing a brief genuinely amused laugh. Then he did one thing they expected of him … followed by another they didn’t. He swept a flourishing bow and, in the resurgence of applause that greeted it, sat down again and took them by surprise with a medley of well-known tunes. Barbara Allen slid seamlessly into Robin Adair; The Vicar of Bray became a foray into The Beggar’s Opera with How Happy Could I Be With Either; and Rule Britannia, played as a theme with variations, served as a finale. Wide grins broke out, feet tapped, a few brave souls even sang along. And when it wa
s over in yet more applause, Julian realised that the laughter and genuine pleasure of these ordinary folk meant just as much as a standing ovation in a concert-hall.
When they finally started to melt away, he looked at the Caldercott ladies and said, with an attempt at severity, ‘Did you arrange that?’
‘No. It’s been going on for a while – though previously, they stayed out of sight,’ said Miss Beatrice, her cheeks pink with excitement. ‘This morning was different. Myself, I rather suspect Dr Featherstone.’
‘Who – me?’ grinned Paul, stalking in to clap Julian on the shoulder. ‘Well done. You’ll never hear the last of it, of course – but that was a nice thing you did. Give your next recital on Sunday after church and you’ll have the whole village there. Play a reel and they’ll be dancing in the street.’
‘On a Sunday?’ murmured Miss Abigail sardonically. ‘God forbid!’
Paul laughed and shook his head. Then, briskly, ‘I have to go, Julian. But first tell me how it’s going with Mistress Marsden.’
Three people waited while Julian dragged his mind back from wherever it had been.
‘Well enough, I suppose.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Ellie likes her.’
‘Excellent. And what of you? Do you like her?’
Yes, he thought; but with ingrained caution, said merely, ‘She is … different.’
‘Different?’ echoed Paul, amused. ‘In what way?’
‘Well, she doesn’t seem to mind when I say the wrong thing … or look at me as if she’s either waiting for me to be charming and witty or – or evaluating my stud potential. And Ellie says she can climb trees.’
Miss Beatrice smothered a laugh. Miss Abigail said unsteadily, ‘Yes. That is certainly different. You must bring her to tea one day. I’m sure Bea and I will enjoy meeting her.’
* * *
While Julian was giving an unintentional performance, Janet Featherstone had been paying a surprise call on Arabella. In her usual down-to-earth fashion, she said, ‘How are you coping?’
‘Quite well, I think. As yet, I’m concentrating on getting to know the children and trying to establish a routine for them. I’d like to add a few lessons but I’m not sure what they learn at the vicarage.’
‘Reading, writing and basic arithmetic. They sing hymns, recite prayers and occasionally she reads them a Bible story. Nothing at all to fuel their imaginations or create enthusiasm.’ Janet examined the lemon tart on her plate. ‘I see Martha Phelps’ pastry-making skills are no better than the rest of her cooking but I don’t suppose Julian complains.’ She paused, glancing sideways at Arabella. ‘Speaking of Julian … how are you getting on with him?’
‘Until yesterday, I’d hardly seen him. At first, I put his manner down to shyness … but it’s more than that, isn’t it? He’s almost reclusive.’
‘Yes. You know about the harpsichord, I suppose? That music is the love of his life?’ And when Arabella nodded, ‘My guess is that he’s spent so much time communicating with a keyboard, he’s forgotten how to communicate with people. If, that is, he ever knew.’
‘Have you heard him play?’
‘No – but Paul has. Apparently, he’s exceptional – which isn’t to be wondered at after seven years studying in Vienna.’
‘Seven years?’ gasped Arabella.
‘Yes. And he’ll talk about Vienna with moderate comfort; the music, his studies, other musicians he met. But try asking about the last few weeks before those weasely lawyers tricked him into coming here and he slams an invisible door in your face.’
‘What do you mean – they tricked him?’
‘They lied,’ said Janet flatly; and proceeded to explain. ‘He never meant to stay … but after he found out about the children, he didn’t know how to leave. Those first few months, it was like watching someone die by degrees. He’s been better since Abigail and Beatrice Caldercott offered him the use of their instrument and he’ll be better still when he’s finished repairing the one here. But if what Paul and I suspect is true, there will always be a part of him missing.’
‘And what do you suspect?’
‘That his ambition was to be a concert performer … and that he’d been on the brink of achieving it when the lawyers found him.’ Janet shrugged and rose, pulling on her gloves. ‘We may be wrong … but if we aren’t, he’s wasted here.’
‘If you aren’t,’ said Arabella slowly, ‘it isn’t any wonder he’s miserable. Because he is, isn’t he? I suspect that is why he closes himself off.’
‘And bottling it up compounds the problem.’ She looked Arabella in the eye. ‘I’ve half a mind to ask what you’re doing here, Mistress Marsden – since everything about you is telling me you’ve never worked for a living and probably don’t need to do so now. But I won’t. I’ll merely leave you with a challenge. Persuade Julian to talk.’
Arabella stood up and hoped the fact that her nerves had gone into spasm didn’t show. She said, ‘You think I can succeed where you and your husband have not?’
‘I think it’s worth a try. It’s harder for him to run away here. So all you need is some perseverance … and the right lever.’
* * *
Luncheon in the dining-room with the children was only marginally less fraught than it had been the day before … but, after it, Arabella insisted they remain seated, produced the books she had found in the schoolroom and, when Tom scowled, said firmly, ‘Half an hour, and then we’ll have some fun. Tom and Rob, you’ll have to share for now but that means you can help each other. Start with Jason and the Golden Fleece. And Ellie … you can sit with me and we’ll read Figgy The Magic Dog together.’
Once Tom and Rob realised that Jason was a hero on an epic quest, they settled down better than Arabella had expected and Ellie enjoyed Figgy so much that she insisted they read it twice. The half-hour passed quickly and, at the end of it, Arabella said, ‘Now … who’s in the mood for a treasure-hunt?’
‘Me!’ said Rob and Ellie in unison. To which Rob added, ‘Where, Miss? Outside?’
‘No. We’re going to search the attics for ancient, long-lost riches. Or in my case, new curtains for your bedchambers.’ Tom swore under his breath and Arabella fixed him with a withering stare. ‘You can join in or not, Tom. It’s entirely up to you. But what you will not do is use language like that in my hearing. Do we understand one another?’
He nodded and mumbled, ‘Sorry. I forgot.’
‘Good. Then let’s march. En avant, mes braves!’
Within half an hour, everyone was filthy but having too good a time to care. Even Tom, who had begun with an expression of ostentatious boredom, grew somewhat more animated when Ellie heaved an antiquated musket from a trunk and asked Miss Lizzie if it could be made to work.
Suspecting that it couldn’t but alarmed in case it could, Arabella sat down to give it a thorough examination. By the time she was satisfied that the thing contained neither powder nor shot and was frozen at perpetual half-cock, Ellie had lost interest – having discovered a pair of doleful-looking puppets – and Rob was busy assembling a troop of toy soldiers. Tom, however, who had been looking over her shoulder with close attention and a glimmer of respect, said, ‘How did you know how to do that?’
‘My brother said that if I wanted to learn to fire a pistol, I must first learn how to look after it,’ she replied. ‘This musket is old but, in essence, not so very different from a modern firearm.’ She handed it to him. ‘It’s never going to work again. But with some gun-oil and a bit of effort, you may be able to get most of the parts moving. And taking something apart is the best way to learn how it works.’
Tom accepted the gun with a grunt that Arabella decided to interpret as ‘thank you’.
When the clock in the hall chimed four and Ellie immediately said she was going to meet Sir Julian, Arabella decided that they had done enough for one day. Gathering up the various lengths of velvet and brocade she had unearthed herself, she said, ‘Take the things that you want, then wash your hands and
get rid of the cobwebs.’
‘Can we really keep the toys?’ asked Ellie doubtfully.
‘Of course. These and any others you find.’
‘You mean we can do this again?’ asked Rob, bright-faced under the dirt. ‘There are some skittles but I couldn’t find them all.’
‘Try again tomorrow.’ She hesitated and then, aware that no one at Chalfont either knew or cared about the proper protocol, said, ‘Ellie … will you do something for me? Will you tell his lordship that I’ll expect him in the dining-room at six o’clock?’
‘With clean hands,’ replied Ellie promptly. It had been the day’s first lesson.
Arabella swallowed a laugh, hoped his lordship had a sense of humour and said solemnly, ‘Yes. With clean hands.’
* * *
Julian didn’t know how he felt about dining with Mistress Marsden again.
Somewhere at the back of his mind was the idea that it might be pleasant not to eat alone. Also, he liked watching her as she talked … and especially liked hearing her laugh. But the prospect of having to make conversation tied his stomach in knots.
He made himself as presentable as possible and, having gone downstairs early, found her putting the finishing touches to a small vase of wild roses. Tossing a teasing grin over her shoulder, she said, ‘Did Ellie tell you to wash your hands?’
‘Yes.’ He held them out. ‘Do you want to check?’
‘No. But you can tell her that I did. She’ll like that.’
‘She likes you,’ said Julian baldly. And managed not to add, She thinks you’re pretty.
‘I hope so.’ Having asked Violet not to begin serving immediately, Arabella took a seat beside the empty hearth and waited to see if his lordship would follow suit. If he thought she only wished to discuss the children, he might relax a bit. ‘Rob is a happy, good-natured little boy … but Tom is still very wary. I’m not sure how to mend that, other than by --’