by Stella Riley
‘Sometimes money isn’t what is needed so much as a new way of looking at things,’ she replied. ‘What I don’t understand is what on earth the fourth earl did with his time.’
‘Aside from bedding every female within reach, you mean?’ And when she made a small choking sound, ‘Sorry. But it isn’t as if you didn’t already know. As to the rest, he drank. According to Phelps, he fell down the stairs and broke his neck whilst drunk.’
An idea occurred to Arabella but she decided not to mention it just yet and instead said, ‘How is the harpsichord progressing?’
The joy in his smile stopped her breath for a moment.
‘It’s ready for tuning.’
She beamed back at him. ‘Is that very difficult?’
‘No. Just time-consuming.’
She thought for a moment and then said slowly, ‘It’s probably an idiotic question … but how can you tune the harpsichord when there are no notes there to begin with?’
‘You start with just one. Everything else follows from that.’ Julian swallowed some soup, gathered his nerve and said, ‘I’ll show you, if you like.’
The offer took her by surprise and it required effort not to pounce on it.
‘Yes, please. I’d like that very much.’
‘You could look for the books you want at the same time.’ He glanced up again. ‘Ellie likes the story about the dog. Perhaps we can find a similar one.’
We? Was that the beginning of acceptance or even a tentative friendship? Arabella smiled at him and said gently, ‘Yes. Perhaps we can.’
The rest of the meal being no better than usual, they did not linger over it and half an hour later they were standing beside the harpsichord while, at Arabella’s request, Julian identified the various parts. More confident than she had ever seen him, he said, ‘The player depresses the key but the jacks do most of the work. Look. As the key goes down, the jack rises and the quill plucks the string. When the key is released, the jack descends and the damper – that bit of felt there – silences the note. Here, the jacks were in such a bad state that they all had to come out … and most of the dampers had rotted and needed replacing.’
‘It looks like new,’ remarked Arabella.
‘A lot of it is,’ he replied, pulling the tuning-hammer from his pocket. ‘That’s why it has taken so long. As for tuning … you see this pin here?’ And when she nodded. ‘Play the A above middle C.’ He glanced around. ‘Sorry. Do you know --?’
‘Yes.’ She depressed the key, saw the jack move but heard nothing. ‘What now?’
‘Wait while I tighten the string to a point where it becomes viable.’
He fitted the tuning-hammer to the wrestpin and began gently turning it. Arabella opened her mouth on a question, then closed it again. As if he knew what she had been about to ask, he slanted another smile at her and said, ‘Yes. I am tuning the right one. The strings have been lying slack for a while so, in addition to their natural cunning, they’ve grown lazy.’ He paused, eyes locked on what his hand was doing. Then, ‘All right. Play the A again now.’ She did and the key rewarded her with a low-pitched and decidedly unmusical groan. Arabella laughed, half-intrigued, half-delighted. Julian forced himself to keep his mind on what he was doing. ‘Good. Now we begin. I’m going to tune the string and you’re going to continue playing the note at a steady tempo until I tell you to stop.’
Gradually, the pitch of the note rose until it was ringing out cleanly.
‘Close,’ he muttered, now barely touching the pin, ‘but still flat. It needs to be over-tuned until it’s slightly sharp.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘And how do you know that note is A?’
‘I just do. As for why … as soon as I stop tormenting it, the string will relax. It’s a little trick harpsichords have.’ He straightened and turned to look at her. ‘Now I have the A, I’m going to tune the F a third below it, then the C a third above. As I said, it’s not difficult – it just takes time.’
‘It looks difficult to me,’ observed Arabella. ‘And it must take a lot of patience.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m going to continue with this. If … if you want to look through the books, please do so.’
‘Are you sure? Won’t I be disturbing you?’
‘No. Once I start concentrating, I’ll probably forget you’re there,’ he said. And wondered if, tonight, that might not be true.
It took Arabella quite some time to find half a dozen books that might possibly be suitable and all the time she was hunting the shelves she was aware of the constant repetition of sound as Julian moved on from triads to fifths. She noticed that, at some point, he had discarded both coat and cravat and was working in his shirt-sleeves; and when, despite the fading light, he persevered with his task, she went quietly about the room, lighting candles. She thought he muttered his thanks but couldn’t be sure. Smiling to herself, she sat down in a corner to look through the books she had chosen … only to discover that her gaze was constantly drawn to the man by the harpsichord.
Arabella had believed herself immune to masculine beauty. Growing up with three outstandingly good-looking older brothers tended to do that to one. Now, however, she found herself noticing a cameo-pure profile … a firm, well-shaped mouth … forest-deep eyes fringed with sable lashes; and more than any of those, his hands. Elegantly-boned yet strong; patient, confident and clever. Something about those hands produced an odd frisson of heat which, in turn, was responsible for her gathering her books and slipping softly from the library, silent as a ghost.
Julian knew when she left. Having sensed her presence through every minute of the last hour, he immediately felt the lack of it. The endless routine of his fingers halted and he drew a long breath to clear his chest of feelings he didn’t understand. Then, straightening to ease the ache in his shoulders, he went back to work.
* * *
On the next two nights, Arabella fell asleep to the distant sound of steadily repeated notes as Julian continued tuning the harpsichord. She would have liked to go down and join him but knew that – even if he welcomed her company – it would be wiser not to do so. After leaving him that first night, she had lain awake pondering and then feeling again the reaction she’d experienced whilst simply watching his hands. If it had not been completely new to her, she might have put it down to physical desire … but she knew that couldn’t be right. If it had been, she would surely have experienced something similar during those two so-deeply-regretted occasions with David; but she hadn’t.
She wrote another letter to Aunt Maria filled with the doings of the children, Mistress Phelps culinary mistakes and virtually no mention of the earl. Then, having completed it to the best of her ability, she went up to the nursery to ask the children if they would take it to the village for posting on their way to the vicarage next morning. Even before setting foot through the door, she realised that something was – if not actually wrong – at least unusual. Instead of being at the end of the lane waiting for Julian to come home, Ellie was with her brothers and saying mulishly, ‘I won’t. He followed me and I’m keeping him.’
‘He followed you because you were feeding him bits of the bun Marjorie at the bakery gave you,’ said Tom, irritably. ‘And you can’t keep him. He ain’t yours to keep. Anyway, Sir won’t let you.’
‘He will so! He will if I ask him.’
Pushing open the door, Arabella saw immediately what the problem was.
‘Oh dear,’ she said mildly. ‘Don’t tell me. Figgy?’
‘Yes.’ Ellie clutched the dirty brown-and-white bundle of fur even closer and said, ‘And Sir Julian will let me keep him. He will!’
Shoving the letter in her pocket, Arabella sat down and put her arm about the child.
‘He may do, if the dog doesn’t belong to someone else – but we will have to ask him. Rob … go down and find out if his lordship is --’ Then, hearing feet taking the stairs two at a time, ‘Never mind.’ And quickly, as Julian erupted through the doorway looking a
nxious, ‘It’s all right. She’s fine. It is merely that she has … brought us a visitor.’
‘Figgy’s not a visitor,’ mumbled Ellie stubbornly. ‘He’s staying.’
‘Figgy,’ repeated Julian. Letting out a breath, he looked at Arabella, ‘Ah.’
‘Quite. He followed Ellie home … though not, Tom says, without some encouragement. And as I was just about to explain, before we can consider Figgy’s future, we need to know whether or not he already has a home elsewhere.’
‘I told her and told her,’ said Tom. ‘But she wouldn’t listen.’
‘I’m sure you did your best, Tom.’ Julian hesitated and then dropped on his haunches in front of Ellie, watching the bedraggled, filthy creature lick her chin. ‘I understand you wanting to keep him. But if he is some other child’s pet, that wouldn’t be fair, would it?’
‘No. But he isn’t.’
‘We don’t know that for certain --’
‘Yes we do. He was hungry.’
‘Perhaps. But that doesn’t prove anything, Ellie. And you wouldn’t want me to be accused of stealing him, would you?’
Cunning, thought Arabella, hiding a smile as, for the first time, Ellie looked uncertain.
‘You didn’t steal him. You wasn’t even there.’
‘No. But it is what people might think.’ Keeping his face perfectly solemn whilst pressing home his advantage, Julian said, ‘I could go to prison.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. And that’s why we have to find out where he came from.’
‘All right.’ Ellie’s mouth trembled and she heaved an immense sigh. ‘But when you’re sure he doesn’t have a home, then can I keep him?’
Arabella shook her head at Julian and mouthed, No promises.
‘We’ll see.’ He stood up. ‘Tom … perhaps you’ll help me sort this out? I have to go into the village anyway, so if you can find something to serve as a leash, we’ll take Figgy with us and see if anyone claims him.’
‘And if they don’t, you’ll bring him back?’ demanded Ellie, tears sparkling on her lashes as she reluctantly allowed her brother to take her pet. ‘Please. You will, won’t you?’
‘One thing at a time,’ said Julian. ‘First, let Tom and me see what we can find out.’
Trying to hide his pleasure in being asked to help, Tom produced a length of fraying cord that had once held back the curtains and, making a loop at one end, dropped it over the dog’s head. ‘Come on, Figs. Time for a walk.’
Ellie burrowed miserably into Arabella’s side and, seeing the indecision in Julian’s face, Arabella pulled the letter from her pocket and said cheerfully, ‘Off you go – and please take this to be posted. And when you’re back, we’ll have a picnic tea in the garden with Mistress Phelps’ freshly-made gingerbread.’
As they left, she was fairly sure she heard a voice mutter, ‘Gingerbread? God help us.’
* * *
Mistress Marsden had advised him to speak plainly to Tom and, since walking to the village took roughly twenty minutes, Julian realised that this was probably as good a time as any to do so. His difficulty was in knowing quite where to start and he was still trying to work this out when Tom said, ‘Ugly little bugger, ain’t he? Oh - sorry. I didn’t mean --’
‘It’s all right.’ Julian flashed the boy a grin. ‘Just between you and me – yes. He is.’ And then, before the moment was lost, ‘Look. I think it’s time we got something straight. I know you’ve always had to look after Rob and Ellie and I don’t blame you for still feeling responsible. But I’d like you to trust my word on just one thing, if you can.’
‘What?’
‘Chalfont is your home – and always will be as long as I have any say in the matter.’
There was a long silence. Then, gruffly, ‘I reckon I knew that.’
‘You did? Oh. Well … good.’
‘In the beginning, I reckoned you’d be like everybody else and get fed up with us. And I didn’t think you’d stay – not with the way things are.’
Julian drew a long breath and said, ‘I won’t lie to you, Tom. At first, I didn’t mean to stay – not because of anything here but because I wanted the life I had before I came. Accepting that I couldn’t have it, was … hard. Some days, it still is. But when I took you and the others in, I didn’t do it thinking I could walk away any time I chose. I knew I was making a permanent commitment.’
‘A commitment?’ asked Tom. ‘What’s that?’
‘A sort of promise. The kind you can’t break.’ He paused, wondering how much to say; and then, knowing Tom was no fool, forced himself to continue. ‘I think you know how matters stand at Chalfont and that I’m not the best man to mend them. The land hasn’t been farmed properly for some years and your – your father left --’
‘Don’t call him that!’ Tom burst out. ‘He weren’t no father to any of us. He – he just had his fun with our mothers till they weren’t no more use to him. As for us, we could’ve starved in a ditch for all he cared.’ He swallowed convulsively. ‘Oh he dumped us on Ma Clack, all right – but that was just to get us out of the way. And she didn’t want us, neither. All she ever cared about was the money. I don’t remember Rob coming. But I was six when they brought Ellie … and I remember how the old witch went on and on about him not paying her enough to take in all his by-blows.’ He stopped, breathing hard. ‘So don’t call him our father. He was a bigger bastard than any of us!’
If there was a right answer to this, Julian didn’t know what it was so he said quietly, ‘I’m sorry. And for what it’s worth, I don’t disagree with anything you’ve said.’
‘You never met him, did you?’
‘No. I’d never even heard of him until the lawyers found me – and the degree of relationship between us is so remote as to be laughable. But the lawyers just wanted to pass the estate’s problems and debts on to somebody else … and, as it turned out, that somebody was me.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I never wanted to be an earl. I still don’t.’
They walked along in silence while Tom chewed this over. Finally, he said, ‘Where was you before?’
‘In Vienna.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Austria. If you’re interested, I’ll find a map and show you.’
More deep thought and then, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why does that harpsichord matter so much? I mean, why do you spend hours every night trying to fix it?’
The unexpectedness of this caused something inside Julian’s chest to twist. He thought, God. How do I explain that to a child … to anyone, really … in a way that makes sense?
‘If Rob and Ellie were suddenly taken away and you didn’t know if you would ever see them again, how would you feel?’
The boy opened his mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it again. After a long moment, he said, ‘I don’t know. I think … I think it’d be as if some of me was missing.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Julian simply. ‘That’s how I feel when I can’t play.’
Once in the centre of the village, he said, ‘Where were you when Figgy appeared?’
‘Near the bakery. Are we really going to call him that?’
‘Unless you find his home or can persuade Ellie otherwise, I fear so. Ask in the shops and anyone you meet – whatever you can think of. I’ll take Miss Lizzie’s letter to the inn and see if there are any for me, then I’ll catch up with you.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Good luck.’
The only letter awaiting collection at the Dog and Duck was a further communication about the diverted stream. Groaning inwardly, Julian shoved it in his pocket and set off to find Tom. This, due to the number of people who stopped him to ask when he would give another concert from the Misses Caldercott’s parlour, took longer than expected. But he eventually rounded a corner and spotted Tom at the end of the road, facing five other boys. For a split second, Julian thought nothing of it. Then a number of things struck him. One of the boys was holding a hefty piece of wo
od; Tom’s cheek was bleeding; he was clutching Figgy to his chest; and the ground around him was littered with stones. Even as Julian started to run, one of the five threw another and snarled, ‘Hand over the runt, bastard – and maybe we won’t give you a pasting. He ain’t yours anyway.’
‘He ain’t yours neither.’ Tom was too busy ducking and trying to edge away to notice Julian’s approach. ‘If nobody owns him, my sister’s keeping him.’
‘Who says?’ jeered one of the others, letting another stone fly. ‘That molly lord up at the hall? Think we’re scared of him?’
Julian scooped up a stone from somebody’s flower-bed and slowed his pace despite the anger beating in his chest. Tom had seen him. Good. He signalled to the boy to wait.
His voice low and furious, Tom said, ‘He ain’t no molly.’
‘Course he is. He plays music, don’t he? Like a girl.’
Tom dodged another missile. ‘Say that to his face, would you?’
‘Any time,’ boasted the ringleader, starting to close in.
‘How about now?’ asked Julian. And, as all five wheeled to face him, ‘Go on. I’m listening.’ He waited, tossing the stone casually from one hand to the other. And when none of them spoke, ‘What? Nothing to say? Now why am I not surprised?’
The bullies exchanged uneasy glances and started shuffling away. One of them mumbled, ‘Didn’t mean nothing, mister.’
‘My lord,’ said Julian. ‘You didn’t mean anything, my lord. And please have the guts to stand and face me. Tom … do you know their names?’
‘Yes, m’lord,’ he agreed, entering into the spirit of the thing. ‘All of ’em.’
‘Excellent. And have they troubled you – or Rob or Ellie – before?’
This time, Tom stared at his feet and scuffed one boot on the cobbles.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ Julian let his gaze stray over the miscreants. ‘Odds of five to one and wanting the dog in order to give it a kicking say a lot about you. Your fathers must be so proud. But the fun is over. This time I shall merely speak to your parents and to the Reverend Hassall. However … if anything like this occurs again, you may count on my doing something much, much worse. Do I make myself clear?’