by Stella Riley
‘As if, perhaps, they might have been made for someone else?’
‘Yes.’ Adeline looked at him forebodingly. ‘I hope you’re wrong about this.’
‘Given the complications involved in correcting the situation should I be right, so do I.’
‘And if you’re not?’ asked Adeline, ‘How are we to find out? Based on such scant evidence – not to mention the sheer unlikelihood of it – we can’t just ask her.’
‘No. But assuming they have changed places, then Arabella is where Elizabeth should be … so learning something about the new Earl of Chalfont would appear to be the logical place to begin. In fact, I was considering doing so anyway, purely to assure myself that his household is … suitably respectable. I believe I will set the matter before Mr Osborne. He has been under-employed lately … and gathering information is a speciality of his.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Arabella was prepared for awkwardness on Julian’s part following their kiss and, knowing it would be up to her to diffuse it, steeled herself to do so only to be denied the opportunity. It was Saturday and so, with no lessons at the vicarage, she was breakfasting with the children in the kitchen. Ellie and Rob were surreptitiously slipping bits of toast and bacon under the table to Figgy; Tom had either chosen not to do the same or was merely better at hiding it. But when his lordship wandered in to lean against the door-jamb, all three children broke into spontaneous applause.
With his usual slightly embarrassed smile, Julian sketched a bow and, avoiding looking at anyone in particular, murmured, ‘Thank you. I hope I didn’t keep everyone awake?’
‘It was lovely,’ said Ellie. ‘The loveliest thing ever.’
Before anyone else could speak, Rob blurted, ‘Can anyone learn to do it?’
Tom snorted. ‘Don’t be daft, Rob. Playing like that takes years, doesn’t it, sir?’
Julian’s gaze rested thoughtfully on Rob. ‘It does. But you can enjoy playing without taking it as seriously as I do. So yes, Rob … anyone can learn.’
‘Could I?’
‘Do you want to?’
The boy nodded earnestly. ‘Yes. Yes, please.’
There was a breathless hush while everyone waited for his lordship to speak. Finally, he said, ‘Then I’ll teach you. Come to the library when you have finished eating and --’
Rob was on his feet before Julian could complete his sentence.
‘I’ve finished,’ he said, his face aglow. ‘Can I come now?’
‘In just a moment.’ A hint of laughter tugged at Julian’s mouth. ‘I came down to say that I am promised to the Misses Caldercott this afternoon. They have said that if anyone wished to come with me, there will be cake.’
‘Us?’ asked Tom, dubiously. ‘All of us?’
‘And Miss Lizzie?’ demanded Ellie.
‘Everyone.’ Glancing at Arabella for the first time, he added innocently, ‘Clean hands at two o’clock.’ And restoring his attention to Rob, ‘Clean hands for you now, if I’m to let you touch my keyboard.’
It came as no surprise to Arabella that the entire household managed to find a reason to linger in the hall while Rob had his first music lesson. The door had been left slightly ajar so they were able to hear his lordship’s voice, low and encouraging and what could only be his lordship’s hands demonstrating a simple scale before inviting Rob to attempt it.
At one point, Arabella heard Rob complaining that his hands were too small. And Julian’s reply of, ‘Mine were smaller than yours when I began. Now … try again and remember to cross your thumb beneath your middle finger on the way up and middle over your thumb on the way down. Yes. Good. And again. Five more times until it feels natural.’
And later, when Rob sounding jubilant, had mastered the scale, Julian’s voice again, explaining about black keys and white ones and the relationship between the two while he played a long, slow chromatic scale to illustrate the point. The child asking a barrage of questions; the man, quietly and patiently answering; and somewhere along the way, Arabella found it necessary to dash foolish tears from her eyes. Then, after nearly an hour, she heard Julian say, ‘That’s enough for today, Rob. Well done. When you’ve had a few more lessons and I’m satisfied you really do want to do this and will treat the instrument with respect, you can come in and practise. But for now, only when I’m here.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
There was an odd sound, as if Rob had seized Julian in a hug, then his feet running to the door. Arabella whisked herself out of the way before she was caught eavesdropping.
* * *
Trailed by three unusually neat and tidy children, Arabella and Julian set off towards the village without speaking. Then, almost in unison, they said, ‘About last night --’ And stopped, looking directly at each other for a moment before Arabella laughed and Julian’s gaze slid away.
‘You first,’ he mumbled.
‘Last night we agreed apologies weren’t needed,’ she replied simply. ‘They’re still not. Given the magic you’d been making, what happened between us is hardly surprising. I’m not sorry and you shouldn’t be, either.’
‘I’m not.’ He glanced at her, then away again. ‘But I know I ought to be.’
‘In that case, so should I. I’d no business intruding upon you in my night-clothes, with my hair hanging down my back.’ She shook her head and added mischievously, ‘My mama would have a fit if she knew.’
‘It was beautiful,’ said Julian. And in case she hadn’t understood, ‘Your hair.’
‘Oh.’ Arabella’s colour rose a little. ‘I’ve never liked it much … but thank you.’
He didn’t reply and, after letting the silence linger for a minute or two, she said, ‘Do you think Rob’s enthusiasm for the harpsichord will last?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps.’ He thought about it and then, with a shrug, added, ‘I was like him once. It lasted with me.’
‘I doubt you had as good a teacher as the one Rob has.’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Can you stop being modest just for a moment? Rob’s bursting with happiness and it’s thanks to you.’ She waited and when he merely walked on, looking straight ahead, ‘Who did teach you? When you first started, I mean?’
‘The church organist. I was eight but I could already use both hands and play tunes I knew by ear … so half-a-dozen lessons later, he told my parents to get me proper tuition.’ He finally sent a brief glance in her direction. ‘And after I threw a few tantrums, they did.’
Arabella laughed. ‘Tantrums? You? I don’t believe it!’
‘It’s true. Learning properly was a – a compulsion. So I persevered until I got Mr Bell. He came for three hours, four times a week and, as well as keyboard lessons, he taught me musical theory. That lasted until I was fifteen. Then, like the organist, Mr Bell said there was nothing more he could teach me and I was left to my own devices until Cambridge.’ Julian’s mouth curled wryly. ‘Music isn’t given much weight there. But Professor Ringwood was grateful to finally have at least one serious student so I got his undivided attention for two years. And then … well, I’ll leave you to guess.’
‘He also said you were beyond his capabilities?’
‘He told me not to waste a third year at Cambridge. He said I needed to go to a conservatoire – Paris or Vienna – where I could mix with other musicians and measure my skills against theirs.’ He hunched one shoulder and added, ‘My parents were dead by then and I’d inherited a little money. Not much … but enough to get me to Vienna, afford lodgings and rent a harpsichord. I was twenty.’
‘And then?’ she asked softly.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, a sure sign that he was about to retreat.
‘There’s not much more. Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’ Yes, she thought. I want to know everything about you. I want to understand how you’ve become the man you are. I want to learn how much gruelling work has gone into honi
ng your talent. And I’m beginning to suspect that I want something I don’t have the right to want and which I couldn’t have even if you offered it. But I’ll settle for whatever friendship we have … and be grateful for that. ‘Yes. I really do.’
‘Well, then. I spent seven years studying and practising … playing in ensembles and taking composition seriously. I made ends meet by giving lessons and accompanying singers and violinists … but I didn’t mind because I knew that it would eventually be worth it. And one day Herr Krassnig heard me play and decided to take a chance … and I gave a concert at the Schönbrunn.’ He stopped again, seeming restless. ‘That’s it. You know the rest.’
She did and it made her so angry that she wasn’t sure she could keep it out of her voice. Fortunately, Ellie chose that moment to pull one of Julian’s hands from his pocket so she could hold it and said, ‘Are the ladies nice? The ones we’re going to see?’
‘Yes. Before my harpsichord was mended, they let me play theirs. Theirs is much prettier. It has a painting inside it.’
‘Will they let us see it?’
‘Oh yes. I think you may count on that.’
* * *
It seemed to Arabella that there were a good many people out and about in the village. Women in little knots by their gates and men clustered outside the Dog and Duck … almost as if they were waiting for something. But the Caldercott ladies didn’t appear to notice anything unusual. They merely greeted Arabella warmly and welcomed the children inside with a commendable lack of fuss.
Miss Abigail said, ‘Well … this has certainly taken a while, Mistress Marsden. We were beginning to think Lord Chalfont was keeping you prisoner.’
Arabella shook her head laughingly and said, ‘Nothing like that, I promise you. It just took time to settle in – and I’ve found plenty to do. But I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.’ She glanced to where Ellie and Rob were staring in awe at the lovely rosewood harpsichord while Julian, one hand resting casually on Tom’s shoulder, talked quietly about the pastoral scene which graced the underside of the lid. ‘Your kindness in letting his lordship practise here has meant a great deal to him.’
‘It has meant a great deal to us as well,’ said Miss Beatrice gently. ‘Indeed, it has been a privilege. The last time he was here he said he was starting to tune his own instrument. Has he completed it?’
‘Yes.’ Arabella felt herself turning slightly pink. ‘He was able to play it for the first time last night. He played for hours and it was … well, there aren’t words to describe it. He is remarkable, isn’t he?’
Miss Beatrice patted her hand. ‘Yes. He is. Truly gifted … and such a dear, sweet boy. Ah – here is Millie with the tea.’
‘Excellent,’ said Miss Abigail. ‘Come, children … Tom, Rob, Ellie, isn’t it? Yes. Don’t look so surprised. Of course we know your names. Now, Cook hasn’t had any young people to bake for in a very long time so there is a great deal of cake – much more than my sister and I can eat. I hope you’re not going to tell them not to spoil their appetites, Mistress Marsden?’
‘No.’ Arabella gazed at the vast and tempting array of sweet things. ‘How can I do that when I shan’t worry about spoiling my own?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ boomed Miss Abigail. And to the children, ‘Come along, you three. Take a plate each and help yourselves … and you, my lord. This may be a special occasion but the rules still apply.’
‘Rules?’ asked Rob uncertainly.
‘For me, not you,’ replied Julian with a grin. ‘The ladies think I don’t eat enough so the rule is food before music. Ellie … choose something for me.’
The child stood before plates of little honey cakes and ones topped with soft icing; tarts of every variety – lemon, custard and strawberry; gingerbread, fruit scones and slices of apple pie. A frown creased her brow and turning to his lordship, she said, ‘I can’t. It all looks nice. I can’t choose.’
Miss Beatrice leaned forward, holding out a plate and a napkin. She whispered, ‘He likes the apple pie but he’s always secretly wanted one of the cakes with pink icing. Why don’t you take him one of each? And Tom … be so good as to pass his lordship a cup of tea.’
Arabella watched Ellie carry the plate carefully across the room and then met Julian’s eye as he took a heroic bite of pink icing. She was just suppressing a giggle when her attention was drawn to what was happening beyond him, on the other side of the window.
‘Miss Caldercott … there are people in your garden. Quite a lot of them, in fact.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Beatrice. And calmly turned her attention to settling the children with instructions to help themselves to anything they wanted.
Arabella looked at Abigail. ‘What are they doing there?’
‘Waiting for the music to start,’ came the cheerful reply. ‘Word always gets out when his lordship is expected – don’t know how, but it does. And the dear boy never disappoints them.’ She patted Arabella’s hand. ‘You’ll see.’
Julian demolished what was on his plate, swallowed the tea and meticulously wiped his fingers clean. Then he opened the window wide, bowed in response to a scattering of applause and took his seat at the keyboard before immediately launching into a fast and furious polka. For an instant, Arabella’s jaw dropped while, in the garden, some folk were clapping in time and others invaded the road in order to dance.
The polka became a reel, then a succession of popular songs that had everyone singing along. Near the conclusion of one of them, a male voice called out, ‘Play The Owl, m’lord.’
Julian shook his head slightly and, whilst bringing the current tune to its end, called back, ‘Don’t know it. Sing it for me.’
Outside, a pleasant baritone obliged him.
Of all the brave birds that ever I see
The owl is the fairest in her degree.
By the third line, two other voices joined the first in pleasing harmony. Julian’s head turned and he rose to lean against the window-frame, listening; and when the song ended, he said, ‘You don’t need me, gentlemen. You do well enough without.’
‘Good of you to say so, m’lord – but play it anyway,’ said one of them.
Julian shrugged and resumed his seat. Unerringly finding the pitch of the singers, he played the opening bars of the tune, before slowing it into an introduction and calling, ‘Sing it now.’
They began … and Julian promptly exchanged simple accompaniment for a delicate and more complex blend of support and decoration. The three voices swelled; no one else said a word. Arabella gripped one hand hard over the other and shut her eyes.
A torrent of applause greeted the end of the song and one of the singers pushed his way to the window, holding out his hand and saying, ‘Thank you, m’lord. I don’t know how you do it – but that was a pleasure and no mistake. Thank you!’
Rising, Julian accepted the hand and, grinning back, said, ‘Don’t thank me – I enjoyed it.’
And returning to his bench, embarked on another reel.
He played for an hour and, during it the crowd outside continued to grow until it seemed that the whole village was clustered outside the Misses Caldercott’s villa. Inside it, Rob stood at Julian’s shoulder, riveted by every movement of those clever hands. But finally Julian said, ‘One more – and one only, ladies and gentlemen. What is it to be?’
‘Something by Mr Mozart,’ shouted one voice … and was promptly drowned out by a chorus of others calling for ‘That piece you played last week. The one we liked!’ … and then The Owl trio singing a snatch of melody.
‘Ah,’ murmured his lordship, an odd smile touching his mouth. ‘That one.’
And he began to play.
It was the piece of his own that Arabella had heard twice the night before; and, watching these ordinary folk rendered utterly silent and gripped by the shifting emotions in the music, she felt something hot and almost painful swelling inside her chest. She wasn’t aware of the glances exchanged by the Caldercott ladies
or that Miss Beatrice had laid a hand over her own. The only thing she was aware of was an overwhelming desire to put her arms about the man at the keyboard and hold him forever.
* * *
Julian thought that, after their conversation on the way to the Misses Caldercott's, he had put the kiss as far behind him as it seemed Elizabeth had done. But that evening when she followed him into the library after dinner, he discovered that he hadn’t. No matter what he played, awareness of her presence sang through every nerve and vein in his body. It was odd really. Outside the library, he managed, by and large, not to think of the kiss; inside it, he could think of nothing else. The sweetness of her mouth, the way she’d felt in his arms and the expression in her eyes. He’d known he shouldn’t touch her. What he hadn’t anticipated was the seven hells of torture he would suffer afterwards. Even sitting ten feet away, he could feel her … and it was destroying his reason. He could keep his hands off her because he had to; but he had no defence at all against the maelstrom of emotion she created by merely sitting quietly while he played. And so, by the second night and with desperation coming ever closer, he decided he had to do something about it.
He couldn’t bring himself to banish her completely but he could and must change the usual routine. So for exactly an hour on the following evening, he played anything she requested, interposed with pieces she’d never heard before. Then, as the clock struck nine, he said, ‘And that ends tonight’s concert, I’m afraid. I’ve been neglecting parts of my repertoire for long enough and need to do some serious work.’
Startled, Arabella said, ‘You want me to go?’
‘Please. I’m going to be hammering away at the same phrases over and over again – so you won’t be missing much.’ He sent her a fleeting half-smile but didn’t quite meet her eyes. ‘Better close the door, as well. I don’t want to drive everyone in the house demented.’