Cadenza

by Stella Riley

  ‘Then we’ll speak later.’

  When she had left the room, Paul said quietly, ‘I’m guessing that the duke – Rockliffe, is it? – has some idea of how this bizarre business can be straightened out?’

  ‘He says the only way is for the girls to make a clean breast of everything and pretend it was a joke. Not that he’s laughing.’

  ‘Well, you can’t really blame him, can you? He’s been put in a very awkward position. So I suppose he wants to take Liz – Arabella to London?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will she go?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Julian stared into his untouched glass. ‘Probably.’

  Paul said slowly, ‘You don’t have to answer if you’d rather not … but I’m gathering you don’t want to lose her.’

  ‘No. But it’s not up to me, is it?’

  ‘Does she know you want her to stay?’

  ‘Yes.’ Inwardly cringing at his earlier behaviour, Julian thought, How much more pathetic could I be? Christ – I might as well have begged on my knees. He said, ‘But I doubt if it’s going to be up to her either. From what I’ve seen of him so far, whatever happens next will be dictated by bloody Rockliffe.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ demurred Paul. ‘She certainly stood up to me.’

  Julian shook his head. ‘You didn’t meet him. He’s not the sort of man people say no to. And he made a damned good case – all about the other girl being left to face the music on her own and not being able to accept some fellow who might ask her to marry him. Arabella won’t leave her cousin in the lurch. She’ll go to help put things right there, just as she’s been doing here.’ He paused, dragging in a long breath. ‘She says she’ll come back. I think … I think she actually wants to. But they’re not going to let her, are they? Rockliffe, her mother and her brother – who is a baron, by the way. They’re not going to let her come back here to this. Why the hell would they?’

  For the first time, Paul saw what was in the other man’s face. It was an expression he hadn’t seen since before Julian had first sat down at the Caldercott ladies’ harpsichord … and one he’d hoped never to see again. Utter bleakness coupled with desperate longing. Keeping his tone casual, he said, ‘No. Arabella can’t come back as your housekeeper-governess. But perhaps she could come back as something else.’

  For a second, Julian stared at him blankly. Then, on a bitter laugh, he said, ‘Now why didn’t I think of that? I’m sure her family would be delighted to see her married to a poverty-stricken joke of an earl with three baseborn children. As for Arabella – she’d have to be demented to even consider it.’

  Paul didn’t think so. Once or twice he had seen the look in those expressive grey eyes as they rested on his lordship … as, apparently, had Abigail and Beatrice Caldercott. All three of them shared the same suspicions. The real problem, he thought, wasn’t going to lie with Arabella or even her family. The root of it was going to be Julian himself.

  He said, ‘That’s merely your opinion. Too cowardly to find out for sure, are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leaving the question of marriage aside, it’s simple enough. If you love her, you should tell her. True, there’s a risk she might not feel the same. But at least you’d know.’

  Julian let his head fall back against the chair and shut his eyes. He said wearily, ‘Yes. I’d know. But what good would that do? She’ll still have to leave and with scant chance of being allowed within a mile of me again. If things were different … but they’re not. So somehow I have to get through this without making it worse than it need be.’

  * * *

  Once the children were settled for the night, Arabella sat in her room thinking. It seemed Julian was leaving the decision on whether or not to go with Rockliffe up to her and because she now had a dazzling ulterior motive to do so, she found it easy to make. There was no point taking Elizabeth’s clothes to London when her own were already there, so she packed only what she would need for the journey … then, leaving her door slightly ajar, she sat by the hearth and waited.

  It was over an hour before the first notes of the harpsichord drifted up from the library … a soulful, lingering melody in a minor key. Arabella ran lightly down the stairs. The library door stood open but the room was lit by only one branch of candles. In the shadowy gloom, Julian had begun toying moodily with a piece by Couperin. Continuing to play and without turning his head, he said, ‘Well? Are you leaving?’

  Closing the door behind her, she walked slowly to his side.

  ‘For Lizzie’s sake, I think I must.’

  The melody froze briefly and then resumed. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  ‘But it need only be for two or three --’

  ‘Don’t.’ The Couperin went on unabated. ‘Please don’t say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That you’ll come back. We both know that somebody will stop you.’ For the space of half a dozen bars, he said nothing because he was terrified of what might come out if he opened his mouth at all. Then, ‘And you never intended to stay here permanently, did you?’

  Uncertain, ashamed and guilty, Arabella wished he would stop playing and look at her. ‘Not when I first came. But nothing that seemed true then is true now.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’d have told me who you were even if Rockliffe hadn’t turned up?’

  ‘I – I wanted to. But there was Lizzie, you see. And --’

  ‘And there still is.’ Couperin became a menacing Bach fugue, as he fought the choking sensation in his chest. ‘So there’s really no more to be said, is there?’

  ‘What? Of course there is. We need to discuss this properly and --’

  ‘Stop!’ He played a single, crashing discord, rose and spun round to face her. ‘What is there to discuss? You are leaving and there’s an end of it. So will you please do us both a kindness and just go away.’

  Arabella’s jaw dropped. In the five weeks since she had first met him, she had never once heard him raise his voice. Now he stood there looking rumpled and aggrieved and beautiful and so inexpressibly dear that she wanted to cry. But since that wouldn’t solve anything … and since her emotions were as raw as his … she lifted her chin and said, ‘Why are you being so difficult?’

  ‘I’m not being difficult. I--’

  ‘Yes you are – and totally unreasonable, too. You think I’m any happier about this than you are? I’m not. But this stupid tangle was my idea, so it’s up to me to put it right.’

  ‘I’ve gathered that. So go and do it.’ He turned away again and sat down before he lost the battle to keep his distance. He lifted his hands to the keyboard and because, in that first moment, music wouldn’t come, played a series of dark, descending chords. ‘But don’t promise the children anything. I understand the situation. They won’t. Now please go away and leave me alone.’

  And finally, his fingers found their way into something which, if asked, he couldn’t have put a name to.

  Arabella stood mute and irresolute for a moment before realising there was nothing she could say that he would listen to whilst in this particular mood. Just loud enough to be heard over the music, she said, ‘We’ll speak in the morning, then. Goodnight.’

  As soon as he heard the library door close behind her, Julian strode across and locked it. Then he slid down to the floor and dropped his head in his hands.

  She was leaving. That was the last he would ever see of her. And it was tearing him apart.

  * * *

  Having spent a large part of the night writing a long letter to Max, Arabella donned Elizabeth’s grey wool travelling gown, laid out her cloak and asked Violet to put her valise in the hall. Downstairs, she found the library door locked – but without music pouring from the other side of it. This was unusual. Julian had stopped locking it over a week ago which, but for the silence, suggested that he was inside. Arabella tapped on the door, called his name … and waited. Nothing. Sighing, she went to
take breakfast with the children.

  Tom took one look at her gown and said, ‘You’re going, then?’

  ‘Yes. I have to. And though I can’t promise when I’ll be back, I can promise to try my very best to make it soon.’ She smiled round at the three of them. ‘I’ll write to you and you can write back. That will make the time go quicker. And meanwhile, I want all of you to look after his lordship. Will you do that?’

  Rob nodded, looking gloomy.

  Ellie said stoutly, ‘I always look after him.’

  ‘I know. I know you do.’

  Arabella rose, unable to swallow anything past the lump in her throat. Following her to the door out of earshot of the others, Tom said accusingly, ‘You’re not promising to come back at all, are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘His lordship asked me not to. He – he thinks I may be prevented.’

  ‘By the duke.’

  ‘Or my family. And when the duke arrives this morning, please be polite to him. This is my fault, not his.’ Arabella paused and, trying to think past her sense of incipient doom, pushed the letter to Max into the boy’s hand. ‘Take that to be collected please, Tom. And now I need to speak to his lordship. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Where do you think?’

  Arabella stopped dead and swung to face him. ‘But he’s not playing.’

  ‘No. He isn’t, is he?’

  Suddenly alarmed, she ran to the library and rattled the door handle.

  ‘Julian? Julian! Open the door.’ And banging on the panels with her fists when there was no response, ‘This won’t help. Rockliffe will be here any minute and you and I have to talk. Julian – please!’

  The door remained stubbornly locked but the silence was abruptly fractured by a thunderous series of rhythmic and harmonically-shifting chords. Relief caused Arabella’s hands to relax and she pressed her palms against the wood. After a moment, the music stopped as suddenly as it had started; there were a few seconds of seemingly acute silence, followed by the gentle opening bars of something by Rameau.

  ‘Julian?’ she called. ‘Please open --’

  Rameau dissolved into the same deafening sequence as before, drowning out her words and this time continuing into complex snatches of phrase, punctuated by brief, unexpected pauses. Arabella leaned her brow against the door, knowing exactly what the music was telling her and feeling as if her heart was being sliced open. She was aware that, behind her on the far side of the hall, Rose, Violet and the children stood in a bewildered huddle. Ignoring them, she waited until the musical fury slid back into Rameau and called Julian’s name again.

  Staring sightlessly down the length of the harpsichord, Julian heard her voice and immediately plunged back into the explosion of sound that would drown it out. He hadn’t played Vertigo since Vienna … had almost forgotten he’d ever played it. But right now, those passages of dark, violent chords were exactly what he needed. If she’d stop calling to him, he could seek safety and balance in Couperin or Bach. He needed both before he dared leave this room if he didn’t want to risk disgracing himself.

  In the hall, the wild music drowned out the doorbell, Rose’s voice and Rockliffe’s arrival, so that the first Arabella knew of the duke’s presence was when, over an impossibly rapid run of notes, he said, ‘What is that he’s playing?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She moved away from the door, drawing the duke with her so she need not shout to make herself heard. ‘He’s never played it before. It sounds so … so turbulent.’ And hurt, she thought. So very hurt.

  Rockliffe nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow. Whatever that piece of music was and however great the emotional turmoil revealed by it, its execution required a player of exceptional skill … so he leaned against the newel post at the foot of the stairs and waited. A minute or two later there was a brief lull, followed by the first crisp notes of Bach.

  Arabella heaved a sigh of relief. ‘The Fantasia. It’s one of his favourites. Can we give him a few minutes, please?’

  ‘I can resign myself to a short recital. I gather he isn’t taking your departure well?’

  ‘He’s trying to. He knows I have to go. But he doesn’t believe I’ll come back.’

  In which he is almost certainly right, thought Rockliffe, falling silent to listen.

  After the Fantasia came a fragment of Mozart and then something astonishingly lovely. Seeing Arabella brushing tears aside, Rockliffe murmured, ‘His own work?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His brows rose but he said nothing, waiting until the harpsichord finally fell silent.

  Then, strolling back to the library door and scarcely raising his voice, he said, ‘Thank you, Lord Chalfont. That was a privilege – as, indeed, was the earlier piece which I would enjoy hearing in its entirety on some future occasion. However, I am having Mistress Brandon’s valise loaded on to my chaise as we speak … so if you wish to bid her goodbye, now would be the time to come out and do so.’

  On the other side of the door, Julian pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes and tried to pull himself together – at least temporarily. Quite aside from Arabella and Rockliffe, the children must be wondering what was wrong with him. He drew a long, ragged breath, stood up and reached for his coat. His cravat was a crumpled mess, he needed a shave and his hair – still far too long – had, as usual, escaped its ribbon. Sighing, he realised that he must look every bit as deranged as his behaviour had suggested. Putting himself to rights as best he could, he summoned what resolve he could find and went to unlock the door.

  The second he appeared, Ellie shot across the hall to grab his hand.

  ‘Why are you angry? Is it us? D-did we do something?’

  ‘No. Of course you didn’t. And I’m not angry.’

  ‘The music was angry,’ she insisted, still looking worried.

  Too tired and heartsick to explain, he merely shook his head and turned to the duke, managing a bow and wondering what the hell he could say. Sparing him the need to say anything at all, Rockliffe murmured, ‘Who wrote that first piece? The … er … angry one?’

  Surprised but glad of the neutral topic, Julian said, ‘Pancrace Royer; French and not very prolific.’ He thought for a moment and then, feeling more information was required, added, ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘Ah.’ Forced to suppress a smile, Rockliffe said, ‘Your repertoire is extensive.’

  Julian coloured faintly and shrugged.

  ‘But now … Arabella, I shall wait in the carriage. Join me when you are ready.’ Upon which note, he sauntered to the door.

  The children were hugging Arabella while she told them to practise their reading and be good for Rose and Violet and to write to her and not to let his lordship be lonely. Then she disengaged herself, looked across at Julian and tried to smile.

  Feeling like an automaton, he closed the distance between them and, bowing over her hand, said woodenly, ‘Have a safe journey. I hope you and your cousin are able to – to resolve matters to the duke’s satisfaction. We … the children and I … we’ll miss you.’

  ‘And I’ll miss all of you.’ Arabella’s voice was noticeably unsteady and tears weren’t far away. Julian looked every bit as miserable as she felt, yet he was behaving as if they scarcely knew each other. Is this it? she thought. Is this all he’s going to say?

  Drowning in misty, dark grey eyes, Julian felt his self-control begin to slip. Every muscle in his body was aching with the need to hold her. If she didn’t turn away soon, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself. Then, drawing a shuddering breath, she did turn away … and he could have wept.

  With one last farewell for the children, she walked to the door and then through it and, without looking back, let Rockliffe’s groom hand her into the carriage and close the door.

  Julian felt as if all the air had been sucked from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe and there was an odd roaring in his ears. The carriage rolled forward and …

  ‘Well, you made a right mess of that, didn’t you?
’ said Tom.

  ‘I – what?’

  ‘Made a mess of it. Oh – it was all very proper and polite but it didn’t look as if you cared tuppence she was going. But perhaps you don’t.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Julian. ‘But --’

  ‘So why didn’t you kiss her – or at least give her a hug like me and Rob and Ellie did? You wanted to, didn’t you?’

  Mere wanting in no way described it. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right. And anybody could see she wanted you to.’

  Julian stared at him. ‘She did?’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ breathed Tom. ‘You’re the grown-up. Couldn’t you tell?’

  Julian stepped into the open doorway and watched the ducal carriage making its ponderous way down his badly-rutted drive. Then he started to run.

  Sitting beside the duke, Arabella told herself she would not look back. Looking back would make everything worse. Not that she was sure how everything could be worse; she only knew that if Julian wasn’t on the steps watching her go or even if he was, the last shreds of her composure would fly out of the window and she’d probably start to howl.

  Then, despite her misery, she heard Tom yelling, ‘Wait! Stop!’

  She tried to let down the window, her fingers made clumsy by haste. Rockliffe reached across to do it for her before knocking on the roof to signal his coachman to pull up.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he sighed. ‘His lordship has recovered the use of his legs – if not his brain.’

  With her head out of the window and her eyes fixed on Julian pounding after them, Arabella didn’t hear him. Even before the carriage had come to a halt, she had the door unlatched so that when Julian arrived beside it, she was able to tumble out into his arms. She thought she said something … or that he did. And then they were holding each other so tightly it was a wonder either of them could breathe.

  Her hair beneath his cheek and his heart thundering against his ribs, Julian managed to murmur, ‘I’m sorry. I know you have to go. I’m sorry about before. I just … I couldn’t --’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered. ‘You’re here now.’