“Not at all.” Christopher’s lips drew into a line and he lifted his hands from the piano keys in a rush, turning on the seat so that he faced Bess. “I imagine, if I had such a happy home as this, I would also be reluctant to leave it.”
Bess’s eyes widened.
“But your sister...”
“Oh, we are everything to one another, now.” He smiled, blankly. “But we were not always so close. My father recognised my talent early, you see, and sent me away to study at conservatoires all over Europe. Rosemary is musical, too, although I do not suppose she would ever own it.” She shrugged. “My talent rather eclipsed hers, for good or for ill.”
He watched Bess fold her hands carefully in her lap, her delicate brow creasing in a frown.
“You must not misunderstand me, Miss Elizabeth. I do not say that it was right, nor even that I approve of it. I did not choose this life, and whilst I love music and am grateful for the opportunities it has afforded me, I cannot say but that I might have been as happy - happier, even - at home, living a quiet life, surrounded by those I love.”
He bit down hard on his lower lip, willing himself to put an end to such honesty. Bess had not asked to know his whole life history, nor did he wish to cultivate an image of someone to be pitied.
“Which is my roundabout way of saying,” he continued, forcing his voice and expression to lift and chase away the melancholy mood that had settled over their corner. “You must not apologise for being happy with your quiet life. Indeed, it is the type of life many of us might envy!”
Elizabeth shook her head as if she did not believe this but she smiled, suggesting that even if she did not, she appreciated his words.
“Tell me about Castleford,” he urged, navigating them carefully back to an easier topic of conversation. “You have lived here all your life, have you not? You have seen it grow from nothing. It is still in its infancy, I wager, but surely there has been a great deal of change wrought over the town in quite a short time?”
“Oh, yes!” Elizabeth nodded, telling him of the tiny hamlet that had grown and continued to grow into the newest, most popular spa town for miles.
Christopher smiled, nodding at intervals or making some tiny encouragement to her to continue. He gave every impression of listening, but in truth, his thoughts were elsewhere. How could he have overlooked this young lady the first time they met? The first two times, three, even! It was absurd. She possessed the same quiet spirit he did, although she was not thrust so often into the limelight as he had been. Was that why he had learnt to keep his true self concealed, to hold back from forming attachments, to ignore the very possibility of love.
Love? He started a little in his seat, forcing a smile onto his face to reassure Bess that any change in his demeanour was not on account of her. He held his breath as she continued her tale, at last thinking it safe to continue his line of thought.
Was it possible that he could learn to love Elizabeth Turner? They barely knew one another, and yet it seemed to Christopher as if she was the very person he had been searching for without even realising it. Her, and not only her. Her family, her home. He was jealous of the safety and security she found nestled in the countryside. He envied it and dared to dream one day of being a part of it.
His expression fell. He could never be a part of this. That much had been made plain from the very first instant he had met Elizabeth, had it not? She might not have known him but she knew his name. Christopher Cluett, the composer. He would be able to remain here only as long as his concert series kept him at Castleford. What then? He would be travelling again, playing in London, or Brighton, or further afield. Rosemary would come with him, of course, as she always did. She was his most constant companion, and could always be relied on for support. She enjoyed the travel, as well, he thought, for she was outgoing and rarely struggled to make friends. Could he subject so quiet and gentle a person as Elizabeth to such a life as that?
“Mr Cluett?” Elizabeth’s voice grew concerned. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. He turned back to the piano. “Here, let us play through this once more, so I can be sure to have it straight in my mind. I cannot thank you enough for your assistance, Miss Elizabeth.”
“Oh, I have not done so very much!” Bess said, her cheeks growing rosy at this unexpected praise.
“You have done more than you know,” Christopher said, quietly, wishing he might say more but knowing he did not dare to risk it.
Chapter Fifteen
“Mama! Bess! You will never believe what has happened!”
The door to the parlour flew open and Louisa hurried in, with Nash at her heels.
“Wha-what?” Mr Turner leapt upright at the sound, clearing his throat and blinking blearily around the room. “Louisa? Is something the matter?”
“Juliet is engaged!”
Bess spun around on her seat, surprised by these words and the fact that they had come from Louisa’s lips. She narrowed her eyes, wondering if her excitable sister was spinning a tale, but saw that Nash’s expression was lifted in surprise and delight.
Beside her, Christopher had stopped playing and leapt awkwardly to his feet, before taking a step forward, ready to greet the new couple with congratulations.
“Is it true?” Mrs Turner asked, her hands flying to her cheeks as Edmund stepped into the parlour with Juliet on his arm, both of them beaming with the kind of happiness Bess once thought could only exist in the novels her sister prized.
“Yes, Mother!” Edmund said, with a laugh. “It is true. Tell me you are happy to hear it?”
“Relieved,” Mr Turner said, reaching up with a handkerchief to dab at his watery grey eyes. “I began to wonder if it would ever happen...”
“Congratulations,” Christopher said, heartily shaking Edmund’s hand and looking at the happy couple with something that might have been longing, as their friends and family surrounded them with embraces.
Bess hung back, caught by the change that had come over her friend so suddenly, and a little wary of whether Juliet would welcome her congratulations. The two sisters, whilst not precisely at odds, had not spoken since their disagreement of a few days past.
“Bess!” Juliet extricated herself from the cloying embrace of her mother and lurched across the parlour to where Bess stood. She held herself back from a full embrace, though, meeting Bess’s eyes warily. “Do you mind it?”
“Mind it?” Tears that had gone unshed over the state of disrepair in their sisterly relationship seemed poised to overwhelm her, and she batted them away before tugging Juliet into a crushing embrace. “Of course I do not mind it, you idiot! Have I not been saying you must resolve things once and for all?”
“Once and for all?” Edmund cleared his throat, a boyish grin on his features. “I think you’ll find it took me three attempts to secure a favourable answer.”
“You are nothing if not determined,” Nash put in, receiving another clap on the back in return.
“I’m sorry for how things have been between us,” Juliet whispered into Bess’s ear, low enough that only she might hear. “I was beastly, and I’m sorry.”
“As am I,” Bess said, burying her head in Juliet’s shoulder and not quite willing to let go of her sister just yet. After a moment of quiet contentment, when all apologies were made and met, the two sisters parted and Juliet looked carefully into Bess’s eyes.
“You know I will support you whatever decision you make, and think any gentleman should be a prince, if only he loved you.”
Bess coloured, reaching up a hand to wipe away tears and praying that her sister might assume any discomposure in her attitude was the product of this sisterly reunion or an outpouring of emotion in response to the good news of Juliet and Edmund’s engagement.
“He does love you doesn’t he?” she asked, leaning closer again, angling so that they might be neither seen nor heard by the rest of their family.
Bess shrugged her thin shoul
ders, suddenly shy of even thinking about Christopher Cluett in the presence of such undeniable affection. She had known Juliet and Edmund loved one another for years: it had been so obvious she had never fully understood why they did not move forward and marry immediately. Surely there could be no opposition from without, and despite Juliet’s insistence that they were only friends, it seemed only too clear to Bess that this was an affectation. Edmund’s feelings were plain to any who knew him.
I scarcely know Mr Cluett. We are not even friends. I could not imagine thinking that he could love me! Bess sighed, imagining the number of worldly, elegant ladies who must have crossed Christopher’s path over the years and knowing that she could never dream of competing with them.
Something caught Juliet’s eye and she turned, turning Bess with her.
“Oh, Mr Cluett, Miss Cluett, you need not leave...!” Mr Turner was saying, with good-natured surprise.
“We do not mean to intrude,” Christopher said, shaking Mr Turner’s hand and striding towards the door. “I fear we have already outstayed our welcome when you were so kind as to invite us in and allow me to monopolise both your piano and your parlour.” The ghost of a smile crept onto his face. “I shall occupy it no longer, but leave you to your celebrations.”
He turned on his heel and walked away, pausing to glance over his shoulder at Bess for scarcely a moment. Bess’s heart sank. There was her answer if she needed it. He did not love her. He could not even be persuaded to say goodbye!
ORDINARILY, THE RUN-up to a concert left Christopher energised and exhausted in equal measure. These were long days of rehearsals but lacked the mental and emotional turmoil of composition. That hard work was done. The rest was merely a matter of putting in the requisite hours of practice, both alone and in situ, with the small orchestra that had been commissioned to perform the new symphony with him.
By rights, he ought to have been sleeping, or at the very least, resting, one afternoon when Rosemary floated through their small house and found him standing at a window, staring out into the street.
“Christopher!” she exclaimed, hurrying to his side to greet him with an embrace. “I did not think to see you this afternoon. Were you not booked to be at the concert hall all day practising?”
“This morning,” Christopher said, turning his cheek to his sister so that she could kiss it. “I left the players with a few last points and came home. There is nothing else for me to do today.”
“Wonderful!” Rosemary’s eyes lit up at the prospect of an afternoon with her brother.
The two had become almost strangers of late, meeting at the breakfast table or the dining table and otherwise moving in completely different circles.
“Are you very tired?” she asked, concern creasing her forehead.
Christopher reached up to smooth out the lines that made his sister suddenly seem significantly older than her years.
“Not tired.” He smiled, regretting the action when it seemed to provoke still more concern from his sister. “Why, do I seem it?”
“You seem something,” Rosemary remarked, walking around to view him from the other side as if this might offer some insight into what had caused the apparent changes to his demeanour. “I called at Aston House today.”
“Oh?”
Christopher turned back to the window, but not quickly enough to keep his instinctive reaction from showing on his face. He felt, rather than saw, the confirming aha that dawned in Rosemary’s eyes. She did not comment on it at first, merely continued in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice she had perfected over years of associating with strangers.
“They enquired after you. Bess, in particular, was eager to hear of your progress in preparation for the concert.”
Christopher said nothing, fixing his gaze on some point in the distance and hoping, vainly, that this would be enough to persuade his sister to keep speaking about Bess without him having to enquire.
“They are all eager to attend, of course, and Mr and Mrs Turner are quite delighted to think that they shall be able to hear a piece you perfected in their very own parlour.” She chuckled. “I think they are almost expecting some acknowledgement in the programme.”
This was enough to make Edmund grin, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, imagining the bickering conversation that would have taken place between husband and wife. It was the comfortable image of family that seemed so incongruous and distant from his own experience that he had thought it surely something that only existed between the pages of a novel. Certainly, he had never felt such warmth and affection from his parents as he had felt from Mr and Mrs Turner, on the few occasions they had been together.
“They are good people,” Rosemary continued, a slight edge to her voice the only indication that she was seeking some sort of response from her brother that he had not, as yet, given. A tiny huff of air escaped her, and she continued. “Kind people. Friends. Yes, I think it is fair to call them friends. Why, Elizabeth is practically a colleague, with the help she has afforded you in composition...Edmund!”
“Hmm?” He turned to look at her then, surprised to see the look of concern had given way to a frown. “What is the matter? I agree that the Turners are a fine family and we are fortunate to have made their acquaintance. They have been generous indeed with their time, and I am certainly pleased that you have made some friends here -”
“They are not just my friends!” Rosemary exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “Honestly, if I had not spent my entire life hearing how talented and successful you were I should think you very backwards indeed!” She drew in a breath, letting it go in a slow exhalation that seemed to help settle her nerves. “I watched you with Bess that afternoon in the parlour. I do not think I have ever seen two people so in love - except, perhaps, for Edmund and Juliet, but at least they have acknowledged it!” She lay a pleading hand on his arm. “I do not often seek to interfere in your business...”
Edmund opened his mouth to protest, ready to enquire who it was that continued to push his success and arrange new performances; who, in essence, ran their lives, but something in his sister’s pained expression stopped him. He conceded the point with a bow of the head, and she continued.
“If you care for Elizabeth at all, and think she may care for you - I assure you she does, if you are in doubt of that. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance are quite dense to the matter of young ladies’ feelings, so I shall reassure you that on her account there need be no concern. She is entirely smitten, and not with the mere idea of Christopher Cluett, the composer, before you protest. She sees past that more easily than even you do, I wager.” She swallowed. “Do not miss an opportunity for love, Christopher. I am here to tell you they do not come around so very often and do not always last as long as we may wish them to.” Her voice was strained, here, and Christopher did not need to look at her to know that her eyes would be shimmering with unshed tears.
The memory of her lost love was never far from Rosemary’s mind, although she was not given to melancholy and did not often dwell on the tragic hand life had dealt her. She did not speak immediately, and when she did her voice was thick with sadness.
“You have a chance at happiness and you ought to take it.”
Christopher nodded, slowly, before leaning over and pressing a kiss on his sister’s forehead.
“Shall we go out and take tea?” he asked, as if the notion had just occurred to him.
Rosemary groaned, opening her mouth to rail at him for not listening to a word she had said, but he held up a hand, stemming the tide of her criticism.
“I would not press a young lady so blessed in home and family into such a peripatetic life as ours, Rose, so don’t ask me to. It wouldn’t be fair to wrench Bess from the bosom of her family and friends. You said so yourself, it is rare for us to stay in a place long enough to make real friends. It is already on my conscience all that you are forced to do without to travel around and look after me. I would not subject Elizabeth to it, even if she coul
d learn to care for me.”
Rosemary opened her mouth to counter this, but Christopher stopped her with a look.
“I won’t. Now, if you have finished your lecture, will you allow me to treat you to tea and cake? As you say, it is a rare occasion for me to find myself without work these days, and I intend to enjoy every moment of leisure I am afforded in this hectic season...!”
Chapter Sixteen
Edmund had known his mother would not have been as delighted with their news as Juliet’s parents had been. He’d been braced for some measure of disapproval. What he had not expected was for her to still be ignoring him days later. Home had become an exercise in control, where she by turns lavished attention on Nash and ignored her son. Edmund had even begun to doubt his own existence on occasion and grew tired of waiting for her mood to pass.
“Mr Cluett’s concert is but two days away, Mama.”
Silence.
They were seated together in the parlour; Nash having gone out soon after breakfast. Edmund had rejoiced at this, at first, thinking that it might finally allow him to speak to his mother and set matters to rights. She cannot ignore me indefinitely, he had thought, when faced with the prospect of a few hours alone to make their peace. Now, after several long hours of silence, he mourned his earlier optimism.
“We shall need to take two carriages, of course, to allow space for the Turners as well as us, but it shall be pleasant to travel all together, do not you think?”
Mrs Gale sniffed, stabbing at her embroidery with a ferocity that made Edmund flinch. No doubt she was venting some of her feelings towards him into her stitches. The thought was not a reassuring one.
“I am eager to see the fellow perform. More so, now that I know him as a friend. What little I have heard of his new symphony is quite lovely, and I am sure he still has a few surprises up his sleeve.”
A Spring Serenade Page 11