The introduction was made, the dowager peering near-sightedly at Anna. They toured the house from candles to linens as the lady related anecdotes from her own life, and those she had learned from her mother-in-law. Anna was more interested in the elderly woman than she was in the little stories about persons unknown who had sat in this chair, or had that window put in.
When they reached the library, the dowager indicated one row of shelves containing books that looked less decrepit than the remainder as she said wistfully, “When I was a bride, I spent many a happy hour here.”
“Why do you not now, if I may be permitted to ask?” Anna said.
The dowager blinked rapidly. “It is merely my stupid eyes. They refuse to see unless I can get very close.”
“Have you considered spectacles?” Anna asked.
The dowager’s eyes widened, then she looked away, and murmured something about “the baron” and “bluestockings” and “vulgar appearance . . . not for the world.”
Anna said, “I confess I do not understand English custom, and I hope you will put me in the way of what is right. But on the continent, it is well known that many queens wore spectacles, so they could not be considered vulgar, no?”
“Queens?” the dowager repeated.
“Marie Antoinette did, I know. The present emperor is said to wear them, as well as one of his brothers. Before the Revolution, the Duc de Richelieu, and for that matter, Louis XIV, and also Catherine the Great. I learned this because the royal oculist at Naples’ palace once showed a design that the Empress of all the Russias had made popular, and another ordered by the Queen of Naples, sister to Queen Marie Antoinette.”
The dowager blinked again. “Well!”
At the end of the tour, Anna noted that the tone of the dowager’s voice had shifted from minor to major. She smiled and excused herself as Mrs. Diggory said, “And so, my lady, if you wish to order any changes . . .”
Anna had been thinking. She said, “I believe that it would be best to carry on as you are accustomed, until such time as my husband returns.”
Mrs. Diggory curtseyed, but Anna saw the dowager’s subtle reaction, a quick anxiousness, when she spoke the word ‘husband.’
When Anna came downstairs for dinner, she discovered the younger Elsteads had joined them. Everyone behaved as if this were a regular occurrence, so she accepted it as such.
It was somewhat of a relief, as she liked Mr. Elstead. He was handsome to look at, but more important, he was agreeable, with a fund of mild talk that successfully banished that cold dead silence prevailing over the rest of the family meals. Dinner thus passed pleasantly, and this time Anna knew what to do and when.
As soon as the ladies had withdrawn, Emily walked to the fire, turned to face the rest of them, and said with a bright smile that was pretty to look at, but managed not to convey any of the warmth of her brother’s, “I believe that Harriet has the right of it. John would be the first to hail a return to normalcy, and so I propose that we recommence certain quiet pursuits, such as evening music.”
Harriet sat upright. “But we have not had music since before Papa died.”
Emily said calmly, “We did, however, at my house. Your elder brother often asked me to perform when we were courting. You know your brother Henry was musical, and while one might deplore the instrument he favored, there is no denying his passion for the art.” She turned to Anna with that smile. “Is it true that you play? If you would honor me by providing accompaniment, I will pass the time with a couple of John’s favorite airs.”
The dowager said, “I would love to hear music again.” She then added in a curious tone, “I would play again if I could see the page.”
Emily did not pursue that. She gave her mother-in-law a gracious nod, and said, “When Frederick rejoins us—”
At that moment the door opened, and there was Mr. Elstead.
Anna rose and crossed the room while Emily informed her brother of the plan for evening entertainment. Anna was uncertain whether she ought to offer to sing. There was always the danger of the truth to oppress her, but oh, to sing again!
On a fine table she found a stack of music, most of it yellowed with age. Very little was familiar, mostly British, with a few old-fashioned French or German airs. The accompaniment was simple enough: she knew she had only to get the chords right, and to follow the tempo of the singer.
She sat down to the instrument, and softly touched the keys. The sound was good. Someone had seen to it that the fortepiano was kept in repair.
“This is most kind of you, Lady Northcote.” A rustle of bombazine, and Emily was there. “I trust this will serve as a fond reminder.” And without pausing to wait for an answer, “Can you play this?”
She pulled from the pile a hand-written musical sheet with “Robin Adair” written at the top.
“Oh, my mother taught me this when I was small,” Anna exclaimed with pleasure.
“That is capital,” Emily said, her tone the warmest it had been yet. She took up a stance beside the fortepiano.
Anna played the opening bars, and Emily began to sing. Anna soon determined that indeed, someone had instructed Emily in tempo and phrasing, but not how to open her throat. She stayed true to her note in the middle range, either shrill or breathy on the high notes, especially in “Katharine Ogle.” She then sang “The Last Time I Came O’er,” which she prevailed upon her brother to sing with her.
The voices blended pleasingly enough. Anna glanced at the listeners, who smiled and nodded. Anna could have put them right in several places—phrasing, breathing, everything, but she kept her own counsel. At least she was hearing music again.
Then Harriet surprised them by saying, “Mama, come. Play to us, do. How about Souter’s Rondo? Remember how I used to dance to that?”
The dowager pinked. “I do not think my fingers remember it. But perhaps . . .” She halted there, then turned to her elder daughter. “Come, Mary, take a turn.”
Mary Elstead rubbed her hands together. “I wish someone might have told me you wished to have music again. It has been these four years at least since I have played my harp, at least since I was married. I would have to practice before I could be heard.”
“I confess,” Mr. Elstead said easily. “I do enjoy a game of cards, and Mary plays a capital hand of whist. But I’ve no objection to music, as long as it is no dirge.”
“Whist?” Mary said. “We can have a hand now. Lady Northcote, do you play?”
“I do not. But I do not mind watching, that I learn.”
Harriet brightened at once. She would have hated to be the one left out, and they would have expected her to offer, being the youngest. She partnered with Emily against the married couple. Anna watched for what she hoped was a polite amount of time, finding the game tedious and incomprehensible. When she was certain the others were too involved in their play, she withdrew to sit by the dowager.
That lady had been bending over stitchery by the fire. She paused in her work, blinked Anna’s way, then said, “Already things are better now you are come among us. I never thought to hear a note in this house again.”
“Is this room never used in the mornings, then?” Anna asked.
“No. It is very cold, in winter, this side of the house. We sit here in summer.” The dowager stirred a little. “I am thinking about what you said. If Henry comes home, and . . .” Once again she paused, and Anna wondered if the lady was so in the habit of being interrupted she rarely finished a sentence.
“Should you care to be read to?” Anna offered. “I must practice my English, and there are many delightful books in the library.”
The dowager brightened. “If you will pull the bell, my dear, I will send for Madame de Genlis. I have not heard French spoken properly since my visit to Paris. This was well before the troubles. Would you greatly mind?”
“I would be happy to.”
And so Anna’s third evening passed more pleasantly than she had hoped.
o0o
She danced through all her old patterns twice, thinking about Hortense and Lise, Catherine and Helene, even Ninon. Where were they all now? She hoped they were happy.
When she had finished, she was warm, except for her fingertips. She sat down to the fortepiano and softly keyed a chord. Then, equally softly, she began her drills.
Each note thrilled her with pleasure. All the joy was back. Up the range and down again, and then she began an aria, pitching her voice to the limits of the room. For an hour she sang, and then, feeling refreshed in body and spirit, she was able to go about her day playing the role of Lady Northcote.
Several days passed in a similar manner.
There were two days left before mourning would officially be over when Anna came down to breakfast and, for the first time, found a letter on the silver salver beside her plate. Her heart drummed as she worked her finger under the seal.
Aglaea, off Gibraltar
Lady Northcote, I write certain of your forgiveness for the necessary delay, because you, as a wife of an officer in the service, will understand the Demands that permit one in my position little free time.
But however, I have gained a Respite, and my first task is to do myself the Honor of writing this Letter. I am delighted to report that Captain Lord Northcote is awakened, and in full possession of his Intellects.
I was not permitted a long interview. The medical Men insist that quiet is Necessary, and he said his head Ached fit to break. Plus they have his eyes firmly bandaged, which he has been ordered to endure for at least Twelve Weeks, possibly Three Months, if the head-ache persists.
His first Question was to ask after you, and following that the ship’s people. I take Great pleasure in reporting that we lost no more than we had. Our Butcher’s Bill was severe, but many ships suffered a worse. Once we discharged our prisoners, we set about repairs, though the Weather continued ill for some days.
But however that, too, has passed, and I will close with a piece of good news: this Letter will go with the next packet, and with it, or soon after, you will find Captain Lord Northcote arriving in Yorkshire for his Recovery.
Your obedient serv’t to command, Theophilus Sayers
Anna laid the letter down carefully, as if it might vanish. Then she looked up to discover a row of waiting faces.
“He is well, and is to return,” she said breathlessly.
The dowager put her napkin over her face and burst into tears.
27
The Friday anniversary of the baron’s death, Anna expected the house to be colder and gloomier than heretofore.
The dowager was certainly subdued through the day, but Anna could not see any material change in others of the household.
On Saturday, mourning officially ended, and the hatchment was taken down from the door. Other signs of deep mourning vanished, from black hatbands to bombazine gowns.
All week long, Parrette had grimly endured her freezing room, at first retiring with a pot of hot water in order to warm her hands so she could sew. Only the water cooled so very rapidly. She discovered that the servants were permitted one candle end at a time. She used hers to warm her hands as she considered this new household.
Saturday morning, as the servants bustled about removing the signs of mourning, Parrette considered them carefully before settling on Polly, among the youngest, but not too young and silly. Taking care to catch her alone, though she knew nothing would prevent Polly from gossiping as she would, Parrette said, “In this country. Is it still against the law, if I look out for a Catholic church?”
Polly gaped at Parrette, then said, “I don’t know, ma’am. But you ought to put your question to John-Coachman, Mr. Cassidy as was before he took over as stable master. He being from Ireland, is Popish.”
Parrette had never ventured into the stable area. She found it scrupulously tidy, the animals munching in their airy loose boxes, or running about in the fenced area beyond.
As she minced across the mushy ground in a pair of pattens left for general use, her skirts held high, the stable master saw from the horses’ ears and tails that a stranger approached. Parrette reached the door and glanced up at a handsome blue-eyed face. John-Coachman had been cleaning a hoof-picking tool, which he set aside. “Ma’am?” he said on an inquiring note.
Emboldened by Polly’s words, she said firmly, “I am told you follow the true church. If that is so, where I can attend Mass?”
John-Coachman’s expression of reserve altered to politeness. “You can ride along with me and my daughter Peg, if you wish, then, ma’am. There is a chapel at the Aubignys’, where a priest comes to us Sundays and most Holy Days. We leave prompt at six o’clock, for I must be back in time to take the family to St. Andrews Church.”
Parrette found his slow voice, with its slight lilt, soothing to her ears after the sharp, high English voices that were sometimes very difficult to follow. “Thank you,” she said. “I will be here before six.”
And the following morning she was, having laid out everything for Anna, who was to attend church for the first time with the family.
Anna was scarcely less apprehensive than the town was interested.
At last Barford Magna was to be vouchsafed a glimpse of the mysterious new Lady Northcote. Mrs. Bradshaw had lost no opportunity in describing to a few friends the occasion of her surprise caller, swearing them to strictest confidence in respect to the family’s mourning, in comfortable expectation of the word spreading all the faster.
Between her and Polly’s brother Ned, the first footman, who often spent his free evening among his cronies at the Pig, Anna’s fame had spread, gaining glory with every repetition.
Though Dr. Blythe was much esteemed by his parishioners, it is safe to say that scarcely anyone heeded his sermon that Sunday. People were too busy gazing into what could be seen of the Northcote family pew, and afterward watching for a glimpse of the duke’s daughter who had crossed from Paris to Spain in a coach-and-six to marry their new baron, Boney’s frogs having waited in the offing out of respect, until the honeymoon was over.
Lady Emily Northcote looked like a golden angel, wearing pure white with no ornamentation. She had been overheard to say on her way into church that “Lord Northcote always loved to see me in white.” In this way, she signaled that there would be no extended half-mourning, though the new Lady Northcote was correctly dressed in dove gray, a gown (so said those who considered themselves experts, Mrs. Bradshaw in the lead) come straight from Empress Josephine’s own dressmaker.
Anna was unaware of this simmering interest. Her apprehension was due to the fact that she had not attended church since her mother was alive. St. Andrews was small—Anna’s memory was of the beautiful Duomo ni Napoli, and the chapel at the Palazzo Calabritto, where the English legation had stayed.
This church was built of mellow stone, its arched windows in triune pattern glorious with color. But what Anna detected with her trained ear was how beautifully sound carried within those walls. Someone had understood sound, and music, in building it.
The rhythms of the liturgy, the rise and fall of English voices in the poetic cadences, reached back into her childhood memories. Even the hymns evoked memories, her earliest love of music. She still did not understand how she stood in relation to God, after her father’s alteration at the end of his life from negligence to a desire for the comfort of absolution, and the casual atheism of some revolutionaries followed by the evident relief of many Parisians at Napoleon’s permission for the churches to reopen, and following that the deeply ingrained religious traditions of Spain. What she heard at the end of the benediction was the beloved voice of her mother whispering, “God loves you.”
So, though few of Dr. Blythe’s parishioners heard his words, Anna
did. The sermon drew from Bible verses Anna had only the vaguest memory of from childhood, but she felt comforted by Dr. Blythe’s homily, and his prayer that Napoleon Bonaparte would find peace in his heart, that all the nations might return to peace.
Then there were more liturgical responses. Anna remained silent, for she did not trust her memory enough to follow what everyone else seemed to know so well. So she rose when they did, sat, knelt, and bowed her head, her spirit bathed in the comforting sound.
When they came out, there was Dr. Blythe. “Welcome among us, Lady Northcote,” he said. He was a tallish, balding man with the light eyes so common in this part of the world. Anna liked his smile.
Anna dipped a curtsey and thanked him, wondering if it would be polite to comment on the service. But what was proper to say? She was evidently not expected to say anything, for there was the sense of pressure behind her. The line must move forward.
She stepped onto the flagstones before the church to discover people gathered in little groups talking. She understood from the way people came up to them, greeting them all, that the family was no longer prevented from social intercourse.
Anna had a few moments to observe this before being confronted by Mrs. Bradshaw, who made a bustle and business with her curtsey, then said in a high, carrying voice, “Lady Northcote, I beg you will forgive me for this presumption, but I simply must thank you again for bringing us news of our dearest Beverley. I live in hopes of receiving a missive—”
An arm slipped through hers. There was Emily, who gave Mrs. Bradshaw the briefest of nods. “Come, your elder sisters-by-marriage are waiting to be properly presented,” Emile said to Anna and gently but inexorably led her away.
Anna glanced back apologetically at Mrs. Bradshaw, who performed a small, jerky curtsey, her face flushed. “I trust my husband will bring news,” Anna called over her shoulder.
Mrs. Bradshaw curtseyed again, then was lost from view as Emily brought Anna to women wearing spinsters’ caps under their bonnets, their faces familiar. As Emily performed the introduction, Anna remembered them from their portraits, made when they were considerably younger: the Misses Penelope and Caroline Duncannon.
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