Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  She hummed pianissimo, and a pulse of longing seized her. She drew breath to sing, but quashed the impulse. The thought of singing called to mind the confining cage of her promise, moreover the water in the breakfast tea must have been bad. The ill taste was still with her.

  She picked up the March issue of La Belle Assemblée and had just opened it when she heard voices in the hall: Harriet’s high, fierce tones overriding a lower male rumble. By now Anna recognized Robert Colby, the moody fellow whose gaze always followed Harriet about. She was already feeling distinctly queasy; she could not face company now.

  “. . . if you must talk to me, you might as well talk in here,” Harriet was saying.

  Anna nipped up the magazine and whisked herself out the other door just as the hall door opened. Whatever argument the two were having would not welcome a third.

  Her impulse was well meant, but Harriet, on finding the room empty, sighed. She thought she’d seen Anna go inside—now what was she to do?

  Grown-up manners required that she have a maid present, or somebody, even though she was not yet out. Polly was probably sewing upstairs, and she knew she couldn’t suddenly tell him they could not talk alone. He would only retort that she and Jane and even Georgiana had been chattering with the boys in and out of rooms since they were all in short coats, and he would be right.

  That would start a new argument, and she was afraid that Robert was here to continue the quarrel that he had started after church.

  Remorse set in when she recollected her own spiteful words. She was just as bad as Penelope, a lowering idea. She indicated a chair, hoping just to get it over, as he stepped toward her.

  She had a moment to notice that he was dressed more gorgeously than ever, his blue coat new and tight above a waistcoat of gold brocade and satin knee breeches that one expected to see at a ball, not on a morning call.

  Then everything fled out of her mind when he knelt down carefully, clasped her hand, and said, “Harriet, will you marry me?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Robert, if this is one of those horrid hoaxes you and Tom and Bart was used to play off . . .”

  He flushed beet red. “Hoax?” He sounded genuinely insulted. “Hoax!”

  She said hastily, “Robert, please sit down, do. Right here, beside me, on this couch. I am not out, as you very well know. There can be nothing thought of in that way, and in fact if I was, you ought to have spoken to my brother, and I would have to run off and fetch Polly, or Lady Northcote, to sit gooseberry with us.”

  Robert scowled, knowing that all these things were true. But it had sounded so much better in his head on the ride over.

  He cleared his throat and tried again. “I asked an honest question, and I know my heart.”

  “But I . . . that is . . .” Harriet flapped her hands.

  “Just tell me this, is there anyone else?” he asked.

  “No! I don’t wish to marry anybody. I have no idea of marriage until I have had plenty of time for good fun.”

  Though once she might have shared her reasons without thinking, somehow the gulf between her and Tom, Bart, and the other fellows had widened: she could not possibly say that her Ponsonby third cousin, and that horridly superior Lady Lydia she had met once at her cousin’s estate, were both her age, and already in the family way. From her cousin’s letters, they were expected to settle down to matronhood. Harriet did not intend to be mewed up before she turned twenty!

  Robert studied her. “So you don’t wish to hear poetry, or ought I to tell you how much I admire you? I do, you know. I thought about you often, when I was up at Oxford, and when I returned, you were in every way superior to what I remembered. I thought I would speak before you leave for London, and your head is turned by a parcel of coxcombs and rakes.”

  She said indignantly, “If you believe I am spooney enough to be swept away by coxcombs and rakes, I wonder why you are here at all.”

  He scowled. “It’s not that, but you having had no experience of the metropolis, which is full of—” He saw that this topic was not gaining him the sympathy he had expected, and abandoned it. “Out of all the girls in this parish, you are the best. Georgiana even agrees with me, and she’s merely sixteen. You know she hasn’t a hope of ever seeing London, as my father cares only for sport, and my aunt hates the metropolis—”

  Harriet gasped, overcome by a sudden idea, and succumbed to laughter. “Robert,” she said, wiping her eyes, “if this start of yours is due to your wish to gain a chaperone for your sister next year…”

  He looked pained. “I did think it would be capital if you, as my wife, could accompany me to town. And with Georgiana, too, in another year or so. We would have a bang-up time, I am convinced, but that was not my motivation.”

  Harriet got control of her laughter, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and smiled. “Marrying me to make me sit gooseberry is the funniest thing I have heard this age, and I cannot stay angry with you. I wish we all could go to London together, including Jane, Tom, Bart, and everyone else.”

  Robert sighed. “So I don’t have a hope, is that it?”

  “I don’t know. Ask me again in a year, or two years, or maybe more. I don’t think of marriage with anybody. I am as happy to dance with any of you. Except when you look glumpish at Tom.”

  “Then a year it shall be,” he said, rising, and they parted on better terms than they had since his return from Oxford.

  As soon as he was gone, the dowager and Emily entered the parlor with questioning faces, the dowager saying, “From the tone of your voices, it sounded like Master Robert wished for a private interview.”

  Emily sent her a cold look. “Harriet, it is past time for you to be acting the hoyden. You ought to have rung the bell for one of us to join you. You are past the age to require reminding of proper etiquette.”

  Harriet felt a chill at the notion of Emily overhearing that conversation. She said impatiently, “It was just a misunderstanding.” And she ran off before either could detain her with a lot of questions.

  Anna had retired to the informal drawing room to read the magazine, which she found unexpectedly interesting, as there was an article about Paris. The unknown writer maintained that there were no current great voices in French opera. Vestris was proclaimed the current great male dancer, and Madame Gardel for women.

  She paged on, a story catching her eye.

  Malice must always have a victim; but I have observed this difference between fashionable malice—I mean the malice of a London drawing room, and the vulgar backbiting of a country neighborhood. The one is content to tease, torment, and play with its unfortunate object; the other is a bloody demon, and demands a complete sacrifice.

  Malice, she thought. Was that what she saw in Emily’s face? What type was it, or more important, whence the motivation?

  Harriet burst in right then, and Anna laid aside the magazine as the words came tumbling out.

  Anna almost laughed. Only the increasing stomach distress caused by the spoilt tea kept her from giving in to the impulse. At the end, Harriet said, “Marriage! I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Then you ought not,” Anna said. There were so few years between them, and yet at times she felt ten years older, or more. No, it was not the years, it was marriage that caused the gulf. Or, was it the wish to be married?

  She swallowed, wishing she had not drunk that tea. Making an effort to quash the unpleasant sensations, she said, “One thing perhaps we might consider, when the time comes, is your inviting Georgiana to stay in London. Your brother has said he wishes to take me there to attend the theater. Of course you will be with us if you wish.”

  “A capital plan! Oh, Anna, you are a trump!” Harriet grabbed Anna to hug her, then let go when Anna gave a gasp.

  “I am sorry,” Anna said quickly. “That tea this morning. Something was amiss. I should send Parrette to Cook . . .” She suspended her sentence. “Excuse me.” Her voice was muffled by her handkerchief as she left the room
precipitately, and hurried upstairs.

  She lay on her bed, eyes closed. Presently the door opened softly, and Parrette’s quick step approached, her clothes rustling. “Anna, Miss Harriet said you are ill?”

  “Please. Tell Cook there was something bad in the tea. It tasted wrong, but I drank it anyway, and it made me sick.”

  Parrette was silent a moment, then she said in French, “When was your last English visitor?”

  Anna sighed. “I don’t remember . . . Christmas week, I think.” She opened her eyes, reddening at the new idea that occurred. “Do you think I am in child? But nothing happened before, and I thought it impossible.”

  Parrette laughed. “Impossible? No. I do know there was nothing amiss with the tea. Everyone drank of it. But,” she said as Anna started up, her hand pressed to her middle, “it is perhaps early days yet. Anything can still happen—sometimes the English visitor comes late, or something else goes amiss and it does not take. Oh, that we were in Naples, we could get lemon so easily, or even root of ginger. But I know they have mint laid away in the spice closet. I will get you some.”

  Anna lay back to consider how she felt. As Parrette said, it was early days. She would say nothing until she was certain.

  o0o

  Over the next few days, the unease persisted. Anna discovered that if she ate plain food in small amounts, and drank hot lemon or barley water, she was able to quiet the symptoms. That, in turn, enabled her to go about her days without anyone asking awkward questions.

  She recognized that the greater portion of her unsettled spirits were due to the memory of her mother dying after the birth of her little brother, who had scarcely outlived her.

  Everyone had said that her age was the chief fault, that women in their forties often succumbed to childbed fever. Anna was more than ten years younger than her mother had been when she bore her, and she knew herself to be in excellent health. But she would wait, just to be certain, and to understand her own emotions. She did not want Henry sensing her worries.

  And she was so very busy. There were teas and dinners to attend, and with Harriet the afternoon dancing. She continued to read to Henry, and occasionally pen letters for him that he did not wish to give to young Mr. Bradshaw.

  She also continued the girls’ lessons. For the first time she did not leap about with Justina, though Parrette said that dancing was not the least danger. The only women who languished about were rich ones. Everyone else carried on exactly as usual. But Anna found that her stomach did not care for twirling and leaping, at least not now.

  On Thursday, the snow had thawed enough that she decided that she needed fresh air, so she would go alone to pay calls. Harriet was already gone, and she did not approach Emily, her excuse to herself that she wished to practice her driving, but she knew she was avoiding the woman as much as Emily avoided her.

  She left the park phaeton, which required a team—she thought of it as specifically Emily’s—and took out the simple gig.

  As soon as she was out in the crisp air, the last melting snows gleaming brightly in the light of the strengthening sun, she knew it was the right decision. Her heart soared: in a few days, Henry’s physician would arrive to examine him and perhaps take away the bandages that he had come to hate. The little girls would have their governess in a fortnight, after Miss Timothy was granted an opportunity to visit her family before she fixed herself in her new situation.

  And . . . Anna found she rather enjoyed her secret, until she was absolutely certain.

  She got her obligatory call on Mrs. Squire Elstead out of the way first. Fulsome compliments about Lady Northcote’s being a true proficient in the world of music, said in a tone that recalled those words about malice, could not disturb her, but she was glad to get away.

  Far pleasanter was her call on the Rackhams, where she found Cicely Elstead, Harriet, and Jane with their heads together, planning some sort of party.

  She could not help but notice that the beautiful Cicely, who all agreed would be the reigning belle of the parish when she was officially presented to the world, was not as shy and retiring once away from her home. She chattered as much as the rest of the girls, and her soft voice lacked the angry undertone so distinctive in her mother and elder sister.

  Anna stayed half an hour, Mrs. Rackham trying hospitably to press her into partaking of jam-filled cakes and custard-tarts, then took her leave. The slight increase in Anna’s queasiness prompted her to take the short road to the rectory to break her journey to the Ashburns. Usually she left the rectory until last, but she knew that Dr. Blythe’s generous housekeeper would offer simple fresh-baked scones, whose plainness was what her stomach craved now.

  So she drove around to the church stable, where the rector’s one-armed stable hand took her reins to walk the animal so it wouldn’t chill. She thanked him, and had no sooner stepped inside when Mrs. Eccles approached on tiptoe, her aspect excited.

  “Lady Northcote,” she said in a whisper. “I would never ordinarily take the liberty, but I know with you, there will be no resentment, I trust?”

  “No, not at all,” Anna said, intrigued.

  “It is just that he would come instantly if he knew you had honored him with a call, but right now, he is in the book room with—it is of the first importance.” Mrs. Eccles touched her lips with her finger.

  “I can call another time,” Anna said.

  “Oh, that is not necessary. I am sure they are finishing up, and he would be sorry to miss you. I could take you into the kitchen, though I’ve pies in making, and flour everywhere.”

  “I will take this opportunity to walk about,” Anna said, knowing that the fresh, cold air would be good enough for now. “And you will send for me when he is free?”

  “I’ll send my Katie to come for you first thing. Thank you, thank you, Lady Northcote. You are all goodness.”

  Anna stepped outside again, thinking that if goodness were the same as politeness, more of the world would be at peace, surely? She turned her steps to the flagged path alongside the avenue of tall trees. The melting snow was muddy from many feet, making her disinclined to step off the path, until she discovered she had reached the front of the church.

  The doors were open. She thought, why not step inside?

  She had no plan in mind, but when she walked up the aisle in the empty space, the light through the stained glass windows bright with jewel-toned hues, she took a breath to test the sound, and tried a quick, soft scale. And then another, and yet another.

  Oh, that sound! The deeply resonant hush, the brilliant light, the sense of peace, and her own awareness of deeply sustained happiness like a pool beneath the continual flurries of the day’s activities, welled up in her. She drew a proper breath, head back, hands out, and began to sing.

  She had no idea that Dr. Blythe’s book room abutted the little court between the rectory proper and the church. Of the three people in the book room, two—the rector, and Caroline Duncannon, whom Henry had brought on the excuse of visiting the school—were head to head in the most important conversation of their lives.

  Henry sat at a little distance, unsure whether he ought to stay or go. He had told young Bradshaw to take the team for a gentle drive, as much to get curious ears away as to keep the horses warm, or he would have called for the boy’s help. But he disliked the notion of blundering about a room he did not know, and so he sat silently, possessing himself with what patience he could muster, until gradually a sound was borne in upon him.

  Softly at first, so soft he was not certain it was even real, but gradually increasing in volume, rose and fell a beautiful, bell-toned soprano. He lifted his head to listen, his breath catching.

  It was so like the sweet, pure voice, the one he had dreamed when he was struck down, fighting for his life, which in turn echoed the glorious voice he had first heard years ago, under that dome in Naples that smelled so strongly of fresh paint.

  It was, of course, impossible, but grateful for the miraculous gift of unex
pected beauty, he intended to enjoy it just the same. Was that “Madre Diletta” from Ifigenia in Aulide?

  A miracle indeed. He smiled when next came “Air pour les mesmes” from Lully’s Phaeton, which he had first heard as a midshipman in Rome.

  And then, to crown them all, “Ah! Si la Liberté me Doit être Ravie,” from Gluck’s Armide—a heart-wrenching song of the triumph of love over hatred and revenge.

  Midway through he was startled by a voice close by, “Who is that?”

  It was Caroline, whispering in disbelief. Henry became aware that the two had fallen silent.

  Dr. Blythe murmured, “I hardly know. At risk of sounding sentimental, it almost sounds as some celestial presence has wandered into my church, does it not?”

  Henry stirred. “I would never gainsay the possibilities of miracles, but in this instance I believe there is a living woman singing, as she made a false start on the Lully, and corrected the tempo on the Gluck. With your permission, I would very much like to discover who that is. But can it be done without disturbing the singer?”

  Dr. Blythe said, “Perhaps if we go up the back, and look down from the gallery?”

  “Lead the way, will you?” Henry said, holding out his arm.

  As they made their way, the two whispered together. “I am so afraid that Penelope will be very disappointed in me.”

  “Caroline,” Dr. Blythe murmured tenderly. “If you feel you must wait—”

  Henry stopped them. “Before we enter the church, permit me to say one thing. For no good reason Pen has kept you two apart these twenty years. If you flinch now, another day of possible happiness is lost to you. Another week, another year.”

  “But I do not know what to say to my sister.” Caro’s voice trembled.

  “I will speak to her, Caro. You need say nothing at all, and if you feel trepidation at the prospect of stopping at Whitstead until your wedding, then you must come to the Manor. You know my mother would like nothing better than to arrange a wedding, and she was balked of mine.”