After the meal, it seemed entirely natural that Richard accompany Caroline back to the music room. As he pointed out, account books must needs be followed by an antidote lest they prove fatal.
“I have been given as much information as Mr. Chelmsford feels I need,” he said. “Or perhaps he assumes, correctly, that I can absorb no more.”
“What will you be doing here?” Caroline asked.
“Nothing too arduous,” was the reply. “The estate is in trust until the end of the year. There were several small bequests to servants, with the remaining property to go to the heir. Because the late earl was rather secretive, it’s uncertain what the heir will receive. Mr. Chelmsford is a careful man and wishes to determine how things stand. I will be checking the reality against some of the old accounts of what should be in the house and on the estate.”
“Who is the heir?” Caroline asked. “My aunt was wondering this morning.”
Richard turned to one of the cupboards holding the more obscure stringed instruments. With his face averted, he said, “That isn’t clear yet. The heir presumptive is Reginald Davenport, the nephew of the late earl. However, Mr. Chelmsford thinks there may be a nearer heir. In the meantime”—he looked up at her with a smile—“I am having a fine holiday in the Cotswolds.”
“Will you be staying here long?” Caroline said hesitantly.
“I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about the future.”
As he rummaged in the cupboard, she looked at his broad shoulders regretfully. It didn’t sound as if he were likely to stay.
Richard made a pleased exclamation and pulled out a flat instrument with six strings and a sound box shaped like an hourglass.
“What is that?” she asked.
“A guitarra. It’s called a guitar in English. I learned to play one in Spain.”
He lovingly stroked the inlaid pattern around the sound hole, then strummed the strings. He winced at the discordant noise and rapidly started tuning it.
“It seems to be related to the lute,” she remarked.
“Yes, but less delicate and much simpler to play. The sound is strong, coarse, perhaps, but full of vitality. The Spaniards could play them to make the hair curl off your head. My own guitar got lost with the rest of my baggage after Waterloo.” He struck a dramatic chord. “I understand the lute is harder to keep tuned.”
“That is certainly true,” Caroline said with heartfelt agreement. “My music teacher says that if a lutenist lived to be eighty years old, he would have spent sixty of those years tuning his instrument. I know mine requires considerable attention.”
“You play the lute?”
“Yes, it’s my favorite instrument after the pianoforte. It is so very private. I can play mine late at night without disturbing anyone. But I am more interested in your guitarra. Will you play some characteristic Spanish music for me?”
Richard was happy to oblige. He was very skilled and the Spanish music he chose was new to Caroline. She was bewitched by the performance, feeling the intense gaiety and the underlying sadness.
After playing several numbers, he called a halt. “If I don’t stop soon, I will have blisters on my fingertips. All my string-holding calluses have vanished, and it will take time to recreate them.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I could have listened all day and never thought of your poor fingers. May I try the guitar? My lute calluses should protect me.”
With her natural talent and Richard’s instruction, she was soon playing very creditably. They were laughing together over a chord gone astray when the sound of light footsteps interrupted.
Caroline recognized the step and looked up. She had forgotten Jessica said she might come by.
Her aunt swept into the room like a queen, glowing in a topaz-colored dress and a delicious Florentine bonnet with matching ribbons. Caroline felt a twist in her midriff. She found she didn’t want to see Richard with the stunned expression men got when they first saw Jessica.
She slanted a sideways look at him, but his expression wasn’t stunned. Rather, it showed pleased surprise as he stood up and quickly crossed across the room.
“Jessica Sterling! Is it really you?”
Jessica laughed in delight as she reached out both hands. “Richard Dalton! This is beyond anything great. What brings you to Gloucestershire?”
Her aunt was almost as tall as Richard, and they were looking into each other’s eyes as they clasped hands. Caroline felt the affection between them, and shivered as the room felt colder.
Richard said, “I am working at Wargrave Park temporarily, taking inventory. Do you live in this neighborhood?”
She shook her head, “I’m visiting at Wildehaven with my niece, whom you have so obviously met. You see me dwindled to a chaperon!”
He laughed. “I am sure you can hold court there as well as anywhere else.”
He released her hands and turned to include Caroline in the conversation. “You will have deduced we are old campaigning friends from the Peninsula. Mrs. Sterling was celebrated as the finest hostess and the best rider in Spain.”
Caroline suppressed her sense of loss and moved forward with her sweet smile. “How lovely to find an old friend unexpectedly. Surely it is four or five years since you have met. It was 1812 when you left Spain, wasn’t it, Jess?”
A shadow passed over her aunt’s face, dimming some of its brightness. “Yes, Linda and I left very soon after Salamanca.”
Richard hesitated, then said quietly, “I know this is four years too late, but you have my deepest sympathy for your loss. Major Sterling was as fine a gentleman as he was an officer. I knew no one who did not grieve for him. He died as bravely as he lived.”
Jessica swallowed and said in a low voice, “Thank you. It is never too late to hear such kind words. I have always been glad that against everyone’s wishes, I chose to follow the drum. Without those years on the Peninsula, I would have had no real marriage and no memories.”
“Was everyone against it, Jess? Even John?” Caroline asked.
Jessica laughed, the shadow gone. “Especially John! He would have wrapped me in cotton wool if he could. It is amazing that anyone could think such a strapping creature as I could be fragile, but it was quite charming. At least he knew better than to try to make me behave with ladylike languor.”
At this point Somers entered carrying a tray. “I thought perhaps you would wish some refreshments.”
Since the afternoon was well advanced, his offering was gratefully received. Over tea and cakes Jessica and Richard exchanged histories and queries about mutual friends.
Caroline sipped her tea and watched thoughtfully. She had never truly envied Jessica’s dramatic beauty, but as she observed her aunt’s lovely face ripple with vivid expression, she found herself wishing she was as interesting a person. Nothing noteworthy had ever happened to her. When Jess was twenty-one she was married, a mother, and had already traveled out of England.
Happened to her ... Perhaps her problem was that she waited for events to come to her. Jess had always seized life with both hands.
If she had lived richly, she had also paid the price; she had been the target of criticism and unkind snubs; narrow-minded women had been lavish with “I told you so” and “Serves her right” after she had returned to England a widow of small fortune.
Though she had lived quietly these last four years, it had been by choice. Her sparkle and enthusiasm were undimmed, and she could talk to a man like Captain Dalton about things that interested him.
Caroline had always admired her aunt as a wonderful, inimitable being, so different as to be almost from another species. She knew she could never be wonderful in the ways Jessica was, but she might try adapting some of that gusto and determination to her own life. If she started working now, perhaps in ten years she could be wonderful in her own way.
Her musings were interrupted when Jessica drew her into the conversation. “Has Richard demonstrated his guitar playing for you? Sometimes a
t informal parities he would play and I would dance. The Spanish dances are wonderful—much more primitive and dramatic than ours.”
Caroline nodded. “Yes, he played some of the music earlier. I would love to see how one dances to it. Would you be able to give a demonstration?”
Her aunt cocked her head and considered. “I remember them well enough, but one really needs the right costume. Our gowns haven’t enough whoosh. Still, it would be great fun to dance them again.”
She stood, kicking off her shoes and loosening her hair, the auburn coils falling past her shoulders. With a theatrical gesture she raised her arms above her head, arched her back, and tilted her chin.
While Caroline watched in fascination, Richard was reaching for the guitarra. With his first crashing chord, Jessica came to whirling life. She looked a different person, not really English and certainly not a lady. The panther-like power and grace of her movements brought the passionate music to dazzling life as her veils of hair swirled about, revealing and concealing.
It was a breathtaking performance. If Caroline felt a pang at how well her aunt worked with her accompanist, she suppressed it.
Walking back to Wildehaven later, Jessica was still exhilarated. She seldom referred to her time in Spain, but today she was in a mood to talk. “I’m sorry to chatter on like this, Caro.”
She broke off apologetically. “But it was so good to see an old friend again. For the last four years I have locked that whole part of my life away. Now I am ready to remember again.”
She stooped to pick a white field rose, inhaling the delicate scent before she walked on. “I am so glad it was Richard Dalton. He is the loveliest man. In many ways he is like my John—kind, steady, and wonderfully comfortable. And yet he had the most impressive military reputation.”
Having seen the kindness, Caroline was curious about Richard’s martial accomplishments. “What did they say of him?”
“He had already been mentioned in dispatches for outstanding valor when I knew him. He must have been no more than four-or five-and-twenty at the time.”
Her eyes distant, she went on, “He had a reputation for imperturbability, always being in complete command of himself and his men. But his colonel told me of two exceptions to that.”
“Yes?” her niece prompted when her aunt showed signs of disappearing into her memories.
“The first time, he was just a boy, only a few months in the field. He came across two of his men about to ravish a French girl. She was a camp follower, left behind in childbed when the troops she was traveling with had to retreat suddenly. They say young Dalton gave them a tongue-lashing that nearly removed their leathery hides. Told them they were a disgrace to humanity, asked them how they would feel if it was their sister or sweetheart or daughter. I was told that when he finished, they were wishing he had flogged them instead.”
“What was the other occasion?” Caroline asked curiously.
“That was only a few months before John ... before I left Spain. Captain Dalton was leading a patrol over disputed ground when they were trapped in a ravine by French sharpshooters. Four of his men fell wounded in the open, bleeding to death in front of their comrades.
“Apparently Richard went into a cold fury and crawled across the field of fire, working his way around and above the sharpshooters. One of them put a bullet through his upper arm and he was bleeding badly, but even so he was able to pick them off and free his patrol. I’m told that it was an incredible feat of marksmanship, and he certainly saved the lives of the wounded soldiers. They say his men worshiped him.”
“I can see why,” Caroline murmured. It was a very different view of the man she had met, yet it sounded oddly right. He would be loyal to those in his charge, and would inspire a similar loyalty in those around him.
As they were entering Wildehaven, she realized she had left her music case at Wargrave Park. Engrossed in her thoughts, she shrugged it off. She would retrieve it back tomorrow.
* * * *
Josiah Chelmsford said his farewells the next morning at breakfast. Richard would miss him but looked forward to being on his own without the lawyer’s unspoken hopes in the background.
The talk was casual until the two men were on their final cup of tea. Chelmsford considered subtly sounding out Richard’s feelings about his inheritance, but decided the direct approach would work better; the captain was quite capable of ignoring subtlety if he didn’t want to answer. “Have you made your mind up, my boy?”
“No,” Richard said baldly.
The lawyer sighed. The direct approach didn’t work, either. “I’ve instructed Somers and Hain, the agent, to help you in any way they can. If you have any questions they can’t answer, write to me in London. I can be here in two days if necessary.”
Richard stood and offered his hand. “I want to thank you for all your help. Regardless of what I decide, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”
The lawyer said gruffly, “You needn’t thank me. I would have done as much for any child of Julius Davenport. Just see you don’t vanish without a word.”
Richard smiled and shook his head. “You won’t be thanked and I won’t be an earl. We make a pretty pair. I am a long way from knowing my own mind, but I promise you I won’t disappear without telling you.”
After seeing Chelmsford on his way, Richard contemplated the office with a shudder, then went to the music room to work on his calluses instead. After playing the guitarra for half an hour, he decided to explore the music room further while giving his fingertips a rest.
It was then he noticed the flat leather music case. He thought it must be Caroline’s, but opened it to see if there was any identification. The sheet music he drew out was handwritten on printed score lines, with brief notes written in a light but firm hand. At the top it said, “Sonata in E Major, by C. L. Hanscombe.”
If it hadn’t been for the name, he would have returned the music to the case, but he found himself studying it. After a few minutes he released his breath sharply, then went to the piano and began to play.
He lost track of time as he worked his way through the first three compositions. He was just finishing the third sonata when a sudden movement in the door caught his eye. He looked up to see Caroline poised like a terrified fawn ready for flight, her slight figure rigid and a stricken expression on her face. Realizing she was observed, she came reluctantly into the room.
“Good . .. good day,” she said nervously. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I will not stay. If... I could have my music case, I’ll be off.”
Under Richard’s searching gaze she was trembling. “Please, can I have my music case?”
Richard got up and moved swiftly around the instrument. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Is it because I was playing the sonata?”
She nodded without meeting his eyes.
“You wrote it, didn’t you?”
She cried out in agitation, “You had no right to play it! Please, give it to me so I can leave!”
He reached a hand out and gently lifted her chin so she had to look at him. The deep blue eyes were drowning in tears. “I would never knowingly hurt you,” he said gently. “Why are you so frightened of someone playing your work?”
“It was the way you looked at me, as if I were a freak. Please, just give it to me and don’t tell anyone and I won’t ever bother you again. There is no harm in it!”
By this time the tears were pouring down her face and she was shaking all over. Richard led her to a sofa, sat her down next to him, and handed her his handkerchief. As she cried, he put an arm around her and she turned to bury both face and handkerchief against his shirt. After a few minutes her sobs abated and he asked, “Can you talk now?”
She sniffed through her reddened nose and nodded.
“My dear girl, I didn’t mean to stare rudely, but I really didn’t know what to say. If Mozart or Handel had walked into the room I would have felt much the same. What does one do when confronted by genius? Make a deep bow? Kneel?
Lay my jacket down for you to walk on?”
Seeing that Richard didn’t appear angry with her, Caroline tried to give a shaky smile. “If Mozart walked in, summoning a priest or a journalist might be more appropriate. After all, he’s been dead for twenty-five years.”
He smiled encouragingly. “That’s much better. I didn’t mean to invade your privacy, but I came across the scores and couldn’t put them down. Your work is ...”
He paused, searching for a word. “Remarkable. It has something of Mozart’s lyricism, of Beethoven’s originality, but with a quality that is yours alone. You cover the full emotional spectrum, from joy to anguish to laughter. It is the equal of anything I have ever heard.”
She looked at him with a mixture of shyness, embarrassment, and pleasure. “Do you truly think so?” He nodded. “And .. . you don’t think it dreadful for a female to do such a thing?”
He said curiously, “Who has been frightening you? What could be wrong with an artist practicing her art?”
She looked down at the handkerchief she was twisting in her hands. “I’m sorry to be such a watering pot,” she said haltingly. “My mother told me it was very unladylike and never to let people know or they would conceive a disgust for me. She said there has never been a female composer, that females were incapable of it.
“And ... and my father found me composing once and ... he became furious. He ripped up what I was working on and threw it at me. He said I was a cursed bluestocking and forbade me ever to do it again. But I didn’t say I wouldn’t,” she said with an earnest glance. “I didn’t make any promises.”
She stared at her hands again. “I knew I would end up breaking them, so I didn’t say anything. It never occurred to my father that he might be disobeyed. I have been very careful to keep my work hidden since then.”
Richard clamped iron control on the anger that welled up at her explanation. How could anyone behave so cruelly to such a lovely, talented girl? But he kept his quiet manner; she had been upset too much already. “Does anyone else know about your compositions?”
The Diabolical Baron Page 13
