As she opened her eyes and looked at him to watch him play those last few notes, Isabella was taken aback to find that the Duke’s eyes were already open and that he looked at her intently.
Seeing that she had finally opened her own eyes did not make him stop playing, nor did it make him take his eyes off her. He simply continued on to the end, finishing his piece as he had clearly intended to.
Isabella wanted to turn and run; she felt so ashamed of her behaviour. But she knew that she could not. She must make her apology and make it most genuinely.
“I am sorry,” she said the moment he had finished playing and lowered the violin onto his lap. “I should not have …”
“You need not stand in the doorway, Isabella,” he said, his deep voice quiet and yet resonant.
Isabella continued to stand where she was, unsure if he was dismissing her from his sight or inviting her into the room. She looked at him helplessly.
“Isabella, come in.”
Chapter 9
Isabella made her way cautiously into the room. For one thing, she thought she might be in trouble for seeking him out when he had clearly not wanted company. For another, it was almost dark in the room, and she was struggling to see a clear path by the light of the fire.
“Perhaps you could take a seat here?”he said, and she could just make him out moving one of the armchairs in the darkness.
Although she knew the library well, Isabella was not confident negotiating her way in the darkness. But, as she reached Elliot, he reached out and took her arm to guide her. For a moment, Isabella thought she would flinch. As soon as his hand was on the soft skin of her forearm, the image of his face as he turned to her in the chapel on their wedding day seemed to flood her brain.
However, Elliot quickly released her once she was safely sitting down, and the memory soon fled.
“I am not fond of bright light, as I am sure you have already perceived,” he said in his quiet but resonant tones.
“It is of little matter; I am seated now. And I intruded upon you this evening, not the other way around.”
“There is no intrusion, Isabella,” he said as he moved his chair a little.
Isabella quickly realized that he was intent on turning away from her, just as he did every evening in the drawing room.
Even in the darkness, he would sooner hide away. And was it any wonder? After all, had she not almost flinched at nothing more than a memory of his face?
“You play the violin beautifully.” She wanted to change the conversation.
Isabella did not want to be drawn to making some insult by allowing her mind to dwell upon the subject of light and darkness. It could only end with talk regarding his disfigurement, which would be most uncomfortable, or silence, which would be worse.
“Thank you.”
“I have not heard that piece before. What was it?”
“It is nothing,” he said and gave a light laugh.
His laugh was warm and almost tuneful. It made him seem much younger than a man approaching his fortieth year.
“Nothing? I do not understand,” Isabella said quizzically.
“It is not a piece you will have heard before because it has only ever been played within these walls. It is just a little melody I made up to amuse myself.”
“A little melody?” Isabella said and was amazed. “You are too modest to describe it as such. You composed the piece, Elliot?”
“Yes. Although composed sounds rather grand.”
“It is nothing of the sort.” Isabella forgot the discomfort of the preceding moments. “That was a truly beautiful piece of music. And no simple thing either. That was a piece of genuine complexity.”
“You are very kind, Isabella.”
“And I am honest.” She laughed. “I cannot think I have heard the violin played so well, nor a piece of music I liked better.”
“I do not play as often as I used to.”
“It does not show itself.” She meant every word. Isabella knew she had been transported by Elliot’s playing and by the magical, haunting melody. “Have you played since childhood? I have never truly mastered an instrument.”
“I did not begin to learn until I was perhaps eight and twenty years,” he said quietly.
“Eight and twenty? But you have only played these last ten years?”
“Yes.”
“I would have assumed you were a lifelong musician.”
“You pay me a great compliment.”
“To think you did not take lessons until so much later on.” Isabella was astonished.
“I did not take lessons,” Elliot said simply.
“You did not? But how did you learn?”
“I just kept trying until I had it worked out.”
“You taught yourself how to play the violin?”
“Yes.”
“But that must have been so difficult. And it must have taken so long.”
“I had a good deal of time to fill and had spent too much of it wallowing in self-pity. I found it a most healing, restful thing, and it gave me a sense of purpose for the years it took to master it.”
Isabella was silent for a moment as she thought how he must have spent day after day practicing from morning until night.
No doubt it had been something for Elliot to focus on in what she knew must have been so many years alone. And even now he was still alone, to a large extent, at any rate.
“Do you play any other instruments?”
“The piano, but I learned to play as a child. I must admit I was not particularly fond of the amusement. I doubt many children are.”
“I must agree,” Isabella said with a laugh as she remembered her own exasperating piano lessons.
“You play the piano?”
“Yes. Not very well, it must be said, but I do play. I learned as a child and somewhat against my will also.”
“Mothers seem always to want their children to play the piano.” Elliot laughed.
“Your mother liked to hear you play?”
“Yes. However awful, she always enjoyed it. I have memories of playing pieces far too difficult for one of my limited experience, and yet my mother always rose to her feet and applauded loudly as if she were in a hall listening to a professional.” She could hear the warmth in his voice at the memory.
Isabella felt suddenly a little sad. Her mother had, of course, insisted that she played the piano and saw to it that she was trained by a very fine teacher over a number of years. However, it had been because proficiency in a musical instrument was expected of fine young ladies and nothing more. It had not been for the love of music and certainly had not been for Isabella’s benefit specifically. It was an accomplishment and nothing more.
And as for acting as an appreciative audience, no matter the quality of the young Isabella’s performance, that had not happened. The Countess had only ever winced her way through any piece she heard her young daughter play, likely wondering how her lack of proficiency would affect her marriage prospects in later life. As far as she could remember, her father had never heard her play. The Earl of Upperton seemed never to spend any time with them in the drawing room as a family.
When they had guests, any showing off from her father was linked exclusively to her brother, Anthony.
“How wonderfully attentive,” Isabella said with the feeling that she had missed out a good deal.
“And then there was the question of my singing,” Elliot said with another laugh.
“Oh, you can sing too?” Isabella said brightly.
“Good Lord, no.” He laughed all the harder. “But my mother would hear none of it. As far as she was concerned, I was a true proficient in the art.”
“It must have given you great confidence.”
“Given my level of skill, perhaps a little too much confidence.”
It was the first time Isabella had seen a glimpse of the real Duke, albeit through the darkness. He was a man of modesty and wit who seemed most comfortable when he was being
amusing.
“But what of you, Isabella? Do you still play the pianoforte?”
“Not for many years. My mother did not take much interest in my performances. She simply thought I ought to know how to play.”
“And did you not play for your family? I mean, in the evenings and what-have-you?”
“No, I am afraid not,” Isabella said with a sigh. “My father rarely sat with us in the evenings, and my mother thought my practice ought to be restricted to my lessons or the solitude of private practice in the music room.” She laughed also, but it was a less jolly sound.
“I am sure that you play very well indeed.”
“I could not say,” she said awkwardly. “My younger brother took to the music room to learn the violin, and it became a place for him to enjoy.”
“You could not enjoy the music room together?”
“My brother is some years younger and much used to getting his own way in things.”
“That seems awfully hard.” Elliot’s voice held some concern for her, and Isabella was not sure how she felt about it. She did not want to be pitied.
“I grew accustomed to the way of things.”
“Your mother favored your brother?”
“My father did, and so, by default, my mother did. She did not have much choice although I never perceived any effort on her part to try.”
“Your father spent his own efforts on his heir, I presume.”
“Well, I daresay it is the way of all fathers, is it not?”
“No,” Elliot said gently. “My own dear father was very fond of Eleanor.”
“Your sister?” Isabella asked.
A chasm of silence opened up between them and, when Elliot did not reply for some minutes, Isabella wished she had not spoken. Involuntarily, she thought of the doll in the tower, its porcelain face blackened with smoke.
“He was a fair father to us both,” he said finally.
“That is a very fine thing.” Isabella hoped that it would seal that particular conversation.
More than anything, Isabella had wanted to know Elliot’s history; the history of Coldwell Hall and the Covington family. But she felt suddenly afraid of pursuing it. She felt sure that Elliot had not meant to venture so far along that conversational path and was even then thinking of some other route.
“Did you never enjoy the piano?” he asked, and she was pleased he had turned the conversation back onto less dangerous ground.
“In truth, I did,” she said with a forced brightness. “I had always wanted to play nicely, and I was if I am remembering true, quietly proud of my little achievements. But as I said, I was hardly encouraged. Or, at least, not encouraged for the right reasons or in the right direction.” She was quiet for a moment. “But if I think about it, I wish that I had, perhaps, persevered with it. It is a nice amusement, and it might well have spurred me on to play other instruments. Who is to know now?” She laughed dismissively but realized that she had spoken the truth.
It would be very easy for her to blame her mother and father for so much that seemed to have been missing from her life. Whilst she would not choose to spend her time in such negative musings, still, she could not shake the feeling.
In the time since she had been at Coldwell Hall, Isabella had not mourned the loss of family contact. Whilst her father was the tyrant, she did not wonder about her mother either. The woman had looked on and done nothing for Isabella’s entire life. Isabella knew that there were few options for rebellion for women like her mother in such a marriage as hers, but there had been no secret comfort either.
Isabella had always hoped for a quiet camaraderie between mother and daughter. She had always wanted to be embraced and to be quietly assured that her mother truly loved her, even if there was nothing she could do to stand up to the Earl.
But that had never come.
“Perhaps you might care for the violin one day?” He broke through her murky thoughts.
“I cannot imagine I would be so good a player as you, Elliot.”
“Do you need to be good at it? Or at the piano for that matter?” he said, and she was taken aback. “What I mean is that perhaps enjoyment is the thing, rather than technical attainment. Perhaps that is what music should mean to us.”
“Perhaps it should.” Isabella smiled into the darkness.
There was something in what Elliot said which seemed to resonate with her. What did the appearance matter if the love of the pastime was there in one’s heart?
“Unless you intend to play to large audiences, of course.” And there it was again; a very real humor.
“One step at a time, perhaps.” Isabella was pleased to hear Elliot laugh.
“And you have other amusements too? I believe you like to walk in nature.” Elliot seemed to be more comfortable with her.
“I do. And I have greatly enjoyed walking the grounds here. You really do have a beautiful estate.”
“It is yours to wander freely.”
“Thank you,” she said and was reminded of the moment the two of them had come face to face earlier that day.
It had been that very meeting, sudden and unplanned, that had seen Elliot cancelling their evening meeting. Or at least that was what she had assumed.
“The woodland is so extensive,” Isabella went on. “It is so full of interest and so thick. It feels quite magical to be inside it.”
“It has been so for many years. The woodland is very old and well established. The perimeter is not quite so well established.”
“Leylandii are not easy to walk through,” she said in total want of anything else to say as she thought of the thick natural barrier to the outside world.
“But they grow tall and thick very quickly,” he spoke quietly again.
“Which means they make very fine fencing. Good barriers.” Isabella felt back on a path to the unknown.
“They were not always here. I had them planted myself eighteen years ago.”
“They are very well kept.”
“Yes.” His voice trailed away to such an extent that she could hardly hear him.
In the darkness, his demeanour seemed to have changed again, and Isabella could not read it at all. Perhaps he was no keener on the conversational path than she.
“The grounds are very well kept too. The gardens are so neat, and the rose bushes look set to provide many blooms when the weather warms.”
“Thank you. I have several gardeners and under-gardeners.”
“You must enjoy the estate greatly yourself.”
“It is a great comfort to be so fortunate in my surroundings. The grounds are ever changing and a source of much interest to me.”
More than anything, Isabella wanted to ask him about the tower. She knew he would not bring it up himself.
“You did not seem pleased to see me today, Elliot,” she began nervously.
Lords to Be Enamored With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 8
