“As you wish,” she said with a laugh. “Or I could ring the bell and have somebody come and remake the fire if you would prefer it?”
“No, I am quite capable.” He laughed too, and she thought him such an unusual character in more ways than one.
As a man who had been born to be a Duke, it seemed such an unlikely thing that he was prepared to kneel in front of the fire and throw on logs in an attempt to revive it. There was something about the whole thing which made her like him all the more.
Her own father, an Earl and a much more minor person in terms of title, would not have pulled on his own boots, never mind put a fire to rights. But that was only one of many great differences between Elliot Covington and the Earl of Upperton, she knew that much.
“Then I shall start with something by Haydn again if you have no objection,” she said, taking her favourite piece of sheet music from the piano seat.
“No objection at all,” he said and carried on raking over the fire grate.
“I must admit, I find it quite soothing to be able to play something I have come to know by heart. I have played it so often since you bought me this beautiful piano that I hardly need to refer to the music anymore. Something about that gives me a sense of comfort, of safety. And it also gives me a little confidence, I think.”
“You play very well indeed, Isabella, and you ought to have confidence. After all, you have not played for a number of years, and in a matter of days, you have mastered it again. I think you are a very fine musician.”
“I should like to be able to compose my own melodies, just as you do. I even thought about trying it, but I sat here and sat here, and nothing would come to mind. And then I spent an inordinate amount of time wondering quite where it is such inspiration comes from, and then I was diverted again, not even thinking of a melody, but thinking of the mechanics of developing one. That is hardly artistic or creative, is it?”
“I suppose that melodies are not something that you suddenly decide to create,” he spoke thoughtfully, even though he had laughed heartily at her admission. “I think it is something that just comes to mind when you least expect it. You probably hum little tunes that you do not know and never heard before all the time. That is composing, is it not?”
“Oh, I see what you mean.” Isabella sat down on the piano stool and laid her hands on her lap while she thought. “So, one does not simply sit down and say right, I am going to come up with a melody. Instead, it is easier to wait for the melody to come to you, as it were?”
“Yes, that is it exactly. At least, that is where my own little thoughts come from. They just appear, just a few bars, but it is enough then to make a start. When you have a melody come into your head, and you play that shortest of pieces, it seems to open up your heart further to creativity, and the rest of it comes quite naturally. You must try it; see if I am not right.”
“I shall,” Isabella said and hoped that she would find herself humming the tunes sooner or later. “Oh, it is no good. I am already worrying that I shall never hum again, that nothing will ever come to me. Really.”
“Isabella, it will come.” Elliot rose from the now roaring fire. “Just as soon as you stop thinking about it. Or overthinking it.”
“Yes, I shall try to empty my mind.” She laughed. “But not until I have played the Haydn. I had better concentrate whilst I do that.”
Elliot turned to retrieve his violin and, as he crossed the room towards her, she surreptitiously peered up at him. She knew it would not do to simply stare at him outright, to boorishly override his own thoughts and feelings on the matter of being looked at. But still, she wanted to test herself, just secretly.
It was true that it was not particularly light in the library, although the sudden flaming fire and the fact that he had crossed the path of her candelabra had done much to expose his disfigurement. And she had to admit, just to herself, that it was still not an easy thing to look at. But perhaps it was a little easier than it had been on that first day and, after all, progress was progress. Esme would have been proud of her, she felt sure.
“I am ready when you are, Isabella,” Elliot said, his smooth, deep voice coming from behind her once again.
Without another word, Isabella began to play. As soon as her fingers began to dance across the keys, she felt her confidence in the piece riding high. In the end, she closed her eyes, quite determined not to think about it, but just play, taking on board some of Elliot’s observations of life.
As she listened in the darkness, she realised that she had never played better than she was playing at that moment.
When they reached the end of the piece, Elliot clapped.
“I say, that was very well done.”
“Thank you,” she said and felt the warmth of his praise. “I closed my eyes, and I did not think about any of it.”
“Then I think you are perhaps ready to try a new instrument.”
“Right now? This minute? I am to learn how to play the violin?” Isabella could hear her own excitement.
“Yes, though I am not entirely sure that you will master it in a minute.” He laughed.
“That is not what I meant, and you know it. You are teasing me.” She laughed also.
“Here, just stand up and take the violin,” he said, and she held the violin just as she had seen him do so many times before.
“Like this?”
“Yes, that is perfect.” He was standing behind her, so close that she could feel his presence. “Now, I am sure that you know that different notes are formed when difference strings, or a different combination of strings, are pressed against the wood. Like this.”
Elliot reached out and covered her hand with his own, gently moving her fingers over the strings and then pressing down gently. With his other arm, he reached around her and put the bow in her hand, again with his own hand covering hers.
Without a word, he moved her arms so that the bow ran across the strings. It was a simple collection of notes played gently as he pulled her arm backward and forwards, drawing the bow across the strings.
“Goodness me, that is wonderful,” Isabella said breathlessly. “I almost feel as if I am playing it.”
“Well, you are.” He laughed and, standing so close to her, she felt his chest against her back. “Well, I suppose we are both playing it. It is a joint effort, is it not?”
“Yes, although I think your share of the work is probably greater than my own.”
“So, let us try and make another note.” Gently, he took one of her fingers and moved it to another string, leaving the others in place.
Once again, he held her hand as he drew the bow backward and forwards across the violin. Such a simple change in the position of one finger had made an entirely different sound altogether. Isabella was quite amazed.
Once the notes were played, Elliot just stood still, not speaking or moving, for several moments. Isabella closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of almost being cradled in his arms, even as she stood facing away from him. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, and its warmth gave her a wonderful, tingling feeling. Her mind had wandered entirely, and she felt sure that she could not take in a moment’s tuition that she would remember later. She just wanted to stand there in his arms in the dim light of the library, and she wondered if he felt the same.
At that moment, there was a brisk knock on the door, and the two of them jumped apart, turning to see who was entering.
Chapter 25
“I really am terribly sorry to bother you this late in the evening.” Crawford Maguire walked into the dimly lit library.
“Not at all, Crawford,” Elliot began brightly. “Do take a seat. Here, I shall ring the bell for some tea. Or would you prefer sherry?”
“Please, do not go to any trouble on my account,” Crawford said and then faltered. “But perhaps a brandy if you will both join me.” He looked pointedly at Isabella, and her heart began to thump.
Why would she need a brandy? And what was Cra
wford Maguire doing at Coldwell Hall so late into the evening?
“Yes, why not?” Elliot spoke heartily; a little too heartily.
He strode across the room to serve three generous measures of brandy from the bottle on the small walnut drinks cabinet, moving smoothly through the gloom, his eyes adapting to the darkness more easily than her own.
There was something about him which made the air in the room feel suddenly charged. As Isabella studied Elliot’s tall frame, she could sense a tightness in his stance; a tautness. Something was wrong, and he knew it as well as she did.
“Here.” He handed the first brandy glass to Isabella.
She did not particularly like brandy, having only ever taken it for mild shocks. But Isabella had a feeling that the shock coming her way now was set to be more than mild.
“Thank you, «she said in almost a whisper.
“Crawford.” Elliot had returned to the drinks cabinet for the other two glasses and handed one to his friend before they all took their seats around the dim glow of the fireplace.
“What has happened?” Isabella said the moment they were seated.
“Perhaps I ought to discuss things briefly with Elliot first before…” Crawford began, but Isabella cut him off.
“No, just say it. I could not bear to wait a moment longer in suspension, for it is clear to me that you have grave news, Crawford.” Isabella kept her voice as steady as possible and stopped her mind from wandering in any direction at all.
It was no good wondering what had happened and to whom. She could not run through the line of faces appearing in her mind and imagine how she was about to feel to hear how they had come to grief. She would do better to wait until she knew something for sure.
“Then you have already perceived I have come here tonight with bad news,” Crawford spoke slowly and in a low voice as if keen to stave off the inevitable. “Isabella, forgive me, but I have just discovered that Lady Upperton has suffered a dreadful accident.” He bowed his head in the darkness.
“Mama?” Isabella was surprised to hear herself shriek as she rose to her feet. “My mother?” she said again as if she must have clarification.
“I am afraid so. She apparently fell down the stairs at Upperton Hall early this afternoon. The news did not reach me until early this evening. Forgive me; I would have come earlier had I known sooner.”
“Not at all. There is nothing to forgive.” Isabella hardly recognized her own voice. “And I thank you for coming to inform me.” She remained standing. “Is the doctor with her? Perhaps I should go straight to Upperton?” She looked at Elliot for his approval but could see that he knew, as she did, that there would be no point.
Her mouth was dry, and she knew in her heart that her mother was dead. But if she did not say it out loud, and if she did not allow anybody else present to say it, then it would not be true. Not for a few minutes, at any rate.
“Isabella,” Elliot said and rose from his seat.
As he stood before her, the fire cast a pale glow across his features, and she could just make out the raised, ruined skin. But the little she could see did not upset her; it did not repel her.
“Please, do not say it, «she said with her voice finally beginning to crack with emotion. “I know what you are both trying to tell me, but do not say it out loud. Not yet. Please, not yet.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, and Elliot immediately reached up and gently wiped them away with his thumbs as he cupped her face in his hands.
“I am so sorry, Isabella.” He spoke with quiet and heartfelt sympathy; she was certain of that.
But he knew very well the pain of losing a mother in violent circumstances. And what could be more violent than a fall down the stairs? A fall? Surely her mother had not simply fallen down a staircase she had used day in day out for so many years?
“Is there anything you would wish me to do? Either of you?” Crawford’s voice sounded as if it was coming from much further away, and Isabella knew that she must be settling into shock.
“I cannot think there is anything to be done tonight, Crawford.” Elliot kept his voice low. “But I thank you.”
“What happened?” Isabella said as a cold shiver ran over her body.
“Excuse me?” Crawford was playing for time.
“How did my mother fall down the stairs?”
“In truth, I do not know.” Crawford sounded so apologetic that Isabella felt sorry for him.
“She was pushed,” Isabella spoke with a cold finality.
A dead silence seemed to have descended upon the library, and nobody spoke a word for many moments. In the end, Elliot crouched before the fire and added two more logs to the dying flames. Then he gently prized the brandy glass from Isabella’s hands and took it across to the drinks cabinet where he added more of the fiery liquid.
“Here,” he said as he pressed it into her hands. “And sit down, Isabella.” He gently pushed her back down into her seat opposite him.
Isabella flopped down into the armchair realizing that there was nowhere to go and nothing to be done. Her mother was dead, and even her refusal to speak the thing aloud would not change it.
“My father did it, «she said finally after taking a large gulp of the brandy and wincing. “I know he did. Charges should be brought against him for murder.”
“I am sorry, Isabella, but I did not hear anything which would suggest your father had anything to do with it. As far as I can discern, the whole thing is thought to have been a terrible accident.” Crawford cleared his throat loudly.
“Forgive me, Crawford. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable with my assertion. Nor do I wish to make you uncomfortable either, Elliot.” She turned to look at her husband.
Elliot was sitting face onto her, not bothering to make any attempt at hiding his scars. Isabella let her mind wander inappropriately for a few moments; she did not want to think about her mother and how she must have suffered in her final moments. Instead, she thought of Elliot. Had he simply forgotten to hide, a thing which came as second nature to him, when the shocking news had been revealed? Had the gravity of the situation taken his mind off his own cares for a while?
She could not see his face in great detail, but more detail than she ordinarily saw him. And it did not make her afraid, not for a moment. Was this the simple case of familiarity that Crawford had felt so sure would come sooner or later? Or was it the subdued lighting taking the edge off it all, making him easier to regard?
“I am not uncomfortable,” Elliot said reassuringly.
“Nor I.” Crawford echoed his sentiments. “But do you have a strong suspicion that your father could hurt your mother so badly? Hurt her enough to end her life?”
“Yes,” Isabella said instantly. “I have no doubt about it.”
“I wish I knew how to proceed in such cases,” Crawford began, and it was clear he wanted to help. So clear that Isabella was inordinately touched by it all. “I do not know how one moves a case of this nature to the courts without first-hand evidence, especially if the thing has already been deemed an accident by the attending physician.” Isabella could see his mighty, vaguely stooped shoulders shrug in the dim light.
“I know there is no way.” Isabella wanted to put the poor man at his ease. “I know in my heart what has happened, as sure as I know that my father shall never be brought to justice for it. And he will not be the first man to have murdered his wife in cold blood only to find no consequence for the crime. It is the way of things.” Isabella felt desolate.
She had always known that she had loved her mother, however ambiguous that love had been at times. And perhaps she had been a little too hard-hearted towards her over the years. It was clear to her now that Lady Upperton had likely known her husband was capable of killing her.
Lords to Be Enamored With: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 21
