That is what Vicar Helmsley had taken from her, with his sneering words: ’Tis a sin for a female like you to make music in the house of God. You should be ashamed.
“You must be freezing,” Henry said softly. He reached down and retrieved her cloak, which had fallen to the floor. He placed it over her shoulders and smoothed it down, rubbing warmth into her.
“Thank you,” she whispered. The simple gesture touched her. She could not remember last time she’d felt so cared for.
“Would you play me something I might know?” he asked. “Perhaps a psalm?”
At the shy enthusiasm of his request, she suddenly felt nervous. It had been so many years since she’d played for an audience. Another age. Another life.
“The organ’s out of tune,” she said. “The pipes don’t like the cold. But I shall try.”
She turned back to the manual. She played slowly at first, trying to recall in her mind’s eye the pages of Crowley’s Psalter, well-worn in her father’s workshop. She played the opening, hit a discordant tone, winced. But within a few bars her ear took over, working with the memory in her fingers and her foot. And then she found it—truly found it—and all at once the melody unfolded from her.
Henry laughed with recognition. “Psalm Twenty-Four.”
It had been a performance piece when she’d toured the countryside with her father every summer, demonstrating his barrel organs at grand houses and small churches, hoping for a sale.
Henry hummed in pleasure, then began to sing the words, his lovely tenor voice in harmony with her notes.
* * *
The earth and all that it holdeth, do to the Lord belong:
The world and all that dwell therein as well the old as young.
For it is he that above all the seas hath it founded:
And that above the fresh waters hath the same prepared.
* * *
She went up an octave, improvising on the tune. Showing off.
She felt her father, beaming at her as she delighted a crowd. She felt her mother, absently mouthing the words as she made supper while Alice practiced playing.
And for a moment, making music with Henry Evesham in an abandoned priory in a snowstorm in the midst of the unraveling of her life, she felt at peace.
Chapter 15
When the final notes of the psalm stopped echoing through the old stone walls, Alice turned around to face him. In the light of his lamp her eyes locked on his, luminous. Henry smiled at her and she smiled back and for a moment they just stood there, mute and smiling, locked in a conspiracy of joy.
“Alice, you play as for a king. As for the Lord himself.”
She laughed shyly. “Thank you. I enjoy it. It’s been such a very long time I’m surprised that I remember how.”
“How did you learn to play like that?”
“My father taught me. He was an organ maker,” she said, her voice rough. “I took to music from a young age, and when I showed talent for it he took me on the road with him, to demonstrate for customers. It always felt like the most natural thing—the thing I liked best.”
“Why did you stop?”
She smiled sadly. “When my father died we had to sell the instruments we had at home. There was nothing to play anymore. I had imagined I might replace my father as an organist at our church, but the vicar did not think it appropriate.” She glanced at him, as if seeing if he agreed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t imagine a greater compliment to divinity than the way you play. Did you consider teaching, or performing?”
She shrugged. “Mama didn’t want me to play anymore—she thought it made me odd, too much in my own head, always wandering off humming tunes, ignoring my chores to test a composition, playing the same chords over and over in the house until I drove everyone mad. She sold the instruments and that was that.”
Her voice was very small, very quiet.
“You must have been devastated.”
She sighed. “It was a loss. But nothing was the same with Papa gone. We needed money so badly there wasn’t time to dwell on where it came from. I found other work.”
At the whipping house, she meant. He’d never given much thought to her past, but this story explained so much about her. Her dreamy quality, her lovely voice, her absent-minded humming. Her mix of homespun speech and flourishes that bespoke some form of education. She had alluded to her family’s poverty, but he had not realized she’d fallen in the world. Lost her place in it.
Because one thing was certain: she looked, sitting before this organ, like herself. He wished that he could give the instrument to her. If it were not built into the wall, he would.
“Do you miss it?” he asked. To have such talent and no use for it seemed to him a tragedy.
Her expression turned grave and her gaze flashed dark and distant, as if she surveyed a burning city from a cliff. “I miss my father. And now, with my mother being sick … The music feels like part of that same loss.”
He wanted to lean over and gather her up, this lonely girl.
He knew he mustn’t. But perhaps he could offer something that might bring her pleasure.
“Alice, I wonder. Unless the snow stops and we can travel, I might ask a few old friends to the priory today, for fellowship. Would you play a hymn for us?” He paused, suddenly feeling shy himself. “I write them, you see …”
She grinned at him. “I thought you might be musical. Last night when you sang—I could tell you have an ear for it.”
It was an insult to her obvious gifts to equate them with his simple talents, but he was flattered she had noticed, for he harbored a vanity about his voice. “Nothing like you, Alice. But I enjoy it. Would you play?”
“Of course. But I thought you might mind my playing in a chapel. I’m surprised you would suggest it.”
He did not quite follow her reasoning. Had he not been clear in his opinion that everyone was welcome in church? Did she still think he judged her?
He just firmly shook his head. “Alice, it would be an honor if you played for us.”
Her smile widened, pure and happy. It made him smile too, deep inside his chest.
“Very well,” she said. “It would be my pleasure. It’s the least I can do after you have helped me.”
He chewed the corner of his lip, for he did not particularly feel as though he had helped her.
Not yet.
Clearly, there was more that he should do, if she felt unwelcome playing music in a church. But that wasn’t what she meant, and he’d promised not to proselytize.
“I feel badly that I have not been able to deliver you to your family as quickly as I hoped. I can’t help but wonder if you had taken a sturdier vehicle, perhaps—”
She waved this away. “No. You aren’t to blame.” She gave him a look that was almost playful. “I imagine even a lofty Lord Lieutenant can’t control the weather. Unless, of course, you have a prayer for that.” She winked.
Her wink caused something to pop in his chest, like a button coming off a too-small pair of breeches.
“I do have a prayer for that,” he returned, in a manner that, if he was honest, could only be described as flirtatious. “I have a prayer for most everything. I’m quite a prolific prayer.”
She nodded gravely. “I’ve gathered, Henry Evesham.”
“It simply hasn’t been answered yet,” he added, hoping to prolong the moment.
She snorted. “Are they ever?”
Oh, Alice.
He met her gaze head on. “Yes.”
She looked away. It was like a wall descended over her face whenever he spoke sincerely of his faith.
Don’t give up. He felt the words deep inside himself, like the Lord was speaking to him.
So he lightened his tone. “We’ll get there Alice. We will. I promise you.”
She nodded, and a yawn stole out of her. He remembered it was not yet dawn.
“Shall we return to the house?” he asked her. “You should try to sleep.�
�
“So should you.”
“Oh no. I never sleep past four.”
“Never?” she asked, as they made their way back through the old stone rooms and out into the snowy night.
He considered this. “Only if I have a fever.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, a strange expression knitting her features.
“What?” he asked.
She shook her head and looked away. “Sometimes you remind me of someone.”
He wondered who.
He hoped it was someone she liked.
Outside, the night had turned gray with a presentiment of dawn. They walked in silence. He paused to unlatch the gate to the kitchen yard and moved aside so Alice could climb up the stone steps. She went slowly, careful of the ice, but just as she reached the top step a whoosh of breath went out of her and she slipped backward. He caught her arm and steadied her against his body. She felt—
(Don’t think of it. Don’t think of it.)
“Pardon me,” she gasped.
“You’re all right?”
She nodded and he moved away, putting space between them as quickly as he could. He climbed to the top step and reached down for her. “Here, take my hand so you don’t slip.”
Her hand slid into his. Neither of them were wearing gloves, and their flesh, pressed together, was so cold that he felt her palm as he might a piece of marble.
“There now,” he said, gripping it. “Watch that second step.”
He pulled her up to safety. “There you are.”
She did not release his hand. They stood for a moment, neither of them moving, their breath coming out in little puffs of steam in the cold air.
“You’ve got snow in your hair,” she said.
He shook his head. “Didn’t think to wear a hat.”
She let go of his hand and reached up to brush some snowflakes from his eyebrows. He lowered his head to let her. Her hand paused, moved lower, rested on his neck, below his ear. Her fingers were so cold that every quarter inch of flesh she touched produced a shiver in him.
But he didn’t stop her. It felt so good he could not—would not—stop her.
She rose up on her toes and brushed his cheek with her lips.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “For coming after me.”
He stood still, frozen, shocked at the feathery warmth of her breath on his cold skin. Her eyes met his, a question in them now—one he didn’t have the answer to.
(Yes. Yes.)
And then her lips moved toward his.
He stepped backward.
(Lunged away.)
His abrupt movement disrupted her balance again, and she toppled sideways. She caught herself on a snowy topiary, panting.
Oh, he was a donkey. An absolute donkey.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, his entire body feeling like it was burning in a vat of boiling water. “I …”
“No, no,” she said lightly, standing straighter, her manner brisk. “I should not have—oh, devil-shining bloody hellfire.”
She turned around and ran into the house, leaving him in the frozen garden, unsure whether he’d been blessed or cursed.
Chapter 16
Where in eternal blazing Hades was the godforsaken bloody staircase in this preposterous old pile?
In her rush to get away from Henry, Alice had snuffed out her lamp, leaving her fumbling through dark rooms with tears in her eyes and her heart in her throat.
Stairs. She’d found the stairs. Oh, thank merciful Jesus.
She dashed up them, half blind and tripping on her cloak, and slunk down the hallway in what she hoped was the direction of her bedchamber.
Oh, what had she just done? Had she really tried to kiss Lord Lieutenant Henry Evesham?
She’d forgotten, momentarily, who and what he was. She’d only felt the pull between them.
If only he hadn’t lowered his head when she’d smoothed the snow from his brow. She knew hunger like she knew music. She had no doubt he’d wanted to feel her hands on him. But to want touch—even to need it—and to welcome it were two different things.
She doubted he’d ever look her in the eyes again, let alone find it in himself to drive her on to Fleetwend.
A door shuffled open just ahead of her, and a male voice cursed.
She froze.
The light of a candle moved toward her, and behind it, Jonathan Evesham stood, in a nightshirt and a sleeping cap. “Are you quite all right, Mrs. Hull?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” she stammered. “I was looking for the necessary and seem to have lost my way.”
He lifted the candle. She felt the dim light shine over her damp hair, her ermine cape, her winter boots.
“In your furs?” She could not make out his face, but she could hear the sarcasm in his voice.
Oh, bile of witches. What would he think she’d been doing? Nothing that would reflect well on her reputation as a Methodist widow. She prayed Henry would not materialize behind her and make the appearance of the situation any worse.
“I was chilled,” she explained, shivering for effect. “I’ve been a bit ill since my husband’s passing. The shock.”
“My sympathies on your loss,” he said, without much hint of sympathy. “A recent one?”
“Yes,” she said, clutching herself. “Christmastime. Could you point me to the necessary?”
He gestured at a doorway at the end of the hall. “Just there.”
She stumbled ahead, but he cleared his throat. “Do you need light?”
“Oh, yes, thank you.” She held out her lamp to him and he lifted up the glass and relit the candle with his own.
He moved aside so she could pass, but she felt him watching her intently as she walked down the corridor to the privy. She closed the door and leaned against the wall, cursing herself. She remained there for five minutes, in case Jonathan was waiting to see if she’d been lying.
When she stepped back into the hall it was empty. She rushed to her bedchamber and shut the door, shaking. She took off her boots and got under the covers, cloak and all. She closed her eyes and held herself. Don’t let it come to anything. Please. Please.
She awoke, hours later, to knocking at her door. She rose, drowsily, and opened it.
Henry stood there, stiff and uncertain. She flinched, wondering if he’d entertained questions from his brother on her whereabouts in the night, or if he merely appeared shaken because she’d molested him.
He took in her state of dress, her rumpled hair, the pillow indentation on her cheek, and his shoulders softened. “Are you all right, Alice?” he asked in a low voice.
His concern made her feel worse. She wanted to tell him about his brother, but she could not risk someone hearing her if anyone else was about in the hall.
She glanced up at his eyes. “Yes. And you?”
A corner of his mouth twitched. That tiny, faint tremble, not so much a smile as the idea of one, heartened her.
“Well enough.” He glanced at her eyes, then at his shoes.
Was he nervous? What was he thinking?
“I went out to visit a few friends who live on the estate, and they are gathering at the priory at two o’clock. If you would still like to play the organ, I’d be most appreciative.”
She nodded with everything she had. “Yes, of course.”
Meaning, forgive me.
Meaning, I’m sorry, it was a mistake.
He held out a book of music. “A hymnal for you. And there’s a list of songs to play, tucked inside.” He gestured at a piece of paper that stuck out between the pages.
She withdrew it from the book. He’d jotted out the names of five hymns, along with their pages in the book. His writing was orderly and neat.
It was writing that she knew.
She’d been reading it the night before.
Her diarist was Henry Evesham.
She gripped the door handle and prayed that it would hold her up. “Thank you,” she said through a dry mouth.
<
br /> He nodded, frowning like he wanted to ask her what was wrong. His face knit together in her mind’s eye with the one so like it she’d been imagining for her long-suffering, self-denying, grumpy, amusing, tedious, lustful diarist, whose thoughts she’d become so intimately acquainted with.
“You’re certain you’re well?” he asked.
She nodded, because she couldn’t speak.
He stepped back tentatively. “Meet me downstairs in the great room at half past one?”
She nodded again. He bowed, then retreated from her door.
She snapped it shut and leaned against it, reeling.
Two days ago, she’d hated Henry, and now she wanted to open the door, run down the hall, grab him by the shoulders, and tell him what she knew. He was taller than her by nearly two heads, but she wanted to cradle him like a child and tell him he was too hard on himself, that he needn’t suffer so, that life didn’t need to be so dreadful. She wanted to lead him to the kitchen and feed him cream cakes while giving him a back massage, and also to kick him in his shins for pretending to lack doubt, pretending to be above human desires, pretending not to see what the diarist so clearly saw.
But, oh God, if he knew she had his journal—
He’d be humiliated.
And the things he’d think of her. A wave of bile surged into her throat. She swallowed it, breathing through her nose. Stay calm. Stay bloody calm.
Perhaps she’d only imagined it. She went to the bedside table where she’d left the journal and opened it to a random page.
Today Reverend Keeper preached on marriage, and read from the Song of Solomon. It moved me, but not in a way that honors God nor my intentions.
It made me envious of the poet, and his dove-eyed woman.
One is not meant to read the Bible in a state of depravity but I did so. I went home and I read it and God forgive me, I burned.
Oh, Henry. It was his handwriting. But more than that, it was his character.
She remembered how stiff and stern he’d been when she’d given him his tour of the whipping house. She’d thought he’d been tense with condemnation.
The Lord I Left Page 11
