Admittedly, he wouldn’t be playing any composition of his own; he hadn’t composed a single piece since the long-ago debacle that had prompted his retreat from the drawing rooms.
The thought drew his mind back to his hypothetical question of what he would play were he to agree to Stacie’s request. Raising his gaze, he saw the board hanging above Arthur’s door just ahead; he would cast his eyes over the new pieces Arthur had got in and see if any appealed.
Frederick opened the glass-paned door beneath the ornately lettered sign and walked inside. Light streamed through the south-facing windows; he closed the door and surveyed the rows of tables hosting countless thin-walled wooden boxes filled with sheet music. Arthur’s had been a favorite haunt of his since before he’d been sent away to school, and every time he’d returned to London, he’d agitated until either his father or mother had brought him there to find and purchase fresh pieces to attempt.
The proprietor, Arthur Arthur, had been a canny judge of customers even then; he’d always given Frederick his personal attention, and on his part, Frederick hadn’t been reticent over learning all he could from someone who truly knew music.
Smiling in anticipation of a pleasant interlude exchanging knowledge and opinions with Arthur, Frederick ambled down the central aisle toward the distant counter, set to one side at the rear of the shop; as he went, he glanced at the music sheets displayed on either side.
The shop was long; he was halfway down the aisle before he looked ahead and saw a lady standing before the counter in earnest conversation with old Arthur.
A lady with glossy dark-auburn hair and familiar curves, today clothed in a walking dress the color of burnished gold.
Frederick slowly continued down the aisle, quietly marveling. How had she known he would turn up there?
She couldn’t have—which suggested she had her own reason for calling at Arthur’s.
Curiosity burgeoning, Frederick went forward to join her.
As he approached the counter, Arthur’s eyes shifted his way, then the old man’s face creased in a genial smile.
Following Arthur’s gaze, Stacie turned, and her eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Good afternoon, my lord.” She glanced back at Arthur, then returned her gaze to Frederick. “I take it you’re a patron of this august establishment, too.”
“Indeed.” Frederick halted at the counter, nodded a greeting to Arthur, then met Stacie’s eyes. “I’ve been coming here since schooldays.” He arched a brow at her. “You?”
She smiled. “Since I was in the schoolroom.”
“Aye—I’ve known you both since you each were only just tall enough to see over this counter.” Old Arthur patted the worn countertop and smiled at them. Then he said to Frederick, “I was just telling her ladyship here that I’ve heard we should have the next installment in Mendelssohn’s ‘Songs without Words’—Book Five, that’ll be—later this year.”
Frederick looked at Stacie. “Have you been collecting them?”
She nodded. “And you?”
“Of course—it’s Mendelssohn and friends. So what did you think of Book Four?”
“I particularly like the adagio and the allegro vivace from that collection.”
He nodded approvingly. “They do stand out.”
She opened her blue eyes at him. “What composers do you favor?”
Unsurprisingly given the company, that question led to a lengthy discussion of the comparative merits of the compositions of composers ranging from Beethoven to Schubert, Liszt, Schumann, and Chopin, to the aforementioned Mendelssohn.
Frederick finally admitted a partiality for Schumann’s “Fantasie in C Major.” “That reminds me—I’ve been meaning to pick up a copy of Chopin’s ‘Ballade Number Four.’” He looked at Arthur. “I don’t suppose you have one?”
Arthur grimaced. “I’d love to oblige, my lord, but that one’s hard to come by. I don’t have a copy in stock.”
Frederick tapped the counter. “Put one on order for me, please.”
“Of course, my lord.” Arthur reached beneath the counter and brought out his order book.
Frederick felt Stacie’s gaze and looked her way, brows arching in question.
She smiled. “If you’re keen to try your hand at it, I have a copy. I’d be happy to lend it to you.”
He waited, but she didn’t put any condition on the offer. Didn’t utter the words if you’ll agree to play at my recital.
Slowly, his eyes locked with hers, he inclined his head. “Thank you. I might just take you up on that.”
“Right, then.” Arthur shut his order book. “As usual, I’ll send notes around to you both when your pieces come in.”
The door of the shop opened, admitting a harassed-looking lady and two schoolboys. The boys were arguing over who had priority in choosing what music they should take to their tutor’s next lesson.
Arthur’s attention shifted to the newcomers.
Frederick lightly touched Stacie’s arm. “If you’re ready, I’ll see you to your carriage.”
“Thank you.” She exchanged a brief farewell with Arthur, Frederick did the same, and together, they stepped away from the counter. Skirting the trio heading purposefully toward Arthur, they made their way up the aisle.
Frederick lowered his head and his voice and asked, “What did you order?” He genuinely wanted to know.
“Mendelssohn’s ‘Carnavale.’ I realized I don’t have a copy.”
He reached for the door handle and looked at her. “So you play the piano?”
She met his eyes briefly, a laughing light in hers. “Yes, but nowhere near as well as you.”
He held the door for her, then followed her through and drew the door shut behind him. Releasing the knob, he murmured, “That doesn’t actually convey a great deal—not many people do.”
She laughed—and the sound danced over his senses. To his ears, the timbre was all bells, a lilting peal that lured and seduced.
She threw him a glance over her shoulder, her eyes alight with a similar allure. “And that, my lord, is why I’m intent on securing your services in support of those local musicians deserving of the patronage of the haut ton.”
He halted on the pavement beside her and openly studied her.
She tipped her head and let him; she didn’t look away.
Despite keeping his distance from society, he knew the haut ton—the gilded circle into which he and she had been born—well enough to know that she didn’t quite fit. She wasn’t the average young lady, intent only on securing a good marriage, be it a love-match or not. Her ambition was something quite different—she had a purpose that revolved about helping others and, more, served the greater good of music in general. That purpose was her driving force, and he had to admire her for that—had to admire her strength and devotion to a cause he could only applaud.
After several seconds, the glow in her face faded, and she asked, “Have you decided yet?”
He quashed the temptation to admit he had. “You’re not going to give up, are you?” He wanted an excuse to surrender and give in—to appease that part of his mind that still insisted agreeing was a very bad idea.
She widened her eyes at him. “No.” Then she added, “You are the performer I need to make my scheme a success. You and only you will do—so no, I will never give up trying to persuade you.”
He held her gaze, then ventured, “I’m still not convinced. Not completely.”
Stacie stared into his golden eyes. Although she could read little in them, she felt certain she’d understood him correctly. “You’re saying that you’re teetering on the cusp of agreeing, but that I need to provide something more—some more compelling argument—to push you over the edge.”
He considered her for a moment, then replied, “A somewhat lyrical assessment, but essentially correct.”
A challenge, then—one she needed to meet to get what she wanted. She wracked her brains…then smiled and refocused on his eyes. “Very well. I suggest you
accompany me on a visit to the institution currently vying with the Royal Academy for the title of premier music school in London and meet the local musicians I’m seeking to advance with my scheme.”
Through her tone and the tilting of her chin, she made it clear that was her counterchallenge.
He searched her eyes, her face, then with his own expression studiously impassive, nodded. “All right.” He arched his brows at her. “When should we go?”
The following afternoon, Stacie loitered on the pavement outside St Martin-in-the-Fields. The music school attached to the church had a lengthy history of fostering local London musicians.
She felt oddly tense, as if she had her fingers tightly crossed. She sensed she was close—so very close—to getting Frederick’s agreement to play his part in her scheme, yet she wasn’t certain that steering him through the school, having him meet the master and survey the work the school did, would prove sufficient to get Frederick over what he’d all but admitted was his last remaining hurdle.
Scanning the throng filling Trafalgar Square, she waited. Then she spotted him weaving elegantly through the crowd, heading directly for her.
By the time he stepped free of the milling horde, she’d plastered a bright smile on her face. “Good afternoon.”
He half bowed. “As promised, here I am.” He glanced behind her. “Do we enter through the church?”
“No.” Turning, she gestured to the narrow street that ran down the side of the church. “The diocese runs several schools. Most, including the music school, are presently housed in this building.” She indicated the large building on the other side of the street. “The music school is the third door along.”
He nodded and walked beside her down the cobbled lane. When they reached the relevant entry, identified by a small plaque on the wall alongside, he reached past her and opened the door, then followed her inside.
Stacie led the way to a counter at the back of the small foyer. Beyond the barrier, two secretaries were busily working at a pair of desks; both looked up and, recognizing Stacie, smiled.
The older woman rose and came to the counter. “Lady Eustacia—how lovely to see you again.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Withers.” She waved at the presence by her side. “This is Lord Albury. I believe Mr. Protheroe is expecting us.”
Frederick shot her a sidelong glance, but she made no move to meet it. After leaving him yesterday, she’d called on Protheroe to warn him of the importance of putting his and his students’ best feet forward by way of convincing Frederick to participate in her scheme.
“Indeed, my lady.” Mrs. Withers dragged her gaze from Frederick. “The master mentioned it—I’ll just check that he’s ready to receive you.”
Mrs. Withers came out from behind the counter, bustled down the corridor to Stacie’s right, tapped on the first door, then stuck her head inside. Stacie and Frederick were too far away to make out any of the whispered exchange, but Stacie could imagine Protheroe hurriedly tidying away the countless pages of music and correspondence that habitually covered his desk.
After several moments, Mrs. Withers drew back and beamed at Stacie and Frederick. “My lady, my lord. The master will see you now.”
Stacie smiled and glided forward. On reaching the door, she walked into the room and halted before the desk behind which Protheroe—to her eyes, plainly nervous—stood waiting to greet them; she caught his eye and smiled encouragingly. The master was a slightly built man of about thirty-five years—a younger son of the gentry—with a steady gaze, a sure way with his juniors, and a profound understanding of all branches of music. His position as master wasn’t a sinecure but had been granted on the basis of his achievements; he was considered by many to be a gifted teacher and a sound and well-liked administrator.
Frederick followed her into the room and halted beside her. A click sounded as Mrs. Withers closed the door.
“Lady Eustacia.” Protheroe bowed to her, then to Frederick. “Lord Albury.” Straightening, Protheroe fixed his gaze on Frederick’s face. “Might I say, my lord, how very honored the school and, indeed, I myself are to have you visit?”
From the corner of her eye, Stacie saw Frederick blink—and held her breath. His mother and sisters had warned her that he could be diabolically cutting to those he saw as attempting to toady up to him. Would she have to step in and shield Protheroe?
But after a second’s hiatus, Frederick only inclined his head in acknowledgment of the veiled tribute. “Lady Eustacia has piqued my interest with her description of the musicians here, Mr. Protheroe, and through my visit, I hope to see enough of their abilities to judge her devotion justified.”
To Stacie’s relief, Protheroe rose to the occasion. “My lord, I have no hesitation in recommending any of our seniors to your notice. All are of a standard that—given the chance—they could shine. Perhaps I might take you through our regimen of instruction in the senior year so you have an understanding of the various disciplines our students study, and then I can answer any questions you might have.” Protheroe waved to the two chairs angled before the desk. “Please, sit.”
Frederick held her chair for her, then elegantly sat in its mate.
Protheroe subsided into his chair, clasped his hands on the blotter, and launched into a patently rehearsed yet informative description of the teaching practices employed within the school. Frederick heard him out, then posed several questions, to which Protheroe had ready answers; the exchange was too technical for Stacie to follow, but from watching Frederick’s face, she judged that Protheroe hadn’t merely satisfied Frederick but had managed the difficult task of impressing him.
Her heart started to rise in hope.
Eventually, Frederick said, “Your curriculum is plainly sound and, as you say, closely mirrors that taught at the Royal Academy. Ultimately, however, the proof lies in the results.”
“Quite so, my lord. I would be happy to take you on a short tour to meet some of our advanced students—those who have, essentially, completed their studies and are polishing their skills in the hope of finding a position with one of the country’s orchestras or, failing that, in some other ensemble.”
Frederick indicated his agreement with that plan and rose. As Stacie got to her feet, he met her eyes. “Are you coming?”
“I’ve already met all the senior students. I’ll trail behind.”
He tipped his head in acceptance and joined Protheroe, who waved Frederick to precede him out of the door.
Frederick waited in the corridor for Protheroe to join him. He’d noticed the framed certificate on the wall that declared Protheroe a graduate of the Royal Academy. On top of that, he’d been impressed by the breadth of the man’s musical understanding; it remained to be seen if Protheroe’s pupils measured up to the same standard.
The master led him to a small room in which three pupils were practicing a violin concerto. All three lifted their bows at Protheroe and Frederick’s entrance, then lowered their instruments and bowed. To Frederick’s approval, Protheroe introduced him merely as a potential benefactor and indicated that the boys should proceed. Along with Protheroe, Frederick stood by the wall just inside the door and listened.
After a moment, Stacie slipped into the room and joined them, but by then, Frederick had been captured by the music.
He was a longtime member of the Royal Philharmonic Society and had studied, albeit privately, with tutors from the Royal Academy of Music. His connections in the musical sphere ensured he always knew of any major musician who appeared in London or, indeed, anywhere in England. He came up to town whenever any major artist was performing and, through the years, had attended innumerable concerts and recitals.
He’d heard many concert-grade violinists; indeed, during his version of a Grand Tour, one dictated by musical performances, he’d even heard the great Niccolò Paganini play. While none of the three violinists before him were likely to attain Paganini’s virtuosity, to Frederick’s highly educated ears, all three were def
initely up to concert-level performance. As all looked to be in their early twenties and equally transparently were not the sons of gentlemen, that was no mean feat.
Although Frederick had attended several excellent concerts in St Martin-in-the-Fields, he’d never thought to wonder where the performers hailed from; even if he had, he would have assumed they were graduates of the Royal Academy. Similarly, whenever he attended the opera or the theater, the orchestra in the pit was simply there—a fixture.
But such orchestras were composed of individual musicians, all striving to make a living through their art. And realistically, given the relatively low number of Academy graduates per year, less well-heeled schools such as this one had to be the source of many of the professional musicians who entertained the populace throughout the country.
The three violinists performing before him were, in his judgment, worthy of greater recognition than a position in some pit in a provincial theater.
The three reached the end of a movement, and Protheroe spoke up. “Thank you, boys. That was excellent. We’ll leave you now.”
The boys lowered their instruments and bowed again. Frederick inclined his head, then followed Stacie and Protheroe from the room.
Protheroe took him to listen to a group of cellists, then a pair of flautists, before they sat in on a rehearsal for an upcoming recital at Apsley House. “The Duke of Wellington has long been a supporter,” Protheroe murmured, “but as he is a bachelor, playing at his events rarely leads to subsequent engagements in wider society.”
Frederick felt Stacie’s pointed look, but didn’t need to meet it to understand Protheroe’s point. Until musicians caught the eyes and ears of major ton hostesses, engagements for the salons and musicales through which solo artists made their name were unlikely to come their way. They might manage ensemble engagements to play at balls or soirées, but the pinnacle of society performance would remain beyond their reach.
That was what Stacie was aiming to change with her musical events.
It was a cause he could all too easily see himself supporting.
The Beguilement of Lady Eustacia Cavanagh: The Cavanaughs Volume 3 Page 4
