Beneath Spring's Rain (Ashton Brides Book 1)

by Rebecca J. Greenwood

  Chapter 27

  The hunting box in sunlight was more mundane and unthreatening, though much of the decoration still had Eliza wrinkling her nose in distaste.

  She followed after Betsey, removing holland covers, coughing at stirred dust.

  She spotted a familiar shape under one of the dusty cloths. No, it couldn’t be. Surely it was just a writing desk? She pulled at the white fabric, holding her breath. In a puff of dust, what was underneath was revealed.

  A harpsichord.

  She gasped aloud. In this out of the way, masculine abode, how did such an instrument come to be here?

  It was antique, of a fine make and model, and feminine in decoration. It had been an excellent instrument in its day. Was it still?

  With trepidation, she lifted the lid over the keys. There they were, ivory-topped and beautiful, gritty from dust despite the coverings.

  She ran her fingers lightly over the keys, not daring to press down.

  Hope sprung in her heart.

  She lifted the lid and examined the inner box. It was dusty, but the strings appeared in decent order. She moved aside the jack rail and pulled out one of the jacks. The plectrum was made of quill. Good. If any needed replacing, she knew how to do it.

  Her keyboard instructor at Grandfather’s Lyon Manor had ensured she knew how to properly care for all the instruments in the ducal music room, even if she wasn’t expected to do the maintenance work herself.

  She could voice a harpsichord.

  Eliza slid the jack carefully back into its register and replaced the jack rail. With a cautious finger, she pressed down on middle C on the keyboard. A jack lifted, the plectrum plucked a string, the note rang out, loud and clear. She released the key, and the felt damper on the lowered jack stilled the string and ended the noise.

  She went up the scale. It was out of tune, but the D, E, and F keys played successfully. She trilled the E and F, smiling as the harpsichord responded with fast, singing notes.

  The harpsichord only had one volume level. It wasn’t a pianoforte, easily able to be bright or somber to match the mood of the music. The harpsichord had never been her favorite instrument, and she hadn’t played one since leaving Lyon Manor after Mama’s death, but she was overjoyed to have one here.

  The G was too soft. The quill would need to be replaced.

  The A clanked oddly, with a cracking noise. She winced and checked inside the instrument. The wooden jack had split and was in pieces.

  With more nerves, she went up the rest of the scale, and down again. A few notes didn’t play, their quills worn out. But everything but the split jack she could fix with the right supplies.

  Daniel found her in the servants’ areas, rummaging through the still room in search of usable furniture polish. She’d located the soft cleaning cloths, but every jar of polish in the dusty still room was dried solid.

  She opened a jar of linseed oil and turned her head in disgust at the rancid reek that emerged.

  “Can I assist you in any way?” Daniel asked.

  A perverseness in herself wanted to tell him no, she did not need him at all, but she curbed her frustrated temper. Her scrounging had proved quite unfruitful. “I could use fresh furniture polish, and I can’t seem to find a single uncut quill in the house. Do you have any?”

  “I might have a fresh quill, but I’ll add it to the list. I’m going to take Betsey, and go to the village to procure supplies. And I plan on hiring two carriage horses from the local inn, to keep for our stay here. ”

  “That would be helpful. Please get several quills. It’s for the harpsichord.”

  He raised his brows but nodded. “I’ve been to the tenant farmers to the east on the property, and they tell me the caretaker was taken ill a few weeks ago, which is why we’ve found the property abandoned. And it appears he is long overdue to be pensioned off. Not able to keep up with the place anymore.”

  “Ah.”

  “A letter was sent to Thomas, but I’ll send another while I’m in the village. Maybe I can hire another servant for him while I’m here, save him a trip.”

  “That would be good.” She scowled down at another useless container. Every bottle and jar in this room was unusable.

  “You will be fine here, Eliza? I’m leaving Bill.”

  “Just fine, thank you. I could use the polish and quills.”

  “Very well then, I’ll be off immediately.”

  She whiled away the time waiting for them to return with impatient wanderings through the rest of the old, large house. She located beeswax in the armory but found nothing else useful.

  The sound of the carriage returning had her walking with less-than-dignified haste to meet it. Daniel lifted a brow and gave her his amused half-smile as she asked after her items.

  “Your quest is successfully completed, my lady, and I return with the bounty.” He handed her two paper-wrapped packages with a full smile.

  “Many thanks, my lord,” she shot over her shoulder as she rushed back to the instrument. She needed it in working order. Her fingers itched to play again. Her soul called for the soothing calm only hours at a keyboard could grant her.

  She had to control a pout when Daniel pulled her away from the half-cleaned instrument for a luncheon of cold meats, cheese, and bread. After her appetite was subdued enough to her satisfaction, she headed back to the drawing room and the harpsichord.

  By late afternoon, the instrument gleamed with polish. She toiled over the quills, cutting each needed replacement into shape with careful precision with her quill knife, and slotting them into place.

  Another jack cracked. She jumped and scowled in frustration.

  She couldn’t create new ones. She’d have to make do. She rearranged the jacks, leaving slots empty at the end of the range with less-often played keys.

  It was not very satisfactory, but better than forgoing playing at all. If there was one thing she had learned in the years since her family had passed away, it was that she could make do, as much as she disliked having to.

  She tested each key again. Though the tones were discordant, every string rang. She smiled, stretched, and took out the tuning hammer she’d found in a box of maintenance tools. Turning and testing and turning again, she tuned the harpsichord, listening for the right intervals between notes.

  At one point, Daniel said something to her. She might have mumbled something non-committal back between the repetitive twanging of tuning.

  She finished as the light began to die in the evening. She looked up to lit candles, and a dinner tray waiting for her. She hadn’t noticed when either had been brought in.

  She ate quickly and sat down at the instrument once more, filled with anticipation. Bredon Wold boasted a few sheets of music that were beyond the expected dancing music, serious pieces that required true proficiency. Several of Mozart, light and airy, as the instrument demanded. Then the true treasure, a Scarlatti she had heard once but had never had the opportunity to attempt before, a Sonata in D minor. She fairly hummed in excitement to study it.

  She set her hands on the keys and played a scale. She worked through warm up arpeggios, then opened a piece by Mozart, saving the Scarlatti for after she had put herself through her paces on this instrument.

  She played and played, enjoying the challenge of an unaccustomed instrument, and the clever tricks of fingering harpsichord music required. Loud music filled the room—filled her heart—with bright notes. Her mind sharpened and focused on the keys and the music, to the exclusion of all else.

  * * *

  The tinkling music of a harpsichord filled the dusty halls of Bredon Wold with bright cheerfulness. Daniel softened his steps as he approached the drawing room where the harpsichord resided. He glanced through the open doorway, hoping not to interrupt her.

  Eliza sat before the instrument. There were stains on her apron, dirt smudges on her cheeks, and a crease of concentration between her eyebrows. He smiled with pride. She had succeeded in getting the old instrument in
working order, and the music she played was pleasing and playful.

  He entered and watched her dancing, articulate fingers move over the keys, her hands beauty in motion. She didn’t pause, glance up, or give any indication she noticed his presence.

  He drank her in with his eyes, memorizing the curve of her spine, the expressive movement of her body as she played, the graceful evenness of her profile. She was a beautiful woman. She had ever been so, even when he had first met her when an awkward youth, stunned speechless by the artless grace of a young girl.

  She had matured into the full strength of her womanhood. And she was his wife.

  He settled in a chair out of her line of sight but with a view of her profile, content to watch and listen with rapt attention.

  She ended the piece she was playing—a Mozart, he was reasonably sure—and shifted the sheet music before her to another. She plucked at multiple notes, tested chords, not starting the music for several minutes. She stopped and worked out what sounded like difficult fingering, took the piece slowly, made mistakes and corrected them until it appeared she was ready to begin the piece in earnest.

  She laid her hands on the keys and sent her fingers pounding over them in fast, intense notes.

  A wall of powerful sound struck him.

  She evoked a storm of deep emotion from the otherwise tinkling harpsichord. It was a cascading, virtuoso performance, and her brow furled with concentration and an internal passion.

  As she hammered through the notes, he realized she wasn’t just passionate, she was angry. She raged through the music.

  His heart sped to match her rhythm. He swallowed against a tight throat and a swooping stomach.

  He fought against the urge to go to her, to soothe her fierce brow, calm the intensity on her face that hid pain. His arms wanted to hold her close and quiet the tempest that raged through her.

  But she would not welcome his interruption, nor his touch.

  She had been hurt and betrayed by men who coveted her. He must not show colors resembling theirs in any way. He adjusted his cravat, and leaned forward, intent on calming his mind and body.

  He watched her working out her anger, a silent witness to her furious storm of notes.

  When her final chord rang through the room, he let out a breath, his eyes riveted on the beauty of her face and the flush of exertion that decorated her cheeks, with a renewed resolve to give her all the time she needed.

  * * *

  As the first candle sputtered out, Eliza started away from the keyboard. Her ears rang from hours of onslaught. Her fingers ached. Her eyes were gritty and exhausted. Her soul felt wrung out.

  She found Daniel standing beside her. She hadn’t heard him enter, didn’t know how long he had been there.

  He gave her a smile of tenderness, a soft, sad fondness in his eyes. She looked away, embarrassed by her lack of regard for anything—or anyone—else that day.

  He held out his hand to her.

  Her mouth twisted. She didn’t want to be embarrassed. She had wanted—needed—this day of respite and focus.

  She forced her aching arm up and took his offered hand. He helped her from the bench. Her legs were weak from prolonged sitting. She clung to him out of necessity as he escorted her up to her room. He may have spoken inconsequential words to her—she hardly knew. He bowed at her door and retreated.

  Chapter 28

  The next day, after breaking her fast, Eliza went straight back to the instrument.

  She was not as absorbed today. She noticed when Daniel came in and stood watching her as she ran through her exercises.

  “You are staring, Daniel.” She didn’t pause her fingering.

  “Forgive me.” Daniel ducked his head and paced away. He fussed at the settee, shifted books in his arms, set them down. Eliza watched him from the corner of her eye, trying to appear as if she paid him no mind. He pivoted and approached her again.

  “May I sit and draw, Eliza?”

  Her fingers slowed. He had pulled out his sketchbook, then?

  “Draw me?” she asked.

  He gestured out the large windows overlooking the grounds. “Or this pleasant aspect, if you do not prefer I draw you.”

  She pushed away a thrill of nerves.

  “No, no, you may draw me practicing if you wish. That is preferable to drawing me posed and still, actually. I can keep my fingers busy, and my mind focused on something other than your stares.” She started on her scales again.

  “My stares make you uncomfortable.”

  “They are . . . intense.”

  She focused on her exercise as he sat and drew her. She tried to not notice as his gaze went from her to his sketchbook again and again.

  She paused in her playing. “Do you . . . do you remember when you drew me last?” she asked.

  “In great detail, my lady,” he answered.

  “I still have your drawing that you gifted me. I thank you for it.”

  He smiled, his eyes lighting. “I tried my young best at it. I wanted to please you. Desperately.”

  She looked over at him. He gazed at her with rueful sincerity.

  She frowned. “I was but a girl.” It was not logical. Eliza knew she had been thin and awkward, with a few spots marring her skin.

  “Yes, just a slip of a girl, with the grace and dignity of a duchess.” The admiration in his eyes made her look away. She forced her hands to still and not fidget with her sheet music. She clasped them in her lap. “Even then?” She clamped her fingers around each other.

  “Even then, though you may call me a young fool.”

  “Your long admiration is still a surprise to me.”

  He stood, approached her. She focused on her hands, twisted her fingers against each other.

  “It continues. And it deepens.” His presence at her side was warm and overwhelming.

  He knelt down, one knee to the wooden floor, bringing his face to a level with hers, pulling her eyes to his. “I’ve been given the greatest gift a man can ask for. But I’m sorry you did not choose it freely, with your whole will and whole heart.” His face was open, the expression one of adoration.

  Her heart gave a squeeze.

  “Eliza . . .” Her name was deep and husky from his throat.

  She looked away.

  “And . . . I make you uncomfortable.”

  She turned back to him in surprise.

  He gave her a rueful smile. “I will go across the room, and,” he stood from his kneeling position and wiped his hands on his pant legs, “I will continue to sketch.”

  She nodded and went back to her scales.

  He drew in silence, and she moved on to arpeggios. She relaxed into the routine.

  “You have been my muse, you know?” He interrupted her concentration.

  “What?”

  “I have drawn you, from memory, from that one instance, oh, a thousand times. I worried I’d forget if I did not practice. I didn’t want to forget. I’m so happy to be able to draw you from life again. My sketches from memory have been most lacking in your vitality and truth.”

  She looked up from the keys. His eyes were bright, admiring, but filled with an intensity that took her breath.

  “Vitality?”

  “Vivid and alive.”

  She looked away. “I am no such thing. I am the dullest—”

  “Especially when you perform,” he interrupted her. “The play of emotions as they cross your face. I will spend our lifetime trying to capture that look in your eyes.”

  Our lifetime. Their unending future loomed large and long over her.

  Her husband’s overwhelming affection. His unrequited and unwarranted love.

  His expectations. His demands.

  Her chest tightened. The room was suddenly airless. She lifted her hands from the keyboard lest she hit a foul note.

  She rose. “Your pardon. I feel the need for some air.”

  “Let me.” He stood.

  “No, no please, allow me to be alone.�
��

  She could feel the hurt from him and the guilt made her heart twinge, but she hurried from the room and out the front door, forgetting a bonnet or shawl in her haste.

  The spring day had warmed, and the sun shone.

  Her shoes weren’t the best for walking ungroomed paths, but she persevered.

  The landscape was wild, beautiful, and what her heart needed—full of quiet and solitude.

  * * *

  Daniel closed his eyes in self-recrimination.

  He kept pushing her. He’d tell himself not to do it, and then he would anyway. He was ten times a fool.

  He’d promised himself—he’d promised her—that he would give her time. His plan was to be gentle and patient, not to overwhelm her with his feelings.

  He should restrain them, like a gentleman.

  But he didn’t want to. He wanted to express them all, wanted to show her every passion he’d locked in his heart for so many years.

  But passion from men had gotten her into this mess—this marriage of convenience she hadn’t wanted.

  Softly. Tenderly. Slowly.

  He bucked against it. But he would do it.

  He sat down to his sketchbook again. An incomplete sketch was what he’d been able to put down on paper before he had overwhelmed her.

  He wanted it to be a true likeness, not his imaginings of her. But his feelings, so hard to contain, must have an outlet.

  He turned the page and began on an image from his imaginings. He focused on the strokes of the pencil and capturing his emotions instead of the truth of life.

  A portrait.

  Her eyes, large and luminous. Swirling, sinuous, wild strokes to outline her graceful frame, the mass of her dark hair floating around her face. Looking at him with the love he wished would fill her eyes.

  Discontent grew in him. It did not capture her. It could be any beautiful woman. That quality that made Eliza was lacking—he flipped the page, and began on another. A couple in a loving embrace.

  His burning, frustrated heart sang over the wish of it.

  Chapter 29

  She stayed out too long. Aware that she did not know the countryside or what she might stumble across in woods reserved for hunters in the fall, she kept the house always in her view, circling around and exploring the close environs.