The Secret Hours

by Santa Montefiore

  She smiled at Jonas and between them there passed a silent communication, as had passed between them so many times already, during their lessons. It was hopeless, indeed it was already doomed, and yet they both held on to the fantasy, as so many ill-fated lovers had done before them, that in love nothing was impossible. The look they gave each other was one of unfailing hope.

  Now the Duchess was announcing them and the sound of clapping was signalling their entry. Arethusa drew her gaze away and followed Lady Alexandra and Margherita Stubbs into the room. Behind her the Madison brothers walked, careful not to step on the train of her dress.

  Margherita took her seat and stole a quick glance at Peregrine, who was taking his seat and beaming a smile of support, as a fiancé would do to his betrothed. It wouldn’t be long, Arethusa thought, before their engagement was announced. Rupert, on the other hand, who was seated beside Peregrine, watched Lady Alexandra sit down and place the banjo on her knee. The young lady was too shy to look at him, but anxious to show him how beautifully she sang. Arethusa rather wished she hadn’t lied about that. Rupert was no more interested in her singing voice than he was in any other part of her. She wasn’t sure how that was going to work out, considering her brother had no intention of marrying at all, lady or no lady. However, he had entertained her during the three weeks of banjo lessons, which had worked to Arethusa’s advantage, for it had allowed her time alone with Jonas to talk and to get to know him. In the brief conversations they had managed to snatch alone, Jonas had told her a little about his family. He been born in New Brunswick in Canada, and later moved to New York to pursue a career in music. As Arethusa had known, Jonas and George’s ancestors were brought to America from the Caribbean on slave ships, the horrors of which she could barely imagine. He hadn’t dwelt on the distant past, but on the luck that had given him success as a performer – and on the luck that had brought him here, to her. But now the lessons had finished there was no reason for either of them to come to the Sutcliffe home. She and Lady Alexandra were not natural friends, they were too different, and Rupert could see Peregrine at his club, as men of their sort did. As for Jonas, he and his brother would travel the country as planned. It was unlikely that their paths would ever cross again.

  The three girls lifted their banjos and began to play, while Jonas and George watched proudly from the side of the stage. The atmosphere, which had been charged with expectation and a little dread, because it was quite possible that the girls were unable to play at all and would embarrass themselves as well as the Duchess, softened with relief and rising enjoyment. Arethusa didn’t need to look at her hands as she changed chords, unlike Lady Alexandra and Margherita who had not practised with as much dedication as she had. Arethusa had poured her heart into her practice and it showed. As she outshone the other two with the fluid movement of her fingers and her exuberance (as well as some unladylike toe-tapping), she felt Jonas’s eyes upon her and her determination to do better intensified. She ran her gaze over the glowing faces of the audience (it really was very hot in there) and felt a mounting sense of satisfaction. She might not be a lady like Alexandra, or as rich as Margherita Stubbs, but she could play the banjo better than the two of them put together. At the end of their piece they received a hearty clap. The Duchess looked pleased. None of them had played a wrong note, at least, not that anyone would have noticed.

  The Madison Minstrels took over then, dancing and toe-tapping their way onto the stage, their voices rising into an exquisite harmony. They sang the upbeat ‘American Jig’, which made everyone smile, followed by ‘Home, Sweet Home’, which brought tears to a couple of old dowagers’ eyes and a wistful mist in those of a few old men. Then they sang about slavery. This was unexpected and made many in the audience a little uneasy. It was not a subject the Duchess wanted raised in her drawing room, on a lovely evening such as this. ‘Hark! Baby, hark, your mama is dying,’ their plaintive voices rang out. ‘For saving her child from cruel master’s blows. Oh! Cruel, cruel slavery! Hundreds are dying. Please, let my baby die – go.’ The Duchess’s smile froze and looked less like a smile and more like a grimace. Two crimson stains spread onto her white cheeks like drops of blood on blotting paper. Arethusa was so moved by the lyrics, and the brothers’ plaintive voices, that she did not notice the tension building in the room. She saw the raw pain in Jonas’s eyes as he sang of his people’s suffering and realised, in that moment, how very far he had come. How great the distance was between his ancestors’ fate and his performance now, in the presence of the British aristocracy. She put a hand on her heart because she felt something snag there. She thought of those slave ships and the inhumane way his people had been treated and loved him all the more because of his courage. Surely, they had composed the song themselves. Those poignant images were undoubtedly reflections of their own family’s history. Her attention was hijacked then by her brother’s stare. It was insistent. When she tore her gaze from Jonas she noticed Rupert’s face was grey and his jaw stiff with horror. Her gaze strayed over the shocked audience, whose faces were as white as Rupert’s, and she was struck with terror. If Jonas and George displeased the Duchess, she could destroy their careers with a few carefully chosen words. Arethusa silently appealed to her brother to do something, but there was nothing he could do to halt the song. The Minstrels sang on, determined to enlighten their audience about their black American heritage. At last, Rupert whispered something to Peregrine, who leaned towards his mother and whispered something into her ear. As soon as the last note rang out and before they could launch into another rendition of something unsuitable, the Duchess was on her feet and inviting her daughter to sing. Lady Alexandra glanced at Rupert and managed a small, grateful smile, before taking the stool at the grand piano and composing herself for her song. The Madison brothers returned to their seats, unashamed by their faux pas, and waited expectantly for Lady Alexandra to begin.

  Arethusa hoped she sang well. If she had a lovely voice no one would remember the song about slavery. The Duchess’s daughter had the chance to lift the evening and end it on what they deemed to be a beautiful note rather than an ugly one. Arethusa felt desperate for Jonas. If word got out that they had offended the Duchess of Sutcliffe, they might never be invited to play anywhere again. She looked to her friend at the piano to put the evening right. But she couldn’t imagine such a delicate, insipid girl, who only managed a few passable chords on the banjo, could either play or sing with any aplomb.

  But she was wrong. The girl’s hands turned into graceful doves as they flew up and down the keys. Arethusa was astonished, but then she remembered how very accomplished such English girls were, groomed to within an inch of their lives for the marriage market. Lady Alexandra took a breath and expelled the most delightful sound. Her voice was a flute, pure as clear water, tuneful as a canary’s. She sang three songs, each one lovelier than the last. Arethusa’s attention was diverted by Rupert lifting a hand to his eye and wiping away a tear. She then looked at the other faces in the room and her fears dissolved at the sight of their pink cheeks and glistening eyes. The Duchess was smiling in the proud, indulgent way a mother smiles on a beloved and talented daughter. Lady Alexandra certainly had the power to move an entire room with the tenderness and melancholy in her voice. Arethusa would never have guessed it.

  While everyone was watching the performance, Arethusa looked at Jonas. His face was flushed and his eyes were glistening too, and he was looking right back at her. She realized then with a sudden searing feeling in her heart that they would never see each other again. That however much they hoped, hope was but a fragile beam of sunshine breaking through the thick cloud of convention. They were no match for society’s rigid standards and prejudice. But Arethusa was not going to give up so easily. She had a gift for living in the moment, for choosing not to consider the consequences of her actions and for acting impulsively. She had a recklessness of spirit and a confidence that enabled her to get what she wanted, regardless of the obstacles. Certainly, there
were more obstacles now than there had ever been before, but she wasn’t thinking of them all, only the closest one, and she had already devised a way of overcoming it. She gave Jonas a barely perceptible smile, in the minutest curling of her lips, and then she turned away.

  Once the recital was over Arethusa was relieved to find that no one was talking about the song of slavery but Lady Alexandra’s angelic voice, which had moved them all to tears. Of course, the praise Lady Alexandra craved most was Rupert’s. Aware of this he duly kissed her hand and told her that she had melted his heart, thus setting the girl’s cheeks aflame. Arethusa felt sorry for her friend but wondered why on earth Rupert wouldn’t want to marry her. She was one of the most eligible girls in the country. If the Duchess was encouraging their meetings, which she surely was, she and the Duke must indeed approve of the match. Arethusa watched Rupert, his head inclined, his twinkling brown eyes gazing into her puppyish ones, and wondered whether his apparent disinterest in marriage had been but a ruse and he intended to marry Lady Alexandra after all.

  Meanwhile, the Duchess moved slowly around the room receiving compliments as if she herself had performed. Arethusa received many compliments too. She stood with Margherita who was still glowing from Peregrine’s praise. ‘I’ll never be able to thank you,’ Margherita said to Arethusa in the short moment they had together before other young men approached to compliment them.

  ‘For what?’ Arethusa asked.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you I would never have been invited here.’

  Arethusa frowned. ‘Surely I had nothing to do with it.’

  Margherita laughed. ‘But of course you did. Alexandra wanted your brother so she invited you to take banjo lessons with her, knowing that Rupert would accompany you. But as you and she didn’t really know each other, she invited me, knowing we were friends, thus she raised the odds of getting you into her mother’s drawing room. Don’t you see? It’s all about Rupert.’

  ‘I’m not sure Rupert is the marrying kind,’ Arethusa said, doubting her words even as she said them. The way he was looking at Lady Alexandra suggested he was most certainly the marrying kind.

  ‘If you hadn’t fainted here in this very room, I might never have met Peregrine,’ she added. Then her eyes narrowed and she grinned. ‘You didn’t do that on purpose, did you?’

  Arethusa laughed. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You didn’t want Peregrine for yourself did you, dear Tussy? I’d hate to have—’

  Arethusa stopped her. ‘Peregrine is all yours, Margherita. My heart is elsewhere.’

  Margherita arched her eyebrows. ‘Oh? Who is he? Is he here?’

  Arethusa shook her head and sighed. ‘Mr Impossible, that’s who he is. But while my heart is with him it can never be anywhere else.’ She touched her friend’s hand. ‘I’m envious of you and Peregrine. You’re a perfect match and you clearly like each other too. It appears to me that love has little to do with marriage, but sometimes, a lucky person like you manages to merge the two.’

  Margherita’s eyes filled with sympathy for her friend and gratitude for her own good fortune. ‘I am very lucky,’ she acknowledged. ‘Peregrine is not only handsome but he’s sensitive and kind as well.’ Then she laughed indulgently, watching him and Rupert now talking together at the other end of the room. ‘In marrying him I think I’ll be marrying your brother as well. The pair of them are very close. But I suppose in that I can count myself lucky too. They are two of the most attractive men in London and I’ll be getting both!’

  At that moment Margherita was called away by her mother to be presented to the Dowager Duchess who wanted to meet her (and have an opinion about the American girl who was soon to enter her family) and Arethusa was left alone. She turned with the intention of finding her brother only to see Jonas making his way to her through the throng. His soft gaze fell upon her and with it the rest of the room receded into a blur. All that existed was him and the fragile ray of hope that illuminated the spot in which they stood. ‘Your performance tonight was impressive, Miss Deverill,’ he said softly. ‘You have poise and grace and, well, something special that no one else has. Something unique to you.’

  ‘If I do, you’re the only person who sees it,’ she replied, sinking further into his gaze. ‘You’re the only person I want to see it. The only person who matters.’

  Once again her boldness took him by surprise and he was momentarily lost for words. He looked at her quizzically, as if he couldn’t quite believe his own ears.

  Arethusa knew now that she had declared herself but she did not avert her gaze. She held his with the brazen assurance of a girl who knows what she wants and is not afraid to reach for it.

  He lowered his voice, aware of the other guests who mingled and chatted in his peripheral vision. ‘I am leaving now for Manchester,’ he said solemnly.

  ‘I know, which is why I have a thank-you gift for you. Just a book of poetry I found that I thought you might like. Perhaps it will inspire you when you compose songs.’ Arethusa pulled the strap off her wrist and opened her evening bag. He watched her lift out a miniature book, no bigger than the size of his palm, bound in green with gold letters that read: The Little Book of Irish Poems. It was innocuous enough. Something he could show to anyone without embarrassment. Something that would not compromise the giver.

  ‘Thank you,’ he replied softly. ‘I’m touched.’

  ‘And I will purchase the banjo,’ she said, remembering suddenly that it did not belong to her.

  ‘There is no need. It is my gift to you. I want you to have it.’

  ‘I will treasure it.’

  ‘And I will think of you practising.’ He smiled, not the cordial smile of a teacher to his student, but the tender, intimate smile of a man who looks upon the woman he loves. ‘I will just think of you,’ he added, and Arethusa’s chest expanded with happiness because he had now declared himself too.

  ‘Music is a language of its own,’ she said. ‘One can say an awful lot without articulating a word. In fact, I would go as far as saying that music communicates more than words ever can. That sometimes words are inadequate, but music gets right to the heart of the matter. I want to play you something beautiful, Mr Madison. Something truly beautiful because what I feel in here’ – she put a hand on her heart – ‘is beautiful.’

  ‘Miss Deverill, it has been a pleasure.’ His change of tone alerted her to the approach of someone. She turned to see Augusta pushing her way through the crowd towards her like a stately galleon on the sea. Arethusa was furious to have been interrupted.

  ‘My dear!’ gushed Augusta, ignoring Jonas. ‘You were marvellous. Everyone is saying so!’

  Arethusa cut her off swiftly. ‘Cousin Augusta, may I present my tutor, Jonas Madison. Mr Madison, this is my cousin, Mrs Deverill.’

  Augusta had ignored him on purpose. It wasn’t seemly for Arethusa to be talking to him alone. She gave him a lofty look but managed to greet him with politeness. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Jonas had given the Prince of Wales a banjo lesson she might not have greeted him at all, Arethusa thought resentfully. ‘You did a fine job teaching my young cousin how to play the banjo.’ Augusta laughed dismissively, as if she didn’t consider the banjo a proper instrument, but more of a novelty. ‘We were all highly amused.’ Then she gave him a stern look and Arethusa’s stomach gave a lurch as she anticipated what her outspoken cousin was going to say. ‘But if I were you I would perhaps take the song of slavery out of your repertoire. I don’t know how it goes down in America, but we are a people of delicate tastes and find that sort of thing quite unsavoury.’

  Before Jonas could answer, Arethusa jumped in. ‘Cousin Augusta, Mr Madison has given me the banjo. Isn’t that generous and kind of him?’ she said.

  Augusta’s eyes widened and she blanched. It was clear from her expression that she was not pleased.

  Jonas cut in, ‘I am also going to give Lady Alexandra and Miss Stubbs their instruments too,’ he reassured her. ‘It’s a ple
asure to know that they might continue playing.’

  Augusta laughed with relief that his gesture wasn’t inappropriate after all, that he was going to give all three girls their banjos. If it was acceptable to the Duchess, it was acceptable to her. ‘Yes, very generous and kind,’ she agreed. ‘Once the novelty has worn off, I’m sure it will look very pretty on the shelf.’

  Jonas accepted his cue to leave without affront. ‘It was very nice to meet you, Mrs Deverill, and an honour to teach you, Miss Deverill.’

  Arethusa smiled at him and only he noticed the shadow of regret that lingered behind it. ‘I can assure you, Mr Madison,’ she said, aware that Augusta would no doubt chastise her for her boldness and write to her mother to report it. ‘The novelty will never wear off.’

  Jonas bowed and Arethusa watched him disappear into the crowd.

  Chapter 22

  The following morning Arethusa was sitting in the parlour with Charlotte and Rupert when she received a letter, brought to her on a silver tray by one of the footmen. She did not recognize the handwriting. Her heartbeat quickened as she studied it a moment, scared to open it in case it brought disappointment. She silently prayed that it was from Jonas. She had written her address in the poetry book she had given him the night before, but there was always a chance he hadn’t seen it. Slowly she pulled the little white card out of the envelope and immediately looked for the name at the bottom. She caught her breath. It was signed, simply, J. There was no engraved gold lettering at the top, just the date, which he had written in his flamboyant hand. How like Jonas, she thought admiringly, to have beautiful handwriting.

  ‘Who’s it from?’ asked Rupert, stretched out in the corner of the sofa, reading The Times.

  Charlotte, most uncharacteristically, interrupted. ‘One must never ask a lady such a question,’ she reproved him.

  ‘Says who?’ Rupert retorted. ‘Is it Ronald announcing his arrival? If he knew how many gentlemen howled outside your bedroom window like wolves, he’d be over on the next mail.’