“How good?” he asked, edging his elbow into my ribs.
“Not quite that good,” I replied, patting his arm. He roared with laughter and allowed me to introduce him to Aunt Ursula and Jane. He greeted them in a perfunctory fashion, dismissing one of them as plain and the other as older than Moses, no doubt. He clung to my arm and I led him into the drawing room, where Aunt Hermia had just arrived, breathless and patting her hair. I flashed Father a smile to let him know he was forgiven. He might have broadsided me by inviting Brisbane without my knowledge, but he had ensured my good will with his Grace. It was not every day that I received a proposal of marriage from a duke, even if he was more than eighty years old.
For her part, Aunt Hermia was delighted with her unexpected guests.
“Your Grace! How lovely that you could join us this evening,” she said. “It is only a family party, though, and I am certain you will be quite bored with our feeble entertainments.”
“Not at all, dear lady,” he said, bowing over her hand. “The reputation of the beauteous March women is as widespread as it is accurate. I shall simply admire the view. I believe you have met Nicholas?”
Brisbane stepped forward. “Lady Hermia. How good of you to include me.”
Aunt Hermia’s face was pink with pleasure. “Ah, we owe you much, Mr. Brisbane.” She turned to the duke. “My niece Julia’s husband passed away last year under most unfortunate circumstances. Mr. Brisbane was very helpful during that trying time. I am so pleased to see you under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Brisbane, but I must insist on a forfeit for your supper,” she added waggishly.
“Oh, God,” I said, sotto voce, to Portia.
“A forfeit?” Brisbane smiled down at her. “I cannot think that I possess anything that would be worthy of your ladyship.”
“Heavens!” Portia whispered back. “Did he learn that from the darling old duke?”
“They must be relations,” Jane put in. “Charm like that runs in the blood.”
“Our evening is a musical one,” Aunt Hermia was explaining. “We each of us contribute something to the entertainment of the group. Do you play? Or sing, perhaps?”
The duke snorted, lifting his bushy white brows. Clearly he intended something by the gesture, but the moment was smoothed over by Aunt Ursula’s petulant inquiry about dinner. Aunt Hermia bustled forward, suddenly realizing that there were far too many ladies for the men to escort.
“Never mind!” cackled the duke, taking Aunt Hermia firmly by the arm. “We’ll be here until Michaelmas if you insist on precedence. Let the young people sort themselves out.”
To her credit, Aunt Hermia obeyed, leading the way to the dining room and leaving the rest of us to follow behind in a haphazard fashion. Blessedly, Aunt Hermia favored a round table and precedence there was not an issue. True, the round table created a bit more confusion, but it ensured general discussion, rather than lots of indistinct murmuring. It usually made for more spirited and interesting conversation and this night was no exception. In spite of the duke’s presence, Father and Aunt Hermia engaged in a heated debate about the use of Biblical images in Shakespeare’s sonnets. It ended with Aunt Hermia throwing walnuts at Father and the duke offering her marriage instead, claiming that spirit was as important a requirement in a wife as beauty.
“That’s what I keep telling the boy here,” he said, jerking a thumb at Brisbane. “He’s got no interest in marrying, he tells me, because he cannot find a woman who interests him for more than a fortnight. He’s got a twisty mind, that one, and he wants a woman that’s got the same.”
Brisbane sipped thoughtfully at his wine. “All women have twisty minds, sir, or so you told me.”
Aberdour laughed his dry, creaky laugh. “That I did, boy, that I did. This one gets it from his grandmother,” he said, pointing a knobbly old finger. “She was just the same, always turning a word back on you, bending an argument to suit her end. She was a wily bitch. I was glad to see the last of her.”
Jane gasped, which did not surprise me. I have often found that the most outspoken liberals are secretly the most conservative in small matters. For all her open thinking, Jane was deeply shocked at the duke’s plain speaking. Father simply went on cracking nuts, Brisbane kept deliberately at his wine, and Aunt Hermia looked up curiously.
“His grandmother? Is there a family connection, your Grace?”
“My sister,” he said, his lips thin. “She ran off with a footman when she was fifteen. She died in childbed eight months later. We had the raising of her son, and did a dog’s job of it. He no sooner grew up than he—”
Brisbane coughed sharply and some understanding passed between them, for the duke simply muttered, “Then he bred this one and died on us.” I fancied that was not how he intended to finish that sentence, but it must have appeased Brisbane. He had tensed at the mention of his father, but now he uncoiled slightly.
Aunt Hermia cocked her head. Anyone who did not know her might mistake the shine in her eyes for sympathy, but I saw it for what it was—rampant curiosity.
“That accounts for the different surname,” she said, “but I do not remember hearing of your father, Mr. Brisbane. Surely he is not in Debrett’s.” This was simply a conversational gambit. The Shakespearean society’s quarterly journal was the only publication she perused for names. In itself, her line of inquiry was only mildly intrusive. But I had felt Brisbane tense again next to me, and I knew he did not like it.
I rose, dropping my napkin. “I think the champagne would best be served in the music room—after the entertainments. Forgive me, Auntie. I am simply too eager to hear Jane’s harp.”
I smiled innocently to the table at large as I collected my napkin.
As I had expected, Aunt Hermia pricked up like a pointer.
“Jane! Have you a new piece? Splendid! Nothing I love quite so well as a moody Irish harp. To the music room!”
Aunt Hermia never permitted cigars and port on her musical evenings on the grounds that they thickened the voice. There was a general flutter of movement as people rose, gathering wraps and stretching discreetly. Father whistled for the mastiff, Crab, who had been lying quietly under the table, snuffling for crumbs during dinner. Amid the chaos, Brisbane leaned near.
“It seems I shall be obliged to sing for my supper,” he murmured, his lips disconcertingly close to my ear. “What would you like to hear?”
“Bach,” I said without hesitation. I had the irrational notion that he was thanking me somehow for deflecting Aunt Hermia’s impertinent questions.
“A little old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care. I have loved Bach since childhood.” I did not tell him my first clear memory of Bach was from my mother’s funeral. I was six years old, too young for the church, Father had said. I had been left in the nursery with Nanny and Val, that awful, screaming baby who came when Mother died. It had been quite an easy thing to slip out when Nanny’s back was turned. She had left me to go and quiet the baby, something she was doing far too much of, I thought. I followed the mourners, hiding outside in the churchyard, listening to the music that flowed out of the open windows. It was a warm day, with late roses giving off a thick perfume and bees buzzing drowsily near my face as I listened to the choirboys singing “When Thou Art Near.” It seemed as if angels were singing her to sleep, I thought sleepily, and I promptly curled up behind a gravestone and took a nap. Father found me there some time after Mother’s burial. I woke when he pulled me onto his lap and we sat together for a very long time. He stroked my hair and rocked me and I listened to the ticking of his watch through the wool of his coat. Or perhaps it was his heartbeat—I never knew. I only knew that this was a very special moment, and that Mother had left me, but Father was still there and that although Nanny and everyone else seemed to like that awful, screaming baby, Father still loved me, probably much more. The choirboys sang again, practicing for evensong, and Father began to talk to me, about Mother and about music, a
nd all manner of things that I did not pay attention to. But I remembered the feeling, and from that day I always associated Bach with consolation and comfort.
Brisbane had not answered. I lifted my chin a little and arched a brow for effect.
“Bach it shall be,” he promised.
I was pleased, but a little surprised. “Can you sing?”
He smiled, that tricky smile he had that touched his lips, but not his eyes.
“I can, but never in public. I mean to play for you. I assume there’s a violin?”
“A rather good one. Made in Cremona.”
“Excellent,” he said, turning his attention suddenly to Jane. For no good reason I felt cast aside, and in favor of a woman who wore doughy beads and curtain fabrics, I thought irritably. I turned and left them, trailing into the music room on my own, a little dispirited. What difference did it make to me if Brisbane found Jane interesting? She was a delightful person, and an amusing conversationalist. At least, that is what I told myself, but I still felt nettled by the notion of Brisbane chatting with Jane, and that little annoyance disturbed me greatly.
And worse, Val had not deigned to make an appearance.
“Oh, no, dearest, he had a previous engagement,” Aunt Hermia answered in reply to my question. “The opera, I believe. With that Phillips boy. The one who always looks as though he’s picked one’s pocket.”
A succinct and perfect description of Reddy, I thought as I took my seat. I would have to wait up for Val, no matter how late, and collar him with what I had found in the laundry—and with his choice of companions. Reddy Phillips was quite enough of a nuisance without encouragement. I had not told Val that Reddy had accosted me in the street demanding the return of his raven, but I hoped fervently that they would settle the matter between them. The wretched bird was beginning to take a toll on my nerves.
“Well, if Val is not coming, what about Bellmont?”
“Downing Street. He is dining with the prime minister. By the way, dearest, I see you have given up mourning, and with quite a spark,” she finished, eyeing my crimson with a smile.
“Believe me, Auntie, I wouldn’t have worn it if I had known this wasn’t a family party.”
Aunt Hermia gave me an affectionate pat. “Don’t be feeble, Julia. How do you expect to attract another buyer if you don’t display the wares?” She moved off, leaving me to follow speechless in her wake. I took my seat, marveling that so vulgar an analogy could come from such a harmless-looking old lady. Portia nudged me.
“What did Aunt Hermia say? You look bilious.”
I shook my head, mindful of Brisbane, settling himself into the seat on my other side. “Nothing of importance. Tell me, why is it that old people are allowed to be so ghastly and say all sorts of things that we would never get away with?”
“Privilege of age,” Portia returned, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the duke. He was creaking himself down into a chair next to Father, bending and folding his frail little body until he was at last seated.
The musical evening began, as they always did, with Father reciting a soliloquy. He always played them well—his resonant voice and firm delivery would have served him well on the stage. He loved amateur theatricals and gloried in the applause. He did Lear that evening, or perhaps not, I confess I did not pay him much attention. I was too busy wrestling with my own thoughts, not the least of which was the guilty realization that I had sent Magda away without telling Brisbane. Sooner or later I should have to confess my guilt, and I was not anticipating the event with any good feeling. Brisbane was technically employed by me in this investigation, but I had a strong suspicion that he would be quite severe with me when he discovered what I had done.
Thank the heavens for Jane. Her sad Irish air was as soothing as a lullaby and twice as sweet. I felt comforted when she had finished, though I saw Aunt Hermia dash away a tear.
“That was utterly moving, Jane, dear. Thank you,” she said, turning to face us as we sat, arrayed in our little gilt chairs.
“Your Grace, would you care to favor us?” she asked. There was a gentle snore from the duke’s chair. “Ah, perhaps not just now. Portia?”
Portia rose and went to the piano where Hoots was waiting quietly to accompany her. It was perhaps unusual to allow one’s butler to join in the family entertainments, but Hoots was a rather fine accompanist. He gave a little trill of introduction and Portia began, singing in her adequate soprano. Something Italian. I did not listen much to her, either. Of course, Portia’s talent did not lie in her singing. It must have been some aria to do with lost love or a broken foot or some other tragedy, because there was a great deal of posturing and dabbing at her eyes with her shawl. I think it must have ended with a suicide because she suddenly clasped her fisted hands to her bosom and drooped onto the piano. Crab let out a pitiful sound and crept as far as she could under Father’s chair. Hoots pounded out a few more mournful notes and Portia rose, triumphantly taking a bow.
She took her seat next to me, fanning her reddened cheeks.
“You are far too fat to play a consumptive,” I whispered through a smile.
She smiled back. “Yes, but I am going to marry a duke, so I do not care what you have to say. When I am very rich, I shall hire you for my maid.”
I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane watching me coolly. I blushed and looked away, Portia snickering in my ear. Aunt Hermia rose again. “Mr. Brisbane?”
Brisbane rose and went to the centre of the room. There was an array of instruments for performers to choose from. An old harpsichord, a rather unhygienic-looking flute, and an oboe that no one remembered bringing into the house. Among this motley group was the violin—the one true and pure thing in the room. Brisbane looked at it a long moment before picking it up. He ran his hands over it, slowly, reverently. And then he held it to his nose, briefly, as if using its scent to gauge its wanderings. He stroked the inlay of the wood and handled the bow, trying out a few strings. He frowned, plucking at the strings and adjusting them slightly. I heard no difference, but he must have, for his frown eased and he positioned the violin under his chin.
He played softly at first, then with growing vigor. I recognized it at once. I had asked him to play Bach, rather as a joke. The greatest Bach devotees were usually keyboard aficionados and singers. I myself preferred him simply because unlike other composers he actually wrote interesting music for alto sopranos to sing. I had not expected Brisbane to rise to the challenge. And once again I had underestimated him.
He played a unique version of “Sleepers Awake,” a bold choice for a solo violin. It was a credit to his proficiency that I never missed the violas, basses or horns. I sat, amazed. He must have played it before, that much was certain, and yet I had not seen a violin in his rooms.
The piece rose and fell in arching phrases, by turns sweet and soaring. I heard Jane’s breath catch and I glanced at Portia, unblinking beside me. The duke was still snoring gently, but it did not matter. The music was enchanting. It felt true and pure and I gaped at Brisbane. He was a genius. Why had I not realized it before? Surely talent like that must leave its mark on the face? In the eyes?
I was still gaping when he brought the piece to its high, triumphant close. I moved to clap, but before I could bring my hands together, Brisbane—whose attention had been fixed upon his instrument—threw a look at his uncle. The old gentleman, intent upon his snores, missed it entirely, but it made my blood run cold. There was a chill in that look, a malevolence that I would never have credited had I not seen it. It vanished quickly, replaced by his usual cool mask, but I wondered at the antipathy between them—at least, I wondered until Brisbane began to play.
From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard before. This was no church piece. It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice. It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing. It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasin
g, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note. His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin. For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument. I had never heard anything like it—it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of. It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite heavily. The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been—and its presence was something out of myth. It was apart from Brisbane, this melody he created, spun from dreams and darkness.
I dragged my eyes from him and realized that I was not the only one so affected. Jane was sitting with her mouth agape, her handkerchief in shreds under her nails. Portia was squirming in her chair, and both of them were blushing and moist as June roses. I did not dare look at Aunt Hermia.
I told myself I was disgusted by them. A fine pair of Sapphic lovers they were, getting themselves pink and panting over a man and his violin. But in truth, I was the worst. My palms were damp, my face hotly red, and I found myself staring at those long, nimble fingers, thinking very unsuitable things. I told myself it was natural. I had been a widow for a year, had not known the affectionate touch of a man for much longer. It was expected that I would find an attraction to a handsome gentleman of my acquaintance.
But I was not interested in pragmatism. I was too busily engaged with fragrant fantasies stretched out on red velvet. I dug my nails into my palms, but my gloves prevented any real pain. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the metallic salty redness of my own blood.
If Brisbane sensed anything of his audience’s reaction, he did not betray it. He played on, or perhaps the music played him, for he performed as one possessed. The music arced and twisted, tightening and coiling upon itself, rising faster and faster, almost shrieking with pitched emotion, until—at the very height of its ecstasy—a string snapped with a mandrake scream. The violin itself seemed to sob at the echo of the sound, which had the report of a gunshot. Brisbane remained perfectly still, his bow poised until the echo died away. Then he turned coolly and laid the injured instrument down upon the piano.
Silent in the Grave Page 23
