by Ella Edon
“Yes, it is. And it sounds even better than it looks!” said Little Chip. “Surely, you didn’t come here to discuss violins.”
“No, in fact, we didn’t,” said Jonathan. “I have a request to make of you. While I know full-well that this is asking a great deal of you, I would beg a boon of you.”
“Cipriani, as you know, we have been forced to cancel all the rest of the concerts in London, owing to the difficulty, what with the Royal mourning period,” said Garance suddenly.
“Yes, I was afraid of that,” said Little Chip.
“But,” she went on as though he had said nothing, “we have a much bigger and much more monumental performance in mind. You mentioned to us you recently completed a symphony. Am I correct?”
“Well, yes. I was studying with the deaf Austrian, Ludwig van Beethoven, in Vienna when I wrote a small symphony under his tutelage. It is far from ‘complete’ as you would call it, but I feel it is in good shape.”
“How would you like to conduct its first performance, as a commission from my fiancé?” she asked.
“What? How could this be?”
“Well, here’s the thing, Little Chip,” said Jonathan earnestly. “I wish to marry Miss Garance Monteux, and, as you probably know, there are many barriers, both social and familial, to such a union. And, well, I would like you to assemble an orchestra to perform your symphony, and to accompany Garance for a song recital.”
“An orchestra? Who the devil would pay for that?”
“Well, I wanted to pay for it, but Garance has insisted,” said Jonathan. “Whatever it costs. We want you to premiere this work in Lincolnshire at my manor as part of a massive extravaganza. Are you willing?”
“I am,” he replied. “Of course, there is the matter of money. How much did you imagine something like this would cost?”
“Cost?” said Garance, as though it were the strangest question in the world. “Cost is by no means prohibitive. I mean, I shall be paying for everything, and of course, I shall pay you handsomely, knowing how you are one of the great English composers, pianists, and, dare I say? Violinists of this century.”
“Well,” said Cipriani. “I shouldn’t say that.”
“Perhaps not, my dear,” said Garance, misunderstanding his phrase. “But we can. And we do. For I have heard your playing, and I know many of the blandishments directed at me should, by rights, be directed at you.”
“You are too kind,” said Cipriani.
“If you could assemble the best performers, we shall arrange for transport to Lincolnshire, and a handsome stipend, too,” said Jonathan. “Let us say, for example, that each performer will receive fifteen guineas for the performance, and there are… beg your pardon, Little Chip, but how many performers would you choose?”
“I should think twenty violinists, eight violists, and six ‘cellists, as well as three flutes, two oboes, perhaps a clarinet or two, four trumpets, two trombones, a timpanist, a harp, and continuo would make up quite a nice orchestra.”
“So, fifty performers, and yourself as conductor. That would be fifteen hundred guineas, as well as your thousand guinea fee as contractor and conductor. Will there be an arranging fee?”
“I shall orchestrate the music, of course, but that is nothing. However, we’ll need a copyist to prepare the parts.”
“Two hundred guineas for your arrangement or orchestration, and the copyist should receive, shall we say, ten guineas?”
“Good Lord! That is far above the standard fee, Lord Yarmouth!”
“All the more incentive to do a good job then. And, needless to say, I need to pay the Parisian Nightingale her usual ten thousand guineas.”
Garance burst into gales of laughter.
“Why? Whatever is wrong?” asked Jonathan.
“Oh Jonathan! I shall not take a fee. This is for my benefit, you silly goose.”
“Well,” said Jonathan. “That seems peculiar.”
“Peculiar? If I marry you, this money would revert directly back to you anyway. No, no! I insist. This is for Cipriani, not for me.”
“I shan’t argue that point,” said Cipriani.
Jonathan had a strange look on his face, as though the reality of this situation had suddenly dawned on him. They were to be united as one. He smiled to himself,
“Then it is settled,” he said with a grin.
“Now then,” said Little Chip. “Where are my manners? Would you like a glass? I was just about to have a little nip with my friend D’Arcy here.”
“Ah yes, of course. I’d nearly forgotten you were here. I daresay, you rarely hear something like that do you, D’Arcy?”
“I admit it is rare,” he said wryly. “But I must say, your idea of this performance is reminiscent of something I might do.”
“I think that is a compliment,” smiled Jonathan.
“Indeed, it is,” said D’Arcy.
“I hope you will join us, Monsieur Dancer,” said Garance. “For in truth, Jonathan was going to call upon you very soon, and so it is most fortuitous that you were here.”
“I should be honored to attend, but let us talk it over, with a glass of claret.”
“Do you have a Bordeaux?” asked Garance.
“I’m afraid not. This is England, after all. But I have a delightful port, if that interests you.”
“By all means,” said Jonathan triumphantly. “I should probably have mentioned that it would be delightful if you could also play for the dances.”
“Of course!” said Little Chip. “I should be delighted. There are many people who would give me their musical arrangements for the traditional dances.”
“Might I request one particular dance?” asked Garance.
“Anything,” said Jonathan.
“Une Valse?”
“I am not familiar with that particular dance,” said Cipriani. “What are its characteristics?”
“It is a dance in three-quarter time, with an emphasis on the downbeat and a smaller accent on the second and the third-and-a-half.”
Cipriani went to the piano. He began to play a most beautiful melody along with the exact rhythm she had just described.
“By Jove, that is a jaunty one!” said Jonathan. “I would be willing to bet it is a very jolly dance! How does one dance it?”
Garance winked at Jonathan. “Do you really want to know?”
“Of course.”
“Well, it is a little bit scandalous. Even your poet Byron, that libertine, wrote a poem speaking of la Valse as dangerous and scandalous.”
“Yes, I know it,” said D’Arcy, and proceeded to quote the poem:
‘But ye—who never felt a single thought
For what our morals are to be, or ought;
Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap,
Say—would you make those beauties quite so cheap?
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side,
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form
From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm?’”
“Bravo, D’Arcy!” said Garance, clapping enthusiastically. “I never had you for a lover of poetry.”
“I love its meter and form. That poem, I learned by heart. Would you like to hear more?”
“I’d better not at the moment, to be frank,” said Garance, sipping on a small glass of port. “I find Byron’s poem to be a trifle self-important considering it comes from a man who has had children out of wedlock. However,” she said, turning to Jonathan. “Jonathan, do you think we could invite Lord Byron to recite one of this ex tempore poems at the dinner afterwards?”
“We shall see. I believe he was there at the Prince Regent’s Ball, was he not?”
“I confess I cannot remember,” said Garance. “So many things happened at that affair, that I cannot bring to mind a single event.”
“Besides,” said Jonathan. “He has been everywhere of late. I shall invite him, but will endeavor to ke
ep our list to only the most prominent guests.”
“You know best on whom to invite, Jonathan,” she said with some deference. “And I want to be absolutely clear, that this is to be paid for by me.”
“Garance!” said Jonathan with surprise. “It shall be frightfully expensive, my dear!”
“Nevertheless, I can afford it and pay for it, I shall!”
“You are too kind,” replied Jonathan. “But I shall endeavor to do my best to have the finest event of the Season. Invitations shall go out tomorrow.”
“Well done, friends!” said Little Chip.
Back at the house on Wimpole Street, Jonathan bounded into the drawing room, where Margaret and Cecily were entertaining his friends Peter Nunn and Simon Northridge.
“I say, what luck you are all here!” said Jonathan.
“Lovely to see you too, Jonathan. Why’s that?” asked Peter, looking surprised to see him.
“I was fooling myself into thinking you were here to visit me. “Of course, you are here for Cecily.”
“And why wouldn’t he be?” asked Cecily indignantly.
“No reason, I suppose,” said Jonathan. “It’s only that I was going to knock you up at your flat, and now I shan’t have to. Have you dined?”
“Now see here, Jonathan. You cannot simply come into the room and take over,” said Margaret. “Peter and Simon were visiting myself and Cecily.”
“Mother, these two fellows are school chums of mine, and I should think it no great stretch of the imagination to expect they are here to talk with me.”
“Well in this case, Johnny, we are here to talk with the ladies.”
“Very well,” said Jonathan. “I know the importance of conversation for you. I shall just sit here and wait, by your leave.”
“So, as I was saying before we were interrupted, the current mania for everything French simply perplexes me. It is bizarre, given the thrashing we gave to those Frenchies in the war, and yet the younger generation simply find some sort of exoticism in this thing. I cannot understand it.”
“I do think most of us, the younger generation, if you will allow me, Lady Yarmouth, are less familiar with the war, and more familiar with the many French expatriates who flooded into British society as a result of the war. And they are the most fascinating people. Witty, urbane, sophisticated.”
“And I just adore the French tongue!” said Cecily, looking at Peter, who smiled at her in a knowing way.
Jonathan got up and bowed to the assembled guests, his sister, and his mother. “I shall catch up with you later. I have many things I have to do. However, I should be honored if you two friends of mine would accompany me to the concert at the Crystal Palace tonight at seven. It is an informal event and so you do not need to change. Would you dine with me at the club beforehand?”
“Why, Jonathan! You have a club now, have you? Let me guess, you’ve joined the Arts Club,” said Peter.
“As a matter of fact, dear boy, I was recently invited to join White’s,” said Jonathan.
“White’s? Dear God, Jonathan, that is the most exclusive club in London. That is where Beau Brummel made his name.”
“And the Duke of Wellington, Arthur Wellesley, is known to frequent that place too,” said Jonathan. “And I have decided I shall join, too. Would you gentlemen join me?”
“By all means!” cried Simon. Jonathan looked to Peter, who was looking as though he were asking permission from Cecily. As he looked at Cecily, he noticed she was fuming, although she remained silent. Jonathan was confused by all this silent communication.
Peter looked at him, frowning. “ I will happily join you,” said he, looking distinctly unhappy.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Long Road Home
The following days were a haze of preparations, consultations with musicians and invitations, after which Jonathan announced to the family that it was time that they returned to Stafford Manor in Lincolnshire.
“Mother, I think it is time,” said Jonathan. “The only remaining question is, how shall we travel there?”
“What do you mean?” asked Margaret. “I should think Nathan would be happy to journey with us. It is, after all, his job to drive the coach.”
“Mother, Nathan has a young family, and I daresay, his wife would be devastated if we were to take him away to Lincolnshire. No. I shall hire a coach to take us there. Nathan, and the carriage, must stay in London.”
“You are the Lord of the Manor,” said Margaret, with a note of pleasure in her voice. “You seem adept at making these arrangements.”
“Thank you, Mother,” said Jonathan. He rose and rang for Mrs. Porter.
She appeared almost instantly. “You rang?”
“Indeed, Mrs. Porter. Would you be so good as to arrange for my things to be packed and ready to go back to Lincolnshire? Also, my sister and my mother’s things must be made ready. We shall travel there today.”
“You are leaving then, My Lord?” she asked.
“For a time,” he replied. “There are things to be attended to at the manor. It has sadly been neglected for too long. I shan’t be away long, but I daresay you and the rest of the staff will be able to have a well-deserved rest.”
“Oh, My Lord, we never rest when you are gone. All our energies are devoted to making sure you return to a home that is in the best possible state of repairs.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Porter. I need to leave you with some funds with which to pay the staff and to take care of the house. Would one hundred and fifty pounds be sufficient?”
Mrs. Porter’s eyes were like saucers as she heard this astronomical sum. “My Lord, that is enough to run the house for several months!” she said, astonished. “Twenty is more than enough for everything that needs taking care of, and that would be for a month, at the very least!”
“Nevertheless, it would be unseemly to run out of money, would it not?”
“The tradesmen we have been working with are used to being owed money until recently,” she said grimly. “Since we’ve been paying them on time, their work has improved immeasurably.”
“Yes, I had noticed the improvements. Thank you, Mrs. Porter. We shall leave at two.”
“Very good, My Lord,” said Mrs. Porter, withdrawing.
And they were on the road to Lincolnshire at two of the clock. Mrs. Porter appointed Nathan to find them a carriage that was large enough to accommodate their needs, and he found them a very handsome one. They were to travel north to Cambridge and stop for the night at the home of one of Jonathan’s friends from public school, a young man whose parents had made a significant donation to the university, and for whom they had purchased a house close to the university campus.
The young man, Chester Astbury, was a terribly popular young man of great promise, although his family were not of the gentry. His father, in fact, hailed from Staffordshire, where he produced pottery in a very modern manner. It was rumored that his father had single-handedly amassed a fortune of one hundred thousand guineas from the manufacture of fine china. From humble beginnings, he had educated himself in the trade and built a manufacturing enterprise that was the pride of the country.
Chester was a young man who was not traditionally handsome, and Cecily, who had been eager to meet this popular young man, seemed disappointed when he met them at the door. He was dressed in a peculiar hodge-podge of expensive but ill-fitting clothes, and he looked rather like he was made up of a series of unfortunate lumps glued together to make a man. Cecily was reminded of the recent shocking publication of Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus, which had been attributed to Percy Shelley, in which a peculiar scientist stitches a man together.
In much the same way, Chester appeared to have been stitched together from other attractive men, and yet somehow the whole effect was somewhat disappointing. He had a large head with thinning hair, pale blue eyes surrounded by a tiny little nose topped with a myriad of freckles. He was more than usually short and stocky, and Jonathan remembered how he had
excelled at school in wrestling.
Despite the peculiar look on Cecily’s face, Chester welcomed the three travelers with open arms and a wonderful meal.
“I must say, I am very impressed with your accommodations, young Mr. Astbury,” said Margaret, as she tasted the delicious pies that were served together with a superior claret. “You say you are a student at Cambridge?”
“Yes. Like your son, I have opted for the maths as an area of study.”
“Have you much more time before you graduate?” she inquired.
