The Last Serenade (Sybil Ingram Victorian Mysteries Book 2)

by Amanda DeWees

  “And who can this bewitching creature be?” he exclaimed, taking me by the tips of my fingers and turning me in a circle. “You look like the daintiest shepherdess who ever danced a minuet at Le Petite Trianon.”

  “I went shopping,” I said, in a feat of understatement.

  “So I gathered from the mountain of boxes and the flurry of unwrapping.” He drew me to him and kissed me. “I’m glad you treated yourself to some new fripperies.”

  “I bought you some neckties. You really must come with me next time—they have some very handsome men’s clothes to be bought off the rack. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, I went shopping today as well,” he said, and produced a flat, round box that made my eyes widen in anticipated pleasure. “I’ve been thinking that you are overdue for some nice jewelry.”

  “But you’ve already given me the most beautiful pearls—not to mention my engagement ring.”

  He made an impatient gesture. “They aren’t enough. A woman with as much presence as you ought to have jewels worthy of her. Consider these a start.”

  When I opened the catch and lifted the lid, I found resting on a bed of black velvet a magnificent parure of diamonds and opals set in rose gold. There were a necklace, earrings, bracelets, even combs for my hair. I had never owned anything half so valuable.

  Hearing my gasp, Roderick lifted the necklace from the box and moved behind me to fasten it around my neck. “I’m glad you like them,” he murmured into my ear, and kissed my neck just above where the clasp lay.

  “I love them! They are exactly what I would have chosen.” If I had been a millionairess, that is. Before I met Roderick I had never owned anything finer than semiprecious stones. I would feel like royalty in these pieces. “Only...”

  “Only what?” He made to slip his arms around me, but I turned to face him.

  I felt shabby scrutinizing his motives for this generous gift, but I had to ask. “Did you buy them as a gesture of love to make me happy, or to thumb your nose at Julia?”

  He gave me a considering look. “Will it put me in your black books if I say ‘both’?”

  That made me laugh. “You’re safe for now, you rascal. I confess it will give me pleasure to flaunt these in front of her.” I touched the necklace, marveling at the weight and solidity of it; even more than my engagement ring, it felt like the promise of our pledge to each other given tangible form.

  He grinned his wickedest grin and drew me close once more. “Two minds with but a single thought. We are soulmates, you and I.”

  “Don’t let’s talk about the state of our souls,” I said, with a pang of self-reproach. After all, I had Roderick’s love. Julia had only her jewels. How mean-spirited was I to want to vaunt that before her?

  “Mmm,” said Roderick. “As we are creatures of flesh and blood, I suppose we can put our minds on fleshly delights.”

  A little rush of pleasure had not quite finished racing up my spine before he had released me and drawn out my chair so that I could be seated at the table. “I’m ravenous,” he said happily. “Let’s have our supper.”

  Hiding a rueful smile—after all, he had only followed my suggestion—I took my seat, and as he sat down opposite me the wait staff began serving us.

  “We made excellent progress today,” he told me as dishes of consommé were set before us and our glasses were filled with a pale wine. “I’ve decided to compose new tunes for some of the songs rather than simply changing the key to better suit your range, so we’re working those new themes and motifs into the score. I think you’ll very much like...”

  I confess I did not pay complete attention to every word that followed. I was contented just to take in the sight of him, animated and eager, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm, his deft hands gesturing with a roll and butter knife. It hardly seemed like he could be the same man I had met less than a year ago, the bitter, cynical misanthrope who was serving out a self-inflicted sentence as an obscure country schoolmaster, snarling at my every word and inwardly punishing himself with the flail of his own blood guilt. It made me proud that I had played a part in his coming back to life, coming back to himself, and once more bringing the world the gift of his music and his presence.

  “Sybil?”

  Belatedly I realized he had stopped talking. Still holding the butter knife and roll, his hands were immobile as he gazed at me in mild concern.

  With an apologetic smile, I picked up my wine glass. “I was just thinking about all we’ve been through in our time together,” I said, “and how happy it makes me to see you doing what fulfills you.” I raised my glass. “To you, my darling.”

  For a moment he did not respond. Then he set down the butter knife and picked up his own glass. The glimpse of black bandage at his wrist was the only remaining vestige of guilt and sorrow in him. He gave me a smile that told me he, too, was thinking back over our story, and said, “To us, sweet Sybil.”

  Chapter Nine

  Two days later a music rehearsal was held in Mr. Ivey’s apartments. The theater was still too noisy and chaotic with set construction for anyone to hear themselves, so we returned to the scene of the read-through... but this time, I hoped, without interruption from Monsieur Fournier. Mr. Ivey was needed at the theater, so his manservant admitted us.

  For the first hour, only Julia was called, but that meant that I was there as well, and so was faithful Philippe. That, in turn, meant that Marianne was close behind. She settled herself on the divan and pretended to page through a magazine. The young man took a seat next to me, where I had a good view of the piano, the center of activity. Roderick had brought his violin, and he and Monsieur Lambert were leading Julia through the heroine’s first song, an aubade. I loved watching him play, seeing the dexterity with which his fingers touched the strings, the way his whole body bent and swayed to express the music. After that memorable violin analogy he had drawn a few nights ago, watching him play had an extra dimension of meaning, which gave me a frisson of secret pleasure.

  “I don’t know why you look so happy,” Philippe said glumly. “The way she looks at him is enough to make me despair.”

  I remembered my jealous pose. “If I look cheerful, it is because I am imagining the day when Roderick and I shall leave Paris,” I said. “That day cannot come quickly enough for me.”

  “Nor for me—but I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean—”

  “Don’t worry. I know what you meant.”

  We fell silent as Julia began to sing. The aubade was a tender song that the heroine sang when morning came and she and her husband were forced to part to keep their marriage secret. Julia watched Roderick, and he her, and it seemed to me that they responded to each other, sensed how to find perfect unity between voice and instrument. They truly did work well together.

  Cruel the sunlight that wakes us,

  Sorrowful our morning song!

  But tho’ the day overtakes us

  Daylight can’t part us for long.

  “They are so suited to each other,” Philippe said gloomily. “A stranger would think they are a perfect couple.”

  I wished I could contradict him, but the two did look wonderful together, united by their dark coloring and their intensity. How intently they watched each other! I knew I ought to be grateful for opportunities to establish my jealousy of Julia before others—but it was uncomfortably difficult to distinguish truth from performance at this moment.

  Precious and furtive our meetings

  Tho’ we are doing no wrong,

  Sweet the embrace that is fleeting

  Knowing we’ll not part for long.

  But now Julia was disrupting their harmonious duet. She was adding little trills and vocal ornaments to show off her voice, elements that clashed with this gentle waltz tune. Roderick was becoming irritated with her, drawing his bow more aggressively as his brows drew together and his handsome mouth tightened.

  It seemed to me now that she was speeding up the tem
po. He played more loudly as if to insist she stay with him, but Julia, perversely, sang just a fraction too quickly. I saw the accompanist shake his head in frustration as they launched into the third verse, sung after the hero receives his orders to take ship and is forced to leave his wife behind.

  Now here are we, torn asunder—

  Sweetheart, I’ll try to be strong!

  Still, I cannot help but wonder

  Shall we be parted for long?

  She jerked her chin at him, defiant, challenging. I could have told her she was using the wrong tactic if she was trying to bring him back to her, but of course she had not asked me.

  “What in heaven’s name is happening?” asked the earnest-eyed Philippe, but I ignored him. I wanted to see what Roderick would do.

  At the end of the verse he broke off, waving the accompanist into silence, even though the song was not over. I saw the swell of his chest as he took a deep breath to keep his patience.

  “I think we are approaching this song from different points of view,” he told Julia. He was keeping his temper, good man! “This is a simple song of love and longing, not a showcase for verbal acrobatics. It will be more effective if you show more emotion as you sing. As it is, I can’t tell that your character is very distressed about being parted from her husband.”

  Julia gave a little laugh, but I could tell she was surprised and displeased at the criticism. “Why should she be distressed?” she said blandly. “Another man will come along in a second. The man who leaves this girl does not deserve her, anyway.”

  “But they’re married,” Roderick said. “They chose to intertwine their lives, because they love each other.”

  Now Julia was pouting. “This girl should not feel bound by an obligation to a man who will go off and leave her. How insipid she is to droop and pine instead of getting on with her life!”

  Roderick set down his violin and bow, carefully. Oh dear. “Her love for him,” he said in clipped tones, “will naturally make her express sadness at their being parted.”

  Julia crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Then she is a fool,” she snapped. “She should be reveling in her freedom.”

  “It isn’t freedom to be separated from the one you want to spend your life with.” Roderick’s voice was getting louder. “She’s not the kind of woman who is always seeking opportunities to advance socially or find more amusement.”

  Next to me, Philippe leaned close and whispered, “Do you think they are still talking about the play?”

  I shook my head no.

  “She should never have bound herself to him,” Julia announced. “Sooner or later all men turn out to be tyrants.”

  Roderick turned away from her, plunging his hands into his hair, and paced a few steps. “This is a gentle, tender-hearted young woman we’re talking about, not a worldly demimondaine.” Then his eyes fell on me. “What do you think, Sybil?”

  I knew that he was asking me because I would be singing the song and because he and I had practiced it already, so he knew that my interpretation was in tune, so to speak, with his own. But in that moment, being watched by all the others, I felt uncomfortably as if I were being pulled into Roderick and Julia’s personal business. Still, if Roderick needed support in this conflict, it was my first duty to provide it.

  I said carefully, “I think that these are lovers who trust each other, who know that whatever they face together they can overcome. So even though Elfrida feels as though being away from her husband is like missing half of herself, she knows they will always find their way back to each other.”

  Julia made a scoffing noise, but I continued doggedly. “She knows that, wherever her husband may go, he will be singing the same song in his heart, because they are in such perfect accord. That is how I see it.”

  I waited for Roderick to express an opinion about my words, but his response was silent. He crossed to me in four long strides, took my face in his hands, and bent to kiss me.

  Of course this ostentatious romantic gesture might have been intended in part to irritate Julia, but I did not mind. I knew that the feeling underlying it, his love for me, was genuine. Besides, it would not hurt to remind her where Roderick’s affections lay.

  When at last he released me, I could see Julia fling up her hands, and she muttered a French oath. “It will be impossible to get any work done if you insist on billing and cooing,” she declared.

  Roderick did not even turn to look at her. “On the contrary,” he said, smiling into my eyes. “Having Sybil in my life has given me a more profound understanding of the emotional component of my work.”

  My heart seemed to expand with pleasure. Perhaps I had done him an injustice—perhaps the kiss had in fact been all for me, and not a gesture of defiance.

  When Julia spoke next, her voice had gone thoughtful... somehow dangerous. Very coolly she said, “How charming. And here I believed that I was your muse.”

  On another occasion Roderick might have turned mocking and malicious, but instead, at this moment, he was calm and sincere. I was proud of him. “You relinquished that position long ago,” he told her, “and quite willingly, if memory serves. If you are having regrets now—”

  “Regrets!” she exploded, her chilly control vanishing. “Ma foi, do not put words in my mouth, if you please. You were suffocating me, and far more than my husband ever did. I would have been quite content if the two of you had managed to kill each other.”

  I gasped. So did Marianne. Philippe froze in appalled silence, and Monsieur Lambert stared at Julia as if she had confessed to eating a live baby every morning.

  As for Roderick, his eyes were hooded, and I could not tell how hard the blow had struck him. His voice was emotionless when he said, “Now I know where I stand, at least.”

  No one else spoke. For the first time in my experience Julia looked discomposed. She was accustomed to being the center of attention, but not in this fashion. In a sudden childish gesture she pushed the sheet music off the piano so that it crashed to the floor. She marched over to her swain, who stood automatically to meet her.

  “I am finished for the day,” she announced. “I have had enough of this.”

  “We still have work to do,” Roderick said quietly.

  “J’en ai assez!” Before anyone could stop her, she had exited the room and slammed the door behind her.

  As the echoes died away, I took Roderick’s hand to reassure him—or myself—that the chilling thought of his death had no substance. He did not seem to notice, and my heart ached to think that he had learned this terrible thing, especially here and now, before people who were practically strangers.

  “May I try the song?” I asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

  Roderick seemed to come back to himself. “That would be most helpful,” he said, in something close to his normal voice. “After all, Philippe ought to hear what it is like, since he will be reacting to it onstage and singing the reprise.”

  The young man had either forgotten to follow his goddess or was reassessing the divinity he had chosen to worship. He looked stunned.

  Roderick led me to the piano and took up his violin again. At his signal, the accompanist, who had retrieved the music Julia had scattered, began to play.

  The sweet song, coupled perhaps with Julia’s absence, brought a sense of tranquility to the room. As I sang, I could feel how my voice and Roderick’s playing fit together, how deftly he supported the lyrics and gave me the structure I needed. He had composed the tune for my vocal range, tailoring it to my strengths, so that it felt effortless and unforced. Thinking about his writing this music just for me filled me with joy, and I realized that he and I complemented each other better than he and Julia did.

  Although I weep to relinquish

  You whom I love to the throng,

  Duty cannot true love vanquish—

  Nothing shall part us for long.

  One long, final violin note quavered into silence. I had tears in my eyes when Roderick set
down his bow, reached for my hand, and raised it to his lips.

  “Brava,” he said softly, and then loud applause from Marianne and Philippe shattered the tranquility.

  “That was beautiful,” Marianne exclaimed.

  “I have an excellent instructor,” I said, smiling at Roderick.

  The remainder of the rehearsal went well, although Roderick seemed preoccupied. I could not blame him. What Julia had flung at him would have been a horrible thing for anyone to say, but especially coming from the woman he had once loved so ardently. When we returned to our hotel and I asked as a matter of routine if he would be joining me for supper, to my surprise he declined.

  “I’m going for a walk to clear my head,” he said, “and then for a drink to muddy it. I’ll look in on you later if I’m not too late getting in.”

  He spoke lightly, but I remembered how, by his own account, he had followed the duel and his separation from Julia with a year of drinking himself insensible. The recollection gave me a twinge of anxiety.

  “I’ll be happy to accompany you,” I said.

  His shake of the head was definite. The hardness of his hazel eyes worried me. “I’d never subject you to as low a den as I’ll be seeking,” he said. “I’m sorry if you’ll be lonely, but it’s just for tonight. I’ll make it up to you. I just need...”

  To get the taste of her out of his mouth? Though I waited, he did not put the rest of the thought into words. It alarmed me, this impulse to seek low places, but I knew his stubbornness and realized that arguing would do no good. “I just don’t want you to come to any harm,” I said.

  “I shan’t be in any danger, Sybil.”