But the bored faces around her offered some reassurance. She stopped taking notes at that point and began to doodle aimlessly. Without thinking, she drew a spidery treble clef on her notepad. It was followed by a bass, and some score-lines, until she had sketched the first bar of the Mozart from memory. Impressed with herself, Lucy sat back in her seat and admired her handiwork, and began to reminisce about her short-lived music making. She missed the practise, that much she knew. During the days before her first visit to Miss Martin’s she had taken enormous comfort from the solitude of beautiful music. As the professor droned on about propositions and the following of rules, Lucy decided to go back to the practise rooms after her lecture. She couldn’t face going back to the flat for the evening again, and she reasoned that she didn’t have to turn up for her lesson on Friday just because she played the music she had been given. Her mind made up, she spent the rest of the lecture doodling, the first hints of a smile back on her lips.
As soon as the bell went for the end of teaching she made for her room to collect her music, and then went quickly to the music department. Her main concern was the likelihood of bumping into Dr Tovey on the way, but she missed him completely as she made her way through the building to the cloistered practise rooms.
A little out of breath, she opened her music and placed it on the stand. Pausing a little, she lifted her hands and began to play. After only a few minutes Lucy remembered how good it made her feel. She took to the Mozart as if she had never been away, and was soon running over the familiar melodies with an effortless panache. The piano she used was an old one, a little fruity in tuning, but responsive nonetheless. With a confidence she had not known the previous week she rehearsed the passages she’d learnt, and found herself sailing through even the most difficult sections. Her tone sang, even allowing for the ancient mechanism it was produced on, and she marvelled at how free and accomplished the music sounded. There were imperfections, of course, but there was no denying that her session with Miss Martin had made a world of difference.
At that thought, Lucy took her hands off the keys and pondered for a while. She held up her fingers to the light and looked at them. There was indeed something in the way she held them over the keys that allowed for her new mobility. Slowly, she ran over the music again. Miss Martin’s fingering patterns, overlaid across her own weak efforts in a strong graceful pencil stroke, were ingenious and liberating, even though they had seemed restrictive and tendentious at the time they were made.
Gradually it began to dawn on Lucy that Miss Martin’s insistence on the rules and discipline of music making had not been designed to constrict her at all, but instead to free her to express herself more completely. She remembered what seemed like the eternity the domineering music mistress had stood over her, forcing her to go over passages again and again until they were right. And now, days after she had been made to study the music in such detail, the skill was still with her, only slightly diminished by the passing of time. With a delight in her new abilities, she played the music another time, watching with some amazement as her fingers stepped and skipped across the black and white keys. It was easier, she thought to herself, to make the notes sound beautiful when the technique had been thoroughly grasped.
That thought, however, brought her punishment back to mind. She stopped playing and eyed the book of scales and arpeggios nervously. Reluctantly, she took up the heavy book of technical skills, and opened it at the beginning. A series of exercises in all keys stared at her, baffling in their complexity. Then a change came over her. She suddenly felt a spirit of defiance stir within her. There was no reason she couldn’t master the scales she had been set, not if her skill at the Mozart was so easily coaxed into life. After all, she’d learned them all as a child, therefore it was only a matter of application and remembering what Miss Martin had taught her about poise and agility.
She made an attempt at the first one on the list: C major. Her fingers tripped a little, but she got to the end. She felt herself becoming more and more determined. Perhaps, just perhaps, if she could get on top of her technique, there was sense in going to her lesson on Friday after all. If she did everything right, Lucy reasoned, there was just no reason for her to be punished. Her grim week in halls had reminded her of how miserable she was without her music, and she knew she would never get really good without the tutelage of someone like Miss Martin.
Gradually, as she played, her mind softened to the idea of turning up on Friday if she felt comfortable with her scales. Then it would just be a matter of not giving in to any of the teacher’s strange demands, Lucy reasoned. She was a grown woman, after all, and quite capable of standing up for herself. It was just a matter of will power.
And that was all there was to it, surely.
And so it was that, despite all her resolutions to the contrary, when Friday came Lucy found herself standing before the door of Miss Martin’s at five minutes to four, clutching her music across her chest and breathing shallowly. She felt curiously torn by her now-familiar conflicting emotions, and hesitated long before ringing the bell in front of her. Her heart beat quickly, and she almost gave in to a large and growing desire to run back down the road and bury herself under her bed until the end of the lesson. But another part of her kept her in place, for she knew what a void her life was without the stimulus of music and without the guiding authority of Miss Martin, however intimidating and dangerous that could be. In truth, there was another motivation, deep within her and hidden beneath veils of self-deception, that drew her back to the music lessons; a craving that had lodged firmly within her psyche but could not be acknowledged. But this was not something Lucy dwelled upon, and she preferred to ignore that part of her character, having been scared by its manifestations the previous weekend. Such selective blindness notwithstanding, she told herself that the important thing was her musical education, and that she would be perfectly able to separate the normal activities of piano playing from the abnormal demands made by Miss Martin.
Breathing deeply, then, she raised a tremulous finger to the doorbell, and committed herself to her second lesson.
The door opened as soon as her finger left the bell. Jenny stood in front of her in her maid’s uniform, her hair in pigtails and a duster in her hand.
‘Good afternoon, Jenny,’ Lucy said evenly.
Jenny nodded. ‘You will find your uniform in the fitting room, Miss Cavendish,’ she said.
Jenny’s words were politeness incarnate, but there was no mistaking the latent menace present within them. She stepped aside to let Lucy enter, clearly itching for revenge for her embarrassment the previous week.
‘Thank you, Jenny,’ Lucy said coolly, and entered.
Whilst practising during the week she had forgotten all about the school uniform. She paused outside the drawing room door, tempted to enter in her ordinary clothes, but then relented. What harm could it do, she decided, to wear the proper clothes if it made her teacher happy? In addition, the fragrance of the place had begun to have its peculiar effect, evoking a timeless world of elegance and taste, and it seemed quite improper to invade such a sanctuary in jeans and trainers.
Jenny stared at her rudely, waiting. Lucy smiled coldly at her and walked down the corridor to the fitting room, closing the door behind her. Her uniform was arranged neatly on the table this time, all items laundered and pressed. She slipped off her jeans and top and began to unhook her bra. She stopped then, suddenly thinking how ridiculous it was to change into strange underwear as well. The panties and bra she was wearing were almost identical to those on the table, so she simply put on the white blouse, knotted the school tie about her collar and slipped the pleated skirt on. She placed her own clothes on the desk, changed her socks and shoes for those provided, and walked back out into the corridor. Just before the clock was due to chime four, she knocked softly on the drawing room door.
‘Come!’
At tha
t voice Lucy’s blood suddenly ran cold. Once again she contemplated running, darting out of the front door and along the road to freedom. But she was wearing school uniform, and there was no time to change. Her heart thumping, she grasped the door handle and went in.
‘Ah, Lucy,’ said Miss Martin, seated as before at the great desk to her left. ‘I am glad you were able to come on time this week. Do take a seat.’
As Miss Martin spoke Lucy’s resolve began to melt. In the music mistress’s perfectly weighted aristocratic speech there was that intoxicating mixture of implacable command and dulcimer-like sweetness that she knew was impossible to resist. Miss Martin sat as before, long legs crossed and sheathed in opaque black stockings, her slender frame clad in a perfectly fitted black dress, decorated by a single silver necklace resting gently on the heart stopping curve of her bosom. The air was as ever it was, hung with the scent of dry flowers, the afternoon sun flooding in through the great bay window and illuminating the whole room with a gentle, austere light.
Lucy nervously walked across the room, feeling the deep-pile carpet yield beneath her feet as she went, and sat once again on the piano stool. She placed her music on the stand in front of her. It felt then as if she had voluntarily walked back into a lion’s den she had been lucky to escape from. How easy it had been to say to herself that she could resist the predations of Miss Martin in the grey light of her own room at halls, but once immersed in Miss Martin’s private world, caught in the webs of courtesy and manners that laced even the furniture in the house, Lucy knew she was out of her depth. In her unique and timeless demesne, Miss Martin was an absolute dictator, a benign yet severe queen who suffered no dissent within the borders of her little realm, and who presided over an arcane and fantastic world of submission and strange pleasures.
‘Now I do hope,’ she began, ‘that you have done your practise properly this week, my girl.’
‘Yes, miss,’ Lucy said humbly, succumbing to the idioms she had learnt the week before. What other form of address was there? She felt a slight nausea in the pit of her stomach from her nerves, and also, though she did not admit it to herself, the fevered excitement she had grown to mistrust so much. Her pupils were dilated, her cheeks flushed and healthy, and every part of her body seemed fresh and alive. She turned to her mistress, awaiting instruction.
‘Very well,’ said Miss Martin, smiling almost tenderly at her. ‘Let us start with a scale. Play C major, please, Lucy.’
Her nerves got in the way slightly, but there was no doubting the improvement she had made. She got through most of her scales with only minor mistakes, and her arpeggios were even better. She played perhaps a dozen of them for Miss Martin, going over the weak ones when asked. Miss Martin was clearly pleased with her, and when they were over stood behind her once again to work on her defects of technique. Lucy breathed deeply, taking in the delightfully scented air that hung about Miss Martin, her head spinning a little from the frisson of pleasure she took whenever her mistress came close to her. Miss Martin bent over a little to demonstrate the correct fingering for the left hand in F major, her breast alighting gently on Lucy’s shoulder. She experienced a little shudder of pleasure as the firm body of her mistress touched her, and had to wrench her mind away to concentrate on her instruction. But this did not last long, and soon Miss Martin once again resumed her seat.
‘Very good, Lucy,’ she said, in a congratulatory tone which made Lucy melt inside, and she was suddenly seized by the irrational urge to fling herself around Miss Martin’s waist in supplication, but held herself in check. Where did these desires come from?
‘Now we shall hear the Mozart, I think,’ said the music mistress, oblivious to the turmoil she created in her young charge.
Lucy took up the book of sonatas and began to play. This, too, was fine until she reached the section she had been learning that week. For some reason or other the new music did not sit easily under her hands, and she did not have the benefit of Miss Martin’s expert editing to help her. She made a series of mistakes, and had to start the final section again before she was finished.
‘Hmm,’ said Miss Martin, a little disapprovingly. ‘I think we need to do more work on that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Lucy warily, bracing herself for a dressing down.
Miss Martin made her play the whole section again, which brought some improvement. They then embarked on the familiar autopsy, playing individual passages over and again until they were well nigh perfect. Lucy began to get tired as this process went on, and her slips became more frequent as her concentration ebbed.
‘Lucy!’ Miss Martin snapped sharply as her fingers tripped up for the umpteenth time. ‘I do hope you’re paying attention, young lady.’
‘Yes, miss,’ said Lucy quickly, determined to maintain her attention.
But it soon slipped again. What with the heady perfume of Miss Martin, or the bright sunshine drifting in from the beautiful day outside, or the stately ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, Lucy found it more and more difficult to keep her mind on the job, and this was not lost on Miss Martin, who suddenly lost her patience.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘that’s it. I will not waste my time on girls who insist on daydreaming their way through their lessons.’ She took off her glove, sat on her chair and patted her lap. ‘Come here, Lucy,’ she said briskly.
This was it. Lucy gulped nervously. ‘I promise to pay attention, miss,’ she said, and stayed put.
There was a cold silence. Miss Martin looked directly at her with a gaze Lucy could not meet. ‘I did not ask you to speak,’ she said evenly, her voice fluid with menace. ‘I told you to come here.’
Lucy churned inside. A part of her wanted to run over to the woman’s lap and submit to whatever was coming to her, but she had her pride, and was determined this time to be treated as an adult.
‘Why?’ she asked. She had meant to sound authoritative and determined, but instead she made a frightened little speak.
Miss Martin then became truly terrifying. ‘Why?’ she repeated, incredulous, rising to her feet. ‘Why? Because I told you to, young lady, that’s why! Now, I am tired of your insolence, and I see I shall have to teach you some manners.’
Lucy would have done anything she was told then, so intimidating had Miss Martin become, but the choice was taken out of her hands. She began to stutter an apology as Miss Martin approached her, but the words were taken out of her mouth as Miss Martin grabbed her ponytail and pulled her to her feet.
‘Ow!’ cried Lucy, who was then dragged across the room and pushed over the desk.
‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ hissed Miss Martin with a lascivious sibilance. ‘You will learn to do as you are told!’
Miss Martin roughly bent her over the desk with her strong left arm, and Lucy’s face pushed into the manuscript papers that littered the surface.
‘I - I’m sorry, miss!’ she bleated in a panic, totally overcome by the force of the woman’s anger.
Miss Martin ignored her, briskly lifting the hem of Lucy’s skirt over her bottom and tucking it into the waistband. Lucy winced, bracing herself. But there followed a frosty silence.
‘Do not move,’ Miss Martin warned after a while, in a low voice so intimidating that Lucy did not even think of disobeying. The piano teacher then rang a little bell, and within a moment Jenny had popped her head around the door. Lucy’s head was tilted to one side, and she could see the look of glee on the maid’s face at the view of her bent over the desk with her skirt lifted. The humiliation was almost too much to bear, but Lucy had to stay where she was, and didn’t dare move. Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk, her ankles twisting in embarrassment.
‘Jenny,’ Miss Martin said coolly, ‘did you set out Lucy’s uniform as I asked?’
‘Yes, mistress,’ said Jenny.
‘Including the underwear?�
��
‘Yes, mistress.’
‘I see,’ said Miss Martin. ‘Come here and have a look at Lucy’s knickers. Are they the ones you put out for her to wear?’
Lucy groaned. Of course! She should have changed completely. Jenny took her time inspecting her exposed hindquarters, running a spiteful finger over the line of the panties as if making quite sure, and Lucy screwed her eyes shut as the maid groped her. Eventually, having taken her time to enjoy Lucy’s humiliating position and run her hands all over her bottom, Jenny turned to Miss Martin.
‘No, mistress,’ she said with an unmistakable malice, ‘these are not the knickers I left for Miss Cavendish. I think she must be wearing her own.’
Miss Martin tutted. ‘Then Miss Cavendish is a very naughty girl,’ she said, slowly and deliberately. ‘And naughty girls deserve severe punishment.’
At the mention of her impending chastisement Lucy’s stomach lurched, partly with fear, partly with a strangled, frustrated arousal. Of course, there was always the conflict of emotions, and having Jenny around to gloat over her punishment was the very worst of it. Lucy was already suffering a torrent of humiliation, her resolve having been destroyed by Miss Martin’s consummate authority, and she knew there would be much worse to come. She found herself listening to the small voice in her head that she had ignored throughout the week: ‘You will always give in, Lucy Cavendish; you will struggle, but you will always submit...’
Miss Martin ran her hand absently over Lucy’s exposed derrière.
‘Now, Lucy,’ she said thoughtfully, having evidently made up her mind on which punishment to employ, ‘it is not fair at all on Jenny to take all that time preparing your uniform if you are going to wear your own knickers. She went to ever such a lot of trouble to iron the clothes properly this week after being punished - at your expense, I might add.’
The Piano Teacher Page 9
