Cecile and the countess quietly discussed the programme, but Maggie could barely bring herself to speak. The same affliction seemed to be troubling Hart, for he spoke gracefully, but only when he was directly addressed.
“You mustn’t be so gloomy, my boy,” said the countess, with a twinkle at her nephew. “It makes you look stormy like your father. He was always in a huff. After all, you can come back to Paris just as soon as your London business is over.”
Maggie frowned. London business? Was that meant to be her?
Off-balance at this revelation, she dropped her fan, and quickly moved to retrieve it.
“Allow me,” Hart said, bending over and picking up the silk bauble. His index finger brushed hers lightly as he returned the fan, and she felt that same familiar thrill shoot through her hand at the contact.
She stole a quick look at him out of the corner of her eye, but could read nothing on his handsome face.
“It is only natural that I should be in the doldrums while I am away from you, aunt,” Hart said politely, in response to his aunt’s admonition.
“Hah. You always were a clever boy with words. If only you exerted that much effort with ladies, I should be a great aunt by now. And don’t pout. At my age, I am allowed to say just what I please.”
Then the audience began to applaud and they saw that Sir Lucian had taken the stage at last, bowing to the auditorium and producing the conductor’s baton.
It was obvious that he had already won over the hearts of his audience before so much as a note had been played. Who could resist his charm, his miraculous good luck and his extraordinary talent? It seemed that even those not usually given to the appreciation of such concerts were eager to know how the great composer and the legendary Miss Cartwell would do together.
With a graceful sweep of the baton, the music started.
It was, Maggie thought, like Ambrosia for the soul. Surely even the food of the gods could not compare with the sheer passion and heart that poured out of every note?
If ever there was a perfect moment, when the whole world was poised tremulously still and listening, this had to be it.
It was as though every musician was connected to the music, as though they had become mere instruments performing the will of something greater and more powerful then they. The music ebbed and swelled. The Gloaming, Maggie thought, savouring the perfection of the title. It was a magic slice of time. Her emotions eagerly followed the music wherever it wished to lead her, sweeping away her own anxieties.
Tangled within the music, she heard strains of joy and love, longing and sorrow, memory and the simple, everyday beauty of simply being alive. It made her feel as though anything in the world were possible. Anything at all.
She believed in magic, and love – and she believed, most of all, in people.
She glanced over at Cecile. Her friend wore an expression of rapture that must have mirrored her own.
It took a moment for Maggie to register that the music had stopped for a brief intermission, and the rest of the affected audience were just as surprised, for they filed out of the room in a dazed, uncharacteristic silence.
Hart stepped out to retrieve some refreshments for the ladies.
He brought back strong tea and some dainties requested by the countess, a light fruit punch for Cecile, and a cup of chocolate spiced with cinnamon for Maggie, though she had not thought to request one.
She looked at him in confusion, to find his blue eyes dark and compelling. He always did have such beautiful eyes…
“I remembered it was your favourite,” Hart said quietly.
Despite her emotional turmoil, Maggie was deeply touched. How could he possibly have remembered something she had told him so offhandedly at Christmas?
“Thank you,” she replied, just as softly and perhaps a touch wistfully.
He merely smiled in reply.
*
The magic of Sir Lucian’s composition was just as captivating in second half of the performance. When the final movement was over and the crowds rose to applaud, Maggie discovered that there was a trail of tears down her cheeks. The others also appeared to have been deeply moved by the music, but hers were the only wet eyes in their box, she noticed with chagrin. Flustered, she searched for a handkerchief in her reticule.
“Please, Madame,” Hart said, offering her his own.
Maggie could see his coat of arms tastefully embroidered in one corner. She thanked him, accepting the proffered square of silk. She saw that something powerful was brewing in his gaze, like a tide rising: inevitable and uncontrollable. But then it was gone. He nodded at her and turned away.
“Well, mademoiselle, and what did you make of the symphony?” Hart asked Cecile.
She raised her eyebrows at the question as she considered.
“I thought it very moving, my lord. Sir Lucian is the most talented composer I’ve ever had the privilege of hearing. And Miss Cartwell was sublime.”
“Certainly, a remarkable composition. I have not heard its like for years,” agreed the countess. “What did you think, Marguerite?”
“I… thought it was as though the whole universe had stilled, the better to hear it,” she answered dreamily.
“Brava! Well said.”
“Well said, indeed,” agreed the marquess.
“I expect Sir Lucian’s career is now completely established,” Cecile said.
“After a performance like that? I should think so!” the countess laughed. “But the air is so very dense in here. Shall we proceed to the foyer? There is to be a reception, and we may congratulate our master musician in person. And Miss Cartwell. That girl really is a wonder. Now, do tell me a little of your work, mademoiselle. Marguerite says that you are an artist.”
Hart offered the countess his arm as they proceeded out of the box.
*
Despite his extraordinary triumph, and the devout admiration of what had to be every single member of his audience, Sir Lucian reacted to this new fame with his usual grace.
“I think that I owe tremendous gratitude to you, Madame,” he said to Maggie when the group reached him. “I could not have done this without you and Miss Cartwell.”
Embarrassed to be praised for her part in front of the marquess, Maggie shook her head fervently. “Oh, no, Sir Lucian. It is Lord Hartley and Madame la Comtesse who are to thank, and not I at all.”
“Nonsense – I should say this is entirely your own doing,” Hart countered. “Though I congratulate you, Blake. It is a rare thing to have everything in the world that one could possibly want.”
The baronet inclined his head, thanking Hart.
“Now, really Hart – less of the gravity. Tonight is for celebrating grand triumphs, after all,” the countess laughed, playfully swatting her nephew with her fan. “I am certain Sir Lucian shall be swamped with invitations, commissions and students now. We may be hard-pressed to see you at all.”
Soon, Sir Lucian was indeed spirited away to meet more admirers and the countess wandered off to chat to Monsieur Thouin, who had taken a break from his botany to attend the concert.
Maggie and Cecile stayed at the reception a while longer, until Cecile began to look utterly exhausted and Maggie insisted that it was time they borrowed the countess’s carriage to take them to the townhouse.
“You have been working much too hard,” Maggie berated her friend. “It is time we were on our way home.”
“I should be honoured to escort you home in my own carriage,” Hart said, with a concerned look on his face as he too noticed Cecile’s pallor. “It is just outside.”
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t like to spoil your evening, Lord Hartley,” Cecile said. “You aunt – ”
“Not a thing of it! My aunt shall be carousing with her acquaintance all night and will not want me in her way.”
Seeing the sense in his words, Maggie and Cecile said goodnight to their friends and made their way through the crush of concert patrons towards the theatre doors.
Maggie felt somewhat torn at being unable to say her goodbyes properly – for how could she explain to her new friends that she would be leaving Paris on the morrow? The countess would be hurt that she had not seen fit to share her plans until the last moment, and Sir Lucian, too.
Chapter 8
Maggie had wanted to drive her own carriage back to Calais, but Hart insisted that his groom do that later in the day, along with most of her luggage, while she travelled with him. She supposed that he still didn’t trust her not to flee again.
If Maggie had expected Hart to look smug, or at least pleased, when his carriage arrived to take them back, then she was deeply mistaken. He stood next to her looking handsome, polite and controlled.
“I am very aware of how significant a sacrifice this is to you,” Hart told her after she had said her tearful goodbyes to Cecile and he’d handed her into the carriage.
She inclined her head at that, because she didn’t know how to reply. Instead, she focussed her attention on the familiar houses of the avenue de Richelieu. She wondered when she would see Paris again. Would she ever? And, if so, surely not for years and years. By then the city would be completely changed.
Already, Cecile was making plans for taking her own house on the considerable income the dress shop had begun to bring in. Soon, her life would move on and Maggie would be left behind, in old memories and monthly letters.
Hart watched her as she settled in her seat.
“Do you remember when we were children and we had such great fun hiding out in the shrubbery? We’d make ghost noises and wolf-growls at people who went by on the way to the village…” she mused idly. “We got into such trouble when we were found out. I thought Papa would surely never let us set foot out of the house again… But we agreed between the three of us that it had been entirely worth the fun anyway.”
Hart nodded, thinking back to that far-off day.
“Well, do you not think it a terrible pity that we no longer take chances on the things that make us happy? I wonder when we grew out of that. Like our childhood game, Paris has been worth every second of the trouble that will surely follow. Nothing can change that. Not my father and not Kingsley Stanhope.”
A well brought up young lady would never say a thing like that, Maggie knew. She was meant to be demure, ashamed of her thoughtless escapade. She half expected Hart to laugh or to declare her mad – or to be scandalised at this latest lapse in decorum.
But he did none of these things.
He simply nodded, considering her words. “Perhaps you are right. I think I admire you for that.”
That was the last thing she had expected. Maggie felt her cheeks warm, feeling suddenly awkward. “Thank you.”
Magpie, she thought suddenly. When last did he call me that?
Perhaps things had become much too tangled for ‘Magpie’.
His words from the night before came back to her. I congratulate you, Blake. It is a rare thing to have everything in the world that one could possibly want… These words would not let her go, though she wasn’t sure why they had stuck with her. What on earth had he meant? They seemed very important, though she could make neither heads nor tails of why she thought this.
The sky hung low and grey overhead as they left the city. The street lights had yet to be dowsed, giving Paris an eerie, timeless feel. A cold wind, smelling heavily of rain, blew in through the open carriage windows. Maggie shivered, wrapping her woollen shawl more tightly around her, as the wind chilled her cheeks and ruffled her hair under her bonnet.
The drive out of Paris was conducted in almost complete silence. A few months ago, Maggie would have been astonished that she and Hart could ever keep from bickering or talking for that long. But something had definitely changed. A strangeness lay between them, like a dam that could burst at the blink of an eye.
“I have not said a proper farewell to your aunt,” Maggie told him at last. “Not really.”
Hart shifted uneasily. “You can write to her when we stop for the night. She would like to hear from you. I told her the truth of the matter last night – only to discover that she had already guessed much of it. We are, according to her, very lousy actors. She is rather out of temper with me about taking you away.”
Maggie sighed. “I am glad that at least she will not be angry at my abrupt departure. She is a very kind woman. But she ought not to be angry at you, either. You are doing what you feel is right.” Having only ever seen the fun, whimsical side of Hart over the years, she was still a little surprised at his devotion to the things he considered to be his duty.
She wished that she had her needles or a sketchpad. She wanted to be doing something with her hands, keeping at bay the restless desperation bubbling within her.
A part of her really did want to contrive another escape despite the promise she had made. Not just because she dreaded so much having to return to Chenefelt, but because being so close to Hart made it difficult to breathe and think straight. She could never keep her wits about her when he was within reach.
The French countryside rolled past in an endless blur, and it looked so much like the English that it brought her no joy to look at it.
Two hours outside of Paris, big, heavy droplets first landed on the roof of the carriage. They were swiftly followed by lightning that lit up the sky and a roll of thunder so near it made Maggie jump just as the heavens opened up in a deluge. The air smelled acrid and hot despite the rain.
There was no time to think, as the horses panicked, and the carriage jerked sharply to the left. They heard another ominous, piercing crack, as though the world had split open under them and tilted over, before the vehicle came to a sudden, lopsided stop, throwing Maggie across the narrow space and on top of Hart.
She felt winded and shocked, and her mouth tasted of blood, so that for a moment it was impossible to move. Her right arm flooded with pain. Then her heart began to pound as though it meant to burst right out of her chest.
Her thoughts felt sluggish and unclear, at once too slow and too fast. What had happened? Had they crashed? Had they been hit by lighting? But surely not. They would have been dead then.
Hart shifted beneath her, resting his hands on her waist and blinking owlishly, as though to clear his own shock.
“Are you hurt?” he asked her, and his voice was reassuringly steady in light of her own sudden weakness.
Maggie took a moment to consider. There was no sense complaining about a battered wrist at a time like that. “No. At least, I do not think that I am. Are you?”
He chuckled tensely. “No, but we had better get out of the cabin.”
Maggie attempted to move off him and return to her own seat, but the cabin was tilted too awkwardly and she only succeeded in getting further tangled in her skirts. She tried to push open the door nearest her, but it seemed to be stuck. The heavy dark wood would not shift an inch.
“I think you had better climb out first, if you can,” she said apologetically.
Hart nodded. Just then, the driver opened the door overhead, and rain began to fall into the vehicle.
“Lord Hartley, Madame, are you all right?” the man asked, his hat missing and his hair sleeked back by the downpour.
“Ah, good, Driver!” Hart said. “We are unhurt, but you had better help Madame out of the carriage. I will follow in her wake.”
With the driver’s hand for support, Maggie clambered out of the carriage and into the rain.
She still felt extremely weak and she couldn’t seem to stop herself from shivering.
Her wrist, and her entire right arm, which had been knocked against the door when she got thrown across the carriage, felt very sore, and she supposed her skin would be covered with bruises in a few minutes.
She looked over at the carriage, which presented a sorry, forlorn sight. It had almost toppled on its side, half-mired in a deep ditch. Taking a closer look to distract herself from the pain in her arm, she realised that it was fortunate that the ditch had been there at al
l, or they might have gone crashing into the line of trees that bordered the road.
The horses were stomping restlessly, their nerves flaring as another rumble shook the clouds above, though the driver seemed to have calmed the animals somewhat before coming to check on the passengers.
“It was the thunder, I expect?” Hart asked him, climbing out to join Maggie on the muddy country lane.
“Yes, my lord. The sudden flash and the noise startled them. It must have struck somewhere very close. You can smell it in the air.”
Hart nodded, and looked around, considering the situation.
“We must keep moving,” Maggie said, because the solution seemed as plain as day to her. “It would be much worse to stay here.”
“You are correct, I think. It cannot be very long now to the next inn. You must take your valise. Driver and I shall each take one of the horses, and lead them – we will need both hands. Driver, if you would unhitch the animals?”
Climbing back into the carriage to retrieve their things, Hart handed Maggie her valise.
Maggie took it carefully in her uninjured hand. “I could take yours also?”
He shook his head. “It is of no consequence. We will send someone from the inn to retrieve the rest when the weather clears. I do not think there will be any bandits about in this storm.”
“Let us hope the rain does not get any worse, Lord Hartley,” said the driver anxiously.
*
By the time they arrived at the nearest inn, which stood a ways from an empty crossroads like a beacon of hope amidst the mud, they were soaked to the skin. Maggie’s heavy travelling dress weighed double, if not triple, what it usually did. Every step made her strength ebb further and she felt very hungry, worn out and miserable.
She had only to be grateful that it was not the cold rain of winter, when the wind alone would surely have frozen them to the bones.
Once they were out of the downpour, Hart wasted no time enquiring about rooms from a disapproving innkeeper, somehow managing to look dignified despite the water dripping from his hair onto his nose. Maggie had to fight with all her strength not to giggle at the ludicrous sight. Perhaps hysteria was beginning to set in, she thought as she watched the man peer at Hart over his spectacles.
Lady Adventuress 02 - The Education of Lord Hartley Page 16
