by Abigail Agar
“Through—through London!” Marina said, nearly squeaking with excitement. “Well, of course! Of course. I’ve, um. I’ve never been …”
“Well, do you care to go?” the Duke asked, almost incredulous. As if, perhaps, she hadn’t answered correctly. The breeze flung through his dark curls giving Marina a flashing view of his ear. The ear was so soft, so white—like an innocent secret.
“I would rather go to London with you and the children than do anything else in the world,” Marina affirmed. “Please.”
She paused, her thoughts racing. Had she been overzealous? She continued, stuttering slightly, “And, uh. Of course, I will assist you with any and all things, as you need them.”
The Duke nodded, gripping his cane so hard that his knuckles turned bright white. He spun back towards the house. In the distance, that dog had continued its barking, and it echoed across the moors and between the trees. Marina paced just behind the Duke, her eyes stirring across the ground. If the Duke so much as gave an inch towards a more treacherous track, she would grip his elbow in protest. She was to be his eyes, his ears, his children’s protector.
She’d never been gifted such trust. And she refused to toss it away.
Chapter 17
As he’d instructed, Jeffrey had hired a wide selection of new craftsmen to mould together a fine line of new violins and cellos and harps, all for the upcoming performing. A few mornings after Marina Blackwater’s impactful arrival, the Duke drew up the courage to return to the business in town, joining Jeffrey back at the main office. The moment he entered, his nostrils filled with the vibrant, woody smell of the instruments—of the sandpaper, tugging over and over the bodies of the beasts; of the grunts and sweat of the men, who gave not a moment of laziness. Who oiled and greased and strung and tuned, all with precision. They were artists in the grandest scheme, men who’d been trained in their craft from a very young age.
One among them, a man named Charles, was over 60 years old—and had worked for both the Duke’s father and grandfather during previous regimes. The Duke remembered first meeting him as a younger boy—when Charles was a fit and vibrant 20-something. Often, Charles would sweep little Adolphus on his lap, guiding his fingers over the strings, showing him how to pull at the strings with a kind of guttural pressure, enough to feel that your brain might explode with it.
The Duke had frequently looked up to Charles: at the manner in which he would race off after work, come six or seven in the evening, and wrap his arm around one girl or another, before scampering down to the river. The Duke had marvelled at the ease with which Charles moved through the world—taking time where time was needed. And taking time to neck, to kiss, to feel.
When the Duke had been in his teenage years, he’d sat long hours beside Charles, operating the same mechanics that Charles had been doing for years. As it wasn’t yet time for Adolphus to take over the business—and had been a few years before the untimely death of his father—the Duke had, instead, thrown himself fully into the business: crafting the instruments during the day and playing long hours on his violin into the night. Oftentimes, he could watch the pink haze of morning sift over the stars of night, eliminating them. Always, he’d be sweating, lost in the chaos of music, almost frightened that he’d allowed himself to play so long.
At the time, Charles had married a true beauty, a woman from Leeds who seemed almost fantastical—with red, gleaming hair that flowed down her back. Charles had spoken to the Duke about his wife in a soft voice, so that nobody else in the factory could hear. “She makes me remember why I started playing music,” he’d said. “When I see her eyes open in the morning, I’m already awake, wondering what she’ll say next. Everything she gives to this world is a gift.”
Within minutes, in the grand scheme of time, the girl had gotten pregnant. Charles had been round with happiness, his cheeks bright red, like apples. He’d taken the Duke out for a round of drinks, midway through the pregnancy, stammering with love and excitement about the upcoming years. “A family of my own, my boy! Although look at you. You aren’t a boy any longer, are you? Why, what a bright-eyed wonder you were, for so many years. And now, I see you. You’re going the way of me. An old romantic, wondering when he’ll find the one. Ah, you will, my boy. You will.”
They’d sipped drinks into the night, then both donned their violins and screeched and howled them alongside one another—their music soaring out across the grounds of the estate. The Duke’s heart had felt open with the promise of Charles’ child, for, somehow, it seemed a promise for his future, for his love.
But the world had given only a sour answer to Charles’ streaming optimism. When the girl had gone into labour, it had been a pain ripping through her spine (or so she’d described it to Charles, he’d told the Duke later). And when the baby had been born, he was blue, a vein bulging out of his head. Charles had held the baby for a bit too long, his head heavy with drink, while his wife had slept into the night, and then the morning, and then the following night. When she did come-to, she did so in a heavy fever, her body fluttering. She’d gripped his hand harder than he’d ever felt, so hard that he felt every bone crackle.
She hadn’t lived through the week. And Charles had become a shell of his former self, a man whose shadow seemed longer and heavier than most. He’d stayed on at the musical instrument shop, being a dutiful, if quiet force throughout the death of the Duke’s father and his subsequent taking-over. But the Duke had been privy to watching this man fade away from the bright light of his youth, to now—fading into himself over one violin after another. “Perhaps the violins were meant to be my only children,” he’d once verbalised sadly, scratching his greying hair.
At the time, the Duke hadn’t understood sorrow the way Charles had. Yet in the months after Marybeth’s death, he and Charles had met eyes over the top of the other workers’ heads several times—creating a kind of allegiance that no longer required words. Charles was an ageing man, lurking deeper into a territory that often reeked of death and isolation. The business was all Charles had.
When the Duke arrived back after several days’ absence, he walked slowly through the aisles of the factory, feeling lost in the haze of the mutterings of the workers. When he paused at the far end, his fingers tapping atop the long desk, he knew he was positioned directly beside old Charles. He could feel his presence in a way that he couldn’t quite verbalise. As if, due to the fact that he’d more or less grown old alongside this man, their souls recognised one another.
For whatever reason, since the Duke had had his brief encounter with Marina in the garden, he’d given far more thought to Charles and his young, dead bride. He remembered the spitting energy with which Charles spoke of her. Somehow, this colour, this vitality he’d used, was sparked in the Duke’s heart when he thought of Marina. It couldn’t possibly be so and was probably just a fantasy in an old man’s head. But even so, it gave the Duke pause.
“Hello, my boy,” Charles uttered then, acknowledging the silence, the fact that the Duke remained before him. His voice was deeper than it was in the Duke’s memory, clearly creeping out of an old man’s throat. How strange that time could alter your voice—the same way, the Duke supposed, a violin’s “voice” could be altered, due to the age of the instrument.
“Charles,” the Duke said, keeping his face straight ahead.
Suddenly, he felt Charles move forward in his chair, leaning his heavy head towards him. “Duke, in all seriousness. It’s absolutely essential that I speak with you regarding the goings-on of the business.”
This felt like a slice of a sword through the Duke’s heart. For he knew that the craftsmen had been whispering about the Duke’s inability to make ends meet, especially given his current state. Certainly, if people like Marina knew about the state of the business, then his workers were privy to the lacklustre ledger and profiting.
When the Duke spoke, he did so with volatility and anger—that which he’d never demonstrated to the likes of Charles.
Charles, to his credit, kept his voice low and exhibited no sign of anger. “Duke, it’s terribly imperative I speak with you. For old time’s sake.”
The Duke inhaled sharply, and then pointed a finger towards the back of the room, where, he knew, his office door remained ajar. “All right. Please.”
Charles’ chair squeaked back as the old man stood. He reached for the Duke’s arm, preparing to guide him. But the Duke shook him off, pressing his eyebrows deep over his eyes. He shot his cane forward, clipping it against the floor, and finding his way back to the office. As he marched, he heard the familiar pattering of Jeffrey’s feet.
“Hello! Duke!” Jeffrey hollered. “May I speak with you a moment?”
The Duke beckoned for Jeffrey to enter the office with both him and Charles. Charles gave a momentary protest, sputtering, “Sir, if I could speak to you in private, that would be much …”
“Please, Charles. Whatever you have to say to me regarding the business can be spoken in front of Jeffrey.” The Duke sighed. He fell into his chair, anger blossoming in his stomach. “Jeffrey’s been my assistant for years, as you know.”
“Sir, I’ve been a part of this business for over forty years,” Charles continued, his voice rising and falling with anxiety. “I know that it’s your lifeblood. Like your father before you, music is your absolute passion. I know that you’d do anything for this place.”
“Then you know that I will not allow it to fall to ruin,” the Duke said, scoffing. Surely, Charles wouldn’t insult him now, giving him advice about his business? He’d never overstepped this line …
“No. Of course not,” Charles tittered. “Sir, it really would be beneficial for me if I could speak to you alone. Like old times.”
“The old times are gone, Charles. You of all people must understand that,” the Duke stated. “Your wife. My wife. My father, my grandfather. Nearly every other worker you’ve ever operated alongside, out there on the floor, has either left town or passed away. For this reason, why should we dredge up even a single mention of the past?”
Charles let out a near squawk that turned into a sigh. He dropped into the chair in front of his desk. Jeffrey turned towards the Duke, speaking almost conspiratorially.
“Surely the man’s going senile, Duke,” Jeffrey muttered.
“I’m not senile, you old fool,” Charles said. “I know what you’re doing. I saw you just last week. Taking cash from the safe. You think you’re going to get away with it. Stealing the money right under your blind employer’s nose …”
“Senile, Duke,” Jeffrey continued. “Absolutely wild.”
The Duke pondered this for a long moment. But his silence gave Jeffrey even more energy. It was true that, given the case that the Duke had been falsely accused, he might have acted just the same.
“Duke, this is outrageous,” Jeffrey continued. “I’ve been by your side since the beginning. For years! I’ve watched you raise your children. Wasn’t it I who stayed up the entire night with you after Marybeth passed? Not this man who, as you said just now, is more of a stranger than anything. He’s just a relic from the past.”
“Duke, I know what I saw,” Charles boomed. “And I know that the entire city is talking of your coming financial ruin. I know that you feel the pressure is mightiest right now, in the wake of Marybeth’s death and your illness. But know that this could all be prevented, if you only had people who were … appropriate, by your side …”
“Appropriate? Are you miscalculating how I do my work, Charles?” the Duke demanded, feeling that everything he said was an affront to his intelligence. He sprung to the edge of his seat, his nostrils flared.
“Duke, no. I know only that you’ve conducted business with sound resolve since you took over for your father. But in the wake of your illness …”
“Please, stop calling it an illness,” the Duke said. “I’m blind. I’m perfectly capable of nearly everything else. Certainly, I could craft a violin just as well as you could, with these hands. Perhaps better, given that you’re bordering on death.” He spat the words without thinking, feeling how heavy they were.
Silence boomed in the office. He felt Charles’ hesitation. He seemed to consider what to say next, or whether to speak at all. Jeffrey rose higher on his bulbous frame, speaking with heightened arrogance.
“I believe the Duke has told you how he feels, Charles. If you could see yourself out.”
“Very well, sir. In any case …” Charles murmured. “I think it’s essential that I take my absence of this business, regardless. As you say, I’m far over sixty years old, and my fingers—they don't do the work as well any longer. Beyond that, a man should know when he’s unappreciated, or unwanted. And perhaps that is now.”
The Duke’s lips parted, but he gave no words. He listened as Charles—a man he’d known for over forty years, since his bright youthfulness, his chaotic teenage years, and throughout both of their sorrows, stirred from the office, gathered his things at his desk, and hurried out of the building. It was to be the very last time.
“I can’t imagine you handling that any other way, Duke,” Jeffrey scoffed. He marched across the room, then back again, sniffing. The Duke remained at his desk, reeling from the firing. But Jeffrey continued his bantering, seemingly trying to convince himself that he was completely innocent. “I can’t imagine what he thought he saw, Duke. It’s absolutely clear to you, isn’t it, that I’ve pushed myself to do everything for your favour?”
“Absolutely …” the Duke murmured, his voice gruff. He reached forward on his desk, finding the long-familiar ledger, with its sanded-off edges from years of use. He sprung it open, drawing his finger along the lines. He could almost feel the pen’s ink, stirring across, taking record of the many instruments, their many new owners … “Regardless, it’s best if we go over the coming purchase, from the Queen. I want to ensure that we’ll live through the quarter.”
Jeffrey reached for the ledger, sweeping through the pages to find the latest one. He cleared his throat—a disgusting sound, very much like cleaning out a drain. Then, he began to list out the Queens’ instructions for the instruments, the price per violin, per cello, per bass. The Duke allowed his head to fall back against his desk chair, listening to the drivel as it passed through his ears.
“So, as you can hear, Duke. It seems we’ll make a profit of at least 20 thousand quid, if not more …” Jeffrey stammered. “If that isn’t enough to get us through …”
“20 thousand quid,” the Duke said. He shot up from his chair, gripping his cane. He stumbled towards the far end of the room, his head spinning. He had to remember this number, for, somewhere in the chaos of his belly, he felt that he’d made an improper choice. In what reality did Charles wish him any ill will? “I’ll remember that. 20 thousand …” he continued.
“Of course, sir,” Jeffrey said.
Was it the Duke’s imagination, or was Jeffrey acting a bit strange? A bit guarded, perhaps? He spun at the door, staring towards the area in which he assumed Jeffrey stood. But silence hung heavy between them. “I suppose I’ll return to the floor,” the Duke said. “I can’t imagine anything better than being amongst my workers, who will fight back from this ruin. We won’t allow the company to falter, now, will we—Jeffrey?”
“Ab—absolutely not, sir,” Jeffrey said. “In no way will we do that.”
The Duke stepped into the workshop, dropping his cane to the far wall and placing his hands behind his back. As he marched amongst the workers, he allowed his imagination to spring forth—allowed himself to see, really see the workshop, as it had been, and as it was now. For this reason, his feet could easily find the proper paths around the machines; his ears guided him from the sanding table, to the stringing table, and back in a loop. This workshop was an ecosystem he’d always understood, surely. It was in his very soul.
At the head of the workshop,
he paused, tapping his knuckles against a mighty table and making one of the craftsmen leap. Everyone quieted down, awaiting his words. The Duke hadn’t addressed his men in several months, sometime prior to the blindness—and certainly around the time that rumours had begun to swirl around the business, making it seem that they were designing themselves for ruin.
