“Rosalind, how delightful you—” A man, entering from a side door wearing a greatcoat, strode into the room. “I have never heard you play finer, my dear, I—” He pulled off his hat then stopped when he realized the musician was not whom he first believed.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” Freddie stood and straightened his jacket. “As you can see, I am not Miss Rosalind.” The intruder was of an age to be the father of Miss Harris and therefore must have been her father.
“I can see that for myself.” Despite his enthusiasm for the performance, it did not appear he cared for seeing a stranger at the pianoforte.
“Mr. Harris, may I presume?” Freddie had not wished to cause any discomfort to his host. The two had, up until the present, had no chance to be properly introduced.
“I am.” His skeptical expression waned. He set his hat aside and removed his gloves and scarf, placing them with his hat. “You must be one of the guests who’ve come to stay with us. The ones from Penshaw.”
“I am,” Freddie replied. “Frederick Worth, sir.” He inclined his head, very pleased to make the man’s acquaintance.
“Worth, eh?” Mr. Harris looked his guest from toe to head. He moved slowly into the room, closer and closer to the pianoforte.
Freddie had not felt threatened by his host, but the notion that his family name might be known to the fellow had concerned him for a moment or two, or three.
“Are you acquainted with the Earl of Brent?” Mr. Harris’s tone was full of suspicion. He unfastened the buttons of his outer garment very slowly, taking his time.
“Ahem . . . I—” Freddie detested lying about that question.
“Went to Eton, the both of you, eh? That’s what I’ve heard.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat.
“Yes, sir. I attended Eton.” And with that reply he could answer truthfully.
“Well, then. That’s all right.” The tension between them felt as if it had eased a bit. “Was that Beethoven you were playing just now? An early work?”
“Yes, sir. It was.”
“Splendid, my boy. Quite splendid indeed.” The older man chuckled, laid his greatcoat next to his hat, and neared. “Do sit and play another for me, will you?”
“If that is what you would like, sir.” Freddie sat and wished Mr. Harris would make a request. “Is there something you especially wish to hear?”
“Are you a professional musician?” He placed his hands on the pianoforte.
“No, I am merely accomplished. My siblings and I are quite adept at playing musical instruments.” Freddie was known, by his family and close friends, to have both the talent of identifying an exact pitch of a note and the most exhaustive musical repertoire.
“Are they, now? How very fortunate for your parents.” Mr. Harris rapped the top of the pianoforte with his knuckles.
“Yes, sir.” Delving into his past would not be Freddie’s wish.
“Let’s see now. What shall I have you play?” As quickly as that Mr. Harris dropped any notion of asking further questions of Freddie’s family. His host appeared very excited to have Freddie play for him. “Shall we begin with Vivaldi’s Seasons? Let’s see . . . ‘Winter’.” He punctuated his decision with his index finger in the air. “No, how about ‘Summer’? Wait, wait, wait.” Rubbing his forehead, Mr. Harris once again changed his mind by announcing, “Make it any season of your choice, eh?” Then he took a seat and waited.
“Very well.” Freddie flexed his fingers, readying them to play. The only Vivaldi he could recall was ‘Summer’ . . . or was it ‘Spring’? No matter, he began to play.
Mr. Harris stood and clapped. “Ah! ‘Spring,’ my favorite!” He swayed and swung his arms in time with the music. As the tempo slowed, the movement of his arms became that of a conductor, guiding Freddie along the slower passage of the concerto, finally motioning to finish at the end of the first movement.
“Wonderful! Quite beyond my expectations, old boy! What a talent!” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “I have not heard its like in many a year.”
“Thank you, sir.” Freddie was glad he could be of some service. He was feeling quite useless before he had stumbled upon the pianoforte.
“I should be very happy to have you stay with us,” Mr. Harris mumbled. “I expect the coming days to be filled with many, many hours of excellent entertainment.”
“I will be delighted to oblige, sir. If I am able.”
“Would you do me one last favor and play . . .” Mr. Harris moved closer and whispered, “Could you manage a bit of a Bach fugue?”
Freddie drew in a breath. “Allow me to think on that for a moment.” Bach . . . the fugue was a bit more complex and more solemn than his normal taste. The only one he believed he knew was the one in G minor. He brought the tune immediately to mind and trusted his fingers to do the rest. Thus he began.
Was that music? Rosalind tilted her head and pressed her handkerchief to her nose. She had just returned from her morning deliveries. She handed the baskets to Cook and removed her outer garments. She and Cook had a few words about that afternoon’s journey; Rosalind had acquired Clare’s visits since the arrival of their guests. Something about being a nurse and caregiver to Mr. Trevor was her reason for relinquishing her visits.
Mr. Trevor, indeed!
Rosalind stepped from the kitchen and ventured down the corridor. Yes, it was music. The closer to the parlor she drew, the more certain she became in regard to the fact that it must be her pianoforte she heard. Then there were voices. A man’s; her father’s?
This did not make any sense. Her father did not play. Who then? She sniffed again, pressed her handkerchief to her nose, and peered slowly inside the room.
Mr. Worth?
It was he at the keyboard playing her pianoforte. In close proximity was her father, making a cake out of himself by swaying to and fro and swinging his arms in time to the tune. Rosalind had nearly forgotten her parent’s reaction when he listened to music. She had played so little for him over the years; with the condition of the pianoforte she considered it nearly impossible. Yet there were the two men enjoying the sound emanating from that very instrument. The music came to an abrupt halt.
“Miss Harris!” Mr. Worth stood when he realized she had entered.
Her father turned to face her. “Rosalind, do come join us!” He waved her to his side. “Mr. Freddie, here, is a master musician!”
“That is not quite true—” He raised his hand to intercede, to no avail. Rosalind well knew the futility in the attempt.
“Oh, nonsense, my boy. One only has to listen to you to know I am right!”
“It is best not to contradict my father,” Rosalind spoke around her parent to Mr. Worth.
“I see,” Freddie replied then said no more.
“I think you should take advantage of our guest’s presence, my dear. I’m certain he could improve your playing in a few lessons.”
Rosalind had no intention of having lessons but kept her opinion to herself.
“I’ve come up with a brilliant idea!” Mr. Harris nearly shouted in his excitement. “You must play at our upcoming festivities!”
“I am happy to do so, sir, if that is what you wish.”
“It would be a great showpiece if you could play together . . . a duet . . . a piece with four hands.” He looked from Rosalind to Mr. Worth. “What do you say?”
Rosalind kept from pointedly looking at the guest’s expression but it seemed to her he did not react.
“What’s that you say, sir? Are you up to the task?” Mr. Harris put Mr. Worth on the spot.
“If we can find an appropriate piece to play and Miss Harris is willing, I would be more than happy to comply.”
“Splendid! Splendid!” Mr. Harris clapped his hands together. “I cannot think of anything more wonderful! What a treat this will be for our guests.”
“I do not know if we are in possession of such a piece, sir,” Rosalind was quick to remind him but would, even against her perso
nal wishes, cooperate. She had no wish to spend any more time than she was obligated to with their guest. Performing together would place an additional burden on her time and place her in a proximity to him that she could not like.
“Come now, girl. You know we must have something. We’re bound to.” Mr. Harris moved to the built-in bookcases where one of the drawers held their many sheets of music. He pulled a handful from the drawer and riffled through it in a bit of a frantic manner while returning to the pianoforte. “Should be right here somewhere. We must have something.” The lot slipped from his hands, spilling onto the lid. “You’ll find some such there, or over there.” He waved behind him where he had left the drawer open. “I’ll leave you two to it, then, shall I?”
There was nothing for either Mr. Worth or Rosalind to say on the matter.
Her father nodded to them, flashed a smile, winked, murmured a “Good. Good,” and left.
Mr. Worth glanced to his left where lay the sheet music. “Are you a willing participant, then?”
Rosalind sighed. “If my parent bids me to do so, then I must do my utmost to comply.”
“I could claim there was no music to be found.”
“I would not have you lie on my behalf, sir.” He looked to be relieved at her pronouncement. “However, you may find it challenging to find a piece that I could play.”
“Your father led me to believe you were most capable.”
“He may have exaggerated.” Although he never complimented her skill to her, he always made exaggerations to those outside her family. “He can be very single-minded at times.”
“Will you do me the honor of playing for me so I may decide for myself?”
“As you wish.” Rosalind drew out the piece she had most recently been practicing. “I was rehearsing this for our Christmas party.”
“I would be delighted to hear it.”
“I only mention it to warn you that I can play nothing better.”
“Understood, please continue,” he said while standing next to the pianoforte.
How could she be expected to play her best with her audience standing so near? Rosalind placed her music on the stand, sat at the keyboard, took a moment to collect herself, and then began. She heard the difference before the end of the first measure. Rosalind’s keyboard skill had not improved but somehow the music had. It sounded quite lovely, really.
How was it that . . .
Rosalind stopped. “The pianoforte’s been tuned.” She stared up at Mr. Worth. “Are you responsible?”
“Well . . . I’m afraid so.” He was reluctant to admit it.
“When did you have time to send for—” There was no one local who could have— Rosalind found this all a bit perplexing. She narrowed her eyes, wondering about what was possible and what might be probable. “Did you—”
“I’m afraid I did. I beg your pardon for taking the liberty . . . I did not think . . .” He sounded apologetic. “There was no one about and I . . . ahem . . . For lack of a proper excuse, ma’am, my hands were idle and I found an occupation.”
“And how well you did, sir. I must commend you on your work.” Rosalind played a chord, allowing the harmonious notes to resonate.
“It’s a fairly old instrument and has not been tuned in some time.”
Was that his professional opinion? He had been correct. “It was my mother’s and now I am the only one who plays.” She smiled at the thought of playing again. “I cannot recall when this instrument has sounded this good.”
“I am happy that I can be of some service. To be honest I am pleased your father has given me a task.”
“Rest assured your talent will not be unappreciated. As you know, Mr. Harris is a great music enthusiast, as are Mrs. Harris and my sister. I am certain they all will relish an evening’s entertainment, if you are so inclined. And we have Twelfth Night celebration approaching where there will be ample opportunity to perform before our guests.”
“I will be very happy to do so. Now for our music.” Mr. Worth turned his attention to the sheet music piled on the pianoforte lid. “From the little you played I believe you are more than capable to learn and perform with me. You can easily read music and with a little practice we should be able to do as your father asks, sit side by side and play.”
Chapter Nine
Freddie and Miss Harris both sorted through the many sheets of music over the next several hours. They looked for any piece written for four hands and placed them to one side for further scrutiny. They were interrupted when one of the male house servants entered and informed Freddie he was needed by Trevor.
Miss Harris excused herself, stating she had spent enough time on this particular folly and that it was inevitable she would see him soon enough. Freddie got the distinct impression she still did not care for his company. It was of no matter.
How could Freddie expect her to find him agreeable when he could not find himself so?
The person Freddie was now was not the same person she had met at the edge of the woods. After much thought and consideration, he had come to the realization that he had led less than an exemplary life. These past weeks had proven quite lowering and he was determined to change his ways.
His plans for reforming his character were not for Miss Harris’s benefit. And she, he felt quite strongly, would not be any sort of determining factor as to his metamorphosis.
Still, he would be amiable and all that was agreeable during his stay. After all, Miss Rosalind was a member of the family of the gracious household who took in him and Trevor, both strangers, during their holiday season. Freddie was beyond grateful to them and would remember this kindness when he revealed himself to be the owner of the estate, the Earl of Brent.
He paused in the corridor outside Trevor’s bedchamber to allow Mrs. Harris to pass. He did not think she was in a hurry but she did decidedly have a purpose and had not paused to offer much of a greeting. “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Good afternoon.”
“I do hope so,” she replied but it did not seem to Freddie she was addressing him. “I must see that proper dinner arrangements are made.” Then she turned her gaze up at him. “You will make certain that Mr. Trevor is on time for dinner, will you not?”
“I will do my utmost, ma’am.” Was Trevor to join them this evening? Is that why Freddie had been called, to act as his valet once again? Once Mrs. Harris was out of sight he continued into his friend’s bedchamber.
Inside Miss Clare stood across the room and Trevor, sporting a green-printed banyan that was clearly not his, walked slowly toward her. “I’m fine. I’m fine, really. I am quite capable of doing this on my own, I assure you.”
Freddie kept a quiet watch. Why Miss Clare had not seen him standing behind Trevor was all too clear: Trevor was the only man who existed in her world.
“There, you did it!” Once he arrived into her awaiting arms, she kissed Trevor on the cheek. The two of them remained unnaturally quiet. If Mrs. Harris had not abandoned her post as chaperone, the buss and the following inappropriate silence as the two stared into each other’s eyes, followed by deep sighs, would most likely not have occurred.
Freddie had to say something to announce his presence without giving them a horrid shock. “I’d imagine you’ll be dashing from one end of the house to the other with that type of encouragement, Trev.”
“Mr. Freddie!” Clare moved quickly away from Trevor. “We did not see you there.”
“No, we didn’t,” Trevor concurred.
Freddie looked from one not-so-innocent face to the other. “I can see that you two only have eyes for the other.”
It was a shame Trevor could not admire the heightened blush on Miss Clare’s cheeks.
“I think I should make certain there is an extra place set at the table this evening. Mr. Rutherford is to join us, you know.” Clare smiled and nodded curtly at the two men. “If you will please excuse me.” She graced Trevor with a lingering gaze before stepping out of the room.
“You sent for
me, did you not?” Freddie’s question hung unanswered in the air while Trevor leaned to his right, making certain he had captured every moment of Miss Clare’s presence before her departure. “Trev? Trev-or?”
“Wot’s that, Fred?” Trevor blinked and gave a great sigh. The fellow was completely smitten and floating among the clouds.
“I’m wondering why you sent for me.” Freddie would need to be very patient. His friend was no longer part of this world. His new language contained only heavy sighs, lingering gazes, and delicate, fragrant flowers.
“Mrs. Harris must have. It was not I,” Trevor clarified and wrapped the insufficient material of his banyan across his midsection. Now that Miss Clare was absent he was feeling the chill of the room once again. “She wanted to make certain I was properly dressed and on time.”
“Am I reduced to your valet now?” Freddie could not help but raise his eyebrows at his hostess’s presumption.
“She don’t know who you are, remember?” Trevor made his way to a chair and eased into it.
“I am pleased that you have made great strides, literally, in your recovery.”
“Oh, I feel much better.” He took a deep breath, something he was previously unable to do, then exhaled without a grimace.
“I can see that you do.” Freddie smiled. He had never seen Trevor so affected by a female before. It was rather amusing.
“I cannot tell you how much I look forward to seeing her next, Fred. The sound of her voice when she says ma-name. It is truly music to ma-ears. I fear it will not be long until I have totally lost my heart to her.”
As if that had not already happened.
“Do you know she read to me this afternoon?” Trevor took hold of the bedpost, not out of need for physical support but because his swelling heart inhabiting his mortal body was becoming burdensome. “It was poetry.”
“Really? And you enjoyed it?” Trevor had always been more bookish than Freddie but this affinity for poetry was an entirely different thing.
A Rake Reformed (A Gentleman of Worth Book 6) Page 7
