by Karen Odden
He returned to the table alone, unwrapping two narrow slabs of ice from a rumpled towel. “We’re lucky, the iceman came this morning. Thank God for Norway.” He sat down in the chair and rewrapped the ice more neatly. “Where does it hurt most?”
“On the outside.”
He supported my lower leg again with one hand. “Can you move your foot? Up and down?”
Cautiously, I flexed my stockinged foot. “It hurts, but yes.”
He looked relieved. “It’s just sprained, then.”
With his other hand, he carefully applied the ice along my foot.
I felt the color creeping into my cheeks, and I wondered if he was as embarrassed as I, for he kept his eyes down, as if his attention were wholly absorbed in holding the ice just so.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I asked, in my own voice, “How long have you known?”
He looked up then, and I was grateful that he didn’t pretend not to understand me. “Since your audition.”
I didn’t remember him being there, but then again, I’d been nervous because Mr. Williams had hovered beside the piano bench, plunking page after page of music in front of me and scowling the entire time.
“You never said anything,” I replied, a note of accusation in my voice.
He shrugged. “If you wanted me to know, you’d’ve told me.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“I’ve no idea,” he said frankly. “Mr. Williams might, but you’re so good that he’ll look the other way so long as you keep up the pretense.”
I bit my lip. “What gave me away at the audition?”
“Afterward, when you thought you were alone, you bent to pick something up, and your hat fell off. I saw your hair, all pinned up.” A half smile crossed his lips. “And your face really is too pretty for a boy.”
He said it so matter-of-factly that I almost couldn’t take it as a compliment. But though there was a glint of humor in his eyes, there was also warmth—and as his gaze held mine, my breath caught. A wave of shyness and gratification and surprise came over me, and I fell awkwardly silent.
But to my surprise, he appeared quite at ease, as unselfconscious as he’d been when I found him tuning my piano. He seemed in no rush for me to reply, and after some minutes, something of his naturalness transmitted itself to me, like a new chord in my ear, along with the possibility—amid all this feeling—of forthrightness and a lack of restraint. An unfamiliar space seemed to open inside my chest, and I regained enough self-possession to gather my thoughts, the first of which was how on earth Jack Drummond happened to be in Wickley Street not half a dozen steps from me tonight. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but I wasn’t going to pretend it wasn’t odd, either. “It’s rather a coincidence that you were close enough to pull me out of the way of the carriage.”
He made a noise that might have been an assent and kept his eyes averted.
“I heard your father lived in Seven Dials,” I prodded. “That’s nowhere near here.”
He shifted the ice slightly. “That’s true.”
“You don’t live with him?”
“No.”
I remembered the evening when he tuned my piano, how I’d had to drag answers out of him. “Where do you live?”
He adjusted the ice again, carefully. “Off Everling Lane.”
“So Wickley Street isn’t on your way home.”
He remained silent.
Suddenly, I had a sick suspicion that I’d wholly misread his character. “Were you—were you spying on me?”
His head shot up at that, and his expression was incredulous, and then indignant. “God, no! I wasn’t spying on you—at least not the way you’re meaning. I was just keeping watch to be sure you’d get home safely. Just until Regent Street. I figured once you were in Mayfair, you’d be all right.”
I was still gaping at this answer when the girl who’d given Jack the ice came over to the table. She gestured toward my foot. “How is it?”
“I think it’s just sprained,” Jack said.
“Thank you for the ice,” I spoke up.
Her mouth opened in surprise. “Why, you’re not a bloke. I thought you was, from your clothes.”
“No,” I said. “I play piano, so I have to pretend.”
An odd expression came over her face. “At the Octavian?”
“Yes.”
She gave me a cool, appraising look, then turned away, laying her hand on the back of Jack’s chair. “We’ve got your favorite stew tonight. Mum made it this afternoon.”
Her rebuff had all the delicacy of a vaudevillian shove. To her, Jack was a familiar and treasured friend, and she wanted me to understand that any special care being shown to me was only out of deference to him.
“Are you hungry?” Jack asked me.
I nodded.
Jack looked up. “Thanks, Sarah. Two bowls. And some bread, if there’s any left.”
“All right, then,” she said. “Ale for the both of you?”
“Thanks.”
Still, she hesitated by the table. There was a peculiar note, of caution or a hidden care, in her voice: “Ben’ll be sorry he missed you. We’ve all missed you, Jack. Mum was just asking about you t’other day, and—”
“I’ve been working a good bit at the piano shop,” Jack interrupted.
“Oh!” She smiled broadly. “I expect your uncle will be in later.” She tipped her chin toward the back of the room. “He lost a bit last night, might want to earn it back.”
Jack gave a knowing laugh, and her cheeks dimpled before she turned away.
I remained silent during this exchange, recognizing that there was a long shared past that underpinned their conversation and sensing that Sarah was rather pleased at excluding me. But when she was gone, Jack readily explained, “Ben is Sarah’s brother. My uncle and I have known the Connors forever, and he plays cards with those three blokes over there most nights.” He shifted my foot gently and moved the ice to the top of the ankle. “How does it feel?”
“Better,” I said. And before my shyness stopped me, I added, “You’re being very kind. I’m—sorry I accused you of spying.”
“It’s all right.”
“First you fix my piano, and now you’re fixing me.”
That made him look up. Our gazes snared again, and there was a moment of silence, during which I wondered if I’d made too much of what he’d said and done. Then a smile of unexpected sweetness curved his mouth, and it struck me that with his ugly cap off, and at ease among his friends, he looked wholly different. Long dark lashes, a curly tangle of black hair, a mouth that was at once firm but expressive. And eyes, dark as strong coffee, that sparkled in the changeful light from the fire. I felt a queer lurch inside me. No, this wasn’t the same taciturn young man from the music hall—not by a country mile.
“I thought you’d want this for your foot,” came Sarah’s voice. “Leastwise while you’re eating.”
Both of us jumped.
Sarah was holding a pillow and looked apologetically at Jack. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to come at you from that side.”
With a scrape across the wooden floor, she dragged another chair to our table and plunked the pillow on top. Carefully, Jack shifted my foot over to it. The pillow was less comfortable than his hands, and as Sarah vanished, I bit back the smile I felt forming. Was Jack as conscious as I of Sarah’s maneuver?
“I’ve got a bad ear,” Jack said to me.
I bent forward, thinking I’d misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t hear so well out of this one,” he repeated and tapped his left ear. “That’s what Sarah meant.”
In my surprise, I fumbled a response: “Oh—I never would have guessed—I mean, you tune pianos and . . . how did it happen?”
He shrugged. “I was born with it, so I’ve never known any different. I thought it was what everyone had, until I was seven or eight.”
The way he said it, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, how wo
uld you even know to ask?”
“Exactly.” A grin. “Fortunately, the other one works just fine.”
“Jack Drummond.” An older woman stood before us, hands on hips, smiling down at him. Her thick white hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head, and she had green eyes, the same color as Sarah’s. “It’s been weeks.”
Jack was already rising to kiss her cheek, and she pulled him toward her in a hearty embrace.
“Hello, Mrs. Connor. How are you?”
“I’m right as can be,” she said and glanced at me, “and glad to see you—and your friend.”
“This is—” Jack began, but gave a short laugh and turned to me. “I don’t even know your real name.”
“Nell Hallam.”
I saw him take it in, replacing the name Ed Nell with this one.
She was already extending her hand to pat my shoulder. “A pleasure to meet you, dear. I’m Mrs. Connor. What happened to your foot?”
“It’s my ankle, actually. I twisted it trying to get out of the way of some horses. There was a runaway cab.”
“Oh, dear.” She looked at Jack. “Where were you?”
“Wickley Street,” he said. “Not far.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Well, I’ve heard of wild horses dragging people places. I s’pose I should be thankful for them, seeing as they steered you here. Your uncle should be in soon.”
“Sarah said he lost money last night.”
“Yes, Josef was with them.” She wiped her hands gently on her apron. “Now, I’ll go see about your supper.”
I watched her vanish into the kitchen. “Who’s Josef?”
He sat back down. “One of my uncle’s friends.”
“Lucky at cards?”
“Unlucky at life, mostly.”
I waited for him to explain.
“He has money troubles, but none of them are really his fault. He came here from Poland ten years ago, and the first thing that happened when he got to London, he was robbed on a train. Then his father got sick, and his wife. That took most of the savings he’d brought with him.” He shook his head. “He lent the rest to his brother-in-law for a venture that fell apart. So vingt-et-un is my uncle’s way of helping him.”
Now I understood. “Because he won’t accept charity.”
A nod. “My uncle used to loan him money—but then Josef was so ashamed of not being able to pay it back that he started avoiding him.”
I smiled. “So to preserve his friend’s pride, your uncle loses at cards. Does everyone else at the table collude in the scheme?”
Jack shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Sarah arrived with two steaming bowls of stew, a loaf of bread wrapped in some brown paper, and a plate with butter and some kind of yellow cheese. “Careful, it’s hot.”
I placed my palms on either side of the bowl and shivered as its warmth spread into my hands. The stew smelled of butter and beef, potatoes and onions. I ate slowly, savoring the first mouthful as Jack ripped the bread and handed me half. It was the sort I liked best, flavored with rosemary and soft as down on the inside. I tore a small piece and spread the butter thick, then added the cheese. And in that warm, welcoming room, filled with the companionable noises of clinking dishes and muted conversation, we talked easily and without restraint. About how he’d met the Connors when he and Ben smashed into each other on their bicycles; about Matthew and Peggy and Emma; about tuning pianos with his uncle at the Academy and my upcoming audition; about his most eccentric customers, including the lady who insisted that her lapdog be present for tuning sessions because he had an exquisite ear for tone—“Which would be fine,” Jack concluded, “except that he bites my ankles while I work, which slows things up a bit.” I was already laughing when he added, with a bemused look: “And I have to schedule my visits around the dog’s naps.”
How had I ever thought Jack was surly, or even shy? In its own way, his manner was as easy and companionable as Matthew’s.
“Jacques, mon fils.”
We both looked up.
A man of about fifty rested his hand on Jack’s shoulder. Like Jack, he was sturdily built. His brown hair was flecked with gray, and his hands were swollen at the knuckles, as though he had worked them hard for many years. But his expression was cheerful, and he smiled affectionately at his nephew.
Jack stood and embraced him. “Bon soir.” He turned to me. “This is my uncle, François Bertault. Uncle, this is Nell Hallam, the new pianist I told you about. She hurt her ankle in the street, so we stopped here.”
I smiled up at him and held out my hand. “How do you do?”
His eyebrows rose, and instead of shaking my hand, he bent over it with playful gallantry. “Mademoiselle, you deceived my first glance with your costume.”
Jack drew a chair from another table for his uncle and sat back down in his own. “Please join us.”
“For a minute, I will,” Mr. Bertault said, flapping his damp coat behind him and taking the seat. “Then I have to go play cards with those fools.” He turned to me. “So you are the new pianist.”
“Yes. Did you know that Jack tuned the Pleyel for me?”
“But of course. He borrowed my tools.”
“That’s right,” I said, remembering the box. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“He says it needs a new soundboard. The one in that piano there is”—he rubbed his thumb against his fingertips—“soft like soap. Drummond won’t bother to replace it. However, Jacques can keep it in tune for you. He’s better than I, especially now that my hearing isn’t what it was.” He tugged his ear and leaned toward me, his eyes bright with humor, and said in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “Of course, he was not always so good at it.”
I played along and feigned consternation. “He wasn’t?”
“The very first piano he worked on—bah! The poor thing! C’était horrible! He made it worse every day!”
Jack gave a sigh and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“Of course”—Mr. Bertault shrugged—“I was not going to let him loose on any good pianos. He was just a child—”
“Uncle, I was fourteen.”
Mr. Bertault shook a forefinger in the air. “This piano had bad veneer work and broken keys and strings. C’était un véritable gâchis—a wretched mess—hardly worth saving. But the lady who wanted to sell needed the money, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, so I bought it from her. And I put this one”—he waved toward Jack—“to work on it. It was like a stone rolling downhill! First the veneer, then the keys, then the strings—and after a week, not a single note was in tune with the next.”
Jack ripped a piece of bread. “Because you twisted the pegs back out every night.”
His uncle threw back his head and gave a shout of laughter. “But it was good practice, was it not?”
Jack assented. “It was.”
Mr. Bertault turned to me. “And where have you studied your piano?”
“Only at home, with Mr. Moehler. Jack said you knew him before he died.”
“Of course!” He shook his head unhappily. “A brilliant man—such fine technique! His death was a terrible loss. I knew him at the Academy.”
Jack added, “My uncle knows most of the teachers and students there.”
Unbidden, Stephen came to mind. I wondered if Mr. Bertault knew him—and what he thought of him.
A shout came from the corner: “François, are you playing or not?”
“Ah! They need me for the foursome.” He stood up and made a small bow in my direction. “A pleasure, Mademoiselle.” With a wink for both of us, he left.
“He calls you Jacques,” I said. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes. My middle name is François”—he tipped his head in his uncle’s direction—“for him.”
“Is it true, he used to undo your work on purpose?”
Jack grinned. “For practice. That piano he was talking about, it was beyond repair. He bought i
t for me to learn on.” He shook his head. “And my God, he made sure I learned—everything from sanding to matching the color of the ivories. He had me take apart and put together the action on a key until I could do it blindfolded.”
“Does he have children of his own?”
His smile faded, and his eyes went to his uncle for a moment. “No. I think he would have had them gladly. There was a woman he wanted to marry, back in France. But she was in love with someone else.”
“That’s too bad. He seems like the sort who should be married.” He assented, somewhat absently, and I searched for a different topic. “When did you start truly mending pianos, not just practicing on the bad ones?”
“I don’t remember exactly. But I remember the first one he let me work on, an upright. It wasn’t terribly expensive, but it belonged to a family he knew. I was trying to be so careful, and I ended up scratching the soundboard—a big scrape, right across.”
I winced.
“I felt terrible. I dreaded telling him”—he stopped, and his thumb rubbed at a knot in the table’s surface before he continued. “Well, I told my uncle he could take it off my wages. And then he said something that surprised me.”
“What?”
“He told me that he owed me more than money could repay.” His expression was pensive. “My mother was his younger sister, you see, and he loved her very much. Not long after she died, he moved here from France to teach and open the piano store. He asked me to keep him company, and to keep him away from the whiskey bottle, so I did. He told me if I hadn’t, he’d have died.” He glanced over at his uncle. “I think he was giving me too much credit, but—well, he believed it.”
I swallowed. “He was lucky to have you.”
“I’ve been lucky to have him, too.”
In the way he said it, I thought I could read the truth—that his uncle probably provided a refuge from his father sometimes.
A song broke out at the table, sung lustily in French by all four men. I smiled at first, and then I realized it was vaguely familiar. “Why, that’s one of the songs Amalie sings!”
“That’s right.”
