by Karen Odden
Mr. Bertault and I walked past them, heading west toward Mr. Tindale’s house. And as we turned off Hawley Mews onto Wickley Street, a shaft of sunlight came from behind us and cast our two long shadows toward a new day.
Epilogue
Did you see this?” Matthew turned the paper toward us. “The sewer system is finally going to be finished. Honestly, the more I read about it, the more I think that Bazalgette is a genius for his foresight.”
The three of us were together at the breakfast table looking over the papers and talking, as had become our wont in the months since the night of the raids.
“Do you mean his insistence on the doubled diameter of the pipes?” Jack asked. “I think you’re right. Although I read an article yesterday that claimed that his predictions about London’s population were only to justify the added expense. Did you see that?”
“Yes, but I think that was politically motivated,” Matthew said. “Dr. Everett knows some of the scientists who helped with the study, and he says that by nineteen hundred, London might very well have another three hundred thousand people . . .”
I went back to my reading, hiding my smile. When Jack had first come to us to recuperate, Matthew had been civil but uncharacteristically reserved for several weeks; it pleased me to no end to see how well they got on now.
Finally, when the tea and toast were gone, Matthew pushed back his chair and laid his napkin by his plate. “What are you planning for the day?”
“We’re going to see my uncle this morning,” Jack replied. It was the anniversary of his mother’s death, and Mr. Bertault had asked us to come to the shop.
Matthew’s expression changed. “Dash it, I’m sorry. Of course. I’d forgotten. When are you going?”
Jack and I both glanced up at the clock. “Shortly, I expect,” Jack replied. “He said he had some appointments this afternoon.”
“I’ll leave with you, then.”
The three of us departed together, opening the front door to find a fine morning, with a brilliant blue sky and a breeze that was warm for September. Contentedly, I walked between the two of them to Regent Street, where Matthew climbed into a cab, and Jack and I continued on toward the piano shop. A sideways glance told me that he was in a reflective state of mind, so I tucked my hand into his elbow, and we walked in companionable silence.
It had taken all of us some months to recover from that night in June. At first, when the other detective inspectors learned what had happened, there had been a good deal of ill feeling toward Matthew over Barrow’s death. But as the truth about the man’s corruption emerged and the results of that night’s work became clear, Matthew’s standing at the Yard had recovered. The raid had captured seventeen of the ship captains, all of whom were compelled to confess because of the stolen goods, counterfeiting equipment, and pages of records in their possession; and the two thousand guns only made it as far as Blackwall Reach before the River Police found the ship riding low in the water. The only unfortunate outcome was that Tierney had managed to evade their grasp. This didn’t rest easily with Matthew. He knew a man like Tierney wouldn’t slip gently into ordinary life; he’d resurface eventually.
Jack had suffered the worst of us, for Dr. Everett’s premonition had been correct: he had become ill with an infection that brought with it a high fever and delirium. There were four days when the doctor’s face was very grave, and I barely left Jack’s side. But at last his fever came down, and he opened his eyes and knew me. He was installed in our spare room downstairs, and for nearly a month afterward, Dr. Everett continued to come every evening, and Peggy fixed all of her best custards and jellies to tempt Jack’s appetite. Eventually, he was declared out of danger.
Still, his physical injuries healed more rapidly than his spirits. He sometimes wore his old shuttered look, and I gradually learned the signs for when it was a kindness to leave him alone with his thoughts. It helped him greatly to know that many of the younger boys from the Fleet had been gathered up and sent out of London to several new orphanages run by Anglican nuns, rather than left to an uncertain fate. Rob and Gus, however, had stayed; Mr. Bertault had found them light work with some friends of his, and they attended school and slept in the small second bedroom above the shop.
I had sprained my wrist badly in my struggle with Barrow, and the injury had been compounded by an infection where my skin had been abraded by the rope, for which Dr. Everett prescribed a series of poultices and a sling. It had taken several weeks to heal, and during that time, I had received an unexpected letter. The envelope had borne a French stamp with the Ceres head and contained a single sheet of paper.
Chère Nell,
You have been a true friend to me, and it pained me to leave without saying goodbye. I am better each day and safe. Please believe that I appreciate everything you’ve done for us. I hope someday to return, to see you performing on a stage yourself. Until then, try not to worry. I see signs of greatness in you, not illness, and a kind and loving heart.
Votre M (et S)
The writing was faint and shaky, which only made me treasure the note all the more. It told me that Marceline knew how much I’d be worrying and had written a letter as quickly as her injuries would allow. Gratefully, I’d refolded it and slipped it into my armoire drawer, and as my eye caught my own bandaged arm, I’d smiled to think of how we were alike in this. We’d both been injured, but we would also both recover and return to our work.
When eventually Dr. Everett said I was healed enough that I might try the piano again, it was a profound pleasure to me, although my hands were stiff, and my wrist ached after only a few minutes. After another fortnight, I even took out my sheet music for the Mozart and the Chopin.
And yet, as I returned to my daily practice, I came to realize my feelings about playing had altered. Several times Jack had broached the idea of my applying to one of the smaller conservatories in London or of looking for another teacher. But I found myself putting him off, even becoming cross when he pressed me. At first, I couldn’t put into words the reason for my opposition, but recently I’d begun to realize that the object of my ambition had changed, and I could trace it to the moment in Drummond’s office, when I thought that either Matthew or I might die. In my mind, it had become a test that I’d passed. For if that terrifying moment hadn’t precipitated me into my mother’s disease—well, perhaps I could trust my mind not to betray me. I longed to become better acquainted with this less fearful, more susceptible version of myself. But it was a nascent, tender thing, like one of Mr. Bertault’s fragile rose cuttings, and I wanted to protect it, to allow it to develop sturdiness and resilience in its own time. Perhaps if we visited the garden this morning, that might be the right place to explain this to Jack.
As we turned onto Samson Lane, he finally spoke, his tone somewhat hesitant. “Nell, I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What is it?”
“My uncle may ask you to play for him today.”
“You mean to see if I’m ready for an audition?” I grimaced. “You’re steering me, the pair of you, as if I’m a wheelbarrow.”
“Please, Nell.” Jack looked at me entreatingly as we neared the door. “He feels sorry that I kept you from it. As do I.”
We’d gone around about this matter several times. I insisted that it hadn’t been his fault Matthew had chosen that night for a raid, but Jack believed that if it weren’t for him, I’d be in the Academy by now.
“He also told me it would do him more good than a bottle of fine wine to hear you play,” Jack added as he put his hand to the door.
I felt something in me soften. “Well, that’s different. Of course I will. I don’t think I could refuse your uncle anything. Certainly not today.”
His smile was relieved as he turned the handle. The bell tinkled, and Mr. Bertault emerged from the back, with outstretched arms.
“Bonjour. I’m so glad to see you both. And look at you, Jacques, with barely even a limp.” We sat together at the table in h
is little office drinking coffee, and Mr. Bertault discussed his plan to visit friends in Edinburgh, once Jack was able to work a full week.
When we’d finished, Mr. Bertault turned to me. “Well, my dear, I’ve a favor to ask. I just finished repairing a piano that I’d like you to try.”
I smiled and rose. “I’d be happy to.”
“Here it is,” he said, leading me to an instrument in the front room. “I think it will suit you.” It was a Stingl, made of wood the color of ripe chestnuts. I brushed my fingers over the frame and peeked inside at a pale soundboard with metal pins and wire that looked beautifully straight and with hammers at the ready.
I sat down and looked up at Jack and his uncle. They looked back at me expectantly, like children waiting for sweets, and I swallowed down a laugh. “What would you like me to play, Mr. Bertault?”
“Whatever you would like to play.”
I didn’t want anything sad or tender. Today it needed to be lighter of heart.
The Mozart Sonata I had prepared for my audition would do. After the first twenty measures, I glanced up at Mr. Bertault. His expression was full of excitement, but when I finished, he merely said, “And now the Chopin.”
The command might have sounded rude to anyone else, but I understood. Just as I wanted to be certain in myself, he wanted to be sure of what he was hearing.
Before I began, I paused to allow the feeling of gratitude to work upon me—gratitude for the kindness of these two men; gratitude also for my brother, for Dr. Everett, for Marceline, for Peggy. Then I let my fingertips touch the keys, and somewhere in the first dozen measures the music took me over, and I let it, finding in the range and depth of the piece a profound reassurance that every moment of the past months—indeed, every minute of delight and sorrow and fear and longing that I would ever have—had been felt and written into melody by someone else. I’d never be alone in it. By the final notes, I had played myself out. And when I took my hands away, they were tingling.
When I looked at Mr. Bertault, his cheeks were wet.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, filled with remorse. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying,” he said.
“Yes, Uncle,” Jack said softly. “You are.”
Mr. Bertault put his hand up to his cheek and looked at his palm wonderingly. “Oui, je pleure.”
“Goodness, my dear,” came a voice from behind me.
I turned. In the arch that led to the back room stood a tall man beside a woman of medium height, with light curly hair pinned up under a modish hat.
“You play beautifully,” she said.
“Thank you,” I replied. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
And then she smiled, and I recognized her from images I’d seen in the newspapers. Clara Schumann. Composer, pianist, performer. Wife of Robert Schumann.
I couldn’t say a word. Dumbly, I let her take my right hand in both of hers.
“François told me you played well, but of course I had to hear for myself. I hope you don’t mind the subterfuge.”
Mr. Bertault spread his hands in a gesture that suggested both innocence and an apology.
I turned back to her. “It was probably for the best I didn’t know you were here. I haven’t played for an audience in months.”
“I understand,” she said. “Plenty of us take time away.”
“You’re very kind, saying ‘us.’ I’m hardly in your category.”
“No,” she conceded frankly. “Not yet. But with training, you could be.”
I had to swallow hard before I could answer. “Thank you,” I said again. “It’s generous of you to say so.”
She let go of my hand then, beckoned to the man who had been standing a few feet behind her, and settled one hand on his arm. “This is Mr. Edwin Spencer, from the Royal Academy. I believe you were supposed to audition several months ago.”
“Yes.” I flushed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Spencer, for missing it.”
A smile appeared under his heavy mustache, and his brown eyes twinkled. “Well, Miss Hallam, I understand there were circumstances.”
“Yes.” A rueful laugh escaped me. “There were.”
“I would like to offer you a place nonetheless.”
“A place?” I repeated.
“A place in our incoming class,” he clarified. “Unless you’ve accepted elsewhere, of course.”
I turned to Jack and Mr. Bertault. Jack was smiling broadly, and Mr. Bertault’s delight was writ large on his face. They wanted this so desperately for me.
Mr. Spencer’s face was expectant as well, and the room fell silent, with everyone waiting for me to thank him and accept.
How on earth was I going to explain? How could I say that for now, I wanted to be alone with my piano, to hear what it had to say to me, and to play without anyone judging or correcting me?
Haltingly, I began. “Mr. Spencer, you’re very kind, and . . . and please believe that I understand just what you’re offering—not only a place, but you’re overlooking that I didn’t audition properly, which . . . well, it’s very understanding of you.” I bit my lip. “But I’m not certain I’m ready yet.”
Mr. Spencer frowned and glanced at Mr. Bertault before he replied. “Are you concerned about your wrist injury?”
“It was a—a difficult summer, and it changed things for me. I—I suppose I’m still getting used to myself at the piano again.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry. I think I may just need some time.”
He looked rather puzzled but nodded. “Very well. You can take it. We’ve no plans to close down.”
My smile was genuine and full of relief. “No, I’m sure not.”
Mrs. Schumann inclined her head, her smile still warm and gentle. “It was a pleasure to hear you. I do hope we see you soon.”
“I hope so, too,” I said gratefully.
And after a few additional pleasantries, Mr. Bertault walked them to the door. He had barely closed it behind them before I burst out, “I’m so sorry, you went to such trouble—”
“Pas du tout.” He shook his head as he came toward me and settled a hand on my shoulder. “Not at all. You are right to wait, if you feel it best. But you have a place. Now you can choose. That is all I wanted.”
And then he melted away, leaving Jack to sit down next to me on the bench with a sigh. He looked pale, and I realized the walk here had tired him. For my sake, he’d pushed himself harder than he should have. But I knew he wouldn’t want me to point it out, so instead I said, “You hoodwinked me.”
He nodded unapologetically. “I did.”
“Do you have any other tricks up your sleeve?” I asked.
“No.” He smiled and turned his two palms up. “See?”
The very openness of the gesture made something in my heart ache, mostly in joy, but there was pain there, too.
I was still no good at speaking at such times, when the currents of feeling ran so deep and fast; it was as if three pieces of music were playing at once. I couldn’t sort them out, much less convey them.
So I didn’t try. Instead, I put my hands up and drew him close for a kiss.
Acknowledgments
Nell’s piano at the Octavian, with most of its eighty-eight keys desperately in need of tuning, is perhaps an apt metaphor for what was the first draft of this book. It began life as The Phrenologist’s Daughter and was worked on for years before reaching a stage of being suitable for use. Also, I am sure there are at least eighty-eight people who have helped bring it into being, whose books I’ve read for research or who have taken a personal interest and encouraged me along the way.
My gratitude to all my friends and family members who have not only supported me through the years but read sections (sometimes two or three times) of this manuscript at various stages, especially Jeanne Arnold, Kate Fink Cheeseman, Kristin Griffin, Dottie Lootens, Jennifer Lootens, Anne Morgan, Stefanie Pintoff, and Anita Weiss. A special thanks to Masie Cochran, who worked with me
on a very early draft; also to friends who have over the years talked me out of giving up on writing, including Jules Catania, Wendy Claus, Mame Cudd, Jody Hallam, Christie Maroulis, and Nancy Odden. I am grateful to all those who supported me so generously when A Lady in the Smoke was published, by inviting me as a guest to their blog, hosting me at their book clubs, and helping me discover the lovely collaborative world of fellow writers and readers of historical fiction, especially Ann Marie Ackermann, Jessica Bohl, Donna Cleinman, Denise Kantner, Ruth Lebed, Susan Elia MacNeal, and Marshal Zeringue.
Thanks to Heather Chaney and Roger Ruggeri, for advice on music; to Dr. Amelia Gallitano-Mendel, for talking me through mental illness and the specifics of bipolar disorder; to Kathryn Adamson, Librarian at the Royal Academy of Music, and to the Royal Academy itself, whose exhibit on their nineteenth-century students and Victorian music helped me to realize my story; to Jon Freeman, the building manager at Wilton’s Music Hall in Graces Alley, who allowed me to prowl around and patiently answered all my questions about this music hall, established in the 1840s and still in existence; to Nikasha Patel, for the Latin translations; and to the authors whose books I read in search of accurate histories and information. (For a partial list, see the Further Reading section. All factual errors in my novel are my own.)
Thanks to my extraordinary editor Priyanka Krishnan, who believed in both this book and A Lady in the Smoke; to my wonderful agent, Josh Getzler, and the entire crew at HSG; to the entire William Morrow editing, marketing, and publicity team, including Jen Hart, Elle Keck, Amelia Wood, Caro Perny, Dale Rohrbaugh, and Diahann Sturge; to my copy editor, Brenda Woodward; and a special thanks to Elsie Lyons for a lovely cover.
