Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance)

by Carolyn Jewel

  Chapter 8

  I

  Not long after the outing at Ranelagh, Lady Julia arrived at Redruth determined to entice Isobel into going out once more; this time she had arranged a large party from which she could not possibly be separated. Julia was shown to the music room, where she found Isobel so intent on the fortepiano that she did not hear the servant’s announcement. Julia signaled the footman to go and stood in the doorway to listen with rapt attention. She had never heard anything so sad in her life. The notes cried out to her, slowing, softening, yet never losing a clarity that made her wonder how anyone could have stood such sorrow except to express it exactly so.

  “Who was that?” she asked when Isobel sat tapping one finger on the sheets of music in front of her. She jumped at the sound of Julia’s voice and hastily placed a songbook over the sheaf of papers before turning to smile at her. Julia sat down next to her. “It was very sad. And beautiful.”

  “’Twas nothing.” She shrugged and played a trill, her fingers moving rapidly over the keys. “Just something I made up. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. I played badly.” She gave a disappointed smile.

  “It was you? I mean,” she said, when Isobel raised her eyebrows, “was it you who wrote it?”

  “The very same.” Julia was silent and Isobel gave a little half smile. “I had lessons in America.”

  “Surely you have lessons here?” She leaned one arm on the fortepiano and alternately tapped two keys with the fingers of the other.

  “The man I want to study with won’t take on a woman student. He said I played very nicely and he was sure my husband would be proud to have such an accomplished wife. It was so unfair!”

  “Oh, pshaw!” Julia laughed and played a scale. “Women have music lessons all the time. I had lessons myself. As you can hear, they were quite a success.”

  “You don’t understand.” Isobel shook her head. “I don’t want to play just the fortepiano; anyone can do that. I write music, and not only for fortepiano, but for the orchestra…symphonies! I want to hear my music performed someday. It will be performed! It’s worse here than it was in America. An Englishwoman with any ambition beyond having children might as well be dead!” She banged her hands down on the keys in frustration.

  “But, Isobel—”

  “At least let me fail after I have tried my best. To fail because I am not permitted to try is a crime against my soul. I refuse to believe I am inferior! You heard me play, Julia. Did you think the music inferior? No, you thought it must have been written by a man. Not even Mr. Walters could call it inferior. He simply refused to believe I had written it.”

  “So, find another teacher.”

  “But who? I don’t know of anyone else.”

  “John Faircourt,” Julia said.

  “I doubt he’d take me on as a serious student.”

  John Faircourt had no small reputation as a composer, and he was said to be highly discriminating about whom he chose to study with him.

  “I think I might have some influence with him,” Julia said. “My father was his patron, you know.”

  “If I was a man, Mr. Walters would not have hesitated to work with me.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Faircourt will have no such hesitation. Do promise me you’ll go to him. I’ll even write you a letter of introduction.”

  When Isobel and Bridget arrived at John Faircourt’s house, Isobel’s mouth was dry and she swallowed nervously before knocking. What would she do if he refused to accept her? He was, after all, one of London’s most well known musicians. “Is Mr. Faircourt at home?” she asked the servant who opened the door.

  “Who shall I say is calling?”

  “Miss Isobel St. James. I’ve a letter of introduction.” She presented Julia’s letter.

  She did not have to wait long before the servant came back to usher her into Mr. Faircourt’s drawing room. He rose when she came in and, smiling warmly, bent over her hand.

  “So, you desire to continue your music lessons with me, do you, Miss St. James?” He held Julia’s letter in his other hand. He was about fifty years of age and was not a particularly tall man. His prodigious stomach was proof he enjoyed his roast beef and pudding to the utmost. He wore gray breeches, none too loose at that, and a gold-embroidered waistcoat of the same color. His shirt was a fine silk, and frothy point lace fairly dripped from his cuffs and cravat. His receding hair was worn long and was excessively pomaded and curled, Isobel thought.

  “Yes, Mr. Faircourt, I do.”

  “Tell me, Miss St. James, have you a favorite musician?” He refolded Julia’s letter and slipped it into his pocket. “Is there someone you wish to style yourself after?”

  Isobel could not help suspecting that he was humoring her and it rankled her. “I wish to style myself after no one but myself, Mr. Faircourt. But, if I may say so, I think there is a great deal for me to learn from you.” Faircourt chuckled at that. “I want to be a composer,” she rushed on, “not merely a fortepiano player. I may never be as great as Wolfgang Mozart, but I feel I have something.”

  “So, you think Herr Mozart is great, do you?”

  “I believe he is a genius, Mr. Faircourt,” she said fervently.

  “I do not share your enthusiasm for the Austrians.” He looked down his nose at her and raised his eyebrows. “However, I suppose my students are entitled to an opinion or two of their own.”

  “Would you care to hear me play?”

  “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, Miss St. James. Lady Julia’s recommendation is quite enough for me.”

  “But, what if I have no talent?”

  “If the Lady Julia says you have talent, then it is so!”

  Isobel must have looked surprised, because he coughed and said, “Well, perhaps you might play something, if only to prove your patroness right.” He indicated the fortepiano with one hand.

  She sat down, hands poised over the keys, looking at him expectantly.

  “Anything you like, Miss St. James,” he said with a little shrug of his shoulders. She chose Mozart’s C- minor sonata for fortepiano, and when she finished, he cleared his throat. “I think that is adequate. I should, of course, be most pleased to have you as a pupil.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Faircourt, I am honored, indeed!” Isobel smiled triumphantly.

  “Though Lady Julia intimated in her letter you may not be able to devote all your energies to music, I should be happy to help you when you may come.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid my father heartily disapproves of my musical inclination,” Isobel said.

  “How very unfortunate.”

  “Is now too soon to start?”

  II

  Although their sessions were shorter than Isobel would have liked, Faircourt agreed he could work with her at least twice a week without risking unpleasant gossip. She was delighted when the two-hour practices soon stretched to three hours and then gradually to four. It was not long before she was encouraged enough at her progress to play one of her own compositions for Faircourt.

  Isobel winced at the expression on his face. “Well, what did you think?” she asked timidly. He was silent for so long that she finally said, “Was it so terrible?”

  “Quite the contrary. Miss St. James, you are talented, of that there can be no doubt. In addition to talent, you possess something few others have: the ability to work hard. Believe me, ‘tis a rare combination, and under different circumstances your success would not be in doubt.” He looked at her intently, lifting his eyebrows in an expression of uncertainty. “Wednesday fortnight I am engaged to play at Lord Huntingdon’s. I should like to have you perform, among other works, the piece you just played for me. But,”—he held up his hand to stop her interruption— “Miss St. James, how badly do you want to be a musician?” Faircourt clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing.

  “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Do you want it badly enough to do something a little…er…unusual?”

  “What ex
actly do you mean?”

  “I mean that you should play at Lord Huntingdon’s in the guise of a man.”

  “You can’t mean it!” She laughed.

  “Miss St. James, which do you want to be—a musician, or a woman musician? If you performed as a man, they would hear only your music.” He paused. “I admit the idea is a shocking one,” he said, when he saw Isobel was staring at him.

  “I think the idea is a splendid one.”

  Isobel was surprised at how easily Julia was convinced to help her. “You Americans are so daring,” she said. “But think of the scandal if you are discovered!”

  “If you help me, I won’t be discovered, Julia. I need to change my clothes here at Hartforde House. If my father or Mrs. Godwaite ever found out, it would be the end of everything. You’ve simply got to help me!”

  “You’re not going to be talked out of this, are you?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose it’s my fault for sending you to Mr. Faircourt.” She sighed.

  “Then you’ll help me?”

  They spent two entire afternoons during the week before her performance sequestered in Julia’s room altering the suit she was to wear.

  They chose the finest clothes from those Julia had procured from her brother’s valet by telling him she needed clothing to donate to the poor. Most of them were more than acceptable for a young gentleman; many of the shirts were a fine white lawn, a little worn about the cuffs, but with tolerably lacy cravats. There were also three waistcoats, two frock coats, three pairs of breeches, and Isobel had succeeded in obtaining a pair of soft leather boots and a pair of buckled shoes that fit her well enough.

  It was the things that had belonged to Lord Hartforde that they were frantically altering. There was a hardly-worn silk shirt, a frothy cravat, and a pair of gray breeches along with a matching waistcoat sporting gold-embroidered pockets. But the glory of her suit was to be the frock coat. It was green satin lined in a darker green with gold buttons in the shape of a lion’s head, and, most impressive of all, the entire coat was embroidered with gold thread. Worn but once, it was marred only by a small stain at the bottom of the hem that was cut away in making it small enough to fit Isobel’s considerably smaller frame.

  The day before the performance, Julia watched as Isobel pulled on a pair of hose and secured them to garters before pulling on the breeches, fastened at the bottom with a row of silver buttons and tied with a bow just below the knee. She examined her reflection in the mirror.

  “It’s hopeless, Julia!”

  Julia pursed her lips thoughtfully while shaking her head. “Put on the waistcoat. Maybe you won’t show so much.” But the waistcoat made little difference; the curves of Isobel’s bosom were still obvious.

  “I just knew it was too good to be true.” She threw a small pillow across the room before plopping down on the bed.

  “What if you keep your coat fastened all the time?”

  “That won’t work—I’ll have to take it off sometime.” She stared morosely at the spot where the pillow had landed. “But, of course!” She jumped up and started to loosen her shirt, smiling gleefully as she pulled it over her head.

  “What is it?”

  “If I cannot flatten myself, then I must do the opposite.” She grabbed another pillow and held it to her stomach so the top of it was level with the bottom of her breasts. “Give me a sash or something.” She held out a hand. She took the stocking Julia handed her and tied it securely around herself. This time when she had her clothes buttoned—shirt, waistcoat and frock coat—the effect was to make her look slightly plump. After she had secured a black wig on her head, she no longer recognized herself. “Well?” She held her hands out to Julia for her approval after she had pulled on the boots.

  “How pleasant to meet you, Mr. Boxham!” Julia curtsied prettily, calling her by the name Isobel had chosen—Boxham, after her mother’s maiden name, and Ian Frederick, after her initials.

  Isobel took up a handkerchief and waved it about in a foppish manner. “Oh, Lady Julia,” she minced, “M’pon honor, you’re a devilishly pretty woman! Has anyone ever told you that?” They dissolved into giggles when she rested all her weight on one leg and made a show of brushing at the lace of her cuffs. “A bloody shame if you’re engaged, I vow!”

  III

  The concert at Lord Huntingdon’s was a nerve-wracking affair, for though Isobel was entirely ignored before she played, afterward she became the darling of the guests. She was amazed to find no one seemed even the least bit suspicious. There were several inquiries about where to send invitations for future playing engagements, which she answered by responding that at the moment she was entirely in the hands of Mr. Faircourt.

  In the carriage on the way home, she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. “Thank God that’s over!” she said. “I thought I was going to faint from nerves! Can you believe not one person guessed?” She opened her eyes to look at Faircourt.

  “You were a huge success, Miss St. James, as I knew you would be.”

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, concerned at the odd tone of his voice.

  “Perfectly.”

  “I’m exhausted.”

  “You had better get used to it, for you have a future in this.”

  “Then, I have everything I could possibly want.”

  “No one must suspect you, Miss St. James. We must be more careful than ever, now society’s eye is fixed on Master Ian Boxham.” Faircourt leaned forward and tapped her knee with his knuckles. “Isobel St. James must take care to develop habits that will provide explanations for her absences from society, once you are formally introduced, that is.”

  “Whatever you say, Mr. Faircourt. We are, both of us, entirely in your hands.”

  Chapter 9

  I

  Isobel and her father spent Christmas at Marblestone Park, in South Oxon, the seat of the Chessingham earldom. She spent a great many hours at the fortepiano, much to the pleasure of her father, though it concerned him that she spent so long at the instrument. The countryside was lovely and, until the house was overrun by guests, going on long morning rides with her father and afternoon walks by herself were her chief recreations while they remained there.

  Once, during one of her walks, she came upon what looked to be an ancient Roman ruin, and that night she anxiously awaited her father’s explanation. Was it a pagan temple? The residence of some provincial Caesar? She was deflated to learn the ruins were nothing more than the landscaper’s conception of the picturesque. The ruined building was hardly much older than herself. She laughed outright when her father told her the copse of trees in the rear gardens had been deliberately planted with dead trees for the same reason. The earl agreed it was ridiculous, but, he told her, at the time it was all the fashion and, feeling like a fool, he had let the man haul in dead trees and one or two boulders to complete the scene. “Luckily I stopped short of letting him have a go at the hedges,” he remarked. “If I had, the place would be uninhabitable!”

  Shortly after Christmas, a shooting party descended on Marblestone Park at the invitation of the earl, but although some of the gentlemen had brought their wives, until she was officially “out,” the earl did not permit her to talk with any of the guests. Consequently, she was forced to have most of her meals in her room. Also, consequently, there was rampant speculation about and admiration of Lord Chessingham’s terribly handsome daughter. On the inevitable occasions when she came upon one of the guests, she could do no more than nod her head politely and either leave the room or continue on her way if they had happened to pass in the halls. Until she was introduced, it would be exceedingly improper to do any more, and at any rate, her experience with Mr. Selwynn had made her a great deal more cautious.

  One of the earl’s guests was James Stanton Fredericks, Viscount Strathemoore, who, at twenty-four, was a charming and amiable young man, well liked among men of fashion for his impeccable taste, his ready wit, and the ease with which he lo
st at hazard. He was of above-average height, not yet portly, with black hair and startling blue eyes that made him a favorite among women. He was a Whig who, before his father’s death, had stood as Member of Parliament for one of the boroughs. He had but once shown his face at the Commons. He took snuff, donated generous sums to the poor, patronized two painters and one writer, and attended church on an irregular basis, and after dozing through the sermon sincerely told himself he would go more often but never did. His father had left him a large fortune, a country house in Middlesex to which he repaired during Christmas, Easter, and summertime, and a medium-sized estate in the county of Devon that gave him about eighty thousand pounds a year. He was only able to spend about half of the income from the Devon estate because the men he left to oversee the place were robbing him of the other half. The family seat was some one hundred miles or so southwest of Bath, and he fully meant to visit the place again sometime soon. Even at the rate the viscount was spending his fortune, it would be some time before he would need to consider acquiring less prodigal habits. Currently, he was considering marriage, it being high time he got himself an heir. The trouble lay in deciding whom to marry. There were any number of deucedly pretty women to whom he was quite attracted, but there were slightly fewer who were rich enough. He had come to Marblestone Park for the sport and because he had heard the earl’s cook was incomparable. When he saw Lord Chessingham’s daughter, he saw the woman he meant to marry.

  Young Lord Strathemoore rose early one day and set out with the rest of the guests for a morning of shooting. Two dead pheasants later he turned back, claiming an injury to his foot. It so happened he had been able to discover that Miss St. James took the morning air in the rear gardens, and his trek back to Marblestone was a circuitous one by way of the back of the house. He was elated to discover the object of his interest sitting not twenty feet away from a copse of trees into which he promptly stepped. He stood there for some minutes while he decided which of a variety of strategies occurring to him was most likely to succeed in attaining his object. He was just throwing down the pheasants when somehow his gun got tangled up in the twigs of a dead tree, and in jerking it free it went off, but, to his great relief, not in the direction of Miss St. James. He yelped in surprise and had just enough time to throw himself to the ground when he heard her cry out.