The landlady’s visit had been the final goad. They needed the money her work would bring, far more than any of them were willing to admit. It was their only source of income. Her brother’s piano students among the gentry were long gone.
“Hm.” Nicholas held the first page up to catch the dim light. “It’s in E minor.”
“A minor composition?” Papa’s voice was stern. “Are you certain?”
Clara stifled a sudden, wild urge to giggle. How could the music be anything but in a minor key?
It was winter, almost as cold and dark inside their small house as it was outside in the streets of their dilapidated neighborhood. The pantry was dwindling down to potatoes and cabbages and a sliver of salted meat. They barely had the money to furnish Mary with laundry soap. It was fortunate that Clara’s dresses had been drab colors originally, for they were all brownish grey by now.
The only melodies that could possibly find roost in her mind were in minor keys, shaded with melancholy.
“Yes,” she said. “E minor.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her.
Nicholas lit the candles at the piano. “Have you named it?”
It was impossible not to name her compositions, though Papa invariably changed them. She touched her gold locket, the one that had belonged to Mama, one finger stroking the smooth metal.
“The piece is called Trieste.” Sadness.
A tap of Papa’s cane. “Too feminine. Better we name it…” Another tap while he thought. “Air in E minor. Yes. Now, let us hear it.”
Nicholas settled himself at the keys. He leaned forward, fingers poised, then began.
Slow and quiet at first, the phrases dipped and turned like smoke, like unvoiced dreams, while his left hand kept a steady, tolling beat. Then the middle section—the music seeking the light like a flower, straining upward. Nicholas hit a wrong key and she winced, but held her tongue. Onward… and now to the part where the brightness faded into a series of descending notes, the flower curled into itself, and the piece finally came to rest.
Silence, and utter stillness, followed the last note. Nicholas’s hands lay motionless on the keyboard. On the whole, he had done it justice. Clara tugged a strand of her pale hair loose and tried not to look at Papa.
“Well.” He gave a sharp nod. “It should fetch a decent price. Nicholas, make a copy, and I will deliver it to the publishers in the morning.”
It was the closest he would come to a compliment. It was enough. The landlady would not need to send her burly sons on the morrow. There would be food on the table, with a little left over to keep the creditors at bay.
Nicholas stood and crossed the room to take her hands. “It’s lovely, Clara. I know the exact feeling it conveys.”
Clara nodded at him. Her brother was familiar with other feelings, far bleaker than the ones she had set to music. But that was behind them now.
“You should rest,” he said.
“Yes.” Eyes heavy with exhaustion, she dropped her hands and turned away.
The stairs were steeper than ever, and creaked under her feet as she mounted into the darkness, not bothering to take a light. Behind her, the music began again as Nicholas familiarized himself with the composition. The bright and sorrowful notes twined about her, following her into sleep.
***
The ticking of a metronome in her dream transformed to someone knocking insistently at the front door. Clara blinked at the gray light seeping through the curtains and struggled up, pushing the warm blankets away. Mary, their distant cousin and maid-of-all-work, would answer. And surely Papa was home from delivering the rent by now, but Clara’s curiosity was even more insistent than her desire to burrow back beneath the covers.
Cold air against her skin pulled her completely awake. The fabric of her dress was chilly as she hurriedly slipped it over her chemise. She pulled the brush through her hair, grabbed her woolen shawl, and hastened to the landing in time to see Papa open the door. Peeking over the railing, she could make out the legs and shoes of a finely dressed gentleman.
“What is this?” Papa was never gentle with strangers.
Clara edged to the window at the top of the stairs and glanced outside. A large coach was parked before their house, the black lacquered doors and gilt trim as out of place in their neighborhood as a raven among sparrows. In the windows of the row houses across the street, faces stared out like pale, curious moons.
“Sir.” The visitor appeared untouched by Papa’s manner. “Do I have the pleasure of finding the Becker household?”
“Who is enquiring?”
“I am Peter Widmere, agent for…” He made a dramatic pause, and she could hear Papa’s cane thump impatiently.
“Get on it with it,” Papa demanded.
“Agent for Darien Reynard.”
Papa’s cane stilled, and Clara drew in her breath. Darien Reynard! The most famous musician on the Continent! What was his agent doing here?
“Darien Reynard? The maestro?” Papa’s forbidding air had faded entirely.
Clara peeked out the window again, trying to see inside the coach. Was it possible Reynard himself was within? She lifted a hand to her hair, the fine strands still dream-tangled. Her heart accelerated, sending a tremble of indecision through her. Should she dash back to her room and finish dressing properly?
But if she left now she would miss everything.
“The very same,” Mr. Widmere said. “Now, tell me. Are you Nicholas Becker’s father?”
“Yes,” Papa said, “I am Herr Becker. Tell me why you have come.”
“I was sent to deliver these tickets.” The man reached into his coat pocket and drew out an envelope. “As you are no doubt aware, Mr. Reynard performs tonight at the King’s Theatre. He directs your family to attend.”
Clara covered her mouth, silencing a gasp. She and her brother had spoken of attending Darien Reynard’s concert, as one speaks of traveling to Italy, or dining with a duke. It had been as out of reach for them as the clouds.
Papa’s back stiffened, as if to deny that any man could command him, but he held out his hand for the tickets. “Very well. We will come to the concert.”
“Excellent.” The agent made a crisp bow. “Mr. Reynard will be gratified to hear it. Good day, sir.”
Papa stood, leaning on his cane as the man marched back to the coach and pulled open the door. The interior was empty. Clara let out a silent sigh of disappointment—or perhaps relief. Of course the maestro would not grace them with his presence, especially not in such a quarter of London.
But they would get to see him perform, this very evening! The clatter of wheels as the coach pulled away echoed the excitement pulsing through her. Darien Reynard, the legendary violinist, had sent them tickets. It was dizzying.
She did not care what they said of him, the stories of his excesses and vices, the whispers that he colluded with the devil in exchange for the power to move men’s souls with his playing. The only thing that mattered was that tonight, tonight, she would see him take the stage and hear him play. A thrilled vibration settled in her chest, then expanded until her whole body hummed, like a piano string struck by a velvet hammer of anticipation.
Papa shut the door, then thumbed through the contents of the envelope.
“Hmph,” he said. “Come down, Clara. Three tickets.” His tone edged on disapproval, as though their benefactor knew too much about them already.
There was so much that must be kept secret.
Clara drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders as she descended to the chilly parlor. She was so very tired of being constantly cold. Surely the tickets had put Papa in a generous mood? And since he had not said otherwise, he had been able to sell her composition to the publishers and pay the landlady her due.
“May we light a fire, Papa?” It was a shocking waste of coal to light the hearth in the daytime, but her fingers were nearly numb. “I will bring the mending down and work beside it.”
He gave a single nod.
She did not wait for more, but bent to the fireplace, carefully wielding the tongs. Perhaps she could send Mary to the bakery to bring home a fresh loaf. What a splendid day it was already. She hardly dared imagine the evening to come.
First, however, was the pressing issue of the mending. Her best gown had a tear in the hem, and Nicholas’s good wool coat needed a button. Papa, of course, would be turned out in his usual severe black suit. Though they rarely could afford to attend concerts, Papa insisted they maintain the proper appearances.
They would do well enough. After all, it was not as though they would be seated in one of the grand boxes reserved for the ton.
CHAPTER TWO
They were seated in one of the grand boxes reserved for the ton.
Clara fingered the simple gold locket about her neck and curled deeper into the plush velvet seat, trying to make herself invisible. Sitting in the upper-level boxes changed the entire feel of the theater. The noise and heat rose around them, a dozen conversations buzzing in her ears.
“Do you think the king is here?” Nicholas could not stop glancing into the other boxes. “Look, Clara, surely that is the Duke of Kent, and next to him… the lord chancellor, is it not?”
She did not know, though she was pleased to see Nicholas so animated. The adjacent box was occupied by a grandly dressed lady, gems glittering at her throat and ears, who lifted her lorgnette and surveyed the family with a contemptuous air. The woman nudged her companion, a distinguished-looking fellow wearing a coat decorated with medals. His eyes slid past them as if there were only empty seats in their box. Face heating, Clara pretended to study the program, though she had memorized it already. Beethoven for the first half, then a selection of shorter pieces for the second.
But they were here because Darien Reynard himself had sent them tickets. The thought lifted her chin again, and she met the woman’s stare with an even smile. They belonged, because the maestro had made it so.
Nicholas leaned out to view the crowd, his eyes bright. “Everyone is here. There’s Mr. Cramer from the publishing company, and Henry Bishop. I hear he’s working on a new opera.”
“Hush,” Papa said. “They are putting out the lights.”
Dimness descended and Clara let out her breath. Anticipation pulsed from her toes upward, coiling bright and warm in her chest. Only moments now, and she would see him perform. Darien Reynard. She tasted the syllables of his name as though they were chocolate upon her tongue.
The gaslights at the front of the stage flared and a hush spread through the audience, the last conversations sputtering out.
A man walked onstage and Clara leaned forward—but no, it was the accompanist, an older, sandy-haired man who took his place at the piano. He swiveled and looked back into the wings, and the audience burst into expectant applause.
Now Darien Reynard strode forward, claiming the appreciation as his due, and there was no mistaking that this was the man. Violin tucked easily under one arm, he moved with a contained grace, his tall, broad-shouldered frame poised and full of energy. A shock of wavy black hair nearly touched his shoulders, and his elegant coat was even darker—pure shadow, as though the light could find no purchase upon it.
He surveyed the crowd, gaze penetrating, then halted at center stage and flicked a glance up toward their box, almost as if he could he see them in the dimness. Clara moistened her lips, barely breathing, until his attention sheered away.
His mobile, sensual mouth set in a half-smile that only added mystery to his handsome face, Darien Reynard inclined his head to the audience. He set his instrument on his shoulder. With a dramatic sweep of his right arm he raised his bow, then held it motionless above the strings. Instantly the murmurs and rustles ceased.
The first chord sprang from the instrument and rippled into the air, followed by another, another, as he caressed his violin, the notes throbbing with passion. The piano joined in, and the music moved into a sprightlier theme. Clara’s heart beat in time; ached and sighed while the figure on the stage led her forward into rapture and mystery. This, this, was how she heard music. A doorway into another land, a place where everything was luminous with emotion.
He was never still. Even in the andante sections he swayed, as though the music was weeping through him, the notes pulled forth from his body through the gleaming golden wood he held in his hands. Clara was certain her eyes were not the only ones blurred with unshed tears.
The final movement burst like constellations through her, jubilant sprays of notes flung out over the audience. He took the melody at a blistering speed, the bow now flying over the strings so quickly she half expected to see smoke following in its wake. The music exploded about her, rushing upward as Darien Reynard drove the piece forward. The accompanist could barely keep up with him as Beethoven’s Sonata No. 9 thundered to a breathtaking close.
Instantly the audience sprang to its feet, shouting approval, the rush of sound raw and graceless compared to what had just gone before. Clara rose, program fluttering to the floor, and applauded as loudly as she could through the muffling of her gloves. Glorious. Simply glorious.
“That was Beethoven as he ought to be played,” Nicholas said. “Reynard could repeat it for the second half and I’d be well satisfied.”
Even Papa unbent enough to agree, though his approval was tacit. “The acoustics up here are improved.”
“It was much more than better acoustics,” Nicholas said. “That was a master at work.”
Clara nodded. She could not speak yet, not while Darien Reynard’s playing still echoed through her, but she was in complete agreement. She had never heard anything so splendid.
“I’m going to fetch some refreshment.” Nicholas turned to her. “Coming?”
The thought of journeying through the glittering crowd that swirled outside their box made the skin between her shoulders tighten.
She shook her head, preferring to sit quietly and savor the memory of the man and his music. Clara glanced up toward the gilt ceiling, imagining that the notes were still gathered there, spinning and dancing in the shadows. If she listened closely perhaps she could catch their bright echo.
She closed her eyes, but there were too many voices between her and the trapped strands of melody. Snatches of conversation floated past.
“…in Madrid he couldn’t even go out in the street, the crowds followed him everywhere…”
“…the crown princess fainted at his performance. Of course now it is the fashion for everyone to faint at his feet.” A feminine giggle. “I wouldn’t mind swooning anywhere upon his person, I declare. Such a magnetic man!”
It was true enough. Darien Reynard was impossibly handsome, even without the power of his musical mastery. She did not think any woman could avoid being captivated by him.
Nicholas returned with tea and she sipped at her cup. The warmth of the beverage joined the memory of music still curling about her, the heat of the theater wrapping about them. She was warm from her head to her toes. It was a delicious sensation.
Finally, the house lights were extinguished again and the crowd became an expectant, eager presence in the softly lit dark. This time Darien Reynard strode alone onto the stage, as self-assured as a man entering his own kingdom. He held up his hand, and the audience obediently stilled.
“Ladies. Gentlemen.” His voice was rich and resonant, filling the space as effortlessly as his playing had done. “It is not on the program, but this evening I have a special treat for you.”
The audience buzzed happily. Darien Reynard waited for silence to fall again.
“Tonight, I am pleased to introduce the work of a composer, little known, but of great talent. This piece moves me deeply, as I know it will move you.”
A hum of speculation moved through the audience at his words, and Clara straightened. She did not often have the chance to hear new compositions.
Darien Reynard gave a single nod. “I give you Rondo, by Nicholas Becker. Attend.”
She fell
back against her seat, astonishment pinning her to the velvet. Rondo? Her Rondo?
The first notes confirmed it. Heat flashed through her as the music she had penned surged from Darien Reynard’s violin. She was insensible to everything but the man before her, the genius who played her very soul out into the open, who took the sweet, spiraling melody of her piece and transmuted it into pure emotion.
Yearning etched the air as he leaned into the notes, his unruly hair falling about his face. Clara breathed with the movements of his bow, and the entire audience breathed with her. She suddenly believed all the rumors. If he wished, the riveting figure before them could steal all their souls without a single protest.
The last note faded into stillness, an awed hush of perfect quiet. Her heart beat, knocking against the silence, three, four times. Then cries of “bravo!” and wild applause thundered down, like a dam giving way before the torrent. Darien Reynard held his head high and let it wash around him, seeming unconcerned that the force of such adulation might sweep him away. Surrounded by the tumult, Clara sat transfixed, unable to make even a pretense of clapping.
Her music. Her very heart.
Then Darien Reynard raised his arm, palm upwards, and gestured to the box where they sat, bidding the composer to rise and take a bow. Without meaning to, without any thought at all, she gathered herself to stand. Only the weight of Papa’s hand landing heavily on her shoulder kept her in her seat. Turning her head, she met Nicholas’s eyes.
Wonder and pride shone there. And then guilt. His gaze slid away from hers and he stood, cheeks growing pink as he acknowledged the applause washing over him, the shouts of approval.
Darien Reynard nodded, a sudden smile flickering across his face. Throat tight, Clara swallowed and tried to remember what was most important. It didn’t matter that Nicholas must be the one taking the credit. Darien Reynard had played her music. Played it before all of London, and played it splendidly.
The Piano Tutor - A Spicy Regency Short Story Page 4
