by Stella Riley
‘Yes.’
‘Do you even know where that is? No.’ This as Elizabeth would have spoken. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t care where it is. Don’t do this, Lizzie. Please don’t!’
‘And do what instead? Stay here helping Mama with the house and Papa with the parish? Because with or without the duchess’s invitation, I am not going to London. So can we please, please stop talking about it? It doesn’t do any good. In fact, it makes everything worse.’
For a second, Arabella froze. Then, absorbing the bleakness in her cousin’s blue eyes and feeling thoroughly guilty, she whispered, ‘Sorry. I’m sorry, Lizzie. It was stupid of me not to realise how much you wanted …’ She stopped. ‘You always behave as if everything is all right. But it’s not, is it?’
‘No,’ agreed Elizabeth with a careful lack of expression. ‘It’s not.’
There was a long silence while, frowning, Arabella pleated and re-pleated a fold of her taffeta skirt. Then she looked up, her expression rather odd, and said, ‘If you were to go to Nottinghamshire … when might you be leaving?’
‘It isn’t settled yet so I can’t say. But soon, I hope. Why?’
Arabella opened her mouth, closed it again and eventually said carefully, ‘Because I’ve just had what might be a brilliant idea. Or then again, not. So I think I’ll keep it to myself until I know one way or another.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER TWO
The new Earl of Chalfont looked up from the letter Dr Featherstone had handed to him and said vaguely, ‘I daresay this female will be as good as any other.’
‘We can but hope so – since hers was the only application,’ retorted Paul. ‘As you can see, she’s making her acceptance of the position conditional on receiving more information. Once she has it, she could be here inside the month. Will you hold out that long?’
They were sitting in a corner of the Dog and Duck where, when he remembered to eat at all, Julian generally took his main meal of the day. Even after six months in the neighbourhood, he was still the object of curious stares because nobody could equate the title with his shabby, unkempt appearance.
He shrugged in answer to his friend’s question.
‘Things can’t get any worse than they already are.’
‘It will be easier when the harvesting is over.’
‘Will it? Why?’
‘One thing less to deal with?’ Paul studied him without appearing to do so, noting the signs of sleeplessness and the utter bleakness in the dark green eyes. ‘Has there been any word at all from the lawyers?’
‘No. I’ve stopped expecting it. They got me here so they could make Chalfont’s problems mine instead of theirs.’ His mouth twisted wryly. ‘If I hadn’t been such a naïve idiot, I might have known better than fall for it. But I was and I did … and now I’m stuck with it. I’m drowning under debts I didn’t create and boundary disputes and … children.’
‘Yes. How is it going with them?’
‘The same as always. They’re supposed to be attending the parsonage school but no one knows where they are half of the time – though they usually turn up for meals.’
‘It’s to be expected. They had been running wild for the best part of a year before you took them in. I’m sure the villagers are duly grateful.’
‘Not that I’ve noticed,’ muttered Julian, pushing aside his half-full plate. ‘The women still won’t take work in the house in case I’ve inherited the fourth earl’s habit of siring bastards. But the complaints have stopped – so that’s something, I suppose.’
The complaints aren’t why you took the little pests to live in your house though, are they? thought Paul. You did it because they had nowhere else to go.
He had first met Julian Langham six weeks after his arrival in the district and mere days since – to everybody’s astonishment – he had given a home of sorts to the three illegitimate offspring of his predecessor.
That meeting lived in Paul’s mind. It had been raining. Soaked to the skin and as white as his shirt, Lord Chalfont had arrived at his door carrying an unconscious boy, wrapped up in his own coat. He’d said, ‘Please … he fell and I don’t know what to do.’
‘Fell?’ Having taken the child inside and laid him on the table in his surgery, Paul had begun checking for broken bones. ‘Where?’
‘In the hall. He was sliding down the bannister and – and he fell.’ Julian had swallowed hard, looking as if he wanted to vomit. ‘About eight feet, on to the flagstones.’
‘Well, he doesn’t appear to have broken anything so it’s likely he’s just … ah.’ The child had groaned, eyelids fluttering. ‘He’s starting to come round. Which one is he?’ And when his lordship hadn’t immediately replied, ‘What is his name?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t …’ He stopped, looking helpless. ‘They d-dart about, you see.’
What Paul had seen was that the new earl’s teeth were chattering with cold and shock … and that he looked on the verge of both physical and mental collapse. He’d concluded that, whoever this man was, he wasn’t what anyone had been expecting; and in the months since then, he’d had no reason to change this opinion.
‘They baffle me,’ said Julian suddenly.
The abrupt words brought Paul’s mind back to the present. He said, ‘Who?’
‘The children. They rarely speak to me but sometimes I see them watching. It’s … unnerving.’ He stared into what was left of his ale as if expecting it to provide answers. Then, glancing up, ‘You haven’t told her, have you? Mistress … whatever her name is. You haven’t told her about the children. Not properly.’
‘No, I haven’t – and I won’t be completely forthcoming when I reply to this.’ Paul pocketed the letter and grinned suddenly. ‘I’d feel guilty about that if I didn’t suspect there are things she hasn’t told us … such as why, lacking a character from a previous employer, she didn’t ask the local clergyman or doctor to supply one.’
‘Perhaps she didn’t think of it.’
‘Julian, most people aren’t as vague as you. Of course she thought of it.’
‘If she understands children, I don’t care. I don’t know the first thing about them.’
‘Not even having been one yourself?’ objected Paul, managing not to laugh. ‘And being around other boys your age?’
‘No. We lived in a fairly remote spot and I was an only child, so Mother wouldn’t hear of me going away to school. I had a tutor and, for a time, also a music teacher until I went to Cambridge.’ A faint smile tugged Julian’s mouth. ‘You look appalled. But it wasn’t that bad. As long as I had music, I didn’t need anything else.’ The smile slid away, as he contemplated the ruin of his hands. Long-fingered and elegantly-boned, they were littered with scratches, the marks of old blisters and the beginnings of calluses. ‘In truth, if I had that now I’d be coping better with the rest of this mess.’
Surprised that he hadn’t understood this before, it was several moments before Paul spoke. But finally he said, ‘Aren’t you finding any time at all to play?’
‘Play what? The harpsichord is still not in working order.’
‘But you’ve been repairing it since you first got here!’
‘With insufficient time and none of the proper materials,’ muttered Julian. ‘Strings were broken, the jackrail was split and half the jacks were damaged. Nearly all the dampers had rotted and mice had been nesting on the soundboard, for God’s sake. I told you all that.’
The doctor stared at him in exasperation
‘Julian … I can name every bone in your hand and tell you more about your liver than you’d really want to know – but the internal workings of musical instruments are as big a mystery to me as they are to most other people. However … I gather what you’re saying is that you haven’t played a note since you left Vienna. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it’s killing you.’
Julian hunched one shoulder and said nothing.
Paul stood. ‘Get up and co
me with me.’
‘What? Why?’
‘If you’d made any attempt to get to know your neighbours instead of going about with your head down and your hands in your pockets, you’d be aware that your struggles to mend matters at Chalfont without raising rents haven’t gone unnoticed. There are people who would help if you asked them. But you don’t ask. You hide.’
‘I don’t --’
‘Reverend Hassall would have been happy for you to play the church organ. Did you think of that?’ Paul’s determination to sound bracing rather than sympathetic came out more gruffly than he had intended. ‘But I forgot. You don’t attend church, do you?’
‘I went once.’ Julian shifted uneasily. ‘I’d intended to speak to the vicar. But the regular organist has rheumatism in his hands and --’
‘He does. Is less than perfect playing too painful for you to listen to?’
‘No. What hurt was knowing what that must mean to him. And that hearing me play wouldn’t have made him feel any better.’
The air hissed between Paul’s teeth. He said, ‘Ah. My apologies.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He rose. ‘I should go back. Ridley thinks the weather may break before we’ve got the last of the --’
‘You can spare another hour. It’s time you discovered that the heap of firewood you are trying to mend isn’t the only harpsichord within reach.’
Panic swept over Julian’s face and he froze.
‘No. I can’t. It’s been six months. I can’t play in front of anybody. I --’
‘You may not be offered the chance. But if you are, whether or not you do so is up to you. Now … stop arguing and come with me. Like you, I’ve work to do this afternoon.’
Between the Dog and Duck and the pretty villa on the edge of the village, progress was halted several times by persons wishing to pass the time of day with the doctor and be introduced to the new earl. An unpleasant mixture of shyness and embarrassment rolling about his chest, Julian flushed and fidgeted as he tried to make the correct responses. Paul began by wanting to laugh. Then he started to notice that Julian’s obvious awkwardness was doing him no disservice – on the contrary, in fact. People seemed to find it endearing.
The door of the villa was opened by a neat maid who cast a doubtful glance at Julian, then beamed at the doctor.
‘Are the ladies at home, Millie?’ he asked. ‘And if they are, do they have a few minutes to spare for me?’
‘They’ve always got time for you, sir – you know that. One moment and I’ll --’
‘Dr Featherstone!’ said a resonant contralto from the far end of the hall. ‘This is a pleasant surprise. Bea? Oh – there you are.’ This as another lady emerged from an open doorway. ‘We have visitors and can therefore quite legitimately put off the household accounts until tomorrow.’
‘Excellent,’ said the second lady. ‘Millie – tea in the drawing-room, if you please.’
‘That’s exceedingly kind, Miss Beatrice but we won’t stay,’ said Paul, smiling. ‘I merely hoped you would allow me to present Lord Chalfont to you. Julian – Mistress Caldercott and her sister, Miss Abigail Caldercott.’
Finding himself impaled on two pairs of bright hazel eyes, in the faces of two ladies of middling years, Julian mumbled something and managed a reasonably creditable bow. The ladies curtsied and Miss Abigail said, ‘We’ve been wondering when we would finally meet you, my lord. Now come in, sit down and tell us what we may do for you.’
He cast a glance of agonised appeal at the doctor, reluctantly trailed the Misses Caldercott into the drawing-room … and then stopped dead, his gaze transfixed by the pretty, rosewood instrument by the windows. Paul said something but he didn’t hear what it was or which of the sisters replied. All he knew was that there was a gaping hole inside him and across the room was the dual-keyboard miracle that could fill it.
Miss Abigail captured some small part of his attention by laying her hand on his sleeve. She said, ‘Dr Featherstone says you play. Is that right?’
He nodded. ‘I … yes.’
She looked up into his face and was shocked by what she saw there. Avid hunger mixed oddly with something that looked like terror. Drawing him a couple of steps closer to the harpsichord, she said, ‘Then, if you wish to try our instrument, please feel free to do so while the doctor takes tea. You will not disturb us in the least – will he, Bea?’
‘Not at all, dear.’
‘There. You see?’ She lifted the lid, put the strut in place and heard his indrawn breath. ‘Just sit down here and take your time.’ Then, turning away and as if ignoring him, ‘Ah … and here is the tea. Thank you, Millie. Bea – will you pour or shall I?’
Julian stood like a stone for several minutes, then stroked the edge of the casing with reverent fingers. But finally the lure of the keyboard became irresistible and he sat down before it. He lifted a hand, realised that it was shaking and restored it to his lap. He took several deep breaths. Finally, before he could change his mind, he reached out and played a swift chromatic scale, followed by a series of equally rapid arpeggios. Behind him, silence fell. Unaware of it and frowning a little, he concentrated on a single note … first alone and then in both major and minor triads. The frown deepened; he pulled a small tuning-hammer from his pocket and rose to look inside the instrument. Head bent, he said as if to himself, ‘The F above middle C is flat.’
‘Is it?’ Miss Beatrice was surprised. ‘Are you sure, my lord? It sounds perfectly all right to me and without a tuning-fork --’
‘It’s flat and I don’t need a fork,’ he mumbled. One hand delicately adjusted the tuning-pin, the other repeatedly tested the offending key until it grew fractionally sharp. Harpsichords, as he knew only too well, had a habit of tricking you. For a couple of minutes more, he continued playing the same key, over and over until the string settled to the place he wanted it and stayed there. Only then did he sit down and run through the same checks as before and until he was satisfied.
Unfortunately, the comfort of a mundane task he’d performed hundreds of times evaporated in the face of the knowledge that now he must either play something or get up and walk away. He couldn’t walk away any more than he could stop breathing. He wanted to play; the need was so acute his chest ached with it. But his brain was saying, What if I can’t? What if my hands don’t remember? What if it’s all gone?
Dread paralysed him. For twenty years, he had practised for five hours a day – often more. He had no idea how even a week without playing a note could impair his ability – let alone six months. He’d told Paul he couldn’t play in front of anyone; but that wasn’t the problem. What was stopping him now was the mind-numbing possibility that he wouldn’t be able to play at all.
Sweat crawled between his shoulder-blades. He thought, I have to face this. I have to get past it. If I don’t … if I can’t …
He shut his eyes, lifted his hands and plunged, without pausing to think, into Bach’s Fantasia in C minor. And the world which had been off-key for so long … so very long … was suddenly in tune again.
The opening cascade of notes, the militant chords and the complex base line rang out crisp and sure. It was a virtuoso piece. He could have chosen a score of easier ones but, subconsciously, he had chosen this because, among its many challenges, the Fantasia demanded the one thing which, just at present, he didn’t have. Confidence.
All his doubts and fears fled. Everything vanished except the music. And when he finally brought the piece to its darkly dramatic finale, it was on an outpouring of pure triumph.
Four-and-a-quarter minutes. He knew to a fraction how long it took to play this piece. A little over four minutes … yet here he was, shaking in every muscle, heart pounding and breathing as if he had run a mile. He hauled in a ragged breath, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and let gratitude and relief overwhelm him.
Oh God. Thank you. Not gone. Out of practice, yes … but not gone.
The acute silence after the last note died away
lasted only a handful of seconds. Then four people burst into applause. Having forgotten anyone was there, Julian started and turned. Not just the doctor and the middle-aged sisters but also the little maidservant in the doorway; all of them on their feet, wildly clapping.
Stalking across the floor to grip his shoulder, Paul said baldly, ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. Nothing you’ve said prepared me for …’ He stopped, shaking his head. ‘I expected you to play well. But what I just heard was worthy of the concert platform.’
‘Not really,’ came the embarrassed and typically literal reply. ‘The trills weren’t as smooth as they ought to have been and I missed a couple of appoggiaturas. I’m a bit rusty.’
‘Rusty?’ It was Miss Abigail who spoke. ‘Really? Young man … if you think practise can better that performance, you had better come here regularly and make it so.’
Julian stood up, his face lighting into a rare and spectacularly sweet smile.
‘May I? Truly? It wouldn’t be an intrusion?’
‘Dear boy,’ said Miss Beatrice, reaching out to fold one of his hands in hers, ‘it would be our very great pleasure.’
* * *
For the first time, Julian walked the mile back to Chalfont Hall without his heart plummeting further at every step. Where life had been a black hole, there was now a glimmer of light. After he had been absent from Vienna for almost two months, Herr Krassnig had written making it plain that either he returned immediately to fulfil the engagements awaiting him or his career in that city was finished. Julian would have sold his soul to go back. In truth, he’d have sold it never to have left. But return hadn’t been possible and still wasn’t; and now, though he might never give another concert, at least music was no longer completely denied him … so he need not starve.
Having lured him to Chalfont, Bartle, Bartle & Fellowes had promptly terminated their services. It had not taken Julian long to understand why. Aside from the debts racked up by the fourth earl, there was a boundary dispute with one of the estate’s neighbours. Mr Bascombe claimed that a stream which had once fed both estates had been diverted in Chalfont’s favour. Maps which ought to have proved or disproved this accusation were unaccountably missing and legal action was looming ever closer. Seeing this, knowing of the debts and realising that there was scant chance of being paid, Bartle, Bartle & Fellowes had washed their hands of the Chalfont earldom.
