A Spring Serenade

by Rachel Osborne

“I...do not know,” he said, blandly. When this brought no immediate conclusion to his discomfort and both young ladies persisted in looking at him and shrugged his shoulders. “That is, I am but a little acquainted with musicians locally. If we were in London -”

  “If we were in London you would be of even less use!” Rosemary teased, turning back to Bess to explain. “We have spent the majority of the last year in Europe, Miss Elizabeth.” She tilted her head to one side, feigning deep consideration. “I do not suppose you have any plans to travel to Paris? There was a particularly talented harpist, a lady by the name of Madame LaSalle.”

  “She has retired from performing,” Christopher said, quickly, shooting a look at Elizabeth, who had turned her wide, dark eyes back towards him. “She is married.”

  “Oh, marriage!” Rosemary sighed. “What a pity that gentlemen, who claim so ardently that they admire young ladies who are accomplished while courting, prefer them to give up every interest they have outside of the home once they are married.” She arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps I ought to be grateful for the fact that I shall never marry.”

  There had been a drop in conversations at the moment she made this declaration, and several heads swivelled in their direction.

  “Rose,” Christopher began. “You ought not to dismiss the notion.”

  “You do not plan to marry either, do you?” she countered, with a smile. “So we shall go on together as we are and be quite content.”

  “I cannot imagine anyone not wishing to marry!” Louisa murmured, loud enough for everybody to hear.

  “It is unlikely a problem you shall ever have to contend with,” Mr Weston countered, good-naturedly.

  Christopher risked a glance at his sister, wondering if behind her apparent amiability the confession she had made betrayed deeper regret. She spoke rarely of Richard, but the loss had not been so long ago as to cease from causing her pain at the oddest of occasions.

  “Have you any brothers, Miss Elizabeth?”

  Gradually conversations returned to their usual pitch, and Christopher sank back into his seat, grateful for the opportunity to remain invisible while his neighbours chattered away contentedly to one another. He could not quite keep from listening in to the conversation between his sister and Elizabeth and was surprised with the clarity with which the shy young lady spoke. He had almost entirely written her off as yet another quiet, musical mouse of a girl. How wrong he had been!

  “I have not the fortune of brothers, Miss Cluett, but I have sisters. And a brother-in-law, lately, if that counts.” She smiled. “My eldest sister, Madeline, is currently enjoying a wedding tour with him. They are due to return home soon.”

  “Oh, I hope they are here before we leave,” Rosemary said. “I should like to know her. If she is even one-half as charming as her sisters, I know I shall like her immediately.” Her voice grew wistful. “I never had a sister, but my brother and I have been everything to one another. I am grateful for him and his success means that we have lived a life many people would be quite envious of.”

  “Are you musical as well, Miss Cluett?” Elizabeth sounded genuinely interested, and Christopher was a little surprised that she enquired after his sister, rather than perpetually turning the conversation back to him. Ordinarily, people only valued Rosemary in light of her connection to him. He was glad to see that this evening she seemed to be making friends in her own right and far more easily than he had managed it!

  “Oh, not a bit! I am almost tone-deaf!”

  “My sister is too critical of her abilities, Miss Elizabeth.”

  Christopher was surprised with how naturally he joined their conversation, although he regretted that doing so betrayed how closely he had been listening. He swallowed, before forcing a smile onto his face.

  “She plays very well.”

  “Only when playing duets,” Rosemary countered, before turning to Elizabeth. “Have you ever played with a partner, Miss Turner? Perhaps we might play together after dinner.”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth coloured prettily and Christopher wondered how it was he could have dismissed her as beneath his notice before now. She had not the same obvious beauty as her sister Louisa, but she was quite pretty in her own quiet, understated way.

  “I would like that.”

  “As would I.” Rosemary turned to her brother with an arch smile. “Take care, brother. You are in danger of being outshone by us both this evening. What a novel experience that should be!”

  Chapter Eight

  Bess was not normally nervous about being asked to play for her family and friends. Indeed, she so often sought to make herself useful at Edmund’s busy evening gatherings that shy Bess found much solace in playing, rather than dancing.

  That particular evening there would be no dancing, a consensus seemingly reached without the need of discussion, for even Louisa, who usually clamoured to dance, was quietly content in sitting still. The gentlemen had scarcely returned to the parlour to join the ladies after dinner when Rosemary seized hold of Bess and declared that they would play something for everyone’s enjoyment.

  They were soon seated beside one another before the elegant piano that dominated one corner of the room, and which Bess felt almost as comfortable playing as she did her own considerably smaller instrument.

  “Here!” Rosemary announced, thrusting a well-thumbed book of sheet music before Bess’s eyes. “This does not look too difficult, does it?”

  Bess scanned the first few bars, smiling when she recognised the pretty melody. Her fingers floated almost by habit to the keys, although they hovered just above, not making a sound.

  “Yes, I see you are familiar with it. Wonderful! I shall play the second part and try not to muddle it too much.” Rosemary beamed, and together they began to play.

  It was so long since Bess had last played alongside anybody that she almost feared she had forgotten how to do it, but Rosemary made an easy partner, and they were soon playing so completely in tune with one another that it was as if they had had many years, rather than mere minutes, of practice. All too soon, their piece came to an end, and their audience clamoured for another, which Rosemary deferred to Bess to select. She chose another piece, slightly more complicated, but still one that the pair managed without too great a difficulty.

  Bess lost all consciousness of where she was, giving herself over entirely to the music and enjoying the experience of playing in tandem to a crowd of people she knew well, and one or two she did not. All too soon, they reached their final chord and the notes hung suspended in the air for a moment before a chorus of enthusiastic cheers and applause brought her back to herself.

  “I think we shall retire now, before we outlast everyone’s goodwill,” Rosemary said, with a smile. “Christopher, it is your turn to sing for your supper. Come and put Miss Elizabeth and me to shame by letting us hear something of your creation!”

  Mr Cluett’s features sank into a frown and for a moment Bess wondered if he was unimpressed by their impromptu performance. Neither she nor Rosemary was classically trained, that much was true, but she had always nursed a private degree of pride in her skill as a pianist. This was the first time, to her knowledge, that she had played before a truly talented musician, one who had performed with the greatest orchestras in the country and beyond. She hoped his apparent disappointment was not reflective of her skills but feared it was.

  “You need not play if you do not wish to,” Edmund said, his voice breaking through the silence that had fallen over the room when Christopher did not immediately leap into the void, slipping into the seat that Bess and Rosemary had just vacated.

  “Edmund.” Mrs Gale’s voice was genial, but with an underlying sharpness usually indicated she did not agree with her son’s suggestion. “I am sure Mr Cluett is only too happy to play for us.” She fixed her gaze on him, unflinchingly, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. “And perhaps to give us a sneak preview of the concerts you are to give at Castleford?”

&n
bsp; “Oh, er...” Christopher’s ears turned red and Bess thought for a moment that he seemed unduly nervous to be asked to play a little something for so small and intimate a gathering. This was a pianist who had played before crowds, yet the notion of a parlour full of undiscerning friends left him reeling.

  “Perhaps you would like a little more time to prepare,” Juliet offered, with a diplomatic smile that grew when her eyes fixed on Beth. “I am sure Bess would not mind playing us something of her own, will you dear?”

  Bess’s heart dropped down to her ankles. She knew precisely the piece Juliet was referring to, for had she not threatened to do this earlier that very evening? How long ago that now seemed, and how impossible the task of playing it now, for all these people! She swallowed. Not all these people. She did not mind Edmund hearing her, or even Nash and Mrs Gale, for they both had developed something of a soft spot for quiet, tender-hearted Bess. Edmund was as protective as a lion of his shy, sweet-natured friend. And Rosemary, surely, would have nothing but praise for her. Mr Cluett, though, would know whether she was deserving of praise or not.

  Bess had never considered herself proud, but she could not help but think she would not like to have her faults pointed out by one who knew music well enough to be aware of them.

  “I am sure nobody wishes to hear me play again,” she said, turning to Louisa. “Maybe Louisa will, in my stead.”

  “Not I!” Louisa chirruped, folding her arms across her chest. “Follow your duet? Not a chance! Nash, be a dear and go and play something.”

  “I have but one party piece.” Nash chuckled. “And I would not dream of performing it in front of such delicate ears as yours, Miss Louisa.”

  The possessor of delicate ears giggled, reddening at this praise, and Bess looked desperately to Mr Cluett, hoping he would stand in her stead, and thinking she would very much prefer to hear him play than be heard by him. His gaze met hers and he seemed, somehow, to sense the direction her thoughts had taken. He stood, brushing down his front, and took a slow step towards the piano.

  “I cannot promise a concert-worthy performance,” he said, with a rueful smile. “But if you will indulge me and not judge me too harshly, particularly after following two such wonderful performances as Miss Elizabeth and my sister gave us, I suppose I shall manage a piece or two, if you will permit?”

  Nobody was poised to refuse him, and Bess sank gratefully into the sofa beside Juliet, who elbowed her in the side.

  “That might have been you!” she whispered.

  Bess said nothing but shook her head, turning her attention to Mr Cluett and thinking how, just a few days previously, she could never have dreamed she would find herself with the opportunity to hear him play, and not as one amongst a hundred, in a large, anonymous concert all, but here, in the home of her friend.

  Mr Cluett took a breath and a hushed silence fell over the room as he began to play.

  THE SAME WRETCHED SELF-consciousness that seemed to rest heavily over him whenever he found himself close to a piano dogged him throughout his performance. This was a piece he knew well. He would not risk sharing the symphony that was as yet little more than a few scribbled notes with anyone, let alone a room full of people he barely knew.

  Instead, he fell back on his old favourites, the pieces that had helped secure his reputation as one of the brightest new stars in the musical world, and which had earned him praise throughout Europe.

  Still, the piece did not flow the way it ought to. His fingers found the notes mechanically, faltering through each crescendo and decrescendo. He clamped his lips together to keep from swearing at the poor show he was making of performing a piece he knew so well he ought to have been able to play it in his sleep. At last, after what seemed like an age, he reached the conclusion and leapt up from the piano stool, performing a brief little bow before his surprised audience had even found time to clap.

  “I do not suppose we may request an encore!” Edmund declared, leaping up to join him and shake his hand warmly. “I shall think it an honour that you played at all, Cluett, and thank you for your indulgence.” He glanced around the room, undoubtedly to hide the anxious expression from Christopher’s eyes, and let out another anxious little laugh. “We shall all secure tickets to see you play in Castleford, too, and are eager to hear your next work.”

  “Will you not indulge us with a preview, Mr Cluett?”

  This was Mrs Gale’s sly request, and Christopher knew that politeness to his host and deference to her position should compel him to acquiesce. A sharp pain shot through his wrist just then, and it was all he could do to keep from clutching it to his chest and betraying his infirmity to Edmund. He scowled against the onslaught of pain, the reminder that, however kind his new friends were in praising a sub-par performance, he could not keep up this charade long enough to persuade a more discerning audience.

  “Mama, we must not presume to make demands on our guest,” Edmund said, evidently seeing Christopher’s reaction despite his best attempt to conceal it, and misreading pain for irritation. Something in Christopher’s chest made him long to correct him, to explain he did not mean to be rude, nor to refuse a request for more music, but that he could not - for reasons he could not quite understand - play another note that evening. Perhaps ever!

  This thought was too horrifying to contemplate and he shrugged Edmund’s hand away, fearing that his new friend would somehow see the truth of the matter and challenge him and he, tired and beset by worry, would confess all.

  “Excuse me,” he said, brusquely pushing towards the door. “I think I need a little air.”

  He was not deaf to the silence his sharp words provoked, nor to the rustle of whispers that swirled in the wake of his sudden exit. He did not care, though, not stopping to explain nor to see the confusion and concern in the eyes that watched him leave.

  He walked far enough along the corridor that he would be at no risk of hearing himself discussed and stopped before a window, peering out into the darkness for a moment before leaning to press his forehead against the cool glass. His eyes fluttered closed and he let his mind wander, trying to play back over the melody in his head. It was there, still, perfectly preserved from a hundred other evenings when he had played it better and he wondered why it was he could not get the melody the short distance from his brain to his fingertips.

  That was but part of the problem, of course, and could not wholly explain why it was his hands shook when he thought of performing his symphony on the stage of the newly-built Castleford concert hall. Nor why, moments earlier, he had felt shooting pain all along one wrist.

  He was not prone to anxiety, nor any more than a passing concern for his health. He had forsaken sleep and food in favour of rehearsals and writing many times in the past and it had not had such an effect as this. What had changed?

  Richard.

  It was true: Rosemary had lost her future husband, her future happiness, when word reached them that Colonel Richard Black had fallen in battle, but Christopher had also lost his oldest and best friend, the one fellow who knew him better than any other.

  The sharp click of heels on the smooth parquet floor broke through his tumultuous thoughts and he straightened quickly, turning his head and rearranging his features into some vague approximation of a smile, ready to reassure his host that he was quite well, and ready to rejoin the rest of the guests in the parlour and continue their evening.

  Instead, he saw Rosemary, her usually pleasant features folded into a frown as she regarded him with eyes that flashed with annoyance, rather than concern.

  “Do you plan to join us again this evening?” she asked, her tone quivering with anger. “Or shall I tell our new friends that the great and marvellous Christopher Cluett does not care to associate with them after all?”

  “Rose!” He was shocked as to how she could make such an accusation.

  “No, Christopher!” She held her hand up to stem the flow of any excuse he could formulate. “I watched you all evening. Mr G
ale and his friends have been nothing but welcoming and kind, and you have shunned them at every turn.” She glanced over her shoulder, lowering her voice to ensure she was not overheard. “I do not know what has come over you since our return to England. I know you are ill-used to making friends, but I never once thought you to be so snobbish as to place yourself above good-hearted people such as this. Can you not, for one evening, pretend to take an interest in something beyond your own reputation?”

  She turned and stalked back towards the parlour, leaving her accusations to hang in the air, somehow tormenting Christopher more in her absence than they had when she spat them at him.

  The great and marvellous Christopher Cluett. He shook his head. His sister had completely misunderstood him. Her words could not be further from the truth! He did not avoid friendships because of his reputation, but because he feared they would see through the lie of it.

  Chapter Nine

  There was not anywhere in Aston House where you could escape from hearing Bess’s music practice. Juliet had learned to use the sound as a barometer of sorts to better understand her sister’s moods. Bess might keep her own counsel, rarely seeking to disturb her sisters with her own small concerns, but her music betrayed her every time. When she was happy she played the same cheerful jigs that delighted Louisa and made her, even now, seated in a quiet corner with Juliet, tap her feet in time to the music.

  Juliet frowned, striking through a line in her manuscript and struggling to disappear back into the world her imagination had created. In frustration, she abandoned the effort and dropped her pen back into her inkstand, before turning to look at Louisa. She seemed utterly unperturbed by either Bess’s choice of music or Juliet’s fidgeting frustration. Juliet sighed loudly, and when that, too, elicited no response, she leaned over and swatted her sister lightly on the arm.

  “Hey!” Louisa cried, flinching away from her sister and as she did so dripping water on her skirt. “Juliet! Look what you have made me do!”