A Spring Serenade

by Rachel Osborne

  “You oughtn’t to watercolour in your best dress,” Juliet said, pragmatically, her lips turning up in a sly smile. “Even if you do anticipate yet another call from the devoted Mr Weston.”

  “I expect no such thing,” Louisa said, haughtily. “And you oughtn’t to speak of Nash like that. He has been nothing but kind to our whole family, though he has little enough cause to be with the welcome you offer him.”

  “I am perfectly pleasant!” Juliet retorted, snatching up her handkerchief and bending to attend to the dark spots spreading on her sister’s skirt. Although she was careless with her own clothing, Juliet never could bear to see her sisters suffer and in truth, she felt a little guilty for causing this latest disaster, although she would never dream of admitting it.

  “You treat him better than you treat Edmund half the time, I suppose there is that.” Louisa twitched the poor offended skirt out of Juliet’s reach. “Leave it, it will dry. It was only water.” She stared shrewdly at her sister, crouched on the floor. “What is the matter with you, anyway? You have been huffing and puffing over your book as if the fates of entire nations rested on your shoulders. Read me a little, for I am sure it is not so bad as you think.”

  “You are very kind,” Juliet said, a little irritated by the dismissive tone that came into Louisa’s voice whenever she referred to Juliet’s little scribblings. The tone reminded her of Mrs Gale’s derision at dinner the previous evening, and she felt less inclined than ever to do as Louisa bade her, fearing that her work would be met not only with sensible criticism but full disdain.

  “I am in no humour to write at present,” she said, dismissing her sister’s offer with a vague wave. “But now that I have succeeded in distracting you from your artistic pursuits....” She arched an eyebrow at Louisa’s canvas. “Turn your attention to Bess. Do you not think there is something a little different about her playing this morning?”

  Louisa obediently fell silent, tilting her head so that she might hear a little better.

  “She plays as well as ever,” she said, with a half-shrug. “If I did not know better I should think she had devised her repertoire this morning with us in mind. This is my favourite piece, and a little while ago she played that pretty thing you and Nash danced to at the last assembly, do you recall?”

  “I am surprised you do.” Juliet prided herself on her memory and was a little unsettled to have her actions recalled to her by her usually self-absorbed sister. “What possessed you to store that detail in your pretty head?”

  “Just because some of us do not choose to cram our brains full of fictional people and imagined adventures.”

  “No, we prefer imagined scenes,” Juliet retorted, angling her head around to look at Louisa’s artwork. She frowned. “I think there is something quite wrong with your ship, Lou. T’would sink as soon as a gust of wind caught it.”

  “Do not pick faults!” Louisa sniffed, dabbing at the ship in question. “It is a cunning little detail, and too many sails would spoil the effect.”

  Juliet snorted.

  “We must be grateful Nash is no sailor.”

  “I should not like him half so well if he were!” Louisa turned to glare at her sister. “Now, do you mean to provoke me all morning? You made it sound as if there was some concern for Bess you wished to seek my opinion on. Speak, then, and do not persist in mocking my artwork. I do not plague you when you try to write!”

  Juliet swallowed the response that that was precisely what Louisa sought to do whenever she interposed that a count would make a far more romantic a hero than a mere gentleman, and demanding to know why Juliet could not have her adventures take place in somewhere more thrilling, like Venice, than the mundane and fictional town of Bainsbridge.

  “What did you think of Mr Cluett last evening?” Juliet asked, steering the conversation to approach her problem from a different direction.

  “I thought him very talented,” Louisa remarked, rubbing at a paint spot on her otherwise dainty, unblemished hands. “It was quite a thrill to think that we have seen so famous a musician perform!”

  “Yes, he played very well,” Juliet acknowledged. “But...” She frowned, unsure how to phrase her question in a way that her sister would respond favourably to. She wished to know Louisa’s true opinion, not a reflection of her own thoughts.

  “He was very quiet, do not you think?”

  “Not everyone possesses your skill of conversing well with strangers,” Louisa responded. “And you must understand, dear, how it is for great artists and musicians. Their performance can render them so undone, so exhausted -”

  “And how do you claim to know this?” Juliet scoffed, unable to bear the thought of a lecture from Louisa-the-artist. “I merely enquired as to your opinion of his manner because I fear - I fear Bess may be well on her way to losing her heart to him.”

  “Bess!” Louisa cackled. “Why, Bess is unlikely to ever lose her heart to anyone! Can you truly ever imagine her loving anybody? No, you need not fret for Bess’s heart, Juliet. She will live out all her days here, and be happy!”

  “BESS IS UNLIKELY TO ever lose her heart to anyone! Can you truly ever imagine her loving anybody? No, you need not fret for Bess’s heart, Jules. She will live out all her days here, and be happy!”

  Bess had not meant to eavesdrop on her sisters’ conversation, for she privately nursed the opinion that to listen in to others’ conversations was tantamount to a sin, and never resulted in hearing anything pleasant. Well, now she had proved herself correct.

  She sank back against the wall, allowing Louisa’s words to permeate her brain. Was it so very unthinkable that she should want to marry one day, to fall in love and raise a family of her own? True, Louisa had always been the first of them to throw herself into the marriage mart, plotting and scheming to win the affection of any gentleman whose paths she crossed. And it was obvious to everyone except Juliet that she would end up marrying Edmund, however much she clung to her romantic ideal of living by her pen. She can do that and be married, anyway. I do not see why she does not think so! She, Bess, was the quietest and most reserved of the sisters, but did that mean that marriage was entirely inconceivable?

  “Bess?” Mr Turner had emerged from his study and looked a little surprised to see his daughter lurking like a thief outside the library, evidently looking a little shaken by what she had heard. He smiled, kindly, and reached out to cup her cheek with his hand. “Are you quite well, dear?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled, although the expression felt strange and foreign in her current mood.

  “You have stopped playing the piano!” Mr Turner’s eyes twinkled. “I felt certain that something must be the matter, for you usually devote a whole morning to playing when our day is empty.” He leaned a little closer to her, his lips quirking. “I do hope last evening’s performance by Mr Cluett has not left you embarrassed about your skills. We cannot all be concert pianists, but that does not mean we may not excel in our own way!”

  This compliment was well-meant, and ordinarily, Bess would have glowed to receive such praise from her father, who was always especially tender to his quietest daughter, but following so swiftly on the heels of Louisa’s criticism, Bess shrank back.

  “I suppose I must content myself with staying at home and playing dull pieces for dull family and friends and never dream of anything more!”

  It was so surprising to hear Bess’s voice raised that Mr Turner took a step back, blinking fiercely from behind his glasses. The door to the library opened, and Juliet stood silhouetted by the doorway, her features pinched in surprise.

  “Bess? Is something the matter? You have stopped playing!”

  She was too slow to see her father’s slight shake of the head, but Bess noticed it and felt still more infuriated by it: this insistence by her family that she must forever be treated with kid gloves, too shy and too gentle to ever experience even half of what life offered. Maddy might marry, Juliet have her writing and her adventures with Edmund, and
Louisa was surely only one season in London away from securing the hand of whatever gentleman she set her cap it, but Bess must be content to stay at home, quiet and condescended to, and given only the breadcrumbs of a few new pieces of music every year. It was too much to bear!

  “I am sorry,” she said, her voice shaking with the effort it took not to cry. “I did not realise my only purpose and function in this family was to play music to entertain the rest of you who possess hopes and dreams and lives.” She turned on her heel and stalked away. “Well, you shall have to continue without accompaniment today. I am going on a walk!” She paused at the doorway, rummaging for any hat, shawl and pelisse that would fit her body, and glared at Juliet, forestalling the offer she sensed was on her sister’s lips. “Alone.”

  Once outside, she channelled her energy into her limbs, walking so strong and swiftly that she had soon put quite some distance between herself and home. She steered away from the path that would take her to Northridge Place, thinking that if she could not bear Juliet’s condescension then she certainly was in no mood to face Edmund’s, although he had before now proved himself a valiant confidant to each of the sisters individually when the others vexed them. Her cheeks reddened. She did not think Edmund could even be made to understand the source of her frustration, for she, Beth, seemed quite incapable of understanding it herself, let alone communicating it in words that would make sense to others.

  Bess is unlikely to ever lose her heart to anyone! Louisa had spoken so matter-of-factly, as if she knew Bess better than Bess knew herself. Just because I do not endeavour to make every gentleman I meet fall in love with me does not mean I am incapable of feeling at all! she thought, clenching her hands into fists as she walked. And just because I do not look on love as some great sweeping romance lifted from the pages of a novel does not mean I do not understand it! She wondered what could have possessed her sisters to speak so dismissively of her. What had changed to make the notion of Bess marrying even come to their minds?

  Perhaps they often speak of me in that way! Horror dawned on her. How many hours had she spent bent in practice over her pianoforte while her sisters - and Maddy too, before she left to get married - discussed her in minute detail, planning out her spinster future because there could surely be no man alive who would care for quiet, unassuming Bess when he might have elegant Louisa, or smart, funny Juliet, or any other young lady besides.

  She walked and walked until she was quite exhausted and resorted to sitting down on a stile while she contemplated her next move. She was not entirely sure where she was, for Juliet was the one who could navigate these hills with ease. Bess was so often her companion that she had never needed to learn more than the route of the roads. She sniffed, feeling the icy pinch of the still-cold Spring air, and began to regret her anger. It had powered her steps and concealed her direction. She could be just about anywhere!

  Clouds gathered overhead and Bess glanced upwards, feeling a horrid sense of foreboding. There would be no pump rooms to shelter in now, no Edmund dispatched to bring them home. She ought to stand up and start walking again, begin retracing her steps now, before the worst of the rain came. Instead, exhaustion swept over her. She buried her face in her hands and wept.

  Chapter Ten

  “You needn’t accompany me, I am capable of apologising without assistance,” Christopher remarked, choosing to keep silent the second part of his sentence. Not that I feel an apology is necessary.

  He and Rosemary were in a carriage, jolting along the same path they had taken the previous evening, although this time they were to make two calls. One to Northridge Place, and the second to the Turners, at Aston House. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, resting his chin in his palm, then dropping both hands to his knees.

  “And miss the opportunity to witness my brother acknowledge his poor behaviour and pledge to remedy it?”

  “Poor behaviour.” Christopher rolled his eyes. “I do not think there was anything so very bad in how I acted last evening. I was a little distracted, that is all. If people choose to take offence simply because my mind was elsewhere...” He saw his sister’s eyebrows draw into an uncharacteristic frown, and let his objections drop. “I suppose I might have made an effort to be a little more gracious. You are right, it would be nice to make a few friends while we are in Castleford, and it was kind of Gale to invite us to dine.”

  The pair lapsed into silence and Christopher watched the green trees slide past their window. He was also rather more inclined to pay this call because it allowed him to leave the house, to avoid, for another day, the trial of trying to write his dreaded symphony. Time was fast escaping him, but instead of focusing his mind to the task at hand, it seemed only to make him even less able to write. His mind was silent and whenever he tried to conjure up anything, he was left only with discord and chaos. Nothing suitable to perform for a crowd, however small and indulgent.

  He was watching green fields and hills roll past, scarcely noticing the scenery beyond the fact that it was there when a small, grey figure caught his eye, hunched over on a stile at the boundary of one stretch of land to another. He frowned, leaning forward to better regard the figure - yes, it was a person!

  “Stop the carriage,” he called, rapping sharply on the roof. Their pace slowed, and he rapped again until they lurched quite unceremoniously to a stop.

  “Christopher! Wait -” Rosemary called after him, as he pushed open the door and climbed down. He easily hopped a boundary fence and reached the place in several long strides, holding one hand up to shield his face from the mizzling rain.

  She will catch her death if she sits out here much longer! Proximity had enabled him to identify the figure was a woman, but it was not until he was closer still that he realised he recognised her.

  “Miss Elizabeth?” The question was voiced almost at the same instant he was aware of thinking it and she glanced up, wiping surreptitiously at her cheeks and scrambling to her feet when she recognised who it was the greeted her.

  “Mr Cluett?” She peered past him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same!” A breeze whipped at Christopher’s neck and he glanced up at the clouds. It was not raining very heavily, but there was an absence of shelter where they stood and he turned back towards the road. “I have a carriage - my sister is with me. Come, will you allow us to take you wherever it is you wish to go?”

  Bess looked torn, as if she would like to accept his offer but was reluctant to say as much. The rain increased in both volume and ferocity and her decision was made. She nodded.

  Christopher regretted that he had not had the forethought to bring an umbrella with him as they both hurried back towards the road where the carriage awaited them. Rosemary was leaning out so that she saw them while they were still some distance off. She waved.

  “Miss Elizabeth! Good heavens, what are you doing out alone in this?”

  Christopher bent to help their young friend into the carriage, surprised at the warmth of her touch as their hands met. They parted again almost immediately and he climbed in after her, pulling the door closed and shivering against the onslaught of the weather.

  “Where were you going?” he asked, poised to give new instruction to their driver, who was patiently awaiting their destination, seemingly oblivious to the change in the weather.

  “I hardly know!”

  Elizabeth’s voice was quiet and strangely muffled as if she had lately been crying. Christopher looked helplessly at Rosemary, who had shifted across to one side of her seat to make room next to her for Elizabeth.

  “We had planned to call at your house, so it is surely providential indeed that we should pass you. Do allow us to take you home, won’t you?”

  Elizabeth looked up, then, a strange, haunted look in her pale face.

  “Or perhaps we might take a small detour first,” Christopher suggested, seeing the look and knowing only too well the abject terror of being forced to return home when that was the very l
ast place one might care to be. He could not imagine what it was that kept the pretty Miss Elizabeth from wanting to be surrounded by her sisters, but as he, himself, was only too eager for an excuse to remain at large, he smiled, rapidly conjuring up a plan. “There is a town close to here, is there not? Closer than Castleford, I mean, although not as large.” He paused, recalling the name. “Riverton?”

  Elizabeth nodded, her wide eyes still fixed on his face.

  “My sister and I are yet to visit it. Perhaps you would do us the honour of introducing us?”

  Elizabeth glanced at Rosemary, as if seeking some confirmation that she, too, approved of this plan, and Rosemary grinned at her, her insistence on their call-and-apologise plan immediately forgotten in light of a greater need.

  “I do not like to detain you from your tasks,” Elizabeth murmured, biting her lip and looking as if she very much preferred this plan to being escorted immediately home again.

  “What tasks?” Christopher said, with more gallantry than was necessary or, indeed, genuine, as the recollection of his half-finished symphony reminded him. He shoved the thought away, promising himself he would attend to it with all vigour upon his return home and reassuring his conscience that he would doubtless find the task all the easier after an afternoon of inspiration in the form of a new town.

  His eyes lifted over Elizabeth’s head, meeting Rosemary’s, and he sensed a small glimmer of approval in the tight smile she offered him.

  “To Riverton, then!” he announced, relaying their changed plans to their driver, and leaning back in his seat as the carriage lurched once more into motion.

  Rosemary began chattering eagerly to Elizabeth, and gradually the anxiety in her features faded and she began to answer Rosemary’s questions with observations of her own. Christopher smiled, pleased to see his sister so engaged, and pleased to no longer be at odds with her. He had no notion what had driven the young Miss Turner from her home, but if anyone was equipped to discover the truth it would be Rosemary. As for him, he was merely grateful for the distraction. He rested his head against the high back of his seat, allowing his eyes to close, and listened to the melodic conversation between the two ladies, played against the rhythmic turning of the carriage-wheels against the uneven surface of the road.