A Spring Serenade

by Rachel Osborne

  “Thank you,” Bess murmured, grateful not only for his assistance then, but for the entire afternoon she had spent with the composer and his sister. “I hope I did not take too much time away from your music.”

  His expression, which had been a pleasant sort of half-smile, dipped slightly and Bess feared she had said something wrong. She hurried to undo the damage, but before she could stammer more than a vague sorry Louisa came running towards the door.

  “Oh, it is you, Bess! Where have you been? Juliet has gone out to find you and been gone an absolute age, and now Maddy is come and - oh!” She stopped mid-tirade, noticing Mr Cluett for the first time. He abruptly took a step back from Bess, as if they both at that moment realised just how close they had been standing to one another and sought to redress any criticism before it came from the lips of her observant sister.

  “Mr Cluett!” Louisa’s face lit up in a smile. “What on earth are you doing here? Come in, come in! Won’t you join us? We are celebrating, for our sister is just back from her wedding tour with her new husband, and I know they would be so pleased to meet you!”

  She had turned as she spoke, as if expecting both Mr Cluett and Beth to simply fall into step behind her. She had gone several paces before she realised nobody had followed her and turned to insist once more on their coming.

  “You are very kind, Miss Louisa,” Mr Cluett said, bowing and becoming formal once more. Bess felt a strange sense of disappointment, as if the gentleman she had come to know that afternoon had receded behind whatever mask it was he had worn the previous evening and was a stranger once more. “Miss Elizabeth. I trust you have not suffered too many ill-effects from an entire afternoon in company with my sister.” He smiled, a tiny glimpse of his old, humorous self, and Bess’s worry lifted. “Good day.”

  “Good day,” she murmured, watching as he beat a hasty retreat back down the corridor.

  “Bess!”

  As soon as Mr Cluett was out of sight, Louisa hurried back to join her, physically dragging her towards the parlour. “You must tell me everything! Why was Mr Cluett escorting you back home alone? What on earth did he mean no ill-effects?” Her eyes were wide, bright with the scent of scandal. “Do you mean to say there is something - some romance -”

  “No!” Bess said, sharply. Heat flooded her cheeks as she recalled the words she had overheard this very sister saying about her to Juliet, and how they had prompted her to flee out of doors, to begin with. The enjoyable hours she had spent with Mr Cluett and his sister had served to soothe her, but all at once her annoyance at Louisa reared back up, and she shook herself free of her sister’s grasp.

  “I know you think you know me so well, you and Juliet both, but I am pleased to inform you that you do not. I happened to pass Mr and Miss Cluett on my walk and they invited me to take tea with them. Not that it is any concern of yours. Now, is it true that Maddy is back? Maddy!”

  She hurried into the parlour to greet her sister and new brother-in-law, leaving Louisa staring after her, her mouth hanging open in shock at being so sharply dressed-down by her quiet, placid sister.

  She was still standing there a few moments later when the door flew open and two bedraggled looking figures staggered in.

  “Whose carriage is that?” Juliet asked, her eyes blazing. “It nearly ran us into a ditch!”

  “Nearly?” Edmund’s chest heaved with exertion, and he greeted Louisa as he passed with a curt nod. “Good afternoon, Louisa. Why are you standing in the corridor like that?”

  “Juliet?”

  Bess extricated herself from the embrace that Maddy had pulled her into as Edmund and Juliet crashed into the parlour, all talking and exclaiming over one another at once. She slipped into a chair in a corner, pleased to be rendered invisible once more, where she might think over her afternoon in peace. A slight smile tugged at her lips and she smoothed her palm, still warm with the memory of Mr Cluett’s touch as he had helped her down from the carriage.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You might have told us you were coming!” Juliet cried, tugging her sister into yet another embrace.

  “And spoil the surprise?” Madeline’s eyes twinkled, but she returned the hug with just as much sisterly affection, and in that one moment the nervous fear that had lurked at the back of Juliet’s mind was appeased. Even though Edmund had been right in his assertion that she was instrumental in getting Maddy married, she could not help but fear that now the deed was done, the relationship between the sisters would be forever altered and Maddy would never be her old self again. One look in the bright blue eyes, fixed with interest on Juliet, allayed all those fears.

  “So, how was your trip?” Juliet prompted, eager for details of their travels, for whilst Robert Hodge had not whisked his new bride as far away as Antigua, they had crossed to Ireland, which destination was almost as exotic and exciting to eager, travel-hungry Juliet.

  “I shall tell you all about it later, in great detail!” Maddy promised, patting Juliet’s hand consolingly. “I am more interested in what has taken place between you and Edmund.”

  “Me and Edmund?” Juliet squeaked, before lowering her voice to a whisper. The rest of her family were engaged in a merry conversation with Robert and his father. Even Edmund had been delighted to have their friends returned to them, before his unkempt appearance and the sorry recollection of his barouche forced him home.

  “You were not hurt by the collision, I hope?” Maddy’s face was pale.

  “There was no collision” Juliet reassured her. “Merely a bit of unsuccessful manoeuvring. I fear Edmund’s barouche and its wheel was far more hurt than either of us.” Her eyes closed as she recollected what they had been speaking of in the moments before the speeding carriage had brought their conversation to a literal crashing halt.

  “I think -” Her breath caught, and she swallowed, realising that, however distracted her family were by their conversation, any allusion to the question Edmund had asked - and that she had not yet answered - would draw their attention in a moment. “I think I am a little fidgety with sitting still in so warm a room as this.” She lifted her hands over her head, feigning a yawn. “Come, Maddy, let’s take a walk along the corridor and get the blood flowing into our feet once more.”

  Maddy frowned a little, as if she could tell that this was but an excuse, but one glance at her husband showed that he and her family were admirably preoccupied: the two sisters would not be missed. She stood, allowing Juliet to steer her along the corridor to a wide window that admitted a column of blueish-grey light to the otherwise dark hallway.

  “Now, Juliet, do not think I believed your request for exercise for even a moment. What did you wish to speak to me about safe from the hearing of our family?” Her eyes twinkled again. “It cannot be Edmund’s ears that you guard against, for he is gone.”

  Juliet pulled a face.

  “Edmund is the reason I must seek your counsel! He asked -” She drew a breath. “He asked me to marry him. At least, I think he did.”

  Maddy let out a laugh before the seriousness of her sister’s expression made her fall silent.

  “You think he did? Do you not know?”

  Juliet shook her head, turning back over the conversation in her mind. They had been talking - arguing. It had not been at all like the proposals one read about in books, nor even like the last proposal he had made her, which she had been so sure was made in jest and only lately came to appreciate had likely been the true outpouring of his heart.

  “Well, what did you say?” Maddy pressed.

  “Nothing.” Juliet’s word was scarcely more than a sob. “I said nothing, and now I do not know how we shall ever manage to resolve the situation.”

  “Very easily,” Maddy said, drawing herself up to her full height. “Honestly, Juliet, you do make things into far more of a melodrama than they need to be. Edmund shall call again, or you shall visit him at home. It is not as if you need to go very far to have a conversation.”

  A co
nversation? Was it as easy as all that? Could her whole future happiness - and Edmund’s, if she dared to believe he did truly want her and would truly be happy with her by his side - be settled with one conversation?

  She folded her hands together, to keep them from shaking, thinking that, perhaps, the conversation could not be had quickly enough after all.

  CHRISTOPHER COVERED page after page of manuscript paper with notes, the music fairly flowing from his fingertips.

  “I am glad to see you so busy!” Rosemary remarked, as she tapped lightly on the door to what had become his music room and tiptoed inside. “I see I shall have to go alone to call on the Turners today.”

  Her eyes sparkled with merriment, but Christopher entirely missed the teasing note in her voice, glancing up from his work so quickly he was left to finish the chord without looking at it.

  “Do you plan to call at Aston House? Today?” He frowned. “I did not realise we had been invited.”

  “We have not. I have decided to call anyway, for I am fond of all of the Miss Turners and wish to know them better.” She paused in the doorway, before glancing regally down at him. “You may come along if you wish.”

  “Oh...” Christopher cast a reluctant glance down at the pile of papers before him. It was a long time since he had written so fervently and freely, without care or concern. It was as if the music was writing itself, and he only the vessel. He was not sure what change had precipitated such progress, but he could only imagine it had something to do with Elizabeth Turner. Here, in a trill, was her light, musical laugh. The slow, dancing melody her voice as it sang out a story he was forced to bend his head closer to listen to. She was everywhere in his music, and she was ever-present in his thoughts. Now his sister dangled the promise of seeing her again like a carrot before his nose and he was powerless to refuse.

  “I suppose I might take an hour or two’s break.” Standing, he bent to put one or two final touches to his last page of notation. “It will serve me well not to work too long without rest.”

  “Indeed.” Rosemary’s eyes twinkled as if she was only too aware of the true reason for her brother’s eagerness to come and call with her, but she would not voice it, sensing somehow that if she named what she thought she saw he would rise in denial.

  Christopher rolled his eyes. Let his sister scheme all she wished. He was in no mood to court an argument with her, and he was not about to hide from the truth of the matter that he did wish to see Elizabeth Turner again. There had been one particular piece of his composition that caused him to falter and he had some notion that he might seek her opinion on it. For, despite his early dismissal of her as yet another “accomplished pianist”, of whom he had met multitudes, he had come to appreciate the sense of music that she possessed that was entirely innate, untrained and unaltered by anyone else. She poured herself into her music - which was obvious not only from the way she played but the way she spoke about music. Her whole being lit up and she became engaged, awakened to the topic that she prized above all others. It had been refreshing, particularly to Christopher, to whom music had become a commodity.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, noticing, then, that his sister had not moved but remained rooted to the spot, eyeing him carefully as if trying to peer into his head and discern the direction his thoughts had taken. He might be willing to let her nurse her suspicions, but that did not mean he was in any great haste to confirm them for her. “You are the one who wished me to apologise to the Turners after all, were you not? Or have you decided that my behaviour was not so dreadful after all?”

  “Oh, quite dreadful, and an apology should indeed be forthcoming,” she declared, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. “But now you are in a far better mood in which to make it. How fortunate for us that we crossed Bess’s path when we did, for I think her enthusiasm on the matter of music - ours, yours, anybody’s! - was precisely what you needed to reignite your interest. We must thank her for her assistance, and ensure that she and her family will attend your concert, for the date is pressing in, is not it?”

  Christopher’s smile died on his lips. His sister was right. He might be making record progress now and feeling energised and happy in his work, but that did not mean it was yet completed. There was far too much to finish and improve before the night of the concert, and hardly enough time to complete everything.

  “Perhaps I ought to remain here,” he said, casting a wary glance back towards his table.

  Disappointment weighed heavily in his chest. He longed to accompany his sister, to see their friends - or one friend in particular - but Rosemary was right. His concert was looming and he was not close to ready. “There is so much still to do.”

  “Oh, take a break!” Rosemary teased him. “Your papers will still be here when you get back, and we need not visit for long.”

  He took very little persuading, pausing only to isolate one page in particular, which he folded and nestled into his cuff, hoping he would find an opportunity during their stay to have Elizabeth play it and ask her talented ear what it lacked.

  Music is collaborative, he reminded himself, thinking back to his earliest performances. It is never the domain of one man alone. He had been striving so long to live and work at it without help that it was little wonder it had begun to drive him mad. Perhaps crossing paths with Elizabeth Turner was a reminder from Providence that life was not designed to be lived in isolation.

  His smile grew as he allowed his sister to steer him eagerly towards the door, and as the carriage wheels rolled beneath them, he heard the faint melody he had been pursuing all morning once again begin to unfurl from the confines of his mind. He leaned back into the plush interior of the carriage, letting his eyes flutter closed and listened, praying he might somehow manage to catch the wistful, cautious beauty of it and set it to paper, and thinking that Elizabeth, who had doubtless inspired it, was his only right companion in doing so.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You need my help?”

  Bess’s voice shook, and she glanced up in surprise at Mr Cluett, certain she had misheard him. “Are you sure -”

  “Quite sure, Miss Elizabeth.” He dipped his head, a formal half-bow, and extracted a folded sheet of paper from the cuff of his sleeve. “Here is the section that has been giving me trouble. Will you look at it?”

  Bess’s hands trembled as she reached for the sheet, covered all over in neat, spidery notes. She glanced up at him again, certain he must be teasing her and she did not quite understand the joke.

  Mr Turner cleared his throat from across the room.

  “Play it for us, Bess.” He looked interestedly at Mr Cluett. “If you do not mind giving your audience a glimpse into your new composition?”

  A muscle in Mr Cluett’s jaw tightened which Bess would not have noticed had she not been standing very close to him. His voice, when he replied, sounded a little strained, which even he was aware of, for he smiled, seeking to shake it off.

  “Not at all, Mr Turner. It is an imposition, I am sure.”

  “An imposition!” Mrs Turner practically glowed. “It is an honour! To think of you, Mr Cluett, composing some tiny part of your newest symphony in this very parlour!”

  “He has composed it already, dear,” Mr Turner said, laying a calming hand on his wife’s arm, and fearing her enthusiasm might run Mr Cluett off before he could say another word. “Do continue, Bess. Mr Cluett, we shall leave you to your work and try not to be too distracting an audience. Juliet!” He turned, pointedly, towards his daughter. “Edmund owes me a challenge at piquet, but as he is nowhere to be found today I shall confer the task to you.” He chuckled. “Poor fellow hasn’t been seen here since Maddy and Robert called. Do you think he caught a cold on your curricle misadventure?”

  Bess saw a shadow cross her sister’s face and felt a flicker of guilt. Something had happened between Juliet and Edmund, she was sure, and if she were a better sister she would enquire after their friendship, perhaps offer her sister some advice o
r at least comfort. Their relationship had remained strained since Bess had overheard the conversation between Louisa and Juliet, and whilst the latter had tried, repeatedly, to apologise and be heard on the matter, Bess was not quite ready to listen or to forgive.

  “Miss Elizabeth?” Mr Cluett’s voice was gentle, drawing Bess back to the matter of the manuscript she still held, and she turned to him, only too happy to put her guilt and concern for her sister to the back of her mind for a little while longer.

  “Yes.” She looked at the paper once more, imagining the melody in her mind before seating herself at her small piano and letting her fingers sound out the notes.

  “Here -” Mr Cluett leaned over, jabbing a finger at a spot about a third of the way down the page. “The rhythm...I have not written it in.” He placed his hand on the keys next to hers, an octave above. “It is not - so.” He played in the same measured and slow way she had done, then shook his head. “But - like this.” He played it a second time, tapping out the notes so that they sounded almost entirely different. It turned what had been a somewhat morose line into something cheerful and optimistic. Bess smiled.

  “Ah.” Mr Cluett smiled back at her, clearly cheered by her reflexive reaction. “You approve.”

  “I do.”

  Mr Cluett nodded, silently urging her to continue. She did, scarcely noticing that her the other occupants of the Turners’ parlour had suddenly fallen so silent that the only sound was Bess’s playing. She had forgotten they were even there, for the music she played was charming and lovely and both like and unlike anything she had played before. She was disappointed to reach the end of the page, trailing off into nothing, before looking up, questioningly, to her friend.

  “What happens next?”

  “You see my conundrum!” Mr Cluett groaned, perching on the edge of the seat beside her. Bess slid along to create a little more room, moving her hand just as he rested his own fingers on the keys that, moments earlier, she had been pressing down on. He played the last line of notes, before taking them in a new direction.