Walter wrinkled his nose and tapped one of his fingers on the others. “Well, she didn’t say as much. She is a private person, you know. But when Mr. Poppy, the London solicitor, came to us, inquiring about taking her in, he mentioned that she’d sought him out. We understood, though he didn’t say in so many words, that she was unhappy with her situation, lonely. She’d actually inquired about returning to India, but of course he couldn’t send a young lady not yet of age halfway round the world alone.”
“Obviously not,” Grant agreed. “And so instead of sending her back to India, the solicitor located you.”
Walter’s face lit in a grin. “We’re so very pleased he did. We adore Clara. Deborah thinks of her quite as her own daughter, and I think she is a delight.” The light in his eyes dimmed. “I know she’d rather be in India, but if any place can mend an aching heart, it is our beloved Isle. I hope she can find happiness here.”
Grant smiled at his old friend. Clara Brightly was lucky to have landed here with the Wickershams. “Do you know where the Charity Society is today? Mother mentioned visiting Mrs. Nutall.”
“Yes, and Deborah planned to visit Philip Herd as well.”
Grant nodded. A blind widower, Philip Herd was a regular beneficiary of the Society’s visits. He lived on a farm with his son Marcus, one of Grant’s tenants. He imagined if the ladies paid Mr. Herd a visit, it wouldn’t last long. The man was notoriously ill-tempered and had been ever since Grant could remember.
“I thank you for the tea and for the company.” Grant rose. “But I must be getting on.”
“You’re welcome anytime.” Walter shook Grant’s hand with both of his own. “And thank you for your friendship to Clara.”
Grant departed and rode back toward the town. His heart was heavy as he contemplated what Walter had said. He remembered the devastation of his own father’s death, but he hadn’t been alone. He’d had his mother and the entire town for support during those dark weeks and months. Clara had been alone. No wonder she wished to leave, to return to a place where she felt loved. It was what anyone would want. He didn’t blame her at all.
An unfamiliar feeling moved through him, and he analyzed it. A hope—or perhaps a desire? When he considered it further, it surprised him. He wanted Clara to stay. Though he examined it from all angles, he couldn’t quite grasp where the feeling had come from, nor could he understand the reasoning behind it. Perhaps it was pride. He hoped she would come to realize the Isle was a true treasure. Maybe he felt guilt for his earlier actions and sought to make things right. Or he may just feel compassion for the young lady and what she’d endured.
He considered further, but neither of these explanations felt . . . complete. He may just be taking to heart Walter’s hope that Clara could discover what she sought here in Brading. She could find friendships and feel cared for. But that didn’t feel complete either.
He rode toward Haverstone Park but turned up a side lane when he saw through the trees that his mother’s carriage was still at the Herds’ cottage. As he rode closer, he heard a piano playing and the unmistakable sound of Clara Brightly’s singing. He dismounted and stopped, listening closely to another voice that joined Clara’s—a man’s voice he didn’t recognize. It couldn’t be . . .
Marcus came around the side of the house and waved when he saw Grant.
Grant dismounted and motioned toward the house with his chin. “Is that . . . ?”
Marcus shrugged. “Couldn’t believe it myself when I came in from checking the herd. The pair’ve been at it for an hour.” His smile was wistful. “My father hasn’t sung a note since I can remember. Forgot how he used to love it.” He took the horse’s reins and, when he heard Grant was looking for the ladies of the Charity Society, offered to water the animal while Grant went inside.
Grant stopped in the doorway of the drawing room, even more surprised to see that Philip Herd was not only sitting beside Clara on the bench of the old upright piano, singing a duet of “Lavender’s Blue,” but that he was the one accompanying them. He had a vague memory of his mother telling him that Philip had been very fond of music, but he’d never seen the man play, nor had he any idea the man possessed such a rich-sounding voice.
Clara glanced up, and their gazes met for a brief instant. Her eyes widened and she blushed, but her singing did not falter. She looked back toward the sheet music that sat on the shelf, turning a page, even though the blind pianist obviously did not require it.
When the song ended, Philip smiled. “We make a good pair, young lady. Now what—” He cocked his head, turning his unseeing eyes toward the doorway. “Who’s there?”
“Grant Mason, sir. How do you do this morning?” How the man was able to detect him was a mystery that had long been a source of speculation among the parishioners in Brading. Some attributed it to a supernatural ability, but Dr. Hurst claimed that when a person lost one of their senses, the others became stronger. Grant wondered if it was the old man’s sense of smell that had detected him—the smell of his horse, of course.
“Well, come in, then. Don’t particularly care for folks lurking in doorways.” He scowled. “Suppose you’re here for your ma.” He jerked his head to the side. “In the kitchen with the others, arguing about lamb stew or some such nonsense.”
This attitude was much more in line with the Philip Herd that Grant knew. “Thank you, sir. But I’ve actually come to see Miss Brightly.”
Her cheeks went, if possible, even darker.
“You left your shawl at choir practice, miss.”
She moved her gaze to the shawl, not meeting his. “Thank you.”
“Set it on the sofa.” Mr. Herd motioned with a wave of his hand, then set his fingers back on to the piano keys. His features softened into something that very nearly resembled a smile. He played the first chords of a familiar seafaring melody.
“You’re a sailor. I should have known.” Clara spoke in a teasing tone that made Philip’s clouded eyes light up and his face beam.
“I’ll wager you aren’t familiar with a rowdy sea shanty, miss.”
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” Clara sang the words to the tune he’d played. “I hope you don’t worry about offending my delicate sensibilities, Mr. Herd. I was raised in the army. My father hosted naval officers quite often.” She giggled and bumped him with her shoulder. “I’ll wager I know more verses than you do. And some might just make you blush.”
“A wager I’ll gladly take!” Philip’s smile spread into a grin that showed his missing teeth.
Grant gaped. The old saying about music’s ability to tame the savage beast came into his thoughts, making him shake his head in amazement. Removing his hat and gloves, he sat on the sofa. He couldn’t wait to report every detail of this marvel to Harry Barlow.
Philip played again, and he and Clara sang the shanty, taking turns answering the age-old question of what to do with a drunken sailor “ear-lay” in the morning. Grant could only stare in amazement at the transformation. It was as if the years fell away and the crotchety old man became a merry young sailor singing with his shipmates. His voice was robust, his face alight; he even sat straighter.
Miss Brightly sang just as loudly, though her voice could not be described as anything less than exquisite, proving that any song could sound beautiful with the right singer.
After a few rounds, Grant couldn’t remain seated. He crossed the room and joined in. The lyrics weren’t difficult to follow, and the others seemed happy to have him. The song continued with each verse becoming sillier, some downright bawdy. Both men burst out in laughter when Clara’s verse about the drunken sailor suggested they “shave his belly with a rusty razor.”
“What on earth is going on in here?” Grant’s mother came in from the kitchen, putting her hands on her hips.
Philip laughed so hard that he had to stop playing to wipe his eyes.
Deborah Wickersham entered behind her. “You are supposed to be resting, Mr. Herd.”
�
�Resting won’t bring back my sight.” He waved his hand as if to banish the idea. “Singing with Miss Brightly today has improved my constitution more than any stew ever did.”
Clara smiled.
Deborah nodded proudly.
“I am very pleased to hear it.” His mother’s gaze met Grant’s. She raised her brows but didn’t ask aloud why he’d come. “We’ve others to visit today, Miss Brightly. It’s time to leave.”
“One more song before you go?” Philip asked.
Clara looked back and forth between the ladies who were clearly ready to leave and the elderly man who looked as if his heart would break if she went with them. “I . . .”
“I’ll see Miss Brightly safely home,” Grant offered. “If that is acceptable to you, miss.”
“Thank you.” Miss Brightly’s gaze darted to him, then away quickly, and Grant felt the familiar sinking feeling. He definitely needed to apologize.
Grant accompanied his mother and Mrs. Wickersham to their carriage, helping them inside, promising to take good care of Miss Brightly and not allow her to remain too long.
When he reentered the house, Philip turned toward him. “Mr. Mason, do you have a request?”
Clara watched him expectantly.
“‘Greensleeves,’” Grant said, sitting on the sofa. “It’s my favorite.”
Philip nodded. “Always a good choice.” He played a short introduction and opened his mouth as if he’d start to sing, but when Clara began, he didn’t join in.
Grant understood his restraint perfectly. Any addition to the sound would diminish the effect. Clara’s voice was emotive, the beautiful words clear and unbearably lovely, touching a place so deep inside that it pulled at his emotions as no music ever had before. He had heard the song often, but when Clara Brightly sang it, it stirred his very soul. He closed his eyes, sat back, and let the music carry him away.
The song ended, the last notes hanging in the air, and Grant sat, frozen. He’d experienced something unexplainable through the music, something moving and very tender, and wanted the moment to stretch on as long as possible.
After a bit, Clara rose. She patted Philip’s hand. “I enjoyed myself very much today, Mr. Herd.”
He caught up her hand in both of his, turning his knees toward her. “Thank you.” He swallowed. “Miss, I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so . . . so happy. Please say you’ll come again.”
“How could I not?” She bent down and kissed his cheek.
They bid Philip farewell and stepped outside.
Grant placed the shawl over Clara’s shoulders. “I spoke without thinking, offering to see you home. I don’t have a carriage. The walk isn’t far, but if you’d rather, I can borrow a horse or ride to my house for a carriage.”
“I don’t mind walking,” she said, raising her chin and starting in the direction of the village.
Grant considered offering his arm but thought her present feelings toward him would not incline her to accept. He stepped quickly to catch up, then matched her pace. “Miss Brightly, I owe you an apology.”
“It is not necessary, sir.” She pulled the shawl tighter, and he could see by the tension in her shoulders that she was uncomfortable.
“I disagree. At the choir practice, I should have helped you instead of allowing—”
“I told your mother and the vicar, I do n-not know how to teach children.” Her hands were fisted inside the shawl.
He winced at her nervous stammer. “Yes, you did.” He blew out a breath. “I didn’t realize . . . I thought you simply didn’t want to, not that you . . .”
“That I’m ridiculously bashful,” she finished in a soft voice.
“I was going to say, I didn’t realize that you actually needed assistance.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Brightly, my assumption was a shameless misjudgment, and for it, I apologize.”
She glanced at him. “You thought I was being arrogant.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do not let it trouble you anymore.” She tugged at the shawl. “I know I can seem very aloof, especially to strangers.”
“Perhaps that is our problem. I do not think the children’s choir-directing team should be strangers. We should get to know one another.”
She darted a cautious look at him, as if to ascertain his intention.
“To make the team stronger.” He rubbed his chin and nodded thoughtfully, but winked, hoping to cheer her or at least set her at ease.
Clara gave a shy smile. “Very well.”
Grant took her assent as an invitation to begin the conversation and considered what topic might be appropriate when developing an acquaintance. With some surprise, he realized he’d rarely met new people. He’d known the vast majority—in fact, all—of his friends his entire life. Everyone he interacted with, aside from the occasional tourist, had always lived on the island. Very few people left, and fewer moved here. The thought brought him up short. How exactly did one go about making a new friend? And what should he say that wouldn’t cause further offense?
“Ah, how is it you have no experience with children, Miss Brightly?” Not the most suave beginning, but it could have been much worse.
She shrugged. “I was rarely involved or even acquainted with any. British children are sent home to England for school.” She glanced at him. “Most children.”
“Not you,” he guessed.
Clara shook her head. “I was an exception.” She grimaced. “When the time came, I was so . . .”
“Timid,” he said.
She nodded. “And frightened. We had no close family in England. I begged my father not to make me go, and he allowed me to remain in India and be instructed by a tutor.”
“But you stayed this winter with family in London, did you not?”
She squinted, as if trying to remember whether she’d told him as much.
“Mr. Wickersham mentioned you had remained there during your mourning.”
“I did.” Her face cleared, accepting the explanation. “I lived in a townhouse in Grosvenor Square with my father’s great-aunt and her children.” Clara’s lips pressed tightly together.
“You didn’t enjoy London?”
She rubbed her arms beneath the shawl, and her demeanor became decidedly less cheerful. “London was cold, and my father was dead.” Her voice was nearly a whisper. “I was not familiar with the conventions and complexities of English society. I’m afraid I was not the best company.”
A young lady alone in a strange country, mourning her only family . . . Grant felt a swell of pity as he imagined bashful Clara trying to hold her own with London’s high society.
“Tell me about Mr. Herd,” she said, changing the subject. “He is such a pleasant man, not at all how Mrs. Wickersham and your mother described him.”
Grant clasped his hands behind his back. “Philip Herd was, as you deduced, a sailor. Fought in the Crimea.”
“And is that where he lost his sight?” Clara asked.
He gave a sharp nod. “Head injury.”
“How sad.”
“From what my mother and others of the older generation have said, the explosion took more than his sight. It changed him from a cheerful person to one who is bitter and resentful. Truthfully, I’ve known Philip Herd my entire life, and today was the first time I’ve seen the man smile.”
“Music is powerful,” Clara said. “It can change people.”
“I believe the credit goes to the musician,” Grant said. “I am by no means an expert, but your voice . . . it is special. You have a unique gift, and it touches hearts.”
From the side of his eye, he saw her cheeks turn pink. The personal nature of his declaration made his own ears heat up.
“I don’t feel shy when I’m singing,” Clara said.
The pair walked through the town, shifting to the side of the lane to make way for wagons and horses on High Street. Walking beside Miss Brightly, Grant saw Brading through fresh eyes and noticed details he normally took for gr
anted. Laundry flapping on clotheslines, stained glass in the church windows, storefronts with their hanging signs all seemed to him charming, but did Clara find them so? He felt such pride and love for his home and wondered how it appeared to someone seeing it for the first time. Did she notice the blossoming cherry trees or the cracks in the church wall?
Leaving the town behind, Grant led Clara off the road, taking her in a more direct route through the countryside. They came to a field of tall grass, and Clara stopped, pulling back.
Reflexively, he put a hand behind her back. “Is something the matter?”
Clara looked up at him, then toward the field. “An old habit.” She gave a small smile. “Cobras hide in tall grass.”
“Ah.” He offered his arm. “Well, you probably don’t miss that aspect of India, do you?”
Clara’s smile dropped away. She slipped her hand into his offered arm. “I miss all of it,” she said as they started through the field. “Everything here is so different, so quiet. When I wake, I hear sweet little birds chirping instead of loud squawks or wild dogs barking. The bushes don’t buzz with insects; the trees aren’t filled with monkeys. The very air smells wrong, food tastes different.” She sighed, glancing toward him. “I’m sorry to complain.”
“It’s not the worst place to find oneself,” he grumbled.
“Yes, I’ve heard it is Lord’s personal garden.” The corners of her mouth curled in a halfhearted smile.
“That sounds like one of Deborah’s sayings.”
Clara nodded and her smile grew wider, though the expression remained sad.
“The Isle is beautiful in a different way. Much less . . . poisonous.” He grinned. “Just wait until the hawthorns bloom—white blossoms on dark green hedges set against the background of the sea. Nothing is lovelier. And caulkheads are the best people in the world.” Grant patted her hand. “I can only imagine how it is to be away from home and to feel alone, but you’re not alone, Miss Brightly.” Their gazes met, and the feeling he’d felt before returned. He wanted her to love it here, to see the beauty, to feel at home, to . . . stay. “You have not seen much of the island, have you?”
The Queen's Ball Page 18
