Rondo Allegro

by Sherwood Smith

  “My sister Mary played the harp. She and Henry used to play duets until he was gone, and sometimes she played when Emily sang. Only my mother and Henry were keen. The fortepiano is my mother’s. She left off when it became too difficult for her to see. My governess did her best by me, but however it didn’t take. At all events,” she added with a rush of polite afflatus, “I should very much like to listen if you play.”

  Anna had been considering admitting to singing. She knew that much was considered ‘genteel’ as long as one did not do it for money. She decided it was better to wait, and smiled at Harriet’s mendacious enthusiasm. “You are safe. I am an indifferent player, suitable only for accompaniment as well. Tell me instead about the library. What sort of books shall I find?”

  “Oh, a great many bores,” Harriet said. “Things they say you ought to read, but no one ever does. That is, aside from a parcel of novels, as my mother was used to be a great reader.”

  “But no longer?”

  “She would, but she cannot now see the pages. Sometimes I read to her. Especially this year, when we cannot go out, and it seemed to rain forever. I got through all three volumes of Sir Charles Grandison, which she is partial to.”

  “Do you recommend it?”

  “I have nothing to say to it, except once they get into the cedar-parlor, you know a thousand pages of prosing is sure to follow. Frederick, you met him last night, my sister’s husband, you know, he said once after I’d been reading a chapter to the family during a rainstorm, that if he ever met a fellow like that, he would kick him down the stairs for a ranting coxcomb.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she pointed. “Ah! When the weather is nice, the short walk through the meadows comes out at this turning. Then you follow this road along the river. It is a very pretty walk, and when I was small we were used to walking to church when the weather was fair. Then up the hill there. You can see the steeple beyond the yew avenue, and High Street is below on the other side . . .”

  o0o

  While Harriet chattered to Anna, Mrs. Squire Elstead—safe in the knowledge that the new Lady Northcote, as she supposed she must call her, was away, the dowager elsewhere in the house, and that irritating hoyden Harriet gone as well—closed the door so that she and her daughter would be left alone, and indulged herself with a long, disparaging description.

  “. . . and when my own son declared she was positively the most elegant woman he had ever seen! Frederick must have been in liquor. That can be the only explanation.”

  “But she is elegant,” Emily said, each word hurting the more because it was true. “She is at least as elegant as anyone in the Devonshire House set, and a great deal prettier.”

  “A great deal younger, that I will grant. That brown skin? Brown eyes of the most commonplace? My cook has brown eyes. A nose that wants distinction—but I have said all that. At least there is no evidence of a sixth months child, but what Henry was about to marry in this scrambling way, I cannot conceive. I suppose it is too sanguine to assume something can be done about it.”

  “Apparently,” Emily said slowly, “it is not recent, however it came about.”

  “Impossible,” Mrs. Squire Elstead declared, her cheeks quite red. “Surely someone would have known. Dearest John would have known.”

  “How?” Emily declared, the anger she had strictly controlled flaring to heat. “You know very well there had been no communication between them since my betrothal.”

  The anger broke on those last two words, and the squire’s wife, who had longed for a title her entire life, eyed her daughter with as high a degree of anger. “I worked hard to bring it about. A betrothal that you agreed to with every evidence of delight, Emily.”

  “I was eighteen.”

  “What has that to say to anything? You were delighted with John, who was eligible in every possible degree. You agreed with your father and me that throwing yourself away on a titleless and penniless second son, especially one who might end up crippled, or worse, who would be away for ages, would be the madness.”

  “Henry and I were in love,” Emily muttered.

  “You were boy and girl,” her mother retorted. “And you had been quarreling, as I recollect right well. You did not want him throwing himself away in the navy any more than anyone else, and as for that stupid horn of his! So ill-bred, the manner in which blowing it distorts the face. Very well for a certain class of person, as you yourself quite rightly told him.”

  “To no effect,” Emily observed.

  Mrs. Elstead snapped her fan irritably. “Those sentiments are mighty pretty upon the stage, but people of breeding do not prate of maudlin sentiment as if it replaced duty and responsibility. Furthermore, it is abundantly clear that he forgot you, if what you say is true. When did he marry this female? And what is her place? Who are her people?”

  “The newspapers, when they mentioned she was aboard Henry’s ship with him, said only something Italian.”

  “Which could be anybody,” Mrs. Elstead stated. “Or nobody.”

  “Without knowing more, there is no use in looking in Debrett,” Emily said. “My mother-in-law has not seen fit to question her, and it is not my place. If her maid is to be believed, this Lady Northcote is connected with some Italian duke, and was born at the royal palace in Naples, or some such thing.”

  “Italians,” the squire’s wife said, raising her palms dismissively. “There has to be something ill-done about this entire affair. If they were people of birth, then Henry’s family ought to have known. It is a simple matter of breeding and good taste.”

  But there was no force to her words. Dukes, royal palaces—those were very difficult to disparage, and then there was all that endless talk of war, so she took herself off, her mood very much the worse. After all her care, her hopes settled in her daughter, who alone of her offspring had the proper ambition, here was John willfully getting himself killed before he could bear a son, as he had been willful in all else. There was nothing to be done about that.

  Emily saw her mother off, then retreated to the morning room to sit alone, staring out at the bleak gray lake and barren trees. She did not know what she dreaded more: hearing that Henry was dead, or seeing him return.

  She lifted her chin. Her mother was right in one respect. She wasn’t a girl anymore. If Henry did return, he must find her unchanged, with a heart as ready for him as it ever had been. There might be a deal of trouble to be got over, as he had managed to entangle himself, but these days, more marriages ended than began. London was full of such tales, and the beau monde shrugged.

  Six days. She could not wear colors at once, but he had always loved to see her in white. As for this Neapolitan foreigner and her prating of promises, there was no doubt that vulgar, pushing Bradshaw woman would use any opportunity to force herself upon them, bringing her entire set with her. If Henry returned to find the house full of tradesmen’s wives coming to call, what could be better?

  26

  The inside of the bookseller’s shop smelled delightfully of books. Until she stepped in, Anna had not been aware how booksellers’ shops smelled alike in Paris, Seville, and in this kingdom.

  A tall, stooped man, obviously the proprietor, was busy talking to a couple of men. On a high stool at the back, a ledger angled toward the window, perched an equally tall, thin young man of perhaps twenty. He resembled the older man in every respect except for the side-whiskers he was attempting to grow.

  Harriet started toward the proprietor, confident that her rank entitled her to interrupt him, but Anna put out her hand to stay her. “I would rather wait until the shop is empty,” she murmured.

  Harriet shrugged, and both turned to the table displaying the latest books. They were much the same as those Anna had seen in London, save she found a play by Duval, Le Menuisier de Livonie. On the shelf below, a title caught Anna’s eye: Right and Wrong, or the Kinsmen of Naples. Anna took it down.

  Harriet glanced at it. “Oh, we have some by that author. Moss Cliff Abb
ey—I had to read it to Mama. Such stuff! Are there really haunted abbeys all over Europe?”

  “None that I ever saw,” Anna admitted. “But then I have not been all over Europe. Just in the south, mostly, except for a tour of France—”

  She remembered that she must not speak about her days as a singer, and fell silent.

  Harriet did not notice. “That is more than I have ever seen! I have yet to see London. I ought to have been presented last spring, but, well, I know it is ill-bred to complain about that. And yet it is very hard, especially when a cousin of mine made her come-out, and a vast number of her friends. It would have been a great deal of fun,” she finished wistfully.

  At that moment the two gentlemen touched their hats to Mr. Bradshaw and departed. The proprietor advanced on the ladies with the books. When the bonneted heads faced him, he recognized Miss Duncannon from the Manor, then checked himself when he apprehended an unknown lady with her, one dressed in the height of fashion, though in the colors of half-mourning.

  Harriet said, “Mr. Bradshaw, this is Lady Northcote, the new lady Northcote, just come among us yesterday.”

  As Mr. Bradshaw bowed, Anna said, “I am come with news from your son aboard the Aglaea, sir.”

  Mr. Bradshaw’s entire countenance changed. “My son! Would you honor me by entering our parlor upstairs? Endymion, put down your pen. You must tend the shop in my absence. Please, ladies?”

  He moved faster than Anna would have expected from such a tall, gaunt man, leading the way through the store to a narrow stairway at the very back.

  Upstairs, his wife, scolding the poor maid-of-all-work, broke off, listening to the voices on the stairs. Under her husband’s familiar rumble were the accents of a lady.

  She dismissed the maid to the kitchen, hissing, “Get out the fine tea things, and be ready if I ring!” then whisked herself into her parlor.

  Mr. Bradshaw was talking as he led the way. “I beg pardon for the darkness. I know this stair so well, have lived here man and boy forty-one years, and . . .” He was still talking as they emerged in a small hallway.

  He opened another door, surprising a lady pouring over a copy of Corriere delle dame. She ostentatiously laid aside the magazine that she could not read, but she loved the pictures, and even more loved being seen with the famous fashion magazine all the way from Italy.

  Putting on her most polite smile, she gave a quick twitch to her best lace cap, which she had crammed on so fast she suspected it was not quite straight, and advanced on the beautiful new guest.

  “Mrs. Bradshaw,” her helpmeet said, “permit me to present Lady Northcote, who does us the honor of a call with news from Beverley.”

  “Lady Northcote!” Mrs. Bradshaw exclaimed, curtseying prettily.

  Anna surveyed her hostess, a small, round woman with reddish ringlets escaping from under her cap, and blue eyes that Anna remembered mirrored in her son’s face, if he resembled her in little else.

  “I . . . I, pray enter,” Mrs. Bradshaw said. “Forgive this dreadful little room, it is merely where I sit of a morning. If Mr. Bradshaw had thought a moment, he might have brought you to our drawing room in proper form. I never go downstairs, you see, it was a condition of marriage, as tending a shop is nothing I have been used to . . .” She chattered on in this manner as she led the way through two more narrow doors into an airless room stuffed with too much furniture in a grand design of the end of the previous century.

  “Pray take a seat, and I will ring for some refreshments.”

  Anna said, “Please do not trouble yourself. I do not mean to disturb you. We shall only trespass on your time long enough for me to discharge my promise.”

  “Oh! I am so grateful, you may be certain. A mother’s anxiousness for her child . . . Perhaps you are not yet a parent, and here I am, mother of five boys, though you might not think it to look at me. Five boys! And each a cause for anxious care.” She blinked dry eyes, and indicated one of the satin-covered chairs, as if she would press her visitors into them.

  Anna sat on the edge of one, Harriet on another, and Anna launched straight-away into as much of the history of the battle as she knew, dwelling only on that which affected young Beverley Bradshaw.

  As she spoke, she sensed inattention in Mrs. Bradshaw, whose gaze darted about as if looking for something, perhaps a way to keep them there? She was a contrast to the father, whose eyes gleamed with unshed tears. He leaned forward slightly, as if to draw the words out of her the faster.

  Twice she had to go through what little she knew of the battle, dwelling on every detail of Mr. Bradshaw’s wound, and every word he spoke. From there Mr. Bradshaw asked after the captain, and on hearing of his wound, said everything that was proper.

  Mrs. Bradshaw then spoke up, having a great deal to say about the glorious Nelson, who the newspapers predicted was to have a grand memorial after the new year. She repeated every trite expression that had been written in the newspapers these weeks, after which Anna and Harriet at last were permitted to rise and take their leave.

  Mr. Bradshaw accompanied them downstairs, during which time Anna had thought about how best to present his son’s earnest request for an increase in his mess allowance. Mr. Bradshaw understood at once, and promised it should be seen to, and he thanked her for having a care to his boy.

  They were thus in perfect agreement when they reached the front of the shop. Before Anna gained the front door he took up the two volumes she had been looking at, and pressed them into her hands.

  “Please take them, Lady Northcote,” he said earnestly. “Gratis. It is the least I can do for such a kindness. Beverley has not been the most diligent correspondent. We make every allowance for boys that age, and I know he is kept busy enough. But . . . wounded in the service of his kingdom, and under such glorious circumstances . . .” He wiped his eyes, and when she accepted the books with thanks, he scarcely would allow even that as he bowed her out of the shop.

  As soon as they climbed into the gig, Harriet exclaimed, “I did not know you were in the battle!”

  “As I explained, I saw very little.”

  Harriet turned to gaze at her. “I thought you were in a ship somewhere nearby, safe.”

  “We helped the surgeon.”

  Harriet’s eyes rounded. “I did not think ladies would be permitted.”

  “There were women on the battleships, of every degree, on both sides,” Anna said, and as the gig rolled up the street toward the high point, she told Harriet about the French woman who had nearly drowned.

  “So they rescued her, but did not throw her back into the water when they knew she was French?” Harriet asked.

  “The boat was filled with French rescued from the waters. Our hold was full of Spanish prisoners. We carried them to Gibraltar.”

  Harriet frowned at the low gray sky, and the liquid mud in the lane. “It seems so odd that they begin by banging away at one another with cannon, and then next thing you know, they set about rescuing those who survive it.”

  Anna said, low, “I don’t understand it myself, but I am glad that they did pull those drowning wretches from the sea. There was much death enough.”

  Silence fell between them, except for the creak of the gig, the crunch of wheels and clop of hooves. Far in the distance winter birds chattered and cried. Harriet wanted to ask more. The newspapers said nothing about ‘death’ in such a way as to cause that closed downward look, the gloved hands gripping so tightly. The newspapers had contained long columns about the glory of the victory Admiral Lord Nelson had gained before his heroic demise, and a lot of confusing details about the movement of ships of the line, unhelpful if one had never so much as glimpsed any kind of ship.

  They reached the manor and parted to change. Harriet was surprised to find Emily waiting for her, to ask after the success of the new Lady Northcote’s first call.

  “We only stayed fifteen minutes,” Harriet said. “She talked about the battle, and their little boy, and then we left, except that th
e bookseller pressed two books upon her.”

  Emily sighed. “I expect Mrs. Bradshaw will use those as an excuse to encroach, but that is a matter to be addressed later. Is that all you talked about, then?”

  Harriet was surprised at questions from this quarter. Emily was far more used to suppressing what she called bumptiousness or pertness, as if Harriet were eight and not eighteen. Feeling important, she said, “Yes. Except when we set out, she’d noticed the fortepiano and asked straight off if we were a musical family. She expected it because of Henry. I know you did not like it, but he was a capital player.”

  “You mistake,” Emile said smoothly. “I am exceedingly partial to music. No one is more. It was just that I thought his instrument poorly chosen. One does not really appear comme il faut blowing upon horns of any kind, but that is neither here nor there. If he is to come home, I think it appropriate that we consider music again. So much less tiresome than card-playing, and as you said, a few days from now even the highest stickler could not be expected to fault us for indulging a wish for music.” She smiled brightly as Harriet tried to hide her dismay. “Perhaps if Lady Northcote plays, she will play to me. I must look out my favorite songs.”

  o0o

  Anna thought no more about the morning after she laid aside the books she had been given. She longed to resume her dance and her singing, but she knew nothing of the customs of this house. She walked along the walls of her new chambers, feeling liked the caged bird of the fairy tale.

  But that was mere self-pity. She must simply stir herself, and find a way.

  The door opened, and Parrette entered. “Mrs. Diggory was expecting to take you over the house, and the elder Lady Northcote has decided to accompany you both. You are free?”

  Anna exclaimed, “I would not for the world have her to think me remiss in any attentions. Will you take me to her?”