Taking in a deep breath, she straightened her back. Jonathan and Mrs. Dean were waiting for her at Craven Street. Added to that, her first student in a long day of appointments was Reid. She would have enough of a battle on her hands trying to maintain her composure around him without him seeing that she had been crying.
Still, the tears came.
Chapter Sixteen
Reid made it to Craven Street just before nine, puffing heavily as he knocked on the door to Lavinia’s apartment. A carriage with two broken wheels had blocked the road and caused a crush of traffic in the Hay Market. Reid had abandoned his own conveyance and run the last few hundred yards to make it on time.
Lavinia opened the door. She looked pale and drawn.
“Good morning. Come in please,” she said.
Reid slipped his hat and coat off before hanging them on the hook near the door. Taking his usual place at the music stand, he waited.
“And your jacket. Come now, Lord Follett, I shouldn’t have to tell you,” she snapped.
He met her gaze. Tired, bloodshot eyes stared back at him. Lavinia was either ill or had been crying. His oversight in not having removed his jacket couldn’t possibly be the cause, but he still felt bad. Whatever was the matter, he should not be so unthinking as to add to her problems.
“What’s wrong? I thought we were now on a first-name basis,” he said.
“Nothing.”
He lay a hand on her arm. He didn’t like to see women upset; he didn’t know how to handle it. If Eliza cried, she sure as certain kept it hidden from him.
“Please, Lavinia,” he implored.
She shook her head. “I . . . no. Please, Reid, leave it be. My problems are not your concern. Let us worry about your lesson.”
A part of him wanted to do as she asked and forget about her sorrow, but another part, the stronger side of him, could not let it rest.
“We can cancel for today if you do not feel up to giving me a lesson. I shall understand,” he offered.
She shook her head a second time, more vehemently than the first.
“No, Reid, you have to practice. You have paid for your lesson and I always keep to my agreements.”
“Are you sure there is nothing I can do to help?” he said.
“I am fine. Let us concentrate on improving your singing, Reid. It is what you are paying me for,” replied Lavinia.
Her tears did have one positive—Reid was studious about his lesson this morning, more so than any other time he had visited her home. He even appeared to be motivated to learn more breathing techniques.
She was still caught in the aftershock of having seen her brother to press Reid for the reason he was being such an attentive student. Once again, she reminded herself that as long as he paid for his tutoring, it really was none of her business.
“I have been thinking about what you said.”
Lavinia waited for him to continue. She had said a lot of things to Reid but as he was prone to daydreaming, she wasn’t sure how much he actually heard.
“About my range,” he added.
Ah. They had circled back to that discussion. She waited again. This was a conversation she had undertaken with a number of gentlemen over the years. Very few had listened fully to her reasoning. All bar one had outright ignored her advice.
As for Reid, she had thought he had forgotten about it, or decided it was too much work to make the change.
“How hard would it be for me to become a tenor? I mean, a good tenor,” he said.
Lavinia steeled herself. Why today, of all mornings, had Reid suddenly decided he wanted to get serious about his singing? She could only pray he wasn’t going to announce his intention of taking to the stage.
“Some have made mention, yourself included, that my singing is adequate. ‘Passable’ is another word I have heard used,” he replied.
Oh, wonderful. Now it comes. This is all about male pride. Spare me.
She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to force herself to remain in the here and now. To address the concerns of a paying customer without offending him. “I am not going to lie to you. Practice has seen your abilities improve, but you will never be anything better than good if you remain as a baritone,” she said.
But if you were brave enough to attempt becoming a tenor, who knows what you could achieve?
“Good. Nothing more?” he asked.
Lavinia shook her head. “Isn’t that enough for your purposes?”
She knew it was selfish of her, but she prayed for that to be enough for him. For them to continue sharing simple singing lessons over a period of time, at the end of which he would be a better singer. Her sensible self was telling her that she should also be praying for her crush on him to die a natural death, but the more Lavinia looked at Reid her heart told her that was not going to happen anytime soon.
She ached for him to silently nod his agreement, then take her in his arms and just hold her. For everything else to fall away and it to be just about them.
“No,” he replied.
Lavinia stared at him, unsure of what else she should say. She set her private dreams of them aside once more and forced herself to focus on the issue at hand. Reid’s singing.
If she was to help him become a tenor it would take a major commitment on both their parts. The thought gave her pause. On the plus side, it would mean them spending more time together, but at the same time she worried that a man such as Reid would soon tire of such an overbearing commitment and quit his lessons. And if he gave up, he would be lost somewhere in the never lands of not being anything more than a half-decent baritone and an unprepared tenor. All that time, effort, and money would be put to waste.
“What will it take? And how long?” he pressed. There was a sense of urgency in his voice that hinted at a secret agenda.
“It will take you being honest with me,” she replied.
His lips began to move. The expected retort of telling her to mind her own business would no doubt soon follow. But to her surprise, he stopped. Instead of words, only a long sigh of frustration came from his mouth.
Reid walked away from the music stand and crossed to the small window. The room only had the one. It overlooked the dark, dingy laneway at the back of number twenty-five Craven Street. If he had thought to find a sunny vista on which to look upon, he was to be disappointed.
“I want to perform in public,” he said, turning back to her.
Oh no.
She did not need a nobleman who fancied himself a player on the stage. Wasn’t a title and wealth enough? Why did he feel the need for fame? It could only end in bitter tears and recriminations, most of which would fall on her.
What a pity.
She had been counting on Reid’s money for at least the next few weeks, expecting that eventually he would get bored with the whole thing and quit.
Once she explained to him the time and effort involved in training to become a tenor, she expected him to baulk at it. The money had been good while it lasted. Tomorrow, another frustrated gentleman singer would appear on her doorstep, advertisement in hand, and the cycle would begin all over again.
As he made his way back to where she stood, Lavinia felt the heat of Reid’s gaze. A slow dread possessed her. Any moment now he would let fly with some grand speech about how he was destined for greatness. How he wished to tour Europe and share his wonderful songs with cultured people all over.
He stopped right in front of the music stand and towered over her. She looked into his eyes, wishing this moment was leading somewhere else. A time when he would pull her into his embrace and kiss her senseless—she wouldn’t resist if he did.
“How long?” he asked again.
Lavinia was completely lost in Reid. The scent of his cologne filled her senses. There was a hint of bergamot and eastern incense, and perhaps amber. Whatever it was, his scent added another layer to his already enticing body. She was drawn to him.
Her hand settled on his waistcoat, and sh
e closed her eyes.
Just one minute. That’s all I ask.
Her every nerve tingled with anticipation. Her body was starved for the touch of a man, and her soul cried out for Reid.
“How long?”
She blinked open her eyes, then let her arm fall to her side. “That depends on you, Reid. If you are prepared to work and train every day, you could make the transition in a matter of weeks. But . . . and I mean but, you would not be ready to take up a professional career for some time,” she replied.
Hard, cold honesty was the best weapon she had in the fight against people holding onto impossible dreams. She had learned that bitter lesson firsthand.
“But I would still be better than a passable baritone?” he asked.
Passable. There was that word again. Reid seemed to have real issues with being considered average at anything. In her eyes, there was nothing average about him.
Lavinia admitted defeat. She had told him the truth and explained what it would take. If he decided to go ahead with this then the outcome would be his to own.
“If you come here every day, and if you practice everything, I set you, then you could be a splendid tenor. I didn’t say great, or supremely talented, but yes, much better than you are now; your natural range is as a tenor,” she replied.
To his credit, he didn’t leap at her suggestion. His face became a study in quiet consideration. When their gazes met once more, there was a softness in his eyes. A kindness which called to her.
“Then we shall work together every day. You and me. We will make this happen.” He reached out and took hold of her hand before placing it once more on his chest. Feeling the hard thump of his heartbeat, she imagined what it would be like to lay her head on his naked chest and fall asleep to that steady rhythm.
Lavinia withdrew her hand, telling herself that it was but a fleeting pleasant fantasy, nothing more. She was the only one in this moment of longing. Her heart broke just a little.
“There is one other condition. You will pay me for a month’s worth of lessons in advance, and there will be no refunds. That way, if you decide that it is all too much and quit, then I am not left having to try and fill your morning appointment at short notice.”
She was forced to take a hasty step back as Reid marched over to where his jacket hung. After rummaging around inside the pocket, he returned and held out his hand. “I would like to begin tomorrow morning. And yes, no refunds.” He dropped a small fold of bank notes into her hand.
Lavinia took the money and slipped it into her pocket. Her upbringing would not allow her to question a gentleman’s honor by counting it while he was still present.
“Tomorrow morning,” she replied.
The second Reid had left the apartment, Lavinia pulled the notes out of her pocket. She counted them, then checked them again.
“One, two . . . oh, Reid.”
Five pounds. It was an extravagant amount of money. Far more than a year’s worth of lessons would cost.
She folded the notes and held them tightly in her hand. There was a lot she could do with this sort of blunt. Jonathan needed new shoes. A rug for her bedroom would keep the chill from her feet when she slipped out of bed in the morning. And she could buy herself a warmer coat.
“No, Reid, I can’t,” she muttered.
She would give him back the money first thing tomorrow morning. They would get nowhere if the thought of his money continually preyed on her mind. She couldn’t have this much of it hanging over her head as they worked together.
If Reid truly wanted her praise for his singing, he was going to have to earn it.
Chapter Seventeen
Reid left Craven Street in a hopeful but, oddly for him, reflective mood. At one point he had been genuinely worried that Lavinia was going to turn him down.
He had pressed the advantage when she was clearly in a vulnerable state. Being a selfish bastard wasn’t a side of himself he was keen to admit to, but it was undeniable in this case. However, by the time he reached home, he had convinced himself that what he had done was for the greater good. He would get the singing lessons he needed to be more than just a pleasant side act in the Noble Lords. And by giving Lavinia a generous sum of money, he had hopefully made her life more comfortable.
He was so pleased with himself that when he reached home, he took the front steps of number eighteen Windmill Street two at a time. The almighty row that greeted him as he set foot in the front door immediately brought the happy flow of his morning to a sharp stop.
“Not in my house!” screeched Eliza.
A bottle of Plymouth gin whizzed past Reid’s head and smashed against the wall behind him. He was fortunate that his sister had thrown wide. If Eliza’s aim had been an inch or two to the left, Reid would likely be lying unconscious on the floor, having been clocked by the fast-flying bottle.
“But it’s after ten o’clock. You can’t be serious about withholding the gin at this hour.” Callum held out his hands before him in supplication. Upon seeing Reid, he hurried over. Pointing a finger in the general direction of the red-faced Eliza, he pleaded with Reid. “She won’t let any of the servants serve alcohol before the hour of midday. And only then if we sit down to dine. Reid, for God’s sake, man, talk some sense into her.”
Reid met Eliza’s gaze. Her filthy temper was in full force. The gin dripping down the wall of the front entrance was evidence enough of that.
“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.
Eliza puffed out her chest and pointed a finger back at Callum. “No decent gentleman imbibes at this time of the day, nor at the earlier hour when you first asked the servants. This is our home, not a gin vault.”
Reid slipped his hat from his head and handed it to a waiting footman. He nodded in the direction of the gin disaster. “Please have that cleaned up immediately.”
He should have been angry with the scene which greeted him, but privately he was relieved. Eliza was getting a firsthand view of the real Callum Sharp. The drunkard.
It might cost his sister a broken heart, but Reid would rather a thousand broken bottles in the foyer of his home than for her to spend the rest of her life with Callum and his problems. Gin for breakfast was one of his more socially acceptable addictions.
“Eliza is right. Gin is a foul drink, not becoming of someone of your standing. Eliza runs the household and her rules apply,” said Reid.
“If I had known this was going to be a house of temperance, I wouldn’t have come,” grumbled Callum, sloping upstairs.
Reid waited until the dejected Callum had disappeared before coming to Eliza’s side. He sidestepped the broken glass as two footmen appeared, bearing buckets and cleaning cloths, and began to wipe down the wall.
“Sorry about that. He just pushed and pushed. I finally snatched the bottle out of his hand, and I was faced with either throwing it at the wall or braining him with it. But enough with the early morning domestic drama. How did your lesson go?” said Eliza.
“Good. I am going to try to become a tenor, but let’s keep that between ourselves for the time being. Some current members of the house don’t take kindly to change.”
As soon as he arrived for his lesson the following morning, Lavinia pressed four of the five pounds into Reid’s hand, saying, “You gave me too much money yesterday.”
When he opened his mouth to protest, she turned her back and walked over to the piano and sat down. End of discussion.
“Now this aria is often used as a starting point for those wishing to learn to become a tenor. It covers the range that you need to develop.”
During his previous visits to the apartment, Reid had not paid the piano much attention. It was smaller than the one Kendal played and lacked the same presence in the room as his did.
She put her fingers to the keys and began to play a new piece of music. It was light, but not too insipid. While she looked at the keys as she played, Reid knew Kendal could easily have lain under the piano and performed that sa
me piece without any great difficulty.
When she had finished with the short piece, she spun ’round on the chair and faced him. “It is on the music stand in front of you. Alma del core. In English it means soul of my heart. My husband, Peter, always started his students with this piece to see if they had what it took to become a proficient tenor. If you can master this song, then we can move on to more complex works.”
Peter.
The shadow of Lavinia’s late husband fell between them. This was the first time she had made mention of him apart from noting he had died.
Despite feeling uncomfortable about the subject, Reid felt compelled to know more about the man. “Can I ask about your husband, if it is not too sensitive a topic?” he ventured.
She gave a half shrug. “Peter was a singing teacher when I met him. He had been a soldier at one point in his life, and when they called for men to sign up and serve in the push against the French, he went.”
“In which regiment did he serve?” asked Reid. By knowing where her husband had been at Waterloo, he could guess how things had gone for him during the battle. Some regiments had seen more action than others on that fateful day.
“The Royal Dragoons,” she replied.
Reid immediately regretted his question. He clenched his fists tight and fought to maintain his composure. Why couldn’t Peter Jones have served with a regiment other than his own? “My deepest sympathies for your loss. Your husband was a brave man to sign up and fight.”
He forced himself to study the music sheet in front of him, unable to look at Lavinia. He didn’t want to tell her that he had been a major in the Royal Dragoons. They had been one of the most experienced British regiments on the battlefield that day, having seen active duty during the Peninsular War. But mistakes made that June afternoon had seen them suffer heavier losses than were necessary.
Memories of watching his men cut down in front of him still haunted Reid. The screams of dying soldiers pleading for help or crying for their mothers often crept into the quiet moments of his day. The overwhelming stench of mud stirred up by the rain and polluted by blood, shit, and dead horses could never be erased from his mind. He woke sometimes in the middle of the night having dreamed he was still struggling to make headway through the knee-deep festering mire.
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