“Angels play the harp, Robert, not the pianoforte.” Read Chapter 4 from "An Independent Heart"

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An Independent Heart: A Novel

by Elizabeth Grant 

 

Chapter 4

 

But when my touching came to play his part

(The king of senses, greater than the rest) . . .

Drayton, Idea

 

 

The first-floor vestibule of the Hanover Square Rooms glittered with light and people. The uncur­tained windows mirrored the scene against the night, but when Claire moved closer, her own shadow fell on the wet ledge of creamy stone out­side, and she could see right across the square.

“How bright London is,” she said. “I suppose the ice has melted now that it has started to rain.”

Robert had stepped back a pace, gazing at the panes rather than through them, but now he gave his reflection an approving nod and turned to her, blinking with raised eyebrows. “Eh?”

“Do you not mind how bright the snow and ice were in the moonlight when we left the coffee-tent? We did not even need a link-boy.”

“Not a sennight and yet it’s all gone. I passed by the river on my way to the Temple this morning.” He came to stand next to her. “I’m glad you enjoyed your little adventure.”

“This is my adventure.” Claire turned her back on the window and lifted a hand to indicate the elegant throng. “The Frost Fair was Nicola’s ad­venture, and this is mine.”

Robert looked across the vestibule to where Nicola formed one of a lively group, the primrose silk of her gown shimmering like the sun on a June day. “No, indeed, she would hardly call a concert of Ancient Music an adventure.” He narrowed his eyes in the curious expression she knew so well. “But you would? There must be concerts in Edinburgh.” Then a shadow crossed his face and he added, with sudden vehemence, “And you play, too. Like an angel.”

Startled by his low, intense voice, she replied, “Angels play the harp, Robert, not the pianoforte.”

He made a strangled sound in his throat. “Like an angel,” he repeated. “And it was heaven when Papa brought me to live with you and your mother and the girls. There you were in the drawing room, setting stitches or reading French, singing to the babies or playing Bach, and who was to know that you’d just survived an epidemic and lost two little brothers, that you’d spent the entire morning in housework – that you were waiting for Papa and straining to anticipate what his mood might be that night. And when it happened . . . I still see the music for TheWell-Tempered Clavier open on the piano, mocking us while the blows fell. Heaven and hell.” He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. “What a strange life we led,” he said hoarsely.

A great stillness filled her. They had never yet talked about that time, although she played on Nicola’s pianoforte every day. But it was safer here, in public, with the indifferent glitter and hum to steady them. “We did have a maid to help with the dishes and cleaning,” she said.

“Oh, Claire.” He pressed her hand. “As if that made all right. And things can’t have been easy for you when Old Mrs Lammond took you in, either. The way she treated us, one might have thought we were to blame for our father’s . . . shortcomings. Making you take her name, too, as if to wipe out his memory.”

“I wish she had succeeded,” Claire murmured. Matter-of-factly she added, “Is it awkward for you, Robert, us not having the same name? Will people think –”

“No, no! Most people don’t think very much at all, you know, and besides, you won’t –” He broke off, gave her a quick glance, and lifted her hand to his lips before releasing it.

She thought she knew what he had tactfully left unsaid. “I won’t be here much longer. Soon I will go back to the girls and it won’t matter anymore.”

“Aye, to the girls and the great estate Old Mrs Lammond saw fit to – to saddle you with!” He made a face. “Now I see why the Frost Fair was no ad­venture for you. You’re used to walking on much thinner ice.”

“That is how it felt, back then,” Claire said. “So much to unlearn and learn. Poor Grandmama. But she taught us how to manage and left us well provided for. And you’re doing very well, too, in the career she arranged for you.” Opening her fan, she gestured at herself, the crowded room. “Just look at us now, part of all this, so carefree and gay.”

Robert’s expression when he looked at her was neither carefree nor gay. “That is what I always wanted for you, Claire, the happy life all the other girls seemed to have.”

“That is what I have, Robert. And you married one of those other girls!”

Once again his gaze sought his wife. Without in­ter­rupting her conversation, Nicola lifted her hand and waved. “You may be right, you know. Perhaps that is what first attracted me to her.” Then he added, “God give I don’t make mull of it.”

It was cruel, not strange, a childhood that led a man to fear himself thus. Claire laid her hand on his arm. “With the example you’ve had?” she asked gently. “I should think not.”

His face was bleak. “That’s just the point. I know what I don’t want, but . . .” Half turning away from her, he continued, “I don’t really know what a good husband is, or how he behaves.” 

He was standing at the window without really looking out, but now something down in the street seemed to catch his attention. Throwing her a grin, he said, “No, wait, I do know what a good husband is, or at least I can recognize one when I see one.”

Relieved at the change of subject, she stepped to his side. A carriage had drawn up in front of the building, its horses steaming gently in the drizzle. The passenger had alighted, and the groom was back on the box, looking down at his master, who stood with his head thrown back to make some laughing remark. It was Captain Sumners. 

“Have you no thought of marriage, Claire?” Robert inquired blandly. “You might marry into the peerage.”

Not a change of subject, but a complete change of mood. Thrown off balance, Claire took him quite literally, deliberately misunderstanding. “Don’t tell me you think Lord Hawksfield is interested.”

He nudged her with his elbow, as if they were children still. “Not the present Lord Hawksfield. But the future one. Oh, yes. And you like him, too.”

It was true; there was no need for Robert to look so astonished when she admitted it. “He doesn’t prate,” she explained. “I’ve seen him decline a number of open invitations to show him­self in an advantageous light, and in my experience that is unusual, especially in a man not yet thirty. I wish he would talk more, because Percy will be bom­barding me with questions when she learns that we’re acquainted with a Rifleman.” After a moment she added, “But not even for Percy’s sake would I marry him, nor anyone.” She faced him squarely. “You know that, Robert.”

“I know.” He sighed. “It seems rather extreme, however. There’s a lot to be said for matrimony.”

She could not suppress a shudder, and he saw it. “As bad as that? My dear,” he added when, unable to speak, she turned away her face. She took a deep breath, studied the playbill, remarked on the evening’s programme.

“My dear,” he repeated softly. “Will you be kind to Captain Sumners for my sake, then? It might make a world of difference.”

The notion was absurd, but he continued: “These people haven’t gathered here to listen to music. This is society, Claire. In this room, you see rep­resent­atives of all those families who effectively rule the kingdom. Connexions are made, alliances forged here and at similar gatherings – political alliances, family alliances. Often these are one and the same.”

It was his world. He saw it from inside, an actor rather than a spectator. “I understand, Robert.” She looked up at him. “You’re a performer in the social concert, not a mere part of the audience as I am.” Lightly she added, “Do you know, Captain Sumners said something quite similar to me that day on the ice. It is fortunate for you that he has no parlia­mentary ambitions. I expect he will be aiming for the Foreign Office, given his qualifications? There he is.” The captain had appeared at the head of the stairs with Lord Dallington at his side. 

His return to civilization had progressed by another visible step. The two young men had called twice in the intervening week; on the morning after their first meeting, Captain Sumners had been as shabby and shaggy as the night before, his uniform carefully brushed but worn and faded, his hair kempt and clean but far too long; then he had had his hair cut, and now he had found himself a respectable, even refulgent dress uniform. He swept the space before him with his gaze, like a hawk about to take to his wings, threw a remark to his cousin, grasped his arm, and drew him towards Robert and herself.

There was something derisive in Robert’s laugh, and when he said that for someone who called herself a listener she played pretty well, Claire had her doubts whether he meant her performance on the pianoforte. 

She paid little attention to the to and fro as the audience took their seats, leaping up to let others pass, to exchange bows, seats, playbills, or gossip while the musicians tuned their instruments. The concert began with a Corelli she knew well in its pianoforte version – a transmogrified version, she decided, pleased with the interplay of instruments and impatient with the hubbub briefly erupting after the applause subsided. For the German dances, the strings were joined by a stately basso continuo; craning her neck, she tried to make out how the orchestra communicated with this new member, who sat with his back to them. Then the music swept away conscious thought and all that remained was a sense of utter well-being. It was good to be here, with Robert and Nicola, and with all these people who her brother believed to be more interested in politics than in music. Although his profile was absorbed, she knew that for him at least this was true, but when he turned his head, she knew that he was still her brother, who loved and protected her. Tears rose to her eyes. To hide her emotion, she kept her gaze fixed on the playbill during the short interval that followed.

The next piece began, disconcertingly, with low, intense, abrasive sounds. Then the quintet launched into a sweet melody – almost too sweet, but soon the music changed again, turning grave, stately, with the ’cello booming away. A pause was followed by strumming and pizzicati at once informal and so joyful that Claire’s hand as of its own accord sought her brother’s. His fingers closed around hers, convey­ing a message that had nothing to do with politics and everything with music. Their hands remained clasped together even through the reprise of the haunting phrases from the beginning and to the triumphant, sweeping end.

Claire took a deep breath, but when she turned, the words died on her lips. It was not her brother’s hand she was holding, nor his faintly amused gaze that met hers. Captain Sumners was regarding her with warm, dark eyes. Quickly she withdrew her hand, but he had already released his grip. Staring down at the playbill, she felt an embarrassed glow flowing up the side of her neck. A touch on her hand made her start violently, then a waft of air cooled her cheeks, and another, and another. He had twisted her fan from her grasp and was slowly waving it.

“La Musica Notturna delle Strade di Madrid.” Another wave indicated the playbill. “Someone will have had to pay a thumping great fine. The music played here is meant to be more than twenty-five years old at least, an odd enough definition of ‘ancient’, and Boccherini only died in the year five. Although, of course, the composition may be of an earlier date.”

The nocturnal music of the streets of Madrid: the captain talked, at uncharacteristic length and with a wealth of detail. His low, husky voice envel­oped her. Despite the confused sense of shame, gratitude, and resentment that kept her eyes fixed on her hands, the right clasping the treacherous left, she found herself drawn into his narrative – the hushing sound that a thin drizzle made on slated roofs, knocking on a back door, the muted noises of a desperate scuffle, the sounds of flight and pursuit, the silent flow of blood and loud rasping of spent breath.

“So you see, the low screeches that made up the first movement, that is my experience of Madrid.”

The way he talked, one might think it had all hap­pened to someone else; yet it was not so long ago. “Was that when you were captured?”

“It was.” The fan snapped shut. “Shall we join the Lysters?”

“But . . . how did it end?” Arrested by her question, he did not immediately relinquish her fan, although she had already reached for it. Their hands touched. Lifting her chin, she added, “My sisters will never forgive me if I don’t tell them the rest of the story.”

“I lived to tell the tale.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I thought Percy alone was interested in the military.”

“In the Rifle Corps, yes, but when it comes to the Peninsular War, the others are just as bad, even Stella.”

“Well, one day I will tell her the rest, and the others, even Stella.” 

He was looking at her as though through her he might see her sisters and some future time in which they were all together, and for a moment she felt that it should be so. 

This time it was she who made to rise. “Shall we join my sister-in-law?”

“Stay a moment, Miss Lammond,” he said, sud­denly grave and very much present. “Excuse me if I embarrass you, but . . . do you know of your brother’s plans?”

So Robert was right, after all, and everything was politics. She had to laugh. “Certainly I do.” The captain’s expression hardened inexplicably; and in­ex­plica­bly she was moved to justify her brother. “You must not blame him for his ambition. If he achieves it, and enters parliament, he will do very well, believe me.”

 

~  ~  ~

 

“They were playing this piece” – Justin whistled softly so as not to disturb the horses – “and she took my hand. I will speak to her brother tomor­row.” He had lapsed into Spanish, as he always did when he was talking to Pepe.

“That is a fine tune.” Pepe took up the melody. Humming as he worked, he added some melismatic variations of his own, but when Justin reached for a curry-comb, he stopped abruptly. “Leave it, Don Justín.” After a silence broken only by the sounds of brushing, Justin’s low whistling, and the horses’ peace­ful breathing, Pepe said, “Do you think she knows of her brother’s plans?” As usual he had put his finger on the problem.

“I thought she could not, after what had passed – her embarrassment – so I asked her.” The queer satisfaction engendered by her confiding gesture had been banished by one word, one candid look. “She took a most businesslike view, and I cannot say I don’t regret it.”

The sense of regret was still with Justin when he walked into Lyster’s study the next morning. It was just another business call, with an agreement easily reached. 

“I will not deny that I have been waiting for this call, Captain Sumners. But leave it to me, do not speak to her yourself.” Lyster winked. “A girl does not like to be thought quite so, shall we say, busi­nesslike. Although after what passed at the concert, I wonder how businesslike Claire really is.” He re­garded Justin with narrowed eyes as though to find the answer in his features. 

“Don’t be naïve, Lyster. She hadn’t noticed our changing seats and took me for you, that’s all. I’d be flattering myself if I thought otherwise.”

Lyster shrugged. “Anyhow, there is bound to be some awkwardness. Let us go upstairs, but pray do not mention what has passed. Pretend you’re court­ing her, do you mind?”

“On the contrary.” Justin rose as the other man pushed back his chair and came round the desk. When they shook hands, Lyster’s eyes slid away.

“Miss Lammond tells me that you’ll keep your part of the bargain,” Justin said, “and not forget to whom you owe your advance. I’m not sure what I think of you, Lyster, but I do like the fondness you have for your sister.”

With a sharp snort, Lyster half turned away, sud­denly very pale. “You will be good to her.”

“Nothing could give me greater pleasure.”

The conventional remark did not abate Lyster’s solemnity. “I am fond of her, I am,” he muttered fiercely, but when Justin said that he was, too, he took a grip on himself and led the way upstairs.

Miss Lammond had been an almost palpable presence during this interview, and when Justin stepped into the hall, he knew it was not only because she was its object. The tinkle of the piano, now clearly audible, must have penetrated to the study, too: hesitant, inept, although a sudden confident burst revealed that she was picking out the melody of the quintettino they had heard at the concert. When Lyster and he entered the room, she stopped abruptly.

“How do you do, Miss Lammond?” It was impos­sible to keep the warmth from his voice. “That was a fine piece.”

“It’s too difficult. I’ll have to find a score.” Her bosom rose and fell as she took a quick breath. At the neckline of her dress, an edge of fine lawn peeped out, and although he knew this was the fashion, quite commonplace, to be seen on scores of female bosoms, on her it seemed utterly seductive, a promise soon to be fulfilled. That not impossible she . . . Yes.

“Was it on the playbill? Well, well.” Lyster bent and kissed her cheek. “You must study it and play it to us when we return from Northamptonshire.” 

She looked up at her brother, then, flushing slightly, at Justin.

“So you are supporting Robert’s candidacy? I am glad.”

Her confusion was too tempting. If this was a busi­ness arrangement, then he had underrated the pleasures of business. “Your brother’s arguments proved irresistible,” he said. Her flush deepened, and the soft pink spread from her cheeks to the side of her neck. The skin would be warm to the touch. But she held his gaze, as if to prevent him noticing her discomfiture, and he felt a stab of guilt. “I hope to show myself equally persuasive with the electors,” he continued. “There are thirty-three of them to be canvassed, and only four­teen are our tenants, another five belonging to your papa.” He bowed to Mrs Lyster.

Miss Lammond’s attention was caught, as he had known it would be, her confusion forgotten. “And the remaining fourteen?”

“The main thing is the support of their landlord, of course, although some are freeholders. Bouverie is unlikely to go against us, but in any case, I mean to speak to them personally and individually.”

“Good heavens, Sumners, you don’t intend to call on them all?”

“Certainly I do,” Justin said. “It will be a unique opportunity to taste thirty-three different variants of elderberry wine.”

Mrs Lyster was horrified. “You will never! It is the nastiest stuff. I had to drink some, once, at Glebe Farm, and it disagreed with me quite vio­lently. Pray do not, Robert. You cannot know if it is safe.”

“Why should it not be safe?” Miss Lammond said. “Besides, Nicola, it would never do to offend these people.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs Lyster. My innards are inured to all sorts of beverage, so if your husband is in any danger, I will endeavour to drink his wine for him.”

Although absurd, her gratitude was touching, too, but what affected him far more was Miss Lammond’s silent look of approval. It was more than business after all. The pressure of her hand, the feeling of intimacy had been real, and he would have sworn entirely uncalculated.

 

Enjoyed this? Want more? The second, revised edition of An Independent Heart is available in paperback and e-book format with Amazon, Books on Demand, and in bookstores near you!

While you wait, why not browse around the blog entries relating to Chapter 4, and find out more about the historical background, or listen to the music collected in the Independent Heart soundtrack on YouTube?

 

Vicente Palmaroli y González, María de los Dolores Collado y Echagüe, duquesa de Bailén (detail), 

c. 1870, ©Museo Nacional del Prado