Intermezzo (18 page)

“
Only
one of them, Lord Waterston? Between my Nancy and your aunt I have become committed to half a dozen projects.” Thomas Worthing was almost enjoying himself.

“Each one of those projects guaranteed, my dear Thomas, to earn you a place in heaven,” Nancy assured him. He patted her hand and grinned but Diana Rathbone continued addressing Lord Waterston, ignoring both her cousin and his betrothed, “Which of your aunt’s charities have you subscribed to, Charles?”

Without a hint of a smile Waterston replied, “The fund for the housing of pregnant Magdalens. I feel certain that you will support me in this, Diana.”

“I beg your pardon, Charles?” Diana was stunned.

“Excuse me, my lord, but what have you to do with these unfortunate magdalens?” William Worthing asked in a silky little voice.

“Rather less than you do, my dear Mr. Worthing,
my
interests are entirely charitable.”

“Charles, surely you jest?” Diana was beginning to recover.

“On the contrary, my dear, I am perfectly serious. I have become a Whig—a political apostate, as has young Thomas here. Aunt Sophia has been kind enough to introduce us to all manner of reformers and I look forward to seeing a great deal more of those gentlemen in the future.”

“Charles, I cannot think that my papa will approve.”

“I am very much afraid you may be right, Diana. Please to consult your esteemed papa on the matter—I am quite willing to discuss it with him.”

“Do you understand what this means?”

“Yes, I think I do, Diana, but a man must follow his conscience in such matters.” And he bowed deeply as Lady Diana Rathbone and her cousin swept from the box.

As he raised his eyes they were twinkling. “Come Sophia, you look a trifle peaked, would you care for some refreshment?”

“Yes, my dearest nephew, a little sherry.”

“With pleasure.” Still smiling, he left the box. Adela felt the grip on her hand loosen and looked down to see a radiant, grinning, Rebecka.

The remaining occupants of the box chatted away until Nancy and Thomas excused themselves to return to their own box and the curtain was raised on the second act.

As Charles returned with the sherry his aunt met his laughing eyes and asked innocently, “Charles, dear, I was not aware that we were engaged in a new project to help unfortunate Magdalens. But undoubtedly I am getting old and have trouble remembering each of my many little charities.”

“True, my dear aunt Sophia, you
do
seem to be getting old—you really must rest more.”

“I knew it, Uncle Charles, you were just trying to gammon the Ice Queen. My, but she
was
angry. What’s a pregnant Magdalen?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“That means I am too young to understand.” Rebecka pouted.

“Humbug, child,” he said. “You are old enough, but poor Miss Trowle is far too young. Mustn’t corrupt the innocent, you know.”

“Indeed not, Uncle Charles,” Rebecka replied, beaming up to him.

Adela, whose cheeks were becomingly suffused with color quickly looked down at her program and hushed them. “The intermezzo is about to begin and I especially wanted to hear the orchestra.”

“Why?”

“I have some friends playing tonight—now hush child.”

His lordship glanced down into the orchestra pit and saw, among others, Richard Brewer in the violins. Waterston, seating himself casually beside Adela with his arm again on the back of her chair, smiled down into her eyes and commented lovingly on the very inferior quality of the violin section.

“Your lordship, I am not like Lady Diana.”

“In what way, child.”

“When my friends are insulted, I bite.”

“Too true, you are not like Lady Diana at all. She freezes out her opposition.” And he patted her affectionately on the shoulder. “Hush now and listen to your sickly strings. Your ever-eager young man has found you and is gazing up here like a child about to devour a sweet. Does he know, incidentally, that you bite?”

“Of course not, sir. He does not offend my friends.”

“Strange, I find him very offensive.”

“Perhaps so, my lord, but I do not count you, my employer and my cousin, as among my friends.”

“No,” he said slowly, “I am not one of your friends, am I?”

And the intermezzo began.

For a man who had just ended an engagement, Lord Waterston was in remarkably good humor in the coach that evening. He was finally free of Diana Rathbone and, as a bonus, the string section had indisputably butchered the score. Charles hummed an aria all the way home, and as he helped Adela from the carriage, he said quietly, “A word with you, Cousin Adela, before you retire.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said as Soames took her cape.

“I have decided, Miss Trowle, on the performer for my spring concert. Can you be prepared to solo in six weeks? I think it might be a valuable experience for a professional lady.”

“Me, sir?”

“I have never found you hard of hearing, Miss Trowle, nor particularly slow of understanding.”

“Yes, I think I can do it. I think I’m finally ready.” Her face was suffused with joy and she flung her arms around him. “Thank you, sir, you won’t regret it. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” And she turned and raced up the stairs.

Eleven

The morning after the opera, Adela began to work as she had never worked before. She recognized in the spring concert an opportunity to establish herself as one of England’s foremost pianists and she was determined to be worthy of that honor. A few months I ago Adela might have doubted her abilities, but she knew now that she had at least the potential for a dazzling success. She played until her fingers ached and her back felt that it would crumble from the pressure of sitting at the instrument for hours on end. For days she was radiant and then for days she was in a quiver of apprehension. Would she, Adela Trowle, governess-companion, be laughed out of the water.
Never,
she assured herself. And then a few moments later, she would feel confused and inadequate before the genius and clarity of the Bach prelude and fugue she had chosen or incurably clumsy as she worked through the elegant measures of the Mozart Sonata in C Minor.

Adela did not leave the house on St. James Square for a week, and then one morning she ventured out for her regular visit to the cemetery. Having come from the cloistered existence of the piano, Miss Trowle found herself distracted and jostled about by the violence of the London streets. She was only dimly aware of one rude shabby sort of man who was bent on accosting her and she was totally unaware of Matt the Mole or the measures that enterprising young fellow was taking to discourage the stranger. In the midst of the confusion Adela did make note that either she herself was growing soft or the streets of London were becoming even more hurly-burly than they had been.

Matt the Mole reported back to his employer and so several days later as Adela descended the stairs of the house on St. James Square, she was detained: his lordship’s carriage was waiting on the street.

“Good morning, Miss Trowle. May I be of assistance in conveying you to your destination?”

“Thank you, my lord, but I am almost certainly not going in your direction.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Where incidentally are you going?”

Adela hesitated a few moments, and gathering herself up, she answered, “I was intending a visit to Richard Brewer’s home for a practice session.” She mentioned Thatcher’s Row, an address near the City.

“Come along, then; that is precisely where I had planned to go myself.”

“You, sir?”

“Yes, of course. Today was clearly not your day for the cemetery, was it?” And he turned away from the look of confusion in Adela’s face. “Perhaps we could take a turn in the park, Cousin Adela, and I will explain.”

“Yes, I think so, my lord.”

Waterston, however, seemed reluctant to embark on any explanation and they had gone some distance before, locking his eyes on the road ahead, he began to speak.

“I have a confession to make, Miss Trowle.”

“You, sir? A confession?”

“Please hear me through. I suppose I should have been honest with you earlier, but quite frankly, I found it very difficult. Now the situation demands some adjustment and therefore some greater measure of truth between us. You do have the
right
to come and go as you wish but,” he hesitated, “to wander around London alone is almost suicidal. Perhaps you could have done so once, but now you will be seen leaving a house of wealth, and although you may not care for me to mention it, you, yourself, Cousin Adela, are no longer the penniless governess in black. You are a likely target for all manner of adventuresome criminal types. The morning you left my house for the cemetery the first time Mrs. Soames tried to stop you.”

“
That
was settled some time ago, sir. I know of Mrs. Soames disapproval, but
she
has acquiesced to my wishes.”

“Only in part, Miss Trowle, only in part. That first morning and on all succeeding occasions she sent to follow you one of the members of our household.”

“You cannot be serious. I would have seen a footman.”

“
No one
sees John Coachman’s nephew Matt the Mole. Matt, as Mrs. Soames explained, can follow a minnow to America without being seen.”

“Are you saying, sir, that I have been followed
everywhere
?”

“Yes,” he answered, his eyes still on the road before him. “I did not know of the scheme originally, and when I was informed, I left strict instruction that you were not to be followed into the cemetery.
There
you have been alone.”

Adela ignored this last qualification, intent on pursuing another matter. “And I suppose that all my actions have been reported to you, my lord.”

“Yes.” He turned to face her but after a moment she turned away to stare at the road—a look of mingled pain and indignation in her little face.

With a great assumption of pride she continued, “I see, sir. What, may I ask, has occasioned this sudden burst of honesty on your part? Having been spied upon for so long, surely it could have continued without my knowledge.”

He ignored her sarcasm. ‘Two things have changed. First, I think it is clear, even to yourself, after your last journey to the cemetery that you can no longer walk through the streets with any modicum of personal safety. It was only Matt’s presence which saved you from being attacked by at least one very unsavory stranger.” He waited for a confirming nod from Adela and when none was forthcoming he continued. “And secondly, although I hesitate to say this, I believe that your reputation is coming into jeopardy—the servants know of your visits to the Brewer house. As it is impossible to keep your comings and goings there concealed, I have decided to lend the imprimatur of acceptability to your visits to young Mr. Brewer by accompanying you.”

‘Totally unnecessary, my lord. I have been visiting Mr. Brewer in his family home these seven years or more—his mother incidentally, always in attendance. My reputation has survived thus far. Moreover, I am not and never have been concerned about such matters. No one, sir, has given you the right to preach propriety to me.”

He continued for her. “You are also thinking, no doubt, that it is extraordinarily unfair that I may go where I wish when I wish while I am circumscribing you.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“Naturally, and I cannot defend the present social system. But, please to understand I am not concerned for your virtue, Miss Trowle.” Mentally Waterston confessed the lie and continued in his attempt to mollify Adela, “I am concerned for your safety and your reputation. There is, I think, a difference.”

“Do I understand that you are accompanying me to Richard Brewer’s house in order to lend me countenance?”

“Precisely, Miss Trowle.”

“I suppose I should offer you my thanks, sir.”

Finally he smiled. “Of course, you should. It is after all a considerable sacrifice on my part. I am coming to pay a duty call despite my very real disapproval for your association with this pedestrian young man and my finely honed distaste for all inferior violinists.”

“You, sir, intend to pay a
formal
call on Thatcher’s Row?”

“Painful, but true.”

“Then, thank you, sir. It is a most considerate gesture.”

Since thanks were not the offering he would have preferred and since the whole adventure was indescribably repulsive to him, he did not answer, and for the remaining few minutes of their drive, they both maintained a thoughtful silence.

At the Brewer house the carriage was met by mother and son—both in great agitation. Mrs. Brewer and young Mr. Brewer were almost bowled over by the appearance of Charles Henry Beaumont, Lord Waterston, on their front doorstep. Moreover, Richard had read the announcement of the concert in the
Gazette
and could not contain his effusions.

“Wonderful decision. You won’t regret it, Lord Waterston. Adela is the best pianist in London. Just you wait and see. Clementi himself will be all agog. This concert is just what she needed. It was exceedingly kind of you.”

Meanwhile Mrs. Brewer was urging his lordship to be seated in the best chair and was in a dither, simultaneously offering him tea and thanking him prodigiously for the condescension of paying a call on their home.

Adela was more than a trifle embarrassed by the excessive civility, almost obsequiousness, of both Richard and his mother and for the first few minutes, she waited for a set down from Waterston. Again, she had underestimated Waterston. From beginning to end, his lordship’s manner was impeccable;
he
was quite accustomed to handling aspiring clerks although certainly not in such familiar situations.

Charles Beaumont was able to maintain a pleasant if absurd discussion with the flustered and beaming Mrs. Brewer for the full hour of the practice session and took his leave of both Brewers with unimpaired civility.

There was one trying moment while Richard helped Adela up into the carriage, holding her hand a fraction longer than was necessary. If anyone had cared to notice, there was a sudden grimness in Waterston’s eyes. Fortunately, in an instant, Waterston had himself well under control.

Adela turned to him. “Again, I thank you, sir. I realize how difficult such a visit must have been for you.”

“Do you, Miss Trowle? I very much doubt it.”

“I do not know why, but today I found it awkward myself, sir. Would it be possible to have these practice sessions in our music room, my lord?” And then rushing on before he could answer, “I know you do not
approve
of Richard, nor does Soames, but it seems on the whole, less of a bother on St. James Square.”

“And the piano is infinitely superior,” he said, smiling.

‘To be sure,” she answered.

The matter was settled and the Soames family was instructed to receive Mr. Brewer into the house. They agreed reluctantly.

A week later, Richard came to call and found Adela in the music room, experimenting with the adagio section of the Mozart sonata. He waited patiently turning her pages and staring in a rather distracted way first at her facile hands and then at her lovely shoulders revealed in the almost fetching sprigged muslin she had chosen to wear that day. Adela had found that light airy dresses, with short sleeves in the new style, were very liberating to the hands and torso. She could not have cared if she had looked like a stick but the new primrose muslin dress was quite comfortable to work in. And she
was
working with intensity and with a total dedication. Finally after an exhausting half hour on the phrasing of one passage, she shook her shoulders, turned from the piano, and smiled tremulously up into Richard Brewer’s susceptible eyes. “I seemed to have myself in something of a pickle on that passage, Richard. Don’t you think?”

“You are becoming a little
too
careful, Adela. Relax and the passage will come. I know what you need, you need some air.”

“No, really I couldn’t. So much work to be done.”

“Nonsense. You will work much better with your head cleared a bit. Never does to get into a rut, now does it?”

“No, of course not, Richard. You are quite right. Perhaps we can play a light duet or two and then we can walk in the park and talk.”

And so they played the second movement of a Mozart violin and piano sonata and Richard began to clown over the violin and Adela began to laugh as he had meant her to. Within half an hour Adela left the room to gather together her things and then, with a word to Soames, she, escorted by Richard Brewer, left the house to take a stroll in the park. They sat on a bench watching the rippling water of a small pond and several children hovering over their boats.

Awkwardly, Richard Brewer began to speak, “Adela, will you still talk to me when you are great and famous?”

“Oh, Richard, don’t be a silly. You are my best friend. For so many years I think you were my only friend.”

“I sometimes wonder about all those years after your brother died. You did not seem to have any room in your life for friends. I suppose I was more or less an acquaintance.”

“Never say an acquaintance, Richard. You were a great friend, a help, and a comfort.”

“I did try to be a comfort, Adela, but you never let yourself be comforted, you know. Things have changed now, haven’t they? You are alive again and very pretty and sparkling and you are going to be famous. Working for a great patron of the arts, a nobleman, certainly has its advantages, even though he probably never lets you forget how fortunate you are.”

“Lord Waterston is very high in the instep but he is quite scrupulously fair, Richard. He truly is. And it is such an opportunity, this concert. Will you come and hear me?”

“People of our sort are not invited as guests to tonnish musicals. We are at best performers.”

“Nevertheless, you will come as my guest.”

“I’m sure his lordship would find it very distracting to find the likes of me hobnobbing with the aristocracy. No, I shall come and hear you work on the music and I will dream about you that night. I dream about you very often, Adela. Always have. Expect I always will.”

“You do, Richard?”

“Of course I do, I’m very fond of you, Adela. I expect you haven’t been thinking about things like that for several years, but maybe now things will be different.”

“I don’t know, Richard. I’m not sure of anything anymore. In fact I don’t
want
to think of anything except the concert for the next few weeks. I think sometimes I just want to dissolve into the music.”

“Of course—shouldn’t have asked so soon,” he said, casting a pebble into the pond and creating a slight wave system that sent the little boats bobbing.

“But you know you can’t spend all your time practicing and buttering up his lordship, now can you? He
is
quite old and crotchety, isn’t he?” Richard asked and then went on without waiting for an answer. “Tell you what. I’ve some money saved from the opera performances and I would dearly love to have you out to Vauxhall with me next week. Can you make it?” He looked at her slowly.

She looked back at his young open sturdy safe face and said, “I’d like to go, Richard. But I’ll have to check Becka’s plans. I
am
her companion, you know, but I’m sure I can be free one night next week—Oh, look, Richard, that child has lost his kite. Do you see it in the air? Let’s chase it.”