She began along the corridor, studying the paintings with curiosity as she went. They had the look of antiquity and each bore a layer of dust. Servants clearly did not come into this passage very often. She wondered why. The paintings were beautiful and would be an adornment to any wall.
She paused to wipe the dust from a rather majestic picture of a sweeping landscape. With slight surprise, she realized it depicted Thornhill, though at some much earlier point in its history. The castle rose above the surrounding forest in stony majesty, smaller and starker. In that painting, it was a fortress rather than a house, clearly still serving the purpose for which it had been built.
As she was about to walk on, something caught her eye. In the bottom right-hand corner of the painting was a signature, scrawled in black paint. Pale daylight behind her provided good illumination and she could read the name…Lionel. She gapedfor a moment before then reexamining other paintings. She saw the signature on a landscape depicting St Paul’s cathedral. Then again on a picture of a horse and rider. It was the third such painting that made Cecilia stop dead. It hung higher up and so hadn’t drawn her eyes immediately. Now that she had seen it though, her gaze was drawn to it as though by a magnet.
It was a picture of Penrose. The house was just as she remembered it. Five stories and robustly square, made of brick with a central tower rising above its chimneys and rooftops. How many times had she climbed the rickety wooden steps of that tower to gaze out over the park and surrounding countryside?
So, Lionel was orhadbeen something of an artist. None of the paintings gave much indication as to their age. The dust that each bore could have accumulated in a matter of months. But the depiction of Penrose was, she thought, how the house had looked in her childhood. There had been some alterations made by Arthur, she remembered, that altered the basic shape of the house. But then the painting of Thornhill as a medieval castle was clearly painted from the imagination, so why not Penrose? Something told her that art was a hobby that Lionel had put aside long ago. It just did not fit with anything that she knew of him.
An abrupt sound disturbed her thoughts. It seemed to come from the far end of the hallway, as though a floorboard creaking from the step of a person.
Yet no one appeared.
The hallway turned at the end through ninety degrees and the noise seemed to reach her from around the corner. She walked along, not hearing the sound again, until she heard a click, as of a door being softly closed. Rounding the corner, again, she saw no one.
“Hello?” she called out.
There was no reply. That sent a chill through her. A servant would respond. Someone who did not wish to be seen would not. And who would be sneaking around the castle, seeking to be unobserved? There was only one door in this section of the hallway, at the far end. Shaking her head at her own timidity, she strode towards it.
Despite her determination, she felt her heart hammering in her chest as she approached the door. Reaching for the handle, she paused, listening for any sound beyond. Then, steeling herself, she turned the handle and flung the door wide.
For a moment, she expected to see some shadowy figure standing on the other side. A specter of the castle’s haunted past, or a stranger with nefarious designs. Perhaps Lionel himself. But there was no sign of anyone in the room beyond. It was brightly lit through windows on the far side of the room. The daylight reflected from carpets of a soft, golden hue, illuminating a warm glow along the walls and revealing it in all its glory.Curious.
It was a music room. There was a pianoforte standing before the window and a shrouded shape that looked like a harp. A violin case sat on the shelf of a bookcase which otherwise seemed to behome to sheet music. Cecilia had been taught the pianoforte by a governess but had lacked the patience for the practice necessary to become proficient. The temptation to run wild in the woods and fields with her brother was too great. But her mother had been a master.
Cecilia smiled sadly as she glided her fingers over the music contained on the bookshelf, studying the titles of each. There were works from all the great composers from all across Europe. She paused when she came across one sheaf of paper in particular. It bore no composer name and she did not know the name of the song printed neatly at the top, but the arrangement of notes looked familiar. She tried to recall the melody that such an arrangement would produce.
After a few halting attempts, it came to her. At first, her voice was barely louder than a whisper. Then, feeling foolish at her reticence to sing aloud in an empty room, she began again louder. For a few minutes, she sang, looking away from the music as the memory of the tune returned to her. She lifted her chin and sang to the room, closing her eyes. Memories returned of singing alongside her mother at the pianoforte. Taking childish delight in the music her mother so skillfully brought forth. Though untutored, her voice had a sweet tone, she was told.
The music ended abruptly at the sound of the door. She opened her eyes and saw Lionel stepping out from behind the harp, a door shutting behind him. For a moment, they stood, looking at each other.
“…You have a fine voice,” he said, at last.
Cecilia found herself flushing at the compliment. “Thank you. I used to sing this song with my mother. She accompanied me on the pianoforte.”
Lionel spread his hands towards the instrument. “Feel free. You may try any instrument you see.”
“I have no real skill with instruments,” Cecilia told him, replacing the music sheet. “I enjoyed singing along to my mother’s playing, that is all. I think you are the first to hear me since she passed.”
“Ah,” Lionel said, running his hand on the pianoforte and grimacing at the dust, “I think this room has been undisturbed since the passing of my own mother. She and my father died within a few months of each other. She first, of a fever.”
Cecilia felt a pang of sympathy at such close bereavements. “My own parents were returning from a grand tour when their ship foundered while crossing the Channel. It was lost with all hands.”
“Ah, yes, I had heard of it from Arthur. It must have been devastating,” Lionel murmured, somewhat awkwardly.
They were standing apart on opposite sides of the room. And he seemed reluctant to cross the space and be nearer to her.
“It was a long time ago. Time heals all wounds, do they not say?”
“I am not so sure I believe it,” he muttered.
“Nor I,” she replied.
His eyes rose from where he had been looking down at the pianoforte and met hers. The gaze was bright and she felt that there was something of recognition in it, a shared experience.
“Well, I will not intrude on your memories. Feel free to use this room to sing whenever you wish.”
“Singing to an empty room has little satisfaction,” Cecilia put in hurriedly, “and I would rather talk with you.”
