“How many people have been invited?” I whisper to Laura.
“Everyone on La Canette, of course. This baby will one day be their Seigneur.”
“No, he won’t,” Pierre whispers on my other side. “Not by automatic succession. Only if people vote him in.”
“Isn’t the seigneurship hereditary?” I’m interested despite myself. With all the British election fever going on, I am curious about how the governance of this island works.
“It is, theoretically, but George is a reformer. In a few years, La Canette will no longer be feudal, and any Seigneur would have to be chosen by the people.”
“But surely, he’ll groom his son to follow.” I’m thinking of so many political dynasties where children follow in their parents’ footsteps: the Kennedys, the Ghandis, the Bhuttos, the Trudeaus.
“Not necessarily. George and Millie are determined their children will be free. George says his son can grow up to be a milkman if he wants to.”
“They’re starting!” Laura puts a finger to her lips.
A hush falls on the congregation, and we all watch the service. Hymns and prayers follow a brief, but emotional, speech from Lord M. The baby is named Oliver Jay Richard Du Montfort, then Brandon steps forward to play a piece chosen specially to welcome baby Oliver to the world.
He stands very still and waits for silence. While waiting for people to settle. Brandon does something strange, but what do I know about oboes, or classical music for that matter?
He takes the tip of his oboe into his mouth as if for a kiss, but a little later he pulls it out again and waits.
There are a few scattered coughs then those too stop, and all sounds fade.
Drawing a deep breath, he closes his eyes and takes the mouthpiece between his lips; he holds still for a moment in complete silence, even the walls of the church seem to be waiting.
A single note, so soft it takes me a second to realise I can hear it. A long, pure note sails into the space.
He raises the oboe slowly drawing the sound upwards, sending it to float around the vaulted roof of the church. It’s as if this one sweet note was clearing the space, setting up for the melody to follow. The organist joins in with a gentle baseline. And then Brandon’s fingers slide down the oboe, pressing keys, and the melody takes shape.
How can I describe this? It’s like an exquisite dance, bending and swirling, a feather floating in the breeze, flowers falling on a lake. For ten minutes, I forget where I am, all my worries, everything melts away except that perfect sound dancing so gently, stealing into the heart and filling it with beauty.
Gradually, like the conclusion of a bedtime story, the melody comes to an end and Brandon lowers the oboe. The silence is so complete, you could hear a pin drop. Then applause breaks out, and I have to brush away a tear sliding down my cheek.
Laura slants me a concerned look.
“Hormones.” I tell her digging in my handbag for a tissue. I’m lying because I have no idea why I’m in tears. It’s just so, so beautiful. I want to thank him for this gift. And I’m so bloody proud of him.
“Wow.” Pierre finds me outside after the ceremony. “Aren’t you lucky he’s your hubby. You can listen to this music every day.”
We’re standing in front of the church watching people mill around. I smile and don’t admit that I’m just as surprised by his talent.
All this time, he’s been this slightly self-effacing housemate, struggling with DIY and housekeeping, bad with cooking, worse with emotions. Yet, all the time, he’s had this heart inside him, this incredible shining beautiful passion. No wonder that famous orchestra wants him.
“Do you think he’ll agree to play at my wedding in a couple of weeks? I don’t want to put him on the spot if he doesn’t want to. Would you ask him for me?”
“I’m sure its fine to ask him yourself.”
Elodie and Hal come over to gush about ‘my husband.’ I’m suddenly a celebrity by association.
“Where does he normally play?” Hal asks. “Could we go to see him next time he’s in concert?”
I rake through my brain for things Brandon might have told me about his job. “No concerts booked for a while, but he normally plays in Europe.”
“Do you always attend his performances? I envy you so much.” Elodie has a dreamy look.
“When did he start learning music?”
“What made him choose the oboe?”
