“A little old-fashioned, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “I don’t care. I have loved Bach since childhood.” I did not tell him my first clear memory of Bach was from my mother’s funeral. I was six years old, too young for the church, Father had said. I had been left in the nursery with Nanny and Val, that awful, screaming baby who came when Mother died. It had been quite an easy thing to slip out when Nanny’s back was turned. She had left me to go and quiet the baby, something she was doing far too much of, I thought. I followed the mourners, hiding outside in the churchyard, listening to the music that flowed out of the open windows. It was a warm day, with late roses giving off a thick perfume and bees buzzing drowsily near my face as I listened to the choirboys singing “When Thou Art Near.” It seemed as if angels were singing her to sleep, I thought sleepily, and I promptly curled up behind a gravestone and took a nap. Father found me there some time after Mother’s burial. I woke when he pulled me onto his lap and we sat together for a very long time. He stroked my hair and rocked me and I listened to the ticking of his watch through the wool of his coat. Or perhaps it was his heartbeat—I never knew. I only knew that this was a very special moment, and that Mother had left me, but Father was still there and that although Nanny and everyone else seemed to like that awful, screaming baby, Father still loved me, probably much more. The choirboys sang again, practicing for evensong, and Father began to talk to me, about Mother and about music, and all manner of things that I did not pay attention to. But I remembered the feeling, and from that day I always associated Bach with consolation and comfort.
Brisbane had not answered. I lifted my chin a little and arched a brow for effect.
“Bach it shall be,” he promised.
I was pleased, but a little surprised. “Can you sing?”
He smiled, that tricky smile he had that touched his lips, but not his eyes.
“I can, but never in public. I mean to play for you. I assume there’s a violin?”
“A rather good one. Made in Cremona.”
“Excellent,” he said, turning his attention suddenly to Jane. For no good reason I felt cast aside, and in favor of a woman who wore doughy beads and curtain fabrics, I thought irritably. I turned and left them, trailing into the music room on my own, a little dispirited. What difference did it make to me if Brisbane found Jane interesting? She was a delightful person, and an amusing conversationalist. At least, that is what I told myself, but I still felt nettled by the notion of Brisbane chatting with Jane, and that little annoyance disturbed me greatly.
And worse, Val had not deigned to make an appearance.
“Oh, no, dearest, he had a previous engagement,” Aunt Hermia answered in reply to my question. “The opera, I believe. With that Phillips boy. The one who always looks as though he’s picked one’s pocket.”
A succinct and perfect description of Reddy, I thought as I took my seat. I would have to wait up for Val, no matter how late, and collar him with what I had found in the laundry—and with his choice of companions. Reddy Phillips was quite enough of a nuisance without encouragement. I had not told Val that Reddy had accosted me in the street demanding the return of his raven, but I hoped fervently that they would settle the matter between them. The wretched bird was beginning to take a toll on my nerves.
“Well, if Val is not coming, what about Bellmont?”
“Downing Street. He is dining with the prime minister. By the way, dearest, I see you have given up mourning, and with quite a spark,” she finished, eyeing my crimson with a smile.
“Believe me, Auntie, I wouldn’t have worn it if I had known this wasn’t a family party.”
Aunt Hermia gave me an affectionate pat. “Don’t be feeble, Julia. How do you expect to attract another buyer if you don’t display the wares?” She moved off, leaving me to follow speechless in her wake. I took my seat, marveling that so vulgar an analogy could come from such a harmless-looking old lady. Portia nudged me.
“What did Aunt Hermia say? You look bilious.”
I shook my head, mindful of Brisbane, settling himself into the seat on my other side. “Nothing of importance. Tell me, why is it that old people are allowed to be so ghastly and say all sorts of things that we would never get away with?”
“Privilege of age,” Portia returned, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the duke. He was creaking himself down into a chair next to Father, bending and folding his frail little body until he was at last seated.
The musical evening began, as they always did, with Father reciting a soliloquy. He always played them well—his resonant voice and firm delivery would have served him well on the stage. He loved amateur theatricals and gloried in the applause. He did Lear that evening, or perhaps not, I confess I did not pay him much attention. I was too busy wrestling with my own thoughts, not the least of which was the guilty realization that I had sent Magda away without telling Brisbane. Sooner or later I should have to confess my guilt, and I was not anticipating the event with any good feeling. Brisbane was technically employed by me in this investigation, but I had a strong suspicion that he would be quite severe with me when he discovered what I had done.
Thank the heavens for Jane. Her sad Irish air was as soothing as a lullaby and twice as sweet. I felt comforted when she had finished, though I saw Aunt Hermia dash away a tear.
“That was utterly moving, Jane, dear. Thank you,” she said, turning to face us as we sat, arrayed in our little gilt chairs.
“Your Grace, would you care to favor us?” she asked. There was a gentle snore from the duke’s chair. “Ah, perhaps not just now. Portia?”
Portia rose and went to the piano where Hoots was waiting quietly to accompany her. It was perhaps unusual to allow one’s butler to join in the family entertainments, but Hoots was a rather fine accompanist. He gave a little trill of introduction and Portia began, singing in her adequate soprano. Something Italian. I did not listen much to her, either. Of course, Portia’s talent did not lie in her singing. It must have been some aria to do with lost love or a broken foot or some other tragedy, because there was a great deal of posturing and dabbing at her eyes with her shawl. I think it must have ended with a suicide because she suddenly clasped her fisted hands to her bosom and drooped onto the piano. Crab let out a pitiful sound and crept as far as she could under Father’s chair. Hoots pounded out a few more mournful notes and Portia rose, triumphantly taking a bow.
She took her seat next to me, fanning her reddened cheeks.
“You are far too fat to play a consumptive,” I whispered through a smile.
She smiled back. “Yes, but I am going to marry a duke, so I do not care what you have to say. When I am very rich, I shall hire you for my maid.”
I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane watching me coolly. I blushed and looked away, Portia snickering in my ear. Aunt Hermia rose again. “Mr. Brisbane?”
Brisbane rose and went to the centre of the room. There was an array of instruments for performers to choose from. An old harpsichord, a rather unhygienic-looking flute, and an oboe that no one remembered bringing into the house. Among this motley group was the violin—the one true and pure thing in the room. Brisbane looked at it a long moment before picking it up. He ran his hands over it, slowly, reverently. And then he held it to his nose, briefly, as if using its scent to gauge its wanderings. He stroked the inlay of the wood and handled the bow, trying out a few strings. He frowned, plucking at the strings and adjusting them slightly. I heard no difference, but he must have, for his frown eased and he positioned the violin under his chin.
He played softly at first, then with growing vigor. I recognized it at once. I had asked him to play Bach, rather as a joke. The greatest Bach devotees were usually keyboard aficionados and singers. I myself preferred him simply because unlike other composers he actually wrote interesting music for alto sopranos to sing. I had not expected Brisbane to rise to the challenge. And once again I had underestimated him.
