“You help with quite enough, son. Too much.” The lines betwixt Mother’s brows deepened, the shadows beneath her eyes darkening for just a moment, then all trace of the daily trials she bore disappeared. Shooed away by a flicker of a smile. “I’ll be fine, Charlie.”
Would she be, though?Charles stood, unmoving. He knew too well that disaster could strike in a blink. One moment, life could be maintaining a steady tempo as the metronome ticked away a select number of beats per minute. The next moment, the metronome could be dashed upon the floor, throwing off the cadence of one’s entire existence.
A tremor shot through Charles, and he fisted his hands, nails biting into his palms. If he hadn’t been between tours ... If he hadn’t found Father and summoned help ... Another tremor ricocheted through his body. His breath stalled. Pressure swelled, building in his chest. It had happened five years ago, and yet he could still feel the all-consuming panic of that day with visceral intensity. It was as though he still lived in that moment. Time didn’t blur the recollection. One thought, one memory, and it all came surging back.
Charles inhaled a ragged breath and glanced once more at Father, reminding himself what true suffering looked like—a broken body racked with physical pain. And what it was not—a frail mind that struggled to cope with the basic realities of life. His discomforts were intangible, invisible, and therefore, immaterial.Stop being selfish, man, and focus on what matters. You’ve no time to waste on hysterics.He inhaled a secondbreath, slightly steadier than the first, and met Mother’s gaze one last time. “Promise you’ll have Mrs. Kettle fetch me if you need anything?”
With a nod, Mother swore her daily oath to dispatch their housekeeper to his place of work should the worst happen a second time, and the assurance of her promise lifted the weight in his chest just enough to propel him out of the room.
After making quick work of his now-lukewarm breakfast, Charles retired to his chamber. A fresh set of clothes, a quick splash of water to the face, a comb through his unruly mane, and he was good to go. He took the stairs two at a time and paused in the foyer to grab his coat off the mounted wall hook. As he shoved his arms into the sleeves, his gaze wandered to the barren space in the parlor where a piano had once resided.
The Steinway he’d learned to play on as a boy, where he’d mastered Chopin by age three and been deemed a prodigy, where he’d composed his own pieces by age seven. Where he’d prayed in notes and melodies instead of words and sentences, drawing close to the God who created music and using it to quiet his nervous mind.
But after the stroke had rendered Father unable to work ... after Charles had discovered the family’s dire financial straits, sacrifices had been required. And he had been determined to be the one to make them.
That way Mother might devote herself to Father’s care instead of being forced to seek employment. That way Ben might focus on his studies at university instead of giving up his dream of becoming a barrister and taking over Father’s practice.
No, Charles didn’t regret his choice to sell the Steinway and his performance attire. Nor did he resent the depletion of his personal earnings, meticulously saved over years of touring. Both had been necessary. But sometimes when thepressure in his chest felt unbearable and when the tremors shot through his body in uncontrollable jolts, he longed for the familiar, repetitive motion of playing. Longed for the distraction, the peaceful refuge of a melody. For though the piano was gone and the room was silent, it was by no means quiet. Indeed, the silence only served to amplify the thoughts that reverberated like discordant notes. Instead of peace, for him silence held perpetual unease. Mind, body, and soul ever on edge, anticipating calamity’s next ambush.
The grandfather clock in the parlor tolled the eighth hour, reprimanding him for not being out the door and on his way. Charles shook his head. Even if he’d an instrument, he hadn’t the time to waste on something as frivolous as music now. More important matters must take priority.
Namely, the beloved family that counted on him for financial support.
Taking his usual route at a brisk pace, he arrived at the offices of Bailey, Barton, and Westland—his Magi, from the East End of London. The nickname couldn’t help but suit the trio who were old, wise, and generous to a fault. The bell over the door chimed a reproof that one minute had passed his intended arrival time.Handel and Haydn!Barton wouldn’t let him live this down, the walking timepiece. Heaving a sigh that seemed to echo in the vacant lobby, Charles hung his coat next to the three already on the rack and strode into the main office, sectioned into quarters by four judicial desks.
“You’re late.” Barton squinted over his spectacles, crow’s feet tapping disapprovingly at the edges of his eyes as he shut his favorite pocket watch with a metallic snap. The certified curmudgeon muttered a tut-tut as he slipped said timepiece into one of three waistcoat pockets. The other two pockets, quite obviously, housing his reserve pocket watch and his reserve-reserve pocket watch. No one would ever accuse Mr. Denis Barton of being late.
Charles paused before Barton’s desk, upon which ticked a trio of gold clocks. He offered the punctilious man an apologetic bow. “I’m most contrite, sir. It won’t happen again.”
“Come now, Barton! Such cantankerous criticism is too much, even for you.” This reprimand shot from the bow of the adjacent desk, behind which Bailey bore a wry smirk. “One minute past hardly qualifies as late, surely?”
Shifting his glower from Charles to Bailey, the ever-grave Barton pointed a bony finger at the five timepieces mounted upon the wall. “Tardy is tardy, and those who think otherwise are naught but foolhardy.”
Bailey rolled his eyes before meeting Charles’ gaze. “And the man wonders why he’s a bachelor.”
Charles suppressed a snort, and Barton returned to his work with a gusty harrumph.
This, of course, only provoked a hearty chuckle from Bailey, whose quick wit spared no man, be they friend, foe, or fellow lawyer.
While the clerical work may be tiresome, the office banter certainly kept business hours from becoming altogether dull. Charles moved to greet Bailey, and a fluffy tail popped up from beneath the man’s desk, wagging just beneath his employer’s chin.
Charles grinned at the black-and-white English springer spaniel, a fixture in the office that never strayed far from Bailey’s lap. “Morning, Maya. How’s the missus today, Bailey?”
At the mention of his wife and childhood sweetheart, the typically no-nonsense Mr. Neal Bailey never failed to beam with nonsensical sentimentality. Even after fifty-five years, the man was still completely smitten. Bailey glanced at the gilded frame on his desk, which enshrined a portrait of his beloved. “Elaine’s good as gold. Why the Lord ever saw fit to let her become this fool’s gold, I’ll never know.”
A distinctive chuckle resonated from the firm’s most seniorpartner, Mr. Robert Oscar Westland III, who was often called the Duke by the other Magi due to his grandiose name, and being a third and all. “No doubt that’s a question Elaine asks herself often.”
Charles spun just in time to catch the twinkle shooting across Westland’s blue eyes. It glinted with a mischievous flash and then was gone, having disappeared into the vast expanse of the octogenarian’s whimsy. The regular occurrence happened so quickly most people failed to notice and therefore misunderstood the man’s impish humor. Westland plucked a grape from the cluster nestled in the crystal bowl on his desk. “How the poor woman must regret turning down my suit and settling for you.”
Charles shook his head. The only thing Westland enjoyed more than teasing was shocking people with outrageous quips.
A snort of retort came from Bailey. “Balderdash, Duke! As though you and my fair Elaine would’ve suited. Besides, Elaine only became acquainted with you through her friendship with Geraldine—whom you’d been married to for ten years, at the time.”
“Ah, there you’re wrong, man. ’Twas ten years, seven months, three weeks, and a day. Isn’t that right, Gerry dear?” Westland rotated in his spinning chair to address the urn given pride of place on his desk, alongside a porcelain vase of lilies. After all these years, the widower still purchased a fresh bouquet of Geraldine’s favorite flowers every Monday. The ritual testified much to Westland’s character, especially given the fact that he’d maintained the practice throughout her lifetime. With a wrinkled finger, Westland caressed the marble urn.
A pang squeezed the air from Charles’ lungs. How close he’d come to making funeral arrangements for his father. Too close.
“Don’t look so dour, Charlie,” Westland remonstrated as he opened the top left-hand drawer of his desk, designated for storing pastries. From said drawer, he produced the expected white paper bag. “Have a blackberry turnover before you get lost in the ledgers, son, and a strong cuppa to wash it down.”
