Intermezzo (8 page)

“Nothing of the sort, child,” Sophia answered. “Lady Diana Rathbone had the making of the invitations...”

“And Lady Diana does not approve of her cousin courting a mere cit,” Miss Owens explained and then added, “I have asked both Lady Spencer and Thomas
not
to interfere in this matter. You must not concern yourself either, Adela.”

Sophia almost growled, “Nevertheless, I do not expect that Thomas will attend.”

“Thomas will decide for himself,” Nancy answered quietly.

“Drat the Ice Queen,” Rebecka commented and they all of them laughed in order to relieve the tension.

Adela, suddenly world-wise, turned to the child. “And now, Rebecka, I find that I am
doubly
delighted with my choice of gowns. Has it not occurred to you, little greenhead, that it is very much to our advantage for me to appear modest and unprepossessing on the occasion of my formal introduction to your future aunt?”

Hours later, seated alone at the keyboard, Adela began to rethink those scenes at Helene’s. Of course I am quite plain, she thought to herself, and beautiful clothing would look silly on short, dumpy Miss Trowle, but somehow the prospect of Adela Trowle exquisitely beautiful in a ball gown, even were it possible, was almost terrifying. In a moment of honesty she realized that she did not
wish
to be noticed as a person. There was a great deal of safety to be had in being less than noticeable. Having erected thick walls to protect herself from the world, Adela found herself, in this new environment, constantly having to shore up those defenses. So many little things seemed to be threatening her hard-won security. Slowly she was growing to love Rebecka and she really did not want to love anyone else again. She had closed herself to love and to life and was quite content with her music, until just two months ago. Now when Becka laughed with the imp in her eyes twinkling out at the world, Adela would begin to laugh with her and then like a knife to the heart would come the memory of another laugh, the sure quiet angelic laughter of her brother, that other child who had been entrusted to her care. She could not love Rebecka as she had loved Jonathan. Not only had Jonathan, as a person—not merely as child—been the moral mainstay of her universe, but after his death, love of any sort was too painful. If the love for a child could so upset Adela’s delicately balanced psyche, then the love for man could easily destroy her. She would surely be drowned in the flood tide of her own emotions. No, the more unnoticeable she was, the better.

In particular, she did not choose to be noticed by Charles Henry Beaumont. His position of power in her life was already too threatening to consider any further complications in their friendship.

Probing deeper, Adela realized that, in a perverse way, it was of critical importance to maintain some sense of strategic superiority in dealing with men, and especially with her employer. Somehow there was considerable comfort to be had in the thinly veiled contempt Adela could feel for a cold-blooded libertine with his chill fiancée and his almost vulgar mistress. Adela in her quakerish morality, her prim propriety, could feel quietly superior to Waterston, to his mistresses, to his prospective bride—to them all.

The next morning, on schedule, Richard Brewer called at the house in St. James Square in order to plan a program and to begin rehearsing with Miss Trowle. Soames was almost nonplussed at the door. Clearly Mr. Brewer was some sort of servant, but on the other hand, he was a friend and colleague of Miss Trowle, and Miss Trowle, whatever her status, was not of the servant classes. It was a problematical situation which Soames settled to the best of his butler’s ability by simply showing the Brewer chap directly into the music room, very much in the same way that he would have directed a chimney sweep to the various chimneys in the house.

Adela, who was at work on a sonatina at the desk, raised her head and smiled impulsively as Richard was ushered into the room.

Soames sniffed and left the room.

“Hello, Adela,” Richard began tentatively. “You are looking very well—very well indeed. I came expecting to meet an old friend and I find a grand lady instead.”

“Surely I am not
grand,
Richard, and I will always be your friend.”

But still, hat in hand, he seemed awkward.

“Are you feeling well, Adela?”

“Quite well. The work in this house is agreeable.”

“And your pupil is tolerable?” he asked.

“Not only tolerable, Richard, Rebecka is delightful and she is gifted. Working with her has been an almost unalloyed joy. She is open and eager and very enthusiastic.”

Still he seemed ill at ease.

“And your employer, or rather your cousin, Lord Waterston?”

“Lord Waterston is indeed more of an employer than a cousin. He is certainly preferable to many of our other employers. Waterston is usually on his dignity but is, nevertheless, quite fair in his judgments and is, of course, an ardent connoisseur of the arts. All in all, I have found myself in a most satisfactory situation—far better than I could have reasonably hoped for. And how is your own music progressing, Richard?”

“Come and we shall see.”

They began to play a Mozart sonata for violin and piano, one they had played together many times before. And only then were the restraints relaxed and the barriers erected by the house in St. James Square almost dissolved. It was good, so good, to be playing in harmony with someone else again—to anticipate the beat—to be part of a larger sound. Adela decided she really must convince his lordship to buy another smaller instrument for the music room so that she and Becka might hazard duets.

After the final chord they remained silent for a minute or two.

“I say, Adela, I would not have thought it possible but you are wonderfully improved. You have always been very good but you have found new clarity, new control, and a new power of expression. We have never done the sonata half so well before.”

“Thank you, Richard. I have had so much opportunity for practice and as you undoubtedly noticed this is a very superior instrument.”

“And you, Miss Trowle, are a very superior artist.”

She smiled demurely, pleased with the praise. Richard Brewer was a good friend, but on the subject of music, he did not render up compliments easily—although, she remembered with a smile, he was quite capable of
false
effusions when flattering the starchy men and women who were their occasional patrons.

They began to plan the program for the ball, rehearsing each selection while working out its intricacies. She had worked through this same music with Richard before when they had played at one or two smaller routs, but now they were exercising great caution. This would be their first exposure to the ton and to the more exacting requirements of polite society.

They played together for two hours, stopping to correct phrasing from time to time and talking quietly, professionally. Richard was so pleasant, a good safe friend. Adela was quietly resolved to continue these practice sessions. Having rediscovered Richard Brewer, she was reluctant to lose him.

Lord Waterston entered his house toward midday and, as usual, retired to the library. He was just settling into his work when the music, filtering down from the music room, was resumed. What was this? Little Miss Muffet playing light country dances? She ought to restrict herself to serious music and leave the country dances to the delicate flowers of the ton. Country dances! And with a violin! Damn, he thought, it must be a rehearsal for the ball. I should never have suggested the whole thing. It’s inappropriate at best. I should have hired an orchestra. It is
preposterous
to have a lady playing at such an affair—and with a
violin
at that!

Charles wandered into the hall and up the stairs to the open door of the music room. At least, he noted grimly, they had the sense to keep the door open.

Charles Henry Beaumont was not pleased with what he saw—not pleased at all. There was a gently smiling Miss Trowle, not a shadow of the antagonism he associated with her, quietly making music with a redheaded, red-faced, stocky young man—a peasant—the peasant was just barely tolerable on the violin.

Looking up, Adela noticed her employer and stopped to make the necessary introduction.

Richard bowed and began to make polite conversation about the weather and the piano, but when Waterston did not immediately respond, Richard stopped in mid-sentence and reassessed his host. Quickly adapting himself to the situation, Mr. Brewer adopted the mannerisms of a servant and, with great humility, began to ask Waterston’s advice on the program.

Waterston, much to Adela’s irritation, continued to stare as if to say that he was not accustomed to holding conversations with indifferent violinists. And then he answered with frigid civility, ‘Tm quite certain my cousin Adela is capable of selecting the program, young man. You have only to follow her instructions.” Without another word, Waterston turned and left. Blast, if he was going to have that little hypocrite in his house one moment longer than necessary. Must have his man look into Mr. Richard Brewer’s antecedents. Wouldn’t do to have Cousin Adela associating with grossly inferior people.

The research into Mr. Brewer’s antecedents having been done quickly and efficiently, Lord Waterston confronted Adela the next evening at dinner.

“Pleasant sort of chap that Brewer fellow.”

“Yes, my lord, and a good friend.”

“Friend?”

“
Good
friend. When my father died, Richard Brewer was one of the few people I could turn to for help and advice.”

“The help and advice, I take it, consisted of setting you up playing duets at the homes of pretentious cits and teaching their equally pretentious children. You would have done better to have turned to your family.”

“Perhaps you are right, my lord, but I was not aware that I had a family available to turn to. Since Uncle Horace died, I had in fact seen no one from the family, and I had no reason to suppose that I could look to either you or Aunt Sophia for help nor that I had a right to such help. In such a bleak situation I appreciated having a friend of Richard Brewer’s caliber.”

“Nevertheless, you were engaged in work not suitable for a lady.”

“But Adela does not wish to be a lady,” Becka volunteered.

“I beg your pardon, Rebecka. I was not aware that you were being addressed.” Charles scowled.

Adela, quite disturbed, attempted to finesse Becka’s comment. “What the child means, my lord, is that, despite my gentle birth, I found that, at that time at least, the thought of joining the middle classes was not repugnant. Indeed, it was almost attractive. I had had many years of maintaining the facade of an aristocratic household with no funds to insure even the
appearance
of gentility. It seemed much easier to drop the facade and direct my efforts in the more rewarding directions of music.”

Rebecka nodded her head sadly in agreement. “It must have been dreadful, Adela. John Coachman says your father was a drunk and a libertine and a pauper, and so you see how very wonderful it was of Uncle Charles to take you in.”

Adela was beginning to appreciate Waterston’s desire to muzzle John Coachman. “John Coachman, child, tends to exaggerate your uncle’s virtues. I am of course
profoundly
thankful for the opportunity Aunt Sophia and your uncle have given me—and I only hope I may prove
worthy
of such an opportunity.”

“Becka, go to your room. I have told you repeatedly that what John Coachman says or doesn’t say is not the content of polite conversation. You are a young lady and young ladies do not know anything about drunks or libertines—penniless or otherwise.” Adela rose with Rebecka. “No, you will stay, Miss Trowle. I realize that your position before coming to this house was not everything it should have been. Now that you are a member of this household—my household—remember that you are my kinswoman and you will behave as such. Whatever your professional obligations, I do not wish to see you associating with the son of a bank clerk.”

“Yes, my lord. I understand your position perfectly. Except for professional meetings you will not
see
me associating with the son of a bank clerk, although I would certainly have been prouder to have been the child of a sober, dedicated father such as Mr. Brewer than a child of a wastrel aristocrat. Still, I certainly do not wish to compromise my current employment. May I now be excused.”

“No. I would like to hear some music after dinner to settle my ruffled nerves. Bach perhaps. I’m sure you will oblige me, Miss Trowle.”

“Certainly, my lord.” So they sat in the music room for two hours. She playing from the partitas and fugues and he sitting with his brandy by the fire staring moodily at the piano. After two hours Adela excused herself politely and left the room.

Damn, he could have had as much conversation listening to the Bach from the library. He had another brandy, called for his coat, and left to soothe his still ruffled nerves in the arms of Miss Jeanette Oliver.

The long night was not entirely satisfactory for either Adela or Lord Waterston. She remained awake for some time, agitated and deeply resentful at being asked to choose between her friendship for Richard Brewer and her position in the Waterston household. Indeed she was determined
not
to have to choose. Richard would simply advise her to agree with everything Charles Henry Beaumont demanded and then to meet him from time to time in his own home where, under his mother’s eagle eye, they could play duets in relative serenity and devour pastries. Out of necessity Adela had been a hypocrite in her father’s house—serving him silently while she had nothing but contempt for his way of life. She could be a hypocrite in this house as well. And so, although somehow her conscience would not come into compliance with her decision, Miss Trowle was determined to keep both her friends and her employment. She would have Rebecka, the hundred and sixty pounds per annum, and Richard Brewer as well.