Intermezzo (9 page)

Lord Waterston was also agitated. In fact even the charms of the beautiful and extravagantly passionate Miss Oliver draped, as they were, over the silken coverlet of the enormous bed did not soothe him appreciably. He had been tempted to laugh outright at her dripping welcome and her dramatically sensuous posturing. And, had it been funny, he would have laughed. Once, during the night of indifferent lovemaking he turned to Miss Oliver for some conversation only to discover that Miss Oliver had no conversation unless it was memorized from a script. Strange, he had not noticed that glaring inadequacy earlier. To be sure he was not keeping Miss Jeanette Oliver for her conversation; he was keeping her because his palate demanded a passionate and extravagantly beautiful mistress. Jeanette Oliver was a
damned
beautiful woman. Fortifying himself with a generous amount of alcohol, Waterston returned to her bed.

The evening of the ball, Adela dressed with the greatest of care in her new shimmering russet silk. Molly, Rebecka’s maid, had finally been allowed to arrange the chignon so that soft light brown waves framed a delicate, if unprepossessing face. And the pearl earrings completed her toilette. Then, having surveyed the whole in her pier glass, Adela smiled in appreciation of the modest pleasant little concert pianist in the mirror and ran lightly down the backstairs to meet Richard. Richard, dressed quite formally to harmonize with her, stood staring in admiration. She pirouetted for him prettily and smiled up, looking for his approval.

His approval was obvious as he smiled at her shyly and said, “You look fine as fivepence, Adela—beautiful.” And then, with a deep bow, he said, “May I have the honor of leading you into the ball room, my lady?” He tucked his violin under one arm, gave her the other, and the two musicians walked quite formally into the empty room. They listened to the imagined applause and bowed once to the unseen audience and then to each other before collapsing into laughter. Lord Waterston, who had witnessed the whole from the hall, frowned and turned away without making his presence known. It was time to greet his first guests.

An hour later the drawing room was aglitter with exquisitely dressed women and elegant men. There was so much glitter, so much wealth, so much polite conversation, so much programmed courtship that the whole effect, for Adela, was almost suffocating. Only the music retained for her any semblance of reality. Had she been offered the choice of being a guest in a gossamer silk gown or of being plain Adela Trowle with piano she would have, without a moment’s hesitation, chosen the latter. Not only because she loved the piano but because, strange as it seemed to her, she felt instinctively that while
she
Adela Trowle was real,
they
, those perfumed fashion plates weaving through the figures of her quadrille, were somehow trifles light as air.

Nancy Owens was not in the room nor, Adela noticed with some satisfaction, was Thomas Worthing. The only two familiar faces belonged to Lady Spencer and Lord Waterston, but Adela was not perturbed. She was quite comfortable as the professional pianist—the outsider.

She and Richard were playing well together and enjoying themselves quite as much as anyone on the dance floor. They were in a darkened corner of the room, but the candelabrum on the piano softly illuminated both musicians, and looking toward them, Charles Henry Beaumont saw a Van Dyke cameo—an island of warm simplicity in a room full of strained artificialities.

During the breaks between dances, Richard and Adela would talk together gently and quietly. Despite or perhaps because of his father, the contented bank clerk, Richard Brewer had about him the modest complacency of a pleasant young man sure of himself both as a person and as a struggling violinist. Above all, he was so easy to talk to—never critical, never demanding—in short, quite unlike Charles Beaumont.

Richard maintained much of their sotto voce conversation. “How well it has turned out, Adela. That morning in the coffee house we could not have dreamed it would turn out near so well. Now it only remains to ingratiate yourself with the various members of the ton—virtually all the people here tonight are wealthy and influential—handled well they cannot help but advance your career. It has all worked out for the best, don’t you think?”

“To be sure, Richard, acquaintance with the members of the ton must be to my advantage as a musician. But I think you overestimate the extent of that advantage. I have
nothing
in common, besides an accident of birth, with most of the people here tonight and I do not believe I could even maintain an
extended
conversation with two-thirds of them. They seem, as a group, to be somehow so implausible—particularly the women.”

“Well, of course, the women are superficial in character
—they
have never had to work and have no exposure to the world we know. Their sole concern is courtship and advantageous marriage. But remember, Adela, these women are influential and without their favor we will never become recognized as musicians. You must simply do as the rest of us have learned to do—flatter them. They are all rather pathetic people, silly, stupid, and vain. They have lived all their lives in a world where they are constantly flattered and cosseted—flatter them prodigiously and they will make of your life a success.”

“Perhaps, Richard, the price of such a success is too high.”

“Lord no, Adela. Now that you have the golden ring within your grasp you must not allow your pride to destroy you. Think of these matrons as little children; handle them as you would an unruly spoiled child. These women and many of their men are, for the most part, just that, spoiled children.
We
must not take them seriously.”

They began to play the music for the next dance, a waltz, and played in concert while Adela watched the cream of the ton twirling past her piano. Lord Waterston was dancing with his prospective fiancée and all the while Adela was studying that lady very carefully. Miss Trowle knew that her retaining the position as Becka’s instructor would depend on Lady Diana. At the theater Adela had seen Diana Rathbone at a distance across a darkened hall and now, at the ball, she wished to test her original impressions.

An hour earlier, just after the dancing had begun, Soames had hesitated at the door and, with somewhat more than his customary quotient of pompous restraint, had announced
The Lady Diana Rathbone.
There had been a hush in the room into which Lady Diana had made a superb entrance. Even Jeanette Oliver could not have done better, Adela thought to herself. As an actress, Miss Oliver’s majestic entrances would always be
contrived
while Lady Diana’s entrance was, with an awesome simplicity, regal by nature. Diana Rathbone
was
a lady, and as she moved every atom of her body reeked of her forebears—all of whom were lords temporal if not lords spiritual.

For much of the evening Adela watched, fascinated, as the vision in blue made her progress through the room, pale, aristocratic, and exquisitely beautiful. Her blond hair was the color of spun gold and her eyes were a crystal blue. The dress, to match the eyes, was adorned with diamonds and strings of diamonds were woven into her carefully modulated curls. The whole effect was, and was meant to be, chilling.

The waltz ended and Lord Waterston with Lady Diana found themselves near the piano. “Miss Trowle, I would like to introduce Lady Diana Rathbone—Lady Diana, Miss Adela Trowle.”

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Trowle. Charles has explained to me how very fortunate we are to have such a competent pianist in the family to instruct dearest little Rebecka.”

“I am also pleased to meet you Lady Diana and may I introduce Mr. Richard Brewer.”

Richard bowed in the direction of her ladyship, although he frowned at Adela. It was gracious enough of Waterston to introduce Adela, but he Richard, the paid musician, should not have been introduced. Adela’s eyes met Waterston’s and she smiled a challenge. Fortunately, Lady Diana was off on another subject and so happened to overlook Mr. Brewer’s existence.

“Miss Trowle, I am
quite
an accomplished pianist myself. Maestro says that I have the hands of an angel, but of course Mother would never approve of my playing in such a situation. It must have been
too
degrading to be forced to resort to music as a profession. Even Lady Spencer was quite horrified—and in Waterston’s family at that. I am delighted that scandal was averted.”

Adela looked up into the woman’s eyes, vacuous except for a touch of malice, and rather than the retort that sprang to her lips, she reminded herself of Richard’s advice on dealing with the ladies of the ton. She smiled demurely and responded with an excess of modesty.

“Yes, Lady Diana, I am
so
fortunate to be able to teach
dearest
little Rebecka—such a gifted
sweet
child.” Then warming to her role as sycophant, Adela added, “And I have heard how very well
you
play. I look forward to hearing you in performance, my lady.”

Lady Diana nodded almost imperceptibly, as would a monarch conferring mild approval. Here was a spinster relative who knew her place. Lady Diana Rathbone made a mental note that Miss Adela Trowle would not be problem, and as her next partner came to claim the dance, she turned away to rejoin the other invited guests. Lord Waterston hesitated and Adela turned to him with the same false smile, “My lord—” she began but was interrupted.

His lordship was angry. “Miss Trowle. Please to remember that you are a member of my family and not of the servant classes. Behave with
some
dignity.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“You might very well beg my pardon. Do not ever attempt to make a may game of me again. I may be a member of the aristocracy, but I am no fool. You are also a member of the aristocracy—act it!”

“I, my lord, belong here at the piano not out there among your sparkling guests. Please leave us in peace. Mr. Brewer and I must begin the music.”

“You, Cousin Adela, belong wherever I choose to have you. If I ask you to dance you
shall
dance.”

“Nonsense, my lord, I do not dance; I make music.”

Richard, perceiving that the situation was almost out of control and that Waterston was becoming quite angry, intervened. He signaled Adela to remain silent and addressed Waterston himself, “I’m afraid that Miss Trowle is not expressing herself well. She is deeply honored by your request, I am sure, but she cannot dance while she is in mourning.”

Waterston fixed Mr. Brewer with his glass and responded with arctic civility, “Mr. Brewer, I trust my cousin Adela is able to speak for herself.” The man was clearly the son of a clerk and he had Adela in training as a toady. Lord Waterston could not, he thought, abide toadies, although, he was dimly aware, that ninety-five percent of the people around him fitted that description. Waterston could not, in any case, abide Miss Trowle as a toady. He turned away from the piano still exceedingly angry.

Adela, shaken, resolved not to follow Richard’s instructions in dealing with Waterston—Lady Diana, certainly, but
not
Waterston.

Richard smiled at her. “I’m afraid, Adela, I’ve gotten you into the suds with His Nibs. Rather high in the instep but not at all stupid, is he? Men like that tend to think they
own
people. I should think ‘Cousin Adela this and Cousin Adela that’ could become rather wearing on the nerves.”

Adela, who had heard Waterston use her given name, with or without the “cousin,” only twice and both times in Richard’s company, could only agree it was indeed wearing on the nerves.

“His Nibs has probably got a bit of the indigestion and is at odds with the world. I had an old toff of a patron once who suffered from the gout and behaved in precisely the same sort of way ... If we were to be put into a quake every time one of our patrons was indisposed we should be quite incapable of making music.”

She smiled up at him as they began a stately pavane.

Lord Waterston, glancing back at the piano, observed the exchange of smiles and cursed under his breath as he led his partner on to the floor.

Seven

The next morning Becka came running to the breakfast room anxious for all the details of the ball. Adela and she were earnestly discussing each lady and each gown and who had danced with whom, when Becka asked, her eyes lowered, “What did you think of Lady Diana, Adela?”

“She is very beautiful, child. As perfect as a piece of porcelain.”

“Oh, she
is
beautiful I’ll grant you that, Adela, but I think her heart is porcelain as well—she’s so
cold.
I heard her play once and she plays like a machine. Having her here will be
dreadful.
It will be little Miss Rebecka this and little Miss Rebecka that all day long until this little Miss Rebecka will be behaving like a well-mannered marionette. Surely you must have seen that there is nothing behind those ice blue eyes.”

“Your uncle must know who will suit him best, Becka,” Adela answered in an attempt to silence the child.

“Humbug! You simply won’t understand, Adela.”

“Rebecka, mind your manners,” his lordship said as he entered the breakfast room. “I’m certain Miss Trowle is not deficient in understanding.”

Rebecka caught herself up in an instant. “Yes, of course, Uncle Charles. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

Charles stopped and looked at her little impish face carefully. “What
were
you discussing? It must have been exceedingly interesting if you find it necessary to introduce the weather on my arrival.”

“Nothing really, sir,” Becka answered and then when her uncle repeated the “sir” skeptically, “Well, we were only discussing your marriage, Uncle Charles.”

“I see, and what does Miss Trowle not understand about my marriage, brat?”

“Uncle Charles—” the child hesitated, wondering how far she might go without courting disaster, “are you
quite
certain you want to marry Lady Diana? Do you
really
feel you have taken the time to know her?”

“And what is there to know, Rebecka?”

Adela, deeply shocked at the nature of Rebecka’s questions, intervened. “Becka, restrain yourself—you must not question your uncle’s judgment in such matters. I for one feel that Lady Diana will do much to adorn this household.”

Waterston, who had tolerated Becka’s catechism with some amusement, was instantly irritated by Adela’s defense of himself.

“Yes, Miss Trowle, and Lady Diana has such a subtle mind.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“And such a warm personality.”

“If you say so, my lord.”

Rebecka could not be silent. “Flummery! That is really doing it up
too
brown, Uncle Charles. Lady Diana does not have a
warm
personality.”

“Well, Miss Trowle, do you not think that the fair lady has an exceedingly warm personality.”

“I am hardly in a position to judge, your lordship, having exchanged so few words with the lady, but I do not believe that a warm personality is always considered an asset in a viscountess.”

“A hit, Miss Trowle, a palpable hit. And is intelligence considered an asset in a viscountess?”

“Only in moderation, my lord, only in moderation,” Adela answered in spite of the still small voice of prudence counseling restraint.

“That, Miss Trowle, is the first honest thing you have said to me in the last twenty-four hours. I cannot think that Mr. Brewer is a good influence on you.”

“I cannot think, my lord, that Mr. Brewer’s influence is any of your concern.”

“On the contrary, my dearest cousin Adela, while you are under my roof all your friends are my concern.”

“My lord, we were
not
discussing Richard Brewer. Rebecka was expressing a quite natural sense of insecurity concerning Lady Diana and I was simply trying to reassure her. Rebecka must be made to understand that you know precisely what you desire in a wife and that Lady Diana is that woman.”

Were it possible, Waterston’s eyebrow shot up higher. “Spoken with such authority, Cousin Adela.”

“But Adela, the Ice Queen has no passion at all,” Becka persisted.

“Your uncle, Becka, does not desire passion in a wife. Your uncle is a prodigious admirer of beauty and he requires an appropriately beautiful lady. Someone who will harmonize well with the Louis Quatorze furnishings.”

“
Touché
!” Waterston was laughing. “And now that I have been rolled up and mortally wounded you will explain to me, my little antagonist, why do I, of all men, not require passion in a wife.”

While Charles was clearly enjoying this conversation, Adela was now quite angry and to his delight, showing it. How many times had he tried to provoke her to break through that prim little facade.

She looked at him and smiled. Not the open smile she reserved for Richard Brewer or the warm smile for Becka, but a smug little, almost triumphant, smile.

“Nonsense, my lord. One cannot expect passion from a blonde—a red-haired Titian beauty certainly, but not a blond Gainesborough beauty. Passion is not a quality to be desired in the mistress of Ashleigh; it is a quality reserved for actresses. I’m certain my lord would never expect to mix sherry with port.”

“It seems to me, Cousin Adela, that you are confusing Lord Waterston the man with Lord Waterston the gourmand.”

“Perhaps, my lord, but I find that your sense of the aesthetic, such as it is, seems to vastly overshadow your sense of the human.”

He threw back his head and laughed. Adela should have been relieved; after all she could not afford to lose her position, but she realized she was more angry than relieved. A prudent Miss Trowle would have apologized for her outspoken criticism, but before the prudent Miss Trowle could form the demurely phrased apology, she noticed Lord Waterston’s eyes. They were alight with deviltry. And Miss Trowle hesitated.

Quickly Lord Waterston excused himself. “I will leave you two young ladies to my dissection and I look forward to hearing more about myself at dinner.” The moment he was out the door Rebecka jumped up.

“Adela that was great good fun—champion. We have not had such a good honest mill in this house for years.
Everyone
always
toad eats
Uncle Charles.”

“Becka, one more mill and I will be out in the streets giving hourly instruction to three score unpromising little ugly children.
Please
do not
encourage
me.”

“Silly Adela, Uncle Charles loved it. And I see that you
do
agree with me on the Ice Queen. You know I don’t think she would half-mind about Miss Oliver. Do you truly think all redheads are passionate?”

“I don’t really think that people can be typed in that way, Becka. But you are not supposed to know about Miss Oliver.”

“Gammon, I am very—precocious. Don’t you know Uncle Charles allows me to read all the books in his library? I have read Ovid and I know about everything.
Absolutely
everything. I probably know more about the Miss Olivers of this world than you do.”

“Perhaps you do, child, perhaps you do.”

“Oh drat, here comes Miss Tucker to begin my classes.”

“On your way, scamp, and this afternoon, if you are a very good girl, we will begin work on the little nocturne from your idol the fabulous Herr Beethoven.”

“Grand, and I shall be the best of little girls. I will be so good, my darling Adela, that even the ever so elegant Snow Queen will be able to stomach me as a ward.”

“Yes, do just that, because if the ever so elegant Snow Queen, I mean Lady Diana, should not want you as a ward you will be packed off to a very dreadful boarding school to learn deportment and I will be packed off to Sloane Street to earn my meager living in ghastly servitude.”

“Stuff and nonsense. Uncle Charles would never allow it,” she called over her shoulder as she went bounding up the stairs.

Adela was left in some doubt as to which of their twin horrid fates Uncle Charles would not allow, but rather than brood on such possibilities, she set herself to work in the music room and wrote a short note to Richard, explaining that it would be wise to have future practice sessions in his own home in order to avoid inconveniencing his lordship.

Richard answered the note with a thank you for the employment opportunity and a few kind words for his lordship who had paid him handsomely, almost too handsomely, Adela thought. What Richard saw as a sign of clear-cut approval of himself and his music, Adela recognized, more accurately, to be a slight.

The afternoon began well. Becky and Adela worked for a solid hour and a half, first on arpeggios and then on the promised nocturne. Slowly they worked on the fingering, the phrasing, and lastly the expression. Although the child ached to play the nocturne very much as Miss Oliver had played Ophelia, Adela was urging her, ever so slightly, toward a more restrained approach.

“Oh, Adela, you old fraud.” Becka began to chuckle. “I know how you play Beethoven in the dead of the night. And it isn’t like some stiff stick. You play Beethoven with feeling.”

“Perhaps, child, but I don’t play Beethoven with mush. I don’t slaver all over the work like a moonstruck bloodhound. No indeed! And how do you know I play Beethoven in the dead of the night? I believe sound does not penetrate from these walls when the door is closed.”

Intuitively Becky realized it was important not to reveal the secret of the library. That night when she had listened with Uncle Charles in the library they had been conspirators; Waterston had explained that Miss Trowle might not
wish
to play to an
audience.

“Why not, Uncle Charles? She plays so very beautifully.”

“Just so, child. She plays, as well, with a great deal of feeling and a great deal of emotion, much of it, I think, is grief—some anger, some love. Somehow, I don’t think our cousin Adela is quite prepared to expose those feelings to an audience—not yet.”

Now, eyes downward, the child fabricated an explanation. “Well you know, Adela, that night, a week and a half ago, when I couldn’t sleep and Uncle Charles was busy in the library? I just crept down to talk to you. But as I opened the door I realized that the music was so beautiful that I shouldn’t really disturb you. I promise not to do it again.” It was a very tiny lie.

“Becka darling, if you can’t sleep, come down and disturb me and we shall play duets together. Lullabies perhaps but do, dear, try to play Beethoven with some
restraint.
Only after we have learned restraint and control can we dare to learn expression. It is far more difficult to play pianissimo than it is to play fortissimo.”

“Very well. I suppose that I shall just have to wait until I am more grown up. It’s like everything else.”

“Yes child, and meanwhile we will proceed slowly poco a poco.”

They continued the work on the Beethoven nocturne long into the afternoon, and as his lordship had been called from the house, Adela was able to spend a relaxing and pleasant dinner with Rebecka before returning to her own work in the evening.