The Shivering Sands (19 page)

On the day preceding the dinner party Alice came to tell me that Edith was sick and I went along to her room to see her.

This was the apartment where Charles I had lodged during the Civil War. The actual room led out of the main chamber and was occupied by Napier, while Edith used the larger bedroom. In it was a huge bed over which was a dome upheld by four columns engraved with flowers. The bed head and tester were ornamented with gilt figures and the hangings were of blue velvet. It was a very elaborate bed—and I remembered that this was the bridal suite. The door leading to the next room—the chamber in which a king had lodged—looked less elaborate as far as I could see. The bed was a carved wooden four-poster and beside it were a pair of wooden steps used for stepping into the bed. That room doubtless looked as it had done in the days of the Civil War—but the furniture in this one was a later and more elegant period.

It was the first time I had been in the bridal suite and I felt embarrassed because I thought of Napier here with Edith and I wondered what their relationship could possibly be like with so much fear on her side, so much contempt on his.

There was a consul table attached to one wall, over which was a tall mirror with a gilded frame; I noticed the secretaire-cabinet of satin wood and golden Honduras mahogany with fluted columns. This must be the most elegant room in the house—and that grim chamber leading from it made a strong contrast.

My quick survey of the room was over in a few seconds for it was Edith whom I had come to see.

She was sitting up in that ornate bed looking small and lost with her lovely golden hair in two plaits which hung over each shoulder.

“Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, I feel…terrible.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She bit her lip. “It’s tomorrow night. I have to be hostess, and they’ll be such terrifying people. I can’t face them.”

“Why should they be terrifying? They’re only guests.”

“But I shan’t know what to say. I did wish I needn’t go.” She looked at me hopefully, as though asking me to produce some reason for her absence.

I said: “You’ll get used to it. It’s no use avoiding this one. You’ll have to face up to the next. And I’m sure you’ll find it’s not so bad.”

“I thought you might…you might suggest that you…did it for me.”

“I!” I was astonished. “But I am not even going to the dinner. I am merely coming down to play for the guests.”

“You would do it so much better than I would.”

“Thank you,” I said, “but I am not the mistress of this house, I am merely employed here.”

“I thought you might speak to Napier.”

“And suggest that I take your place? Surely you must see how impossible that is.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Edith. “Oh, I do hope I shall feel better. But he would listen to you.”

“If someone is to speak to your husband surely you would do that better than anyone else?”

“No,” said Edith, putting a hand momentarily over her eyes. Then she added: “He does take notice of you, Mrs. Verlaine…and he doesn’t take notice of many people.”

I laughed, but a terrible uneasiness had come to me. He was interested in me. Why?

I said briskly: “You should get up now and go for a long walk. Stop worrying. When it is over you will be asking yourself what there was to worry about.”

Edith lowered her hands and looked at me earnestly.

What a child she was. My words had made some impression on her.

“I’ll try,” she said.

How silent it was in the big hall! There was the piano on the dais. Banks of flowers would be brought in from the greenhouses. Tulips and carnations, I imagined. The seats were already there. It was like a concert hall…a unique one, with the suit of armor standing guard at the staircase—the weapons on the walls, the arms of the Stacys entwined with those of the Napiers and the Beaumonts.

I should be there—in my burgundy velvet—looking as I had looked on that fateful night.

No, different. I should not be a member of the audience; this time I should be there on that dais.

I went to it. I sat at the piano. I must not think of Pietro. Pietro was dead. If he had been here in this audience I should have been afraid of faltering, of earning his contempt. I should have been conscious of him, his ears straining to catch the false note, the lack of sureness…and I should have known that while he trembled for me, yet he hoped that I should give a less perfect performance than his.

I played. I had not played these pieces since. I had told myself that I could not bear to. But I played now and I was caught up in the excitement which the master had felt when he composed them. It was there in all its glory, that inspiration which came from something not of this world. It was wonderful. And as I played I did not see Pietro’s long hair flung back in the agitation of creative interpretation. To me the music meant what it had in those days before I knew Pietro. I was exalted as I played.

When I stopped it all came back so vividly; I could see him bowing to the audience. He had looked a little tired and strained and he never had looked like that after a performance…not immediately after. That came later after he had left the platform, when the flatterers and sycophants had left, when we were alone together. Then the effect of all that he had put into the evening would begin to show.

I saw him, lying back in the chair in the dressing room…Pietro…who would never play again.

A low chuckle behind me. For a moment I thought he had come back, that he was there laughing at me. If anything could evoke the return of his spirit surely that music would.

Miss Stacy was sitting in one of the seats. She was wearing a dress of pale pink crepe material and little pink bows were in her hair.

“I crept in when you were in the middle,” she said. “You play beautifully, Mrs. Verlaine.”

I did not answer. And she went on: “It reminds me of the old days so much. Isabella used to be so nervous. You’re not. And afterwards she used to cry in her room. It was because she wasn’t pleased with her performance and knew she could have done better if she’d gone on with her teachers. When I sat there listening I thought…I wouldn’t be surprised if this brought the ghosts out. It’s just like it used to be. Suppose Isabella couldn’t rest. Suppose she came back…Well, the hall would look just as it did on those nights when she played…all the same…only someone different at the piano. Isn’t that exciting, Mrs. Verlaine? Don’t you think it would bring the ghosts out?”

“If they existed, yes. But I don’t believe they do.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say. They might be listening.”

I didn’t answer. Instead I closed the lid of the piano. And I was thinking: Yes, it would be an occasion for ghosts. And I wasn’t thinking of the ghost of Isabella Stacy but that of Pietro.

The image that looked back at me from my mirror was reassuring—red velvet, and that orchid. It became me as no other dress ever had. Pietro had not said so, but his eyes had told me.

He had stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, looking at us both in the mirror. That picture would be stamped on my memory forever.

“You look worthy…of me,” he said, with typical Pietro candor; and I had laughed at him and said that if he thought that I must look very well indeed.

We had gone to the concert hall together, and I had left him to take my place in the audience.

But what was the use of going over it. I must not think of him tonight. I smoothed one hand over the other, massaging my fingers. They were supple…adequate, I told myself. But I knew better. They had some magic in them tonight, and no one was going to rob them of it, not even the ghost of Pietro.

I was glad I had not been invited to dine with the party. Mrs. Lincroft had said that she had thought it a little remiss of Napier not to suggest it, for she was sure it had been Sir William’s intention. I replied that I preferred not to go.

“I understand,” she said, “you want to be perfectly fresh for your performance.”

I wondered about the guests. Friends of Napier’s or of Sir William? Scarcely Napier’s for he had not been home long enough to make many. How did it feel, I wondered, to be exiled and then return? It would be a little like that for me tonight. I had been exiled in a way, and tonight I was to go onto that dais and people would listen to my playing. It would be an uncritical audience, I told myself, quite unlike the audiences Pietro had played to. There was nothing to fear.

At nine o’clock I went down to the great hall. Sir William was there in his chair. Mrs. Lincroft in a long gray chiffon skirt with cornflower blue chiffon blouse wheeled him in. She was not of the company but like myself a kind of higher servant. I remembered thinking this as I saw her.

Sir William beckoned to me and he told me that he was sorry I had not joined the company for dinner. I replied that I preferred to be quiet before the performance and he bowed his head in understanding.

Napier came over to me, Edith was with him. She looked very pretty but highly nervous. I smiled reassuringly at her. Then the company seated itself and I went to the dais. I played the dances first as Pietro had done; and as my fingers touched the keys and those magical sounds came forth I forgot everything but the joy they gave me. As I went on playing, I saw pictures evoked by the music; and that wonderful mood of exultation came to me. I forgot that I was playing to strangers in a baronial hall; I even forgot that I had lost Pietro; there was nothing for me but the music.

The applause was spontaneous. I smiled at the audience who went on clapping. I scanned them lightly. I saw Sir William deeply affected; Napier sitting upright applauding with the rest; Edith beside him smiling almost happily; and somewhere at the back of the hall Allegra and Alice—Allegra bouncing up and down on her seat in her excitement and Alice gravely clapping. I sensed their pleasure—not so much in the music. But in my success.

The applause died down and I began the Rhapsody. This was Pietro’s piece but I didn’t care. To me it had always opened a world of color and delight. I could undergo twenty different emotions while I played it and so had he. He had told me once that during one part of the Rhapsody he always imagined that he was sitting in a dentist’s chair having a tooth removed which had made us both laugh at the time. “It’s pain,” he had cried. “Sheer pain…and then that acute joy.”

I suffered; I rejoiced; and there was nothing for me but the music. And when I came to an end I knew that I had never played so well.

I stood up; the applause was deafening.

Napier was beside me. He said: “My father wishes to speak to you.”

I followed him to Sir William’s wheelchair. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

“I’ve no need to tell you, Mrs. Verlaine,” he said. “It was superb. Beyond…my expectations.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

“We shall be requested to repeat this often, I believe. It—it reminded me…”

He did not continue and I said: “I understand.”

“These people will be wanting to congratulate you.”

“I think I will go to my room now.”

“Ah yes. Exhausting. I know. Well, we understand that.”

Napier was looking at me and I could not read the expression in his eyes.

“Triumph,” he whispered.

“Thank you.”

“I trust you approve my choice of pieces.”

“They were magnificent.”

He bowed his head smiling and people began to approach to tell me how they had enjoyed my playing. I could not escape for a time. I was aware of Miss Stacy—lavender bows in her hair—looking excited and fey as though she were in touch with the ghosts she was sure would be visiting us that night; I saw Mrs. Lincroft sending the girls to their rooms and I listened to compliments; several people mentioned my husband. Few of them had heard him play, but they knew his name. It was some time before I could escape.