“I…I had no idea…”
He released his grip on my arm and patted the horse’s head. His expression changed. How gentle he was! How much more attractive he found a horse than an inquisitive music teacher!
Then he turned to me again; “I shouldn’t come to the stables alone if I were you, Miss er…”
“Mrs.,” I said with dignity. “Mrs. Verlaine.” I waited to see the effect my married status would have on him; it was, however, perfectly clear that the fact was of no significance to him whatsoever.
“Well, don’t come to the stables if you’re going to be such a fool, for God’s sake. A horse hears a movement behind him, naturally he kicks out in self-preservation. Never do such a thing again.”
“I suppose,” I said coolly, “you are reminding me that I should thank you.”
“I’m reminding you to show a little common sense in future.”
“You are most kind. Thank you for preserving my life…however ungraciously.”
A slow smile spread across his features but I did not wait for more. I started to walk away, horrified that I was trembling.
I could still feel his grip on my arm and I guessed I should have bruises for days to come to remind me of him. It was most disturbing. How was I to have known his wretched horse was going to kick out. Common sense, he would say. Well there were some of us who were more interested in our fellow human beings than in horses. The expression on the man’s face when he had turned to the horse—and how it had changed for me! I didn’t like him. I kept thinking of Edith at the wedding, coming down the aisle on his arm. She was frightened of him. What sort of man was he to frighten a young girl? I could guess and I hoped I should not have to see very much of Mr. Napier Stacy. I would put him out of my mind. Pietro would have despised him on sight. That complete…what was it…virility, masculinity…would have irritated him. A Philistine, would have been Pietro’s comment—a creature with no music in his soul.
I could not banish him from my mind, however.
I found my way back to my room and there I sat on the window seat looking out, not seeing the gray-green water but the contempt in those startlingly blue eyes.
And then Mrs. Lincroft came to my room and told me that Sir William would see me.
As soon as I was presented to Sir William I saw the resemblance between him and Napier. The same blue penetrating eyes, the long nose somewhat hawklike, the thin lips and—something more subtle—that arrogant look of defiance against the world.
Mrs. Lincroft had explained to me on the way that Sir William was half-paralyzed due to a stroke he had suffered a year before. This meant that he could only move with great difficulty. I was beginning to fit things into some sort of shape and I realized that the stroke was probably another reason why Napier had been called home.
He sat in a leather wing chair, within his reach a cane whose handle was inlaid with what I believed to be lapis lazuli; and he wore a dressing gown of cloth with dark blue velvet collar and cuffs; he was obviously very tall and it seemed to me infinitely pathetic that such a man should be incapacitated, for he had clearly once been as strong and virile as his son. Heavy velour curtains were half drawn across the windows and he sat with his back to the light as though he were determined to avoid what little there was. The carpet was thick and it deadened the sound of my footsteps as I approached. The furniture—the great ormolu clock, the Buhl bureau, the tables and chairs, everything was heavy, and the effect was oppressive.
Mrs. Lincroft said in her quiet but authoritative voice: “Sir William, this is Mrs. Verlaine.”
“Ah, Mrs. Verlaine.” There was a slight slurring and hesitancy in the speech which I found moving. I suppose I was conscious—perhaps because of my recent encounter with his son—of the great change that illness had brought about in this man. “Pray be seated.”
Mrs. Lincroft put a chair immediately in front of Sir William, so close that I gathered his eyesight was failing too.
I sat down and he said: “You have good qualifications, Mrs. Verlaine. I am glad. I think Mrs. Stacy has some talent. I should like it to be developed. You have not yet had time to discover, I suppose…”
“No,” I answered. “But I have talked with the young ladies.”
He nodded. “When I realized who you were I was immediately interested.”
My heartbeats quickened. If he knew that I was Roma’s sister he might guess why I had come.
“I never had the pleasure of hearing your husband perform,” he went on, “but I have read of his great talent.”
Of course, he was referring to Pietro. How nervous I was! I should have known.
“He was a great musician,” I said, trying to hide the emotion I felt when speaking of him.
“You will find Mrs. Stacy something less.”
“There are very few people living who can be compared with him,” I said with dignity; and he inclined his head in a brief respect to Pietro.
“I shall require you to play for me from time to time,” he went on. “It will be part of your duties. And perhaps on occasions for our guests.”
“I see.”
“I should like to hear you play now.” Mrs. Lincroft was suddenly beside me.
“There’s a piano in the next room,” she said. “You will find the piece which Sir William wishes you to play there.”
Mrs. Lincroft drew back a heavy curtain and opened the door behind it as I followed her into the room. The first thing I noticed was the grand piano. It was open and a piece of music was set up on it. The room was furnished in the same colors as the one I had just left; and there was the same indication that the owner wished to shut out the light.
I went to the piano and glanced at the music. I knew every note by heart. It was Beethoven’s Für Elise, in my mind one of the most beautiful pieces ever written.
Mrs. Lincroft nodded to me and I sat down at the piano and played. I was deeply moved, for the piece brought back memories of the house in Paris and of Pietro. He had said of this piece: “Romantic…haunting…mysterious. You couldn’t go wrong with a piece like that. With that you can hypnotize yourself into thinking you’re a great pianist.”
So I played and I was soothed and I forgot the sad old man in the next room and the discourteous younger one whom I had met in the stables. Music has this effect on me. I am two people—the musician and the woman. The latter is practical, a little gauche in her defiance of the world because she has been hurt and doesn’t intend to be again, muzzling her emotions and her feelings, pretending they don’t exist because she is afraid of them.
But the musician is all emotion, all feeling; when I play I can imagine that I am carried away from the world, that I have a special sense, that I am in possession of some subtle understanding which is denied to ordinary people. And I felt as I played that this room which had been dark and sad for a long time was suddenly alive again; that I had brought back something for which it had long yearned. Fanciful yes. But music is not of this mundane world. Great musicians draw their inspiration from the divine influence…and although I am not great, I am at least a musician.
I finished playing and the room returned to normal, for the magic had disappeared. I felt I had never done better justice to Für Elise, and that had the master overcome his deafness and heard my rendering he would not have been displeased.
There was silence. I sat at the piano waiting. Then as nothing happened I rose and went through the door holding aside the curtain, which was not completely drawn over it. Sir William was lying back in his chair, his eyes closed. Mrs. Lincroft, who had been standing by him, came swiftly to my side.