Chapter 3
Chapter
Music coursed through Charles like a breath of fresh air, filling his lungs, oxygenating his heart, giving him life.
The piano’s melodic heartbeat pulsed through his polished shoes on the stage floor and through his fingers lilting across the ivories.
Every chord, major and minor, cascaded from his soul with the relief of an exhale.
The euphony of notes soared to the vaulted ceiling of the packed concert hall, and though a crowd of hundreds heard Beethoven’s Für Elise, only One perceived the personal offering emptied into the melodious bagatelle.
Only One received the notes as an unspoken prayer.
The spotlight’s beam grew, intensifying until the entire stage was awash in blinding light.
Charles blinked awake, severed from the dream.
From the memory of his former life as a concert pianist. Fearsome stiffness gripped his neck, crooked at an awkward angle against the wooden rocker where he’d spent his nightly vigil.
He really ought to make use of the cot, but in the wee hours, he was always convinced he could stay awake a little longer.
Just in case something happened. Just in case Father needed him.
At the window, tying back the drapes, stood the epitome of fortitude in an apron. Mother offered a soft smile and whispered so as not to wake Father in the nearby bed. “Nearly half past seven, Charlie. Best be up and about before you’re late for work.”
Work, right. Time for another day of numbers and ledgers and paper cuts .
. . oh, bother. With a stifled groan, Charles arched his back to stretch his spine, which responded with a satisfying crack, then massaged a hand along the nape of his neck, the muscles taut and knotted.
A swath of wavy brown hair fell before his bleary eyes.
He needed to get a move on if he wanted to make himself presentable before heading to the Magi’s offices.
Charles stood, retrieved a blanket from the floor he’d lost track of during the night, and commenced folding it.
He could at least set the room to rights so Mother would have one less thing to worry about.
He returned her smile with one of his own, hoping it proved reassuring.
“Father slept well. Didn’t express any great discomfort when I turned him and adjusted his pillows. ”
“That’s a mercy.” Mother took the folded blanket from his hands and stowed it in the cedar chest at the end of the bed.
“Now away with you, son. You’ve already missed breaking your fast with Benjamin, but there’s a hot bowl of porridge and pot of tea waiting for you on the kitchen table, if you make haste. ”
Charles placed a kiss upon his mother’s head. “Lord knows Ben makes enough haste for us both. That younger brother of mine has more energy than I ever did at his age, no mistake.”
“La, child, and you only a hair over thirty!” Mother swatted his rumpled shirt. “Bless the Lord and my good silver, but you make me feel like the ancient of days, talking such nonsense. Be off with you now!”
Charles took a few steps toward the doorway, unable to leave without a backward glance at Father’s form in the bed, frail and wan. At Mother’s face, creased with concerns and grief he wished he could spare her. He swallowed. “Need me to do anything before I go? I could help—”
“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 second breath, 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 the pressure 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.