February 10, 1889
“I really didn’t mean to cause a scene,” Maureen said, taking a sip from her teacup. She was still incredibly pale and a little shaky, but overall, she seemed to be doing better. She, Mira, and Liza sat at a little table in a nook at Number Five Henrietta Street, a tea tray shared between them.
“It’s entirely understandable,” Liza said. “Considering the circumstances.”
“Truth be told, I hardly remember it.” Maureen set the cup down, averting her eyes from the group. “I am sorry to hear that your aunt is unwell, Liza.”
“Oh, she’ll rally soon enough. Especially with Mother looking after her.”
What Liza didn’t say was that Aunt Eleanor was still reeling from the discovery of the body, felt as if it were a harbinger of doom, and refused to leave the house.
Which left Mira and Liza in the awkward position of being unable to go anywhere with their suitors.
At least until they came to some compromise with Mrs. Renaldi or found another chaperone.
“That window lets in such good light,” Mira said, changing the subject. “This room would be a joy to paint in.”
“You’re an artist, Miss Blayse?” Maureen asked. “I don’t believe I knew that.”
Liza laughed. “She has graphite on her hands more often than not. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I suppose I haven’t,” Maureen said. “I’m not much of an artist myself.”
“Yes, but you play the piano,” Mira said. “And much better than I ever could.”
Maureen smiled. “I’m not as good as I once was. I haven’t had as much time to practice since . . . well, since moving to Bath.”
“Why not?” Mira asked.
“My aunt didn’t like me to practice when she was sleeping. And as she slept most of the time, it was rather a difficult prospect. I’ve been playing a little more in the last month.”
“Can you play for us?” Liza asked.
Maureen ducked her head in a rare show of shyness. “I suppose I could, if you really wanted me to.”
They finished their teacakes and withdrew to the music room on the second floor. A lovely pianoforte stood in the center, glowing in the light filtering through the thin, delicate curtains covering the window. Near the door stood a credenza displaying objets d’art.
“What a lovely little carousel,” Liza said, admiring one of the curios. It was a delicate thing with gold work and tiny, porcelain horses with different colored saddles and bridles. It stood on a heavy base engraved with swirls and flowers.
“It’s a musical box,” Maureen said, pausing next to it. She opened a drawer in the credenza and pulled out a key, slotted it into the base of the carousel, and turned it. The springs creaked before a delicate tinkling sound rang out.
“It’s beautiful,” Mira said.
“Isn’t it? It’s one of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. I find it incredible that the little box is able to play both the harmony and the melody at once. Although I find the tempo a little faster than it ought to be.”
Mira smiled. “That suggests you know how to play it.”
Maureen’s eyes sparkled and she opened one of the doors on the credenza, pulling out two folders of sheet music. “I’ve dabbled.”
“Are you a Mendelssohn enthusiast, then?” Liza asked.
“Oh yes. My father was partial to him.” She sighed. “He actually gave the box to me a few weeks before he died.”
The musical box filled the silence, before slowly coming to a stop.
“I’m so sorry,” Mira said.
Maureen blinked rapidly and stepped towards the piano. “I’m fine. I’m still surprised when the sorrow overcomes me.” She lifted the sheet music. “I’ll play the Mendelssohn first.”
Mira and Liza took their seats on a low-backed velvet sofa while Maureen opened the piano.
“You know, he wrote these songs without any titles or suggestions as to how one ought to feel when listening to or performing them. He felt that music could communicate so much more than words ever could. Poetry in music alone.” She set the sheet music on the rest above the piano keys and arranged her skirts over the bench.
“Of course, since he died people have given most of them names, which defeats the whole purpose.”
“Does this one have a name?” Liza asked.
Maureen smiled. “I’ll tell you after I play.” She took a breath and started with her left hand playing the lower keys.
The notes were warm and bright, the melody joining the bass line and washing over them.
It hadn’t occurred to Mira before how much she relied on the programs at musical reviews to tell her what to think and feel about a piece.
The history behind it, the reasons why the composer might have written it, secrets hidden within the notes. And, of course, the title.
She closed her eyes and let the music envelop her.
The high notes spoke and the lower register responded, a call and response.
The general tone of the piece was happy, but beneath it all the harmony was tinged with sorrow.
Nostalgic, though Mira didn’t believe she had ever heard the piece before.
What was Mendelssohn trying to communicate?
Some hidden message tucked between the rests and quarter notes?
The full piece was deep and rich in a way the musical box would never achieve.
Maureen lightened her touch as she finished the piece. Liza’s clapping brought Mira back from her revelry.
“Oh, that was wonderful, Maureen,” Liza said.
“I’m a little out of practice.” A blush rose to Maureen’s cheeks.
“I never would have known,” Mira said.
Liza sat straighter. “Did it have a name?”
“‘Sweet Remembrance,’” Maureen said. “Although, I don’t think the title fully encompasses the feeling.”
“I agree,” Mira said.
Maureen switched out the sheet music. “This is the piece I’ve been working on. I haven’t quite been able to figure it out, so forgive me if it sounds a little strange.”
Unlike the previous piece, the notes that sprang from the strings of the piano were chaotic and indecipherable.
A phrase of musicality surfaced every so often, but just when Mira thought she knew the direction it would go, the notes would change drastically.
It was haunting and dissonant. The piece was mostly in the upper register, so there was not much of a second hand line.
If this was the piece Maureen had exhibited, it was no wonder those women at the party thought she didn’t play well.
Halfway through she stopped abruptly. “It’s just a jumble of notes. I don’t understand why it doesn’t sound like anything.”
Mira stood and moved to the piano, looking over Maureen’s shoulder. The sheet music was handwritten, the ink blotchy in places. “Where did you get this?”
“It was my father’s,” she said, morose.
“Your father composed that?” Liza said.
Maureen shook her head. “My great-uncle sent it, I think. Father had been practicing it for weeks, but he never made it sound any better than I have. It has just about every conceivable flat and sharp. But no matter how I play it, it never sounds right.”
Mira furrowed her brow. “How strange . . .”
Maureen shrugged and stacked the sheet music up again, placing it back in the folder. “Would either of you like to play?”
They spent the rest of the afternoon in the music room, listening to each other play, and discussing the difficulties of playing the works of different composers. Maureen seemed in much better spirits. Mira was stumbling through her third piece when Hoddle stepped in.
“I do hate to interrupt, but I’m afraid I must steal Miss Harris away. Dr. Turpin is here.”
Maureen frowned. “I didn’t realize he was coming today.”
“I thought after yesterday, shock as it was, it would be prudent to have the good doctor look in on you.”
“I suppose . . .” Maureen looked at Liza and Mira.
“We probably ought to get home as it is,” Liza said. Mira looked at the clock for the first time in several hours. It was already half past four. She nodded.
“I left the doctor in the front parlor,” Admiral Hoddle said.
Maureen stood, taking Liza’s hands in hers. “It was so good of you to come. Thank you for a wonderful afternoon.”
“Oh, we were happy to.”
“I’ll see them out,” Admiral Hoddle said. “Best not to keep the doctor waiting.”
Maureen nodded and left the room.
“I can’t tell you what good it has done my soul to have the two of you come visit today,” Hoddle said as he escorted them to the door. “So very kind and thoughtful. Miss Harris has gone through such a trying time this past year. It is so very good for her to have friends such as yourselves.”
“It’s the very least we could do,” Liza said. “I’m glad to have her company again. We’ve missed her in London.”
“I’m sure you have, yes,” Hoddle said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.
“She is such a joy, in spite of the earthly sorrows she has endured. This isn’t the first time she’s been affected by a bout of hysteria, poor girl.
I do hope the doctor has some suggestion of what to do to help her endure it. ”
“She seemed much recovered today,” Mira said. “It was upsetting for all of us to discover poor Mr. Treadway in such a fashion.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. It is such a tragedy. Poor man. Must have not seen the drop-off with the fog and snow. Such a full life ahead of him, too.” They reached the door and he opened it. “I do hope that you come again. Good day to you both!”
***
They reached Davenguard as the sun was starting to set. Mira handed her coat to the butler and followed Liza into the sitting room. Walker and Byron stood as they entered.
Mrs. Renaldi turned. “Oh good, you’re back. How was Miss Harris? I feel so sorry for her, poor thing.”
“She is much improved since yesterday,” Liza said, sitting next to her mother. “I hope to visit her tomorrow, as well.”
Mrs. Renaldi frowned, turning to Byron. “Will there be time with the inquest?”
“It’s tomorrow?” Mira asked, taking up one of the deep, armless chairs. “I thought it wouldn’t be scheduled until later this week.”
“The county coroner happened to finish up another case and is in town still,” Byron said.
“We received the message a little while ago. As it is only the preliminary investigative inquest, it should only take an hour. However, that entirely depends on how much evidence the police have to bring forward.”
“Must we all go?” Liza asked.
“I’m afraid we’re all witnesses, before or after Mr. Treadway’s death,” Byron said.
“This is all a bad omen,” Aunt Eleanor said, wringing her hands. “A very bad omen.”