Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“The earth has music for those who listen.”
The butler welcomed us to Clearfield house at precisely two. With a pang of melancholy, it reminded me of our home in Hampshire.
I lifted my chin, willing myself to forget my sorrows and melt into this refinement I was allowed to reclaim for an hour.
Clara stood beside me, her blue eyes flickering between all the portraits, trimmings, and furnishings of the house.
Her mouth hung slightly open. She missed these things as much as I did.
I was tempted to push her jaw closed with my hand and remind her that a proper lady never gapes.
Mrs. Abbot, Rachel, and Lucy were awaiting us in the sitting room.
I entered first, bringing my eyes to a thoughtful gaze and my mouth to a gentle curve.
I had managed to tame my hair into something presentable, which I was quite proud of.
The most important task I had coming here to Clearfield House was to develop a friendship with the Abbots and use it to my advantage.
I had to gain their respect and admiration if I wished to benefit from their connections.
The look of screened envy Rachel threw in my direction was a promising start.
Mrs. Abbot welcomed us and beckoned us to our seats on the settee. My heart lifted inside me when I saw a pianoforte sitting in the corner of the room by the window. I stared at it for too long.
“What is it, Miss Lyons?” Mrs. Abbot recalled my eyes.
I hid my reaction the best I could. “I was admiring your pianoforte.”
She swatted her hand through the air. “Oh, that old thing? It’s ancient, but of course, that makes the sound all the richer.” She paused. “Would you like to favor us with a song? We would be so honored by your performance, wouldn’t we, girls?” She raised her brows at Rachel and Lucy who nodded.
If they had any doubt that I was accomplished, they would soon be proven wrong. “Very well,” I agreed with a modest smile. “But please forgive me…I am a bit out of practice.” I thought I saw Clara roll her eyes.
I stepped up to the bench, fluently swept my skirts under me, and sat down.
The keys were chipped and ugly in some places, but I ignored their flaws.
They could still make beautiful music whether they were pretty or not.
I chose a piece I knew well, a sonata by Bach in A minor.
I had played it so often that I remembered every note.
It was a stately, aching, and nostalgic song, a sharp contrast to the allegro pieces by Pleyel and the Scotch and Irish airs I had played most frequently as I’d grown.
Every bottled emotion streamed through my arms and fingers as I pressed the first key.
It was the same experience that I’d had in the music room the night I had learned of Papa’s disgrace.
I forgot the time and place. As I swayed to the song, I forgot the eyes trained on me and the unfamiliarity of my surroundings.
My fingers moved deftly over the keys, feeling every ridge in their imperfections—a contradiction to their hauntingly beautiful sound.
The sense of release was intoxicating, and when the song was over, my hands trembled, and it was all I could do not to cry.
The room was still. Before I could turn around, the silence was split by a most improper applause.
I turned my head in surprise. Clara’s face was tight with emotion, but she smiled when she saw that mine was too. Rachel’s and Lucy’s expressions were battling between amazement and what looked like fresh envy. For the first time I wasn’t pleased to see the envy.
Mrs. Abbot rushed to my side with her hand pressed to her chest. “Miss Lyons! You have broken my heart. You are a musician! That was truly exquisite.”
I would have never thought it possible, but I felt bashful under her praise.
I had never played a song publicly for the purpose of anything but attention.
My purpose just then had been to release my emotions, and whatever I had just set free now belonged to every person in the room. I felt raw and vulnerable from it.
Shortly after I reclaimed my seat, we were presented with a tray of sandwiches and cakes, along with a kettle of tea and a cream pitcher. Clara and I exchanged a glance. I wanted to eat it all. My stomach grumbled as I filled a plate as modestly as I could manage.
Mrs. Abbot sipped from her teacup slowly and then raised her gaze to Clara and me. “Do tell us…how long have you been here in Craster? It cannot have been long considering that we just met today.”
Truth and lies battled inside me. She was very kind, but without a doubt one of the most reliable sources of gossip in the area.
If any eligible men heard of my situation, I could have no chance of making an acceptable match.
Kindness could not come without a price.
I had learned that lesson. Certainly Mrs. Abbot and her daughters were only trying to coax the truth out of me to feed their acquaintances enough of a scandal to keep them entertained.
I nibbled the corner of a cucumber sandwich before speaking. I wished I had pockets to stuff with the entire tray. “It has been less than a week.”
“And how is your grandmother this afternoon?” Mrs. Abbot asked.
“She is still unwell, but in good spirits.” I gave a soft smile. “Already the new scenery and air has improved her mood. But above all she says she enjoys the company of her granddaughters to bring her daily happiness. We do what we can to keep her comfortable.”
Clara’s cheeks darkened a shade. She would give away the lie in an instant if she reacted so obviously.
“Is something wrong, Miss Clara?” Mrs. Abbot asked. That woman missed nothing.
Clara’s eyes rounded. “Oh…the tea is hot.” She flashed a smile. “May I—er…more cream, please?”
I stifled a laugh as Mrs. Abbot graciously added three more drops to her tea. Clara shot me a glare through the corner of her eye.
“How very kind of you both,” Rachel said.
“We have always preferred life here in the North. We used to visit the southern countryside nearly every summer but I was always quite eager to return here. Thankfully we haven’t left the North for several years.
It is necessary for my health and happiness, that is for certain.
” She smiled. “Have you come to appreciate these benefits yourself?”
I kept my face even. “I must admit I prefer life in the South. But more than anything, I enjoy visiting London during the Season. Being from Hampshire, I have had the opportunity to enjoy both the countryside and Town.” I pushed the empty feeling from my chest. I would never feel the same way about this desolate, sea-sprayed town.
Rachel swallowed a hefty chunk of cake. “I have never been to London. But I don’t wish to. If I must marry, I will find a man in this very town so I am never forced to leave.”
I studied her, wondering if she would continue speaking, but she was preoccupied by the tea tray. Lucy’s expression tightened then relaxed before I could wonder what it meant.
“Have you been acquainted with any others in the village?” Lucy asked me.
When I didn’t answer immediately, Clara spoke up. “Mr. James Wortham.”
“Oh, but briefly,” I added quickly with a laugh. “We don’t make a habit of speaking with such disagreeable men.”
Mrs. Abbot’s brow furrowed in a frown. “I must disagree. Mr. Wortham is quite respectable. I find him to be a very amiable young man. I must come to his defense, of course, because he once carried Lucy all the way home when she injured her leg in town.”
My breath came in sharply. “How improper,” I mumbled.
Lucy reddened. “I was only eleven years old,” she said quickly. “Never would I allow such a thing to happen now.”
“What a lie!” Rachel said, her voice trailing with laughter. “You would, and you would thoroughly enjoy every moment.”
Lucy opened her mouth to contradict her but seemed to change her mind. Clara giggled, and I shushed her.
“Well, I would call him kind.” Mrs. Abbot smiled. “It is a rare soul who will engage in an act of kindness for nothing in return.”
My mind wandered to the moment when Mr. Wortham had chased after the man stealing our reticule.
I remembered the shilling he had offered the proud man and his hungry, dirty little girl.
And then he had offered us food for a week without asking for money.
A pang of embarrassment struck me when I thought of the apple I had offered him in an attempt to settle our debt.
But if I had offered him any real compensation, I strongly suspected he wouldn’t have accepted it.
Perhaps it was a weakness he possessed then— too strong a conscience to refrain from assisting anyone in need, and too much pride to accept reimbursement.
A thought stabbed me with anger. But he was still taunting me.
Soon enough, our shillings would run out and we would need his assistance once again.
But did we really need him? Mrs. Abbot and her daughters likely knew a great deal about Lord Trowbridge.
As for finding work—I shuddered at the thought—Clara and I would need to do it alone.
I was not going to amuse Mr. Wortham any longer.
Clara turned the conversation to the Abbots and how they came to live in Clearfield house, Mrs. Abbot’s husband, and their odd gardening habits.
As soon as I found the opportunity—a lull in conversation—I posed the question that had been on my mind.
“We passed an estate….beige stone, a great many windows…do you know who lives there?”
I filled the proceeding silence with three breaths. Finally Mrs. Abbot found her voice between the shifting eyes of her daughters. “You must have passed Brackenridge Hall. The Earl of Trowbridge resides there.”
I feigned a look of surprise. “An earl? Are you acquainted with him?”