Chapter 13 #2
I had no idea what had caused those reactions or even how to upend them. Clearly, my attempt to impress Miss Kent had gone badly amiss. At last Carrot stopped laughing, and giving me a final, merry look, he said, “Farinelli! Well, one would hope not.”
“Why?” I asked. “What—”
“Oh, Jam. What do you know of him—besides his name?”
“He’s a famous opera singer, is he not?”
“And—?”
“He’s Italian?”
“And—?” His face was nearly in mine. “The most famous singer…of…his…type.” He leaned back in his chair, grinning at me. “Jam,” he said, “he’s a castrato.”
“No,” I said. “Oh God, what…?”
“What do you say to our poor Miss Kent? You simply tell her you made a slip of the tongue, that you meant to say ‘Andrea Nozzari’ instead. I think she’s actually heard him sing. She will be impressed; she might even forget about the Farinelli thing.”
“No. Oh God no.” How could I face her now? “I should pack up and leave.”
He took hold of my arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. By this evening, we will all be laughing—she will be, and you too, I imagine. It’s not a fatal mistake, you know.”
Not fatal, no, of course, but still—in Carrot’s own words, I would be the laughingstock of the evening.
“Jam,” Carrot went on, his twinkling eyes boring into mine, “I have seen you in many a daring and brave act. This is simply another kind of bravery: hold your head up and admit to error, force a laugh if you must, and move on. Others only get the best of us when they sense a weakness. One can never hurt a man who refuses to be hurt.”
“But what can I say to her?” I asked.
“You will find the words,” he said, motioning with his hand. “Go; it will only be harder the longer you wait.”
I left the room and walked slowly across the hall and into the drawing room, my mind scrabbling for something to say.
Miss Kent was seated at the pianoforte, playing a simple tune that seemed familiar.
She didn’t glance up even when I was nearly beside her.
“I made a mistake,” I said, all other possible excuses failing me. “I should have said Nozzari.”
She nodded solemnly. “I agree, a better choice.” She looked at me then, her eyes merry. “A much better choice. Shall we begin?”
She was a delightful teacher, never taking herself, or the music, too seriously. She said I was a natural musician, and I, flattered, standing at the pianoforte, gazing down at her graceful hands, fell a bit in love.
In the meantime, Miss Gilpatrick popped her head in and out of the drawing room as she arranged a picnic luncheon.
I drove the pony cart, with the two ladies as passengers, and Carrot and Rowland ahead on horseback, leading the way.
It was a lovely day, the sky the deeper blue of early autumn, the leaves of the trees beginning to turn to yellow, the farm laborers in the midst of mowing and reaping.
One could well imagine Constable just over the next ridge, or perhaps down in the dale ahead, painting the scene.
We picnicked under an ancient oak, and I flirted a bit with Miss Kent.
She smiled, amused, I now imagine, at my clumsy, boyish attempts.
We all talked desultorily until one and then another dozed off, even Miss Kent, with Carrot’s head on her lap.
But I was infatuated with the day and with my presence there, and I could not think of wasting a moment of it in sleep.
Instead, I wandered off on my own, following a path that might have been a sheep trail and whose end was a mystery to me, making it all the more intriguing.
I found myself eventually at the bottom of a fell, which I climbed in order to take in the view, and was rewarded with a vast expanse of meadows and fields, ending, at the horizon, with a dark escarpment that I took to be the beginning of the moor.
Beyond, I knew, would be the North Sea. I had, as yet, never seen the sea, and the knowledge that it was just there, not so very far away, excited me.
I realized, looking off at what seemed like the edge of beyond, how desperate I was for a new life, for Jamaica, for the world to open to me.
Turning back, I saw Carrot not far behind, apparently having followed the same path as I. By the time I returned to the foot of the fell, he was nearly upon me. “I wondered where you had gone,” he said in greeting.
“You can see the moors from up there!”
“Jam, there are moors all around.”
“But not those, not so vast,” I responded.
Carrot grinned and hooked his arm in mine as we headed back. “If you stay another day, we could take ourselves over there.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“You can do whatever you choose.”
Carrot could. He had independence, a home, good friends. “Someday,” I said. “But Mr. Wilson has been like a father to me; I owe him this, to take charge until the mill is sold.”
“Surely you will come back for a visit, before you sail for Jamaica,” he said.
“I will,” was all I could say. I could not be sure how, but I knew I’d give anything to spend more days like this one.
But Carrot was not finished. “Your brother is really a rather decent chap, once you get to know him.” Somehow Carrot had always been able to read my mind. He slung his arm across my shoulders. “Do you remember the time you tried to pummel me to death?”
“Oh God,” I said.
“It’s what brothers do,” he said, laughing. “I have plenty of cousins—it’s what they do. The older ones make life hard for the younger ones, and the younger ones fight back in the only way they know.”
“But you never—”
“I never understood how difficult it must have been for you—all those holidays alone. I should have.”
I shook my head, my mind still stuck on the word: brother. “It’s over,” I said. “That was years ago.” And then: “Did you know that Touch passed away not so long after he left Black Hill?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Mr. Lincoln let me know in a letter. I couldn’t believe it…little Touch. The three of us—what a combination we made, what fun we had.”
“Indeed.”
“I could not imagine being at Black Hill without you,” he said.
“Nor was it the same after you left,” I responded.
We stood together for a time, gazing over the fells to the moors beyond. I did my best to hold back my tears, and after a while we walked back toward the rest, his arm still across my shoulders.
That evening we dallied over dinner, all of us mellow of mood and rosy of face from the day outdoors.
And, later, there were a few songs from the others, especially Miss Kent and Rowland, but I could not bring myself to sing for them.
“Next time,” I said. “When I’ve had a chance to practice, so as not to make another fool of myself.
” And despite their urging and teasing, I did not budge, though many times since I have wished I had.
We lingered well into the evening, reading more of Rob Roy when it suited us, and on the spur of the moment I pulled a volume of Shakespeare off a shelf and read a sonnet or two.
I meant them for Miss Kent, and when I finished I looked directly at her.
Her face grew red and she glanced at Carrot, and it was only in seeing that look exchanged that I realized how mistaken I had been. And how kind they both had been to me.
After that final embarrassment, I could think of nothing to do other than to retire to my room and leave as quickly as I could in the morning. I did not even see Carrot again before I left.