Chapter Two #3
‘No, my boy. I’ve got a little surprise for you.
Seeing as how it’s St Valentine’s Day tomorrow I thought I might introduce you to someone.
I met a photographer in London and I want her to take some pictures of the place.
But I also thought she’s perfect for you, so I invited her to join us.
I was hoping she’d be here today, but she couldn’t make it so she’s coming over with Vickerman tomorrow morning.
I said I’d send Crawford for her in the yacht, but she insisted on seeing the fishing boat. ’
‘Oh, JB, really,’ said Wilson. ‘You’re trying to marry me off now?’
‘Couldn’t help myself. She’s a peach. You’ll love her.’
‘The poor girl. Does she know why she’s coming?’
‘She’s coming to reconnoitre the place for her photos, just like I said. The possibility of a St Valentine’s Day romance is just my little surprise bonus.’
‘You really are too much, JB.’
My attention, by this point, was beginning to wander a little.
I couldn’t help but notice the comings and goings of the other guests, who had been excusing themselves and disappearing before slipping back into the room several minutes later.
I knew why, of course, and began looking for an opportunity to make my own discreet visit to the WC once I realized that Clarice and Everett had gone and not returned.
Their performance in the drawing room was imminent, I felt, and I wanted to be comfortable while we listened to the glorious music I was anticipating.
Lady Hardcastle was holding forth on the subject of . . . actually, I couldn’t work out what she was talking about. Something to do with Moby Dick or Nantucket, it seemed. Or possibly both. A half-remembered limerick about a man from Nantucket made me smile and I took my leave.
I wasn’t the first to arrive at the drawing room. Everett was already seated at the piano when I entered and was playing something I half recognized.
Lady Hardcastle seemed to read my mind as I sat down next to her. ‘Schubert.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘How did you—?’
‘From your expression. The crease between your eyebrows gives you away when you’re trying to remember something. It’s subtly different from your confused face, and nothing at all like your irritated face.’
‘I had no idea I was so transparent.’
‘I can read you like a piano score, Flossie dear. In this case, Schubert’s Impromptu Number 4.’
‘In which key?’
‘A-flat, if memory serves.’
‘Show-off.’
‘You did ask.’
It took a while for the rest of the weekend guests to assemble, and Everett kept playing, almost lost in a world of his own. At length, the piece ended to a pit-pat of applause from the room and JB, having judged us all finally to be present, stood up.
‘Now that everyone’s here,’ he said, ‘I think we can let Clarice begin. I didn’t want any of you to miss this.’
An anticipatory murmur ran round the room as the audience of eight settled to listen. At a nod from Clarice, Everett began the introduction, then she swept up her bow and began to play.
The sound was transcendent. It had always puzzled me how such a straightforward instrument could sound so different in the hands of an amateur and a virtuoso.
Taut horsehair pulled across a string, making it vibrate – how was it possible to do that badly?
How could it be possible for one person to make a scratching screech and another to produce a sound so perfect it made audiences weep?
I was completely enraptured and I felt rather than saw Lady Hardcastle turn towards me as though about to speak, and I could guess what she was going to say. I touched her leg and shook my head to stop her interrupting. I really didn’t care what the piece was, I just wanted to listen.
Clarice played on. The room melted away and all that was left was music. Even the composer, whoever he was, could never have imagined that this piece he’d spent so long perfecting could ever have this effect in the hands of a maestro.
Clarice, too, was totally immersed. Unable to see her audience, it seemed that for her there was just the violin in her skilled hands. There was no ‘performance’, no element of showing off, she was making that beautiful sound purely for its own sake, for the pleasure of the music.
There was silence when the piece ended, and I noticed I wasn’t the only one who had to wipe away a tear before we could applaud.
Even starchy Sidwell-Plant, whose upper lip I imagined to be so stiff he would rather die than show any sort of emotion, had to take a moment to collect himself before he could utter an awed ‘Brava’.
Clarice smiled and it struck me that it was the first time I’d seen her do that. This was clearly her calling; this was why she got out of bed in the morning. Everything else she might have to do as she went about her day was nothing compared with the unalloyed joy of playing the violin.
Even Everett looked pleased. Or less displeased, at least.
He launched into the second piece and we were off to the magical land of music once more.
The evening came to a natural end soon after Clarice’s performance was over, and we all said our goodnights before heading off to our rooms. Travelling is always exhausting and everyone was keen to get some sleep.
My plan was thwarted, as my plans so often were, by Lady Hardcastle, who insisted on me joining her for a nightcap.
She had taken some of JB’s very fine cognac from the library along with two glasses, and she poured us both a decent glug before sitting on her bed and gesturing towards the armchair by the window.
‘Sit yourself down, Floss. What a place, eh?’
‘What a place, and what a night,’ I said as I swirled the brandy in its balloon. ‘If anyone had told ten-year-old Flossie Armstrong she would one day be spending the weekend in a converted fort listening to one of the finest musicians in the land—’
‘In the world, I should say.’
‘Without a doubt. But even if they only suggested it would be the finest in the land, ten-year-old Flossie would have laughed in their face.’
‘Punched them in their stupid face for their impertinence, I shouldn’t wonder.’
I gave a rueful nod. ‘Quite probably. And yet here I am. Thirty-five-year-old Flossie is doing just that while sipping extraordinarily good, stolen cognac—’
‘I’ll take it back, don’t worry. I couldn’t possibly keep it. This’ – she indicated the distinctive bottle with its fleur-de-lis stopper – ‘is Louis XIII and probably cost JB more than the average Englishman earns in several months. Several years for some, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Unusual that he leaves it lying about. Most men lock the good stuff away and keep it only for themselves.’
‘JB McIntyre is that rarest of creatures: a generous rich man.’
I nodded. ‘I’ve always thought him rather nice for a squillionaire.’
‘I have, too. His pals seem all right, as well.’
‘A decent bunch,’ I agreed. ‘Edgar Everett could stand to cheer up a bit, and Sidwell-Plant could be less . . . fussy around Clarice—’
‘I keep thinking it’s a good thing she can’t see him trying to “protect” her or he’d probably get a fat lip.’
‘Exactly. But he means well and I’ve spent weekends with far less pleasant people.’
‘Those dreadful people in Sussex that time, do you remember?’
‘I do. Or that weekend we spent in Norfolk with that Hungarian couple who were posing as an art dealer and his wife.’
She tutted. ‘Ghastly. And art thieves are usually such good company.’
I laughed. ‘Charmers to a man. But this lot really do seem to be charming. And I doubt any of them will be stealing anything.’
‘They all seem far too well-to-do to be involved in anything so unseemly. Fancy a top-up?’
I looked at my empty glass. ‘I’d better not. I think I’ll turn in. I have to be at my sparkling best for whatever we all decide to do tomorrow.’
She sighed. ‘Very well. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I returned to my own room and was asleep within seconds of clambering into my bed.