Chapter 26 #4
I shook my head, mindful of Brisbane, settling himself into the seat on my other side. “Nothing of importance. Tell me, why is it that old people are allowed to be so ghastly and say all sorts of things that we would never get away with?”
“Privilege of age,” Portia returned, raising her eyebrows in the direction of the duke. He was creaking himself down into a chair next to Father, bending and folding his frail little body until he was at last seated.
The musical evening began, as they always did, with Father reciting a soliloquy.
He always played them well—his resonant voice and firm delivery would have served him well on the stage.
He loved amateur theatricals and gloried in the applause.
He did Lear that evening, or perhaps not, I confess I did not pay him much attention.
I was too busy wrestling with my own thoughts, not the least of which was the guilty realization that I had sent Magda away without telling Brisbane.
Sooner or later I should have to confess my guilt, and I was not anticipating the event with any good feeling.
Brisbane was technically employed by me in this investigation, but I had a strong suspicion that he would be quite severe with me when he discovered what I had done.
Thank the heavens for Jane. Her sad Irish air was as soothing as a lullaby and twice as sweet. I felt comforted when she had finished, though I saw Aunt Hermia dash away a tear.
“That was utterly moving, Jane, dear. Thank you,” she said, turning to face us as we sat, arrayed in our little gilt chairs.
“Your Grace, would you care to favor us?” she asked. There was a gentle snore from the duke’s chair. “Ah, perhaps not just now. Portia?”
Portia rose and went to the piano where Hoots was waiting quietly to accompany her.
It was perhaps unusual to allow one’s butler to join in the family entertainments, but Hoots was a rather fine accompanist. He gave a little trill of introduction and Portia began, singing in her adequate soprano.
Something Italian. I did not listen much to her, either.
Of course, Portia’s talent did not lie in her singing.
It must have been some aria to do with lost love or a broken foot or some other tragedy, because there was a great deal of posturing and dabbing at her eyes with her shawl.
I think it must have ended with a suicide because she suddenly clasped her fisted hands to her bosom and drooped onto the piano.
Crab let out a pitiful sound and crept as far as she could under Father’s chair.
Hoots pounded out a few more mournful notes and Portia rose, triumphantly taking a bow.
She took her seat next to me, fanning her reddened cheeks.
“You are far too fat to play a consumptive,” I whispered through a smile.
She smiled back. “Yes, but I am going to marry a duke, so I do not care what you have to say. When I am very rich, I shall hire you for my maid.”
I put out my tongue at her only to find Brisbane watching me coolly. I blushed and looked away, Portia snickering in my ear. Aunt Hermia rose again. “Mr. Brisbane?”
Brisbane rose and went to the centre of the room.
There was an array of instruments for performers to choose from.
An old harpsichord, a rather unhygienic-looking flute, and an oboe that no one remembered bringing into the house.
Among this motley group was the violin—the one true and pure thing in the room.
Brisbane looked at it a long moment before picking it up.
He ran his hands over it, slowly, reverently.
And then he held it to his nose, briefly, as if using its scent to gauge its wanderings.
He stroked the inlay of the wood and handled the bow, trying out a few strings.
He frowned, plucking at the strings and adjusting them slightly.
I heard no difference, but he must have, for his frown eased and he positioned the violin under his chin.
He played softly at first, then with growing vigor.
I recognized it at once. I had asked him to play Bach, rather as a joke.
The greatest Bach devotees were usually keyboard aficionados and singers.
I myself preferred him simply because unlike other composers he actually wrote interesting music for alto sopranos to sing.
I had not expected Brisbane to rise to the challenge.
And once again I had underestimated him.
He played a unique version of “Sleepers Awake,” a bold choice for a solo violin. It was a credit to his proficiency that I never missed the violas, basses or horns. I sat, amazed. He must have played it before, that much was certain, and yet I had not seen a violin in his rooms.
The piece rose and fell in arching phrases, by turns sweet and soaring.
I heard Jane’s breath catch and I glanced at Portia, unblinking beside me.
The duke was still snoring gently, but it did not matter.
The music was enchanting. It felt true and pure and I gaped at Brisbane.
He was a genius. Why had I not realized it before?
Surely talent like that must leave its mark on the face? In the eyes?
I was still gaping when he brought the piece to its high, triumphant close.
I moved to clap, but before I could bring my hands together, Brisbane—whose attention had been fixed upon his instrument—threw a look at his uncle.
The old gentleman, intent upon his snores, missed it entirely, but it made my blood run cold.
There was a chill in that look, a malevolence that I would never have credited had I not seen it.
It vanished quickly, replaced by his usual cool mask, but I wondered at the antipathy between them—at least, I wondered until Brisbane began to play.
From the first note I knew it was different from anything I had ever heard before.
This was no church piece. It began simply, but with an arresting phrase, so simple, but eloquent as a human voice.
It spoke, beckoning gently as it unwound, rising and tensing.
It spiraled upward, the tension growing with each repeat of the phrasing, and yet somehow it grew more abandoned, wilder with each note.
His eyes remained closed as his fingers flew over the strings, spilling forth surely more notes than were possible from a single violin.
For one mad moment I actually thought there were more of them, an entire orchestra of violins spilling out of this one instrument.
I had never heard anything like it—it was poetry and seduction and light and shadow and every other contradiction I could think of.
It seemed impossible to breathe while listening to that music, and yet all I was doing was breathing, quite heavily.
The music itself had become as palpable a presence in that room as another person would have been—and its presence was something out of myth.
It was apart from Brisbane, this melody he created, spun from dreams and darkness.
I dragged my eyes from him and realized that I was not the only one so affected. Jane was sitting with her mouth agape, her handkerchief in shreds under her nails. Portia was squirming in her chair, and both of them were blushing and moist as June roses. I did not dare look at Aunt Hermia.
I told myself I was disgusted by them. A fine pair of Sapphic lovers they were, getting themselves pink and panting over a man and his violin.
But in truth, I was the worst. My palms were damp, my face hotly red, and I found myself staring at those long, nimble fingers, thinking very unsuitable things.
I told myself it was natural. I had been a widow for a year, had not known the affectionate touch of a man for much longer.
It was expected that I would find an attraction to a handsome gentleman of my acquaintance.
But I was not interested in pragmatism. I was too busily engaged with fragrant fantasies stretched out on red velvet. I dug my nails into my palms, but my gloves prevented any real pain. Instead I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted the metallic salty redness of my own blood.
If Brisbane sensed anything of his audience’s reaction, he did not betray it.
He played on, or perhaps the music played him, for he performed as one possessed.
The music arced and twisted, tightening and coiling upon itself, rising faster and faster, almost shrieking with pitched emotion, until—at the very height of its ecstasy—a string snapped with a mandrake scream.
The violin itself seemed to sob at the echo of the sound, which had the report of a gunshot.
Brisbane remained perfectly still, his bow poised until the echo died away.
Then he turned coolly and laid the injured instrument down upon the piano.
“My apologies, my lady,” he murmured to Aunt Hermia. “I shall of course make arrangements for the repair.”
She replied, something suitable I am sure, as she patted herself discreetly with her handkerchief.
Conversation was roused and people began to stir.
I heard my father complimenting the performance, and Brisbane’s quiet reply.
Father must have been sincere, for he introduced Brisbane to Crab, a singular honour.
Portia shot me a speaking look, and Jane was moving toward Brisbane to add her accolades.
I acknowledged none of it, taking a moment instead to regain my composure and waiting for my knees to stop trembling.
I rose after a moment and decided to fetch myself a glass of champagne. Brisbane waylaid me.
“Ah, Mr. Brisbane. You are a virtuoso. You should have warned me. You must think us frightfully unsophisticated in our little family entertainments.”
His look was impenetrable. I could not tell if he were pleased or embarrassed or merely bored. “Not at all. I play only rarely these days, and never for so appreciative an audience.”
He leaned near, ostensibly to reach past me to pick up a glass of champagne. But as his sleeve brushed my arm, he said softly, “I must see you tomorrow. Mordecai has news.”
My eyes flared with interest, then dropped demurely. “When?”
“Five o’clock. My rooms.”
He pressed the glass into my hands and I smiled my acceptance, giving him a single short nod. He moved away then, approaching Aunt Hermia. I watched him for a moment, thinking that this was a man whose depths I would never begin to plumb.
And for some reason, my gaze fell, quite by accident upon the duke.
He, too, was watching Brisbane, but his expression was not one of admiration.
He had awakened during his great-nephew’s performance, his features twisted with irritation at having his nap disturbed.
But now they betrayed more than mere annoyance.
There was frustration there, and something worse—something that looked frighteningly like hatred.
I would not forget that look for a very long time.
Much later, as I lay awake, late into the night, I heard the faint scrape of footsteps on the stair.
There was a long pause and then the unmistakable slither of stocking feet on a polished floor.
Valerius had stopped to remove his shoes before moving past my door to his room.
I put my hand to my dressing gown. I meant to rise, to go to him and demand an explanation for bloodied shirts and despoiled graves.
But I thought again of what Magda had told me and what I had deduced for myself, and I lay back down, too cowardly to do what must be done.
Soon, I promised myself. Soon I would go to him and lay out what I knew, and tell him what must be done.
But not just yet. It would mean disgrace for Val and banishment from the family.
And in spite of our troubles, I could not bear to lose him yet.
He was still my youngest brother, still the tiny, squalling infant who had been left motherless so many years ago, in need of his family’s protection.
So I would protect him, I decided, staring sightlessly into the dark.
I would say nothing, and I would keep him as long as I could.