Chapter 8 #2
“My father commissioned it,” he said. “He wanted a record of us both before Frederick left for school.” Then he laughed.
“But I suppose you know all that from the look of you. I suspect Mrs. Foulger told you. Of all the paintings we have, this is her favourite.” Aurelia dared to look at him at least, and found him looking at the younger boy in the painting. “Frederick hated school.”
“Did you?”
“I liked it well enough, but I had tutors here. Frederick went to a boarding school in Oxford. He was an unruly child. Mother thought it would help him to keep some distance from us and find himself. Little did she know. But he did not hate it by the end. He came home for Christmastide and had acquired six friends, and he was entirely himself.”
“And were you entirely yourself? At twelve? You look almost as serious then as you do now.”
He considered this with a smile. “I was learning what that meant in the first place,” he said. “Which is not the same thing.”
She looked at the young boy's green eyes, for ever aimed at something in the distance. “What were you looking at when they painted you?”
He looked at the painting for a moment, his brow creasing. “I believe there was a window in the room they used for the portrait. It faces the east park still.” A pause. “It was a good summer. The weather was good.”
“Good weather must be especially important to a man who rides and exercises himself as much as you do,” she said without thinking. “The maids mentioned your activities to me.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t force you out with me every morning.”
“Thank heavens. They said you ride in January. Have you always done that?”
“No. When we were children Frederick and I used to sleep until noon. But to be fair he found the country dull, and so we would stay up hours into the night and read by the banked fire.” Evander said this without judgment.
“If I come to be blind in my own age I shall blame it on that prolonged strain.”
“If that does happen I will read whatever you like for you.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” He breathed through a smile and averted his eyes to the floor. “I could never understand his desire to be away from here, physically or in books. I am grateful I have this place.”
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a moment, and then: “There has been no word from Frederick.”
She grew cold immediately but tried to hide her reaction. Of course looking at the painting would make him think of Frederick. “Since before the wedding, you mean?” she asked.
“Before… After… The riders returned asking whether they should continue northward and cross the border, once the couple had been spotted heading that way. But I told them not to.” He was looking at the younger boy in the painting now.
“If they had simply told me… If Frederick had come to me and said what was going on…” He stopped.
“I would not have liked it. But I would have let them go. They did not need to run from me.”
“He was afraid of disappointing you,” she said. “Society would not have responded favourably to you exchanging the lady at the time.”
Evander said nothing.
“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” she added.
“Only, I think people who love Frederick often try to protect him from his own impulses, which means he never quite learns to manage them himself.
I saw that with some of his friends. And so when he does something large, he runs away, because he cannot bear to see the consequence of it on someone's face.” She paused. “Specifically yours, I think.”
Evander was still beside her. “I’d say that’s a mostly accurate assessment.”
“Did he love her before you announced your betrothal?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think I would have felt it.”
She almost asked more about Seraphina. The questions were there waiting: what did you feel for her, how long, did it turn into something real, did you kiss her, am I second or something different.
But she held them at bay, because she was not ready for the answers.
And because part of her understood that she wanted the answers too much.
“I hope they are safe,” she said instead.
“Yes,” he said. “So do I.”
He was in his private drawing room, the smallest room in the wing.
It had a fireplace that drew well, a window that faced the park, two armchairs with no aesthetic merit and shelves that ran to the ceiling on three sides.
He had his book. He had his fire. He had the glass of port Patrick had sent up from London as a wedding gift and a box of cheroots.
He had read for a while, then put the book down and looked at the fire.
The evening was very quiet. That was the thing about Carrstone at night that London had made him forget. Here, there was only that quiet and what was actually in his mind – which was presently the gallery.
He poured another glass and stood at the window.
The park was dark, the trees barely visible against the sky.
Usually this moment of quiet at the end of the evening would have been the highlight of the day.
But now – and he was not sure why this was – he felt it was too quiet.
He raised his cheroot to his lips again and looked through the window, and heard the clock on the mantelpiece work its way through the hour.
He was reaching for his book again when he heard the sound of music.
It was faint and coming from the east wing. He put the book down and took his lamp where he went into the corridor and turned. He came to the music room door, open by an inch, and stopped.
She was at the pianoforte. She had not lit many lamps.
The room was mostly shadow, one candle on the piano itself.
In that light it was all golden-brown hair and the pale curve of her shoulder in silk, her hands on the keys.
Titan was at her feet, enormous and solemn, as though he had always been there.
She was playing something he did not recognise. He stayed very still.
He was aware, as he stood in the dark corridor listening to his wife play in the room he had given her, that she had not allowed anyone to see this.
He knew nothing about music, but even to him that was plain in every note.
This music was not for a drawing room or an audience.
This was Aurelia at nine o'clock in an old house in Norfolk with no one watching, and she was entirely herself…
He stood there for perhaps a minute. Then he stepped back, meaning to go quietly, and his heel caught the door. The music suddenly stopped as he caught himself against the door frame. He stood in the doorway with the lamp, and Aurelia turned on the piano bench with wide eyes. Then she smiled.
“I thought I was going mad. I swore I felt someone. Were you listening?” she asked.
“I was just passing by,” he lied. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“No, I’m glad for the break. My fingers are cramping.” She made a show of flexing them. Titan looked up at her, probably wondering where the music had gone. Aurelia moved slightly on the bench and looked at the space beside the piano, then at Titan – then at the armchair nearby.
Was that an invitation? It had to be. He came in. He set the lamp on the side table and sat in the armchair, and Titan raised his head, assessed the situation, and put it back down on his paws.
“I really don't mind,” she said, fingers hovering over the keys. “If you want to stay and keep me company. This is your house. Just because you gave me this room doesn’t mean you can never come in here.”
He settled back in the armchair and tried to accept the permission she was giving him. “Play something then,” he asked her, leaning his head back against the soft back of the chair.
“Any requests?”
“I couldn’t give one if I wanted to.”
“Then I’m sorry to say Haydn it is.”