A Spring Serenade Read online

  “Let’s make a pact,” she said, her eyes dancing with merriment. “Let us not speak a word about music for the next two hours. We can mention anything else that strikes our fancy but not music. Nothing even close! Do we have a deal?”

  I should be content never to mention or even think about music ever again, Christopher thought, with a sigh. He could tell how badly his mood affected his sister, though, and he strove to be cheerful for her sake, if not for his.

  “Very well,” he said, with a weak smile. “But I maintain the right to complain bitterly about the weather. Imagine, Rose, we might have been in Italy! Or Spain! Instead, we are here, and some dreary little town in the middle of England being very possibly drowned for good measure.” He sighed. “If only I had taken up the offer to tour the Continent with the Sarancelle orchestra. Do you know, Mr Lombardi did not even require me to write my own music, only -” He stopped short, seeing Rosemary raise her eyebrows so swiftly and sharply that his mistake was only too evident. “But we are not speaking of music at present, are we? And in any case, who has any desire to be in Italy or Spain or anywhere other than here? To think! A new town, and medicinal waters. So abundant they even rain down on us from on high!” He grimaced, pulling his hat further down his head and shrugging into the coat his valet passed to him. “Who could ask for more than this?”

  “...SUCH DREADFUL WEATHER!”

  The incessant rain had driven most of Castleford undercover, and after abandoning a failed attempt to secure a table in the tearoom, Bess and Juliet had made their way to the pump rooms, where they pressed inside, circling at a slow crawl with the rest of the guests trapped indoors by the weather.

  “Oh, I agree, Mrs Wilson!” Juliet said, lifting her glass to her lips and pretending to take a sip. She caught Bess’s gaze and her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as this was at least the third time this particular exchange had taken place in as many moments.

  “How fortunate that we have this grand room to walk in,” Bess put in, sensing that her sister was rather ill-inclined to stand a fourth such exchange. “And there are so many people here today!”

  “Yes, indeed!” Mrs Wilson agreed, turning to beam at the young Turner girl, whose name she could not quite recall, but who she pronounced quite charming whenever the family was mentioned. “Oh, look! There is the new Mrs Hatfield. I must just go and say hello, for my Imogen is quite wild about her and will wish me to find out every detail of their new home...”

  She squeezed past the two sisters and made her way towards her destination, and as soon as she was out of ear-shot, Juliet leaned close enough to Bess to offer her correction.

  “She means she wishes to know, so that she can go home and taunt poor Imogen with details of the type of a house she might have enjoyed, if only she had played her hand a little more wisely and secured Mr Hatfield for herself.”

  “Juliet!” Bess shook her head. “You oughtn’t to speak so -”

  “Truthfully?” Juliet grinned. “Ah, but then you would not find me half so much fun to speak to. Now, I am growing weary of turning a slow circuit around this room, all facing the same direction and moving as if we were a school of fish circling a bowl. I intend to carve a new course!”

  Clutching her glass of water as if it were some kind of baton, Juliet turned abruptly on her heel, apologising daintily at the neighbours she immediately upset, and started to carve a line through the crowd.

  “Wait -” Bess cried, hurrying after her in a fruitless effort to turn her back. “Look, you are going to cause a collision - oof!”

  “Oh! Do be careful!”

  “Watch out, Miss -”

  “Sorry, sorry!”

  Some fancy footwork and an abundance of apologies ensured that disaster was narrowly averted, and Juliet somehow succeeded in not spilling a drop of her water. Bess took the glass and steered her sister towards a set of wide windows where they might be afforded a little space to stand still and not cause any more disruption. She took an absent-minded sip of her water and grimaced, before setting both glasses down on a crowded end table and peering mournfully out of the window.

  “I suppose we must begin our journey home. What a pity the weather seems determined to remain so miserable.” She shivered at the very thought of venturing back out into it, and Juliet sensed the motion, turning back towards her sister with a resigned smile.

  “Well, I have some news that will cheer one of us, in that case.” She tilted her chin towards the door. “I have just spied a certain arrival that has no doubt been dispatched to fetch us home, and will likely have brought a carriage with him for that very purpose.”

  “Edmund!” Bess was delighted to spy the tall, handsome figure of their neighbour and waved him over with an enthusiasm that made Juliet pull a face and mutter something indecipherable into the palm of one hand. Bess elbowed her roughly as Edmund drew closer to their corner.

  “Mr Gale.” Juliet curtseyed with a feigned formality that made Edmund frown, then roll his eyes in surprise and doff an imaginary cap in her direction.

  “Miss Turner. And Miss Elizabeth. I am glad one of you is pleased to see me!”

  “Oh, I did not say I was not pleased,” Juliet said, leaning over to brush an imaginary speck of lint from Edmund’s shoulder. “A little surprised, perhaps.”

  “You shall now claim that you did not vacate Aston House and drag your sister out in the rain merely to avoid me, then?”

  “I shall claim no such thing, but I might correct you with the truth...”

  Juliet and Edmund teetered precariously close to the sort of bickering that seemed to make up above two-thirds of their interactions of late, and Bess took a quiet step backwards, wanting to put a little distance between herself and the pair, lest she be dragged into whatever argument they were currently working up to. Her eyes scanned the crowd, identifying familiar and unfamiliar faces in quantity before she spied a notice pinned neatly on one wall. She took a step closer, drawn by some impulse she could not readily identify and as her eyes made sense of the neat elegant lettering, her hand flew to her mouth.

  “Christopher Cluett!”

  On impulse, Bess turned to Juliet and was surprised to acknowledge just how far she had drifted from her sister. Juliet and Edmund were quite some distance away and were presently too engaged in their own lively discussion to have noticed Bess, nor be easily brought to attention. She turned back to the notice and read it again.

  A recital of several of his most popular works, including the first movement of a new symphony, premiering in Castleford before it moves to the great concert halls of London, Paris and Rome.

  “Oh, how wonderful!”

  Bess had heard many great things about the new composer and the fact that he should be here in Castleford to perform - and to perform an entirely new piece - was news so thrilling she could barely contain her excitement. She closed her eyes briefly, committing to memory the date and location of the concert, and turned back to her sister. This time, though, her view of Edmund and Juliet was blocked by two figures, a gentleman and lady who, it seemed, had been staring at the very same notice that had so captivated her.

  “I cannot believe Mr Cluett will play here!” Bess gushed, her enthusiasm quite overwhelming the usual timidity that would have made striking up a conversation with a stranger quite an impossible feat. “I do so adore his Reflections, although I never can manage to play without error.”

  “You are a musician, Miss -?” The lady turned a kind smile on her, and Bess coloured up, realising how rude she must have appeared to suddenly speak, unbidden, to a person she did not know.

  “Turner.” She dropped into a meek little curtsey. “Elizabeth Turner. Forgive me, I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “You do not!” the lady said, her smile growing. She nudged the gentleman beside her, evidently expecting him to make introductions, but he seemed to look straight through Beth, an expression of irritation resting on his striking features. Beth was so startled to see such a scowl
on a stranger that she blurted out a farewell and hurried away, eager to return to the altogether safer company of her sister and friend.

  Chapter Three

  “Elizabeth Turner. There, you have one supporter!”

  “One.” Christopher nursed his cup, wrinkling his nose at the sulphuric scent of the water and taking the tiniest sip.

  “And she is a musician.”

  “Many young ladies think they are musicians.” He heard the sneer in his voice and swallowed it. “And some are very talented.”

  He was not quite sure what his sister had hoped to achieve by bringing him here and positioning him within sight of the notice advertising his upcoming concert. It served little purpose other than to make him anxious, and, eager to be free of the perpetual reminder that he would be on display far sooner than he cared to be, he downed the last of his water in one bitter swallow and turned to suggest their removal.

  “I ought to return to my work, Rose, although you are quite free to remain here if you wish.”

  “I am free to do precisely as I please!” Rosemary declared, in a voice that betrayed a distinct lack of joy at the prospect. “We cannot all have great artistic endeavours to devote ourselves to.”

  Christopher paused, glancing up at his sister with concern. Whatever feeling had coloured her words was soon gone, though, as her features rearranged themselves promptly into a smile.

  “I shall stay here a while longer, I think, and allow you to work in peace. I know you would never own as much but I am sure it is a distraction, having me perpetually fluttering about and enquiring as to whether I can be of any assistance.” She patted him gently on the shoulder, not-so-gently steering him towards the door. It was a dismissal, but a gentle one, and he smiled at her before he left.

  Reaching the doorway, he paused a moment to adjust his hat, glancing up at the skies and noticing, with some relief, that the rain seemed to be abating a little. Just enough that he might succeed in making it home without too thorough a drenching.

  I cannot believe Mr Cluett will play here! The young lady had declared, with such a genuine smile lighting up her face that Christopher had almost turned to look over his shoulder, certain that the famed Mr Cluett would be standing some distance behind him. It was still strange to hear his name on the lips of strangers, and spoken with such admiration and delight. They must surely mean someone other than him, for his compositions, pretty though they were, could hardly hope to rival the greats who had performed in the music halls of London and Europe.

  It had been no small challenge to him to walk the same paths worn smooth by masters such as Beethoven, Mozart and Clementi only to have his own pieces performed by orchestras in those same halls that had housed such genius.

  He smiled, recalling the feeling of that first ovation he had received. His eyes had swept the crowd, seeking out his sister, who was practically bursting with pride. She had been his constant companion ever since, and he had been grateful for her. He was grateful for her now, although she could not begin to understand his struggles.

  You just need to concentrate, she had told him so many times. Stop thinking so much, just sit and allow the music to come to you. He groaned. She was throwing his own words back at him, for he had uttered that particular piece of drivel to an aspiring young composer who had sought an interview with him in Paris, claiming that the muse was some sort of capricious sprite who could not be chased down but must be waited upon.

  I was an idiot. He had acted so grandiosely, as if he, too, had been touched by a little of the magic that had graced his forbears. Well, now he was paying a harsh penalty for pride. The muse, if she had ever truly visited him at all, was certainly avoiding him now. He could no more sit and allow the music to come to him than he could manage to play anything at all.

  His hand shook and he clenched it into a fist, recalling his paltry attempts at playing two days previously. Rosemary had been out calling on a neighbour, thank the Lord, and had not witnessed his faltering attempts at scales. It was as if all the strength had gone from his fingers and even exercises he might previously have managed with his eyes closed were a struggle to him. He felt like a boy once more, struggling with a practice that was too advanced for him. How well he recalled the sharp smack on the back of his hands with a ruler favoured by Maestro whenever poor youthful Christopher made an error. The method had worked, though, and he had soon flown through his studies, surpassing even his teacher’s skills. He is destined for greatness, and I am grateful for the part I have played in his ascension the man had claimed, as he advised Mr and Mrs Cluett to send their son to Europe to study in one of the great conservatoires.

  He would spare me no patience now, Christopher thought, as he reached the door of the small house he and Rosemary had taken for their stay in Castleford. He climbed the steps and hurried through to the music-room, determined that this time would be a success, and he would have something worthy of sharing by the time his sister returned home.

  He sat at the piano, barely pausing to shrug off his coat and remove his hat, and placed his hands on the keys, taking half a breath before launching into a speedy scale. His fingers stumbled over the notes, and he had scarcely managed two octaves before he abandoned the attempt, crashing his elbows against the keys as he slumped over the piano and wondered how it could be that his talent, so glorified and admired, had left him, at the very moment he needed it most.

  “I SEE YOU ARE NURSING your glass rather than drinking it,” Edmund Gale remarked, with a sly glance at the untouched cup of water in Juliet’s hand. To spite him, she took a large gulp, choking a little as she swallowed and pulling a face at the bitter liquid as it coursed its way down her throat. Edmund chuckled, and she resisted the urge to hurl the glass at his mocking face.

  “I did not realise we were in a hurry.” She sniffed. “Bess and I quite enjoy taking our time at the pump rooms, particularly when we have made an effort to come here. The weather is hardly conducive for our making a return.”

  “My very reason for coming.” Edmund bowed. “Your mother was a little concerned that you might both fall ill on the way home, and bade me come to fetch you.”

  Juliet pulled a face and turned to set her glass down on the table next to her, which was already crowded with other cups.

  “Careful!” Edmund cautioned.

  That he should caution her on taking care irritated her more than she liked to admit, and she jarred her hand, knocking her glass and sending it and several of its neighbours crashing to the floor.

  The sound caused such a commotion that a hushed silence fell over the room and a hundred heads turned in their direction. Her face flaming with heat and colour, Juliet dropped to her knees, hurrying to pick up the shards of glass her clumsiness had created.

  “Juliet!” Edmund admonished, stopping to help her. “Take care, you will cut yourself -”

  “Stop telling me what to do -” she protested, before wincing as a shard sliced deep into her hand.

  “Here, Miss, let me!”

  A young woman in a drab uniform appeared, ready to sweep up the detritus, and Edmund helped steer Juliet away, calling over her shoulder for Bess to follow them.

  “I am quite able to walk, Edmund, you do not need to half-carry me!” Juliet exclaimed, extricating herself from his grasp the moment they reached the door.

  “You do not need to reject every offer of help a fellow makes!” he retorted, with a petulant sniff. “I really must have done you some great injury of which I have no recollection, for you act as if I exist only to trouble you!”

  “And yet you have not abandoned your quest!” Juliet turned to Bess, who pressed a handkerchief to the cut in her hand, making her wince. “Now, where is this carriage you claim to have brought?”

  With an irritable sigh and a muttered torrent of angry words, Edmund stalked off to summon it, leaving the two sisters alone. Juliet sighed, sagging a little against Bess and pulling a face as the pain from her sliced hand seemed, at last, to make itse
lf felt.

  “You oughtn’t to be so cruel to him,” Bess murmured, her eyes fixed at a point on the ground as if she could not chastise her sister and look at her at the same time. “He cares for you - for all of us.”

  “I did not ask him to care!” Juliet said, with a toss of her head. She closed her eyes against the thoughts that persisted in crowding in whenever she let down her guard for more than an instant. “It would be better for everyone if he did not!”

  Something of her true feeling must have been evident in the wobble she could not quite keep from showing in her voice, because she felt Bess’s tender grasp on her tighten, almost imperceptibly. Tears pricked at Juliet’s eyes and she dismissed them immediately, thinking it was childish to cry over so small a cut.

  “I thought you...” Bess began, but a sharp glance from Juliet caused her to clamp her mouth shut. “Ah, here is Edmund, back again with the carriage. Quick, let us climb in before the rain begins again.”

  Juliet followed her sister, but it was rather difficult to clamber inside without the use of her hand, and she was forced to allow Edmund to help her, which show of feminine weakness she did not entirely like. She permitted Edmund the tiniest of smiles in gratitude as he climbed in after her, and his entire countenance changed so completely that she almost regretted being so beastly to him of late.

  It is for his own good, she reminded herself. Edmund had made no secret of the fact that he cared for her, or could be persuaded to care for her in a way that might lead to marriage, to a life lived together under the very same roof. The same roof that presently still housed his mother, and it was Mrs Gale that was the greatest obstacle to Juliet doing precisely as her heart begged her to and relenting. She might not love Edmund in the way heroines in books claimed to love their paramours, but she could certainly see no good alternative to him on the horizon. He was charming, when he wanted to be, and they had spent so many hours together in their long acquaintance that she had almost succeeded in training him into the very type of gentleman she might consider marrying.