Intermezzo (2 page)

“No Jon, I won’t cry. I promise, I won’t cry.”

Two nights later a minister came to shrive Jon and she sent him away. That night Jon slept in her arms and in the morning he was dead.

She did not cry. She had them bury Jon near her mother and insisted on placing a pillow under his head and a blanket over him because, as she explained to the minister, “Jon’s feet always do get cold.” But she didn’t cry.

After the funeral she went home. If Jon’s soul had departed his body, so too, in a sense, had Adela’s departed hers. Except for her hours at the piano, she became a kind of automaton—a body without feeling and emotion.

For a time the next spring, when the flowers began to bloom and the children began to play in the park, the nineteen-year-old Adela became almost hysterically angry. She asked herself why were all those miserable, nasty children alive and her Jon dead. At times she felt like obliterating the flowers and murdering the children; but instead, she shuttered her windows and turned to the piano.

And over the years the world had come to expect of her the silent, plain, expressionless face; men overlooked her and women pitied her, but Adela scarcely noticed any of it. She was alive only through her music.

Her father had never understood her and didn’t care to. Moderately wealthy as a young man, Trowle’s penchant for drink and women and gambling had lost him most of his fortune by the time his wife had died. Thereafter he lost no time in squandering the rest.

For seven years after Jon died Adela kept Trowle’s house in more and more straightened circumstances. There was little room for communication. He had his drink and his stupidity and she had her music and her solitude. When he died she did not mourn him. He died penniless and drunk. She had him buried, but not in the sacred place between her mother and Jon. She paid his debts from the sale of their small house and looked about to start a new life.

Adela Trowle did have a few musician friends, and one of them, Richard Brewer, an aspiring violinist, helped her find lodgings and a handful of students. Thus, a new career was launched. It was not a career Adela would have chosen. She knew already that she was capable of more—she was capable of playing
great
music. But being an hourly instructor of the young and living in Hans Town, however unpleasant, was rather less unpleasant than life with her father had been. She was independent and she was able to play.

Adela knew her mother had several living relatives, but as none of them except for the long-deceased Uncle Horace had ever shown any interest in her, she did not expect them now to notice her existence. Adela had not taken Sophia, Lady Spencer, into account.

When Miss Trowle reached her lodgings on Sloane Street and started up the three flights of steep stairs, her landlady darted out into the hall to hand her a note. The note had been delivered, according to the landlady, by the footman of a “grand lady—real quality.”

Adela, alone in her room under the rafters, eagerly opened the note hoping to find that she had acquired a new and prosperous student. The note read:

Dear Miss Trowle,

I should like to see you at my home in Grosvenor Square tomorrow at 2:00 in the afternoon. I look forward to meeting you. I knew your mother well.

Sincerely,

Sophia Beaumont Spencer

By four the next afternoon, Adela had rediscovered her mother’s family, and Aunt Sophia, as Lady Spencer preferred to be called, had Adela’s life well in tow. Miss Trowle, after receiving a long and irrelevant lecture from someone appearing to be a kindhearted biddy who was bent on preserving either Adela’s virtue or her own family’s reputation, was resigned to an interview in the home of a newly discovered second cousin—Lord Waterston. Adela consented to go, in part to humor the obviously kindhearted woman and in part because it had occurred to her that one abominable student might be less awful than two dozen abominable students. And with Miss Trowle’s pleasant, if cool, agreement to meet Lord Waterston, Sophia, was, for the time, satisfied.

Two

The next morning, Adela visited a coffeehouse frequented by serious young musicians. Walking to a table where three gentlemen were already in heated debate, she approached one—Richard Brewer—and diffidently asked to have a word with him.

“Of course, Adela. How good to see you.”

Over a cup of coffee, Adela described her interview with Sophia Spencer and then asked Richard Brewer what he knew or what he could discover about these newfound members of her mother’s family.

“You do see it will be a very new situation for me, Richard, and I had best be prepared.”

“Is your cousin
the
Lord Waterston, patron of the arts?”

“Yes, Richard, I
think
he very probably is.”

“Oh, but what a splendid opportunity. Only win his approval and you will have established yourself as a pianist of the greatest distinction. Do you realize that he had Clementi perform last spring in his home and Catalani just last month. He patronizes none but the best. To be invited to perform at his biannual musicals is better than to be invited to play for the Prince Regent.”

“Richard, I realize that Waterston is a very
discriminating
gentleman, but he seems, as well, to be the sort of person I shall antagonize within the first few minutes of conversation.”

Richard Brewer put down his coffee. “On no account must you antagonize the man, Adela. You will be ruined. Think of him as a patron and humor him.”

“I shall try, Richard, but I should really know more about both Lord Waterston and Lady Spencer before the critical interview.”

“Yes”—he smiled—“forewarned is forearmed. Wait here and I will ask about.” He left her to go from table to table and returned within fifteen minutes.

Gathering his coffee cup in his hands he began, “Will you forgive me if I dispense with preamble and speak simply?”

“Certainly, Richard. We have no need to be roundabout between us.”

“Well then, Lady Sophia Spencer is a woman universally liked and respected except, perhaps, within her own class. She is honest, kind, and extraordinarily benevolent in seeking to redress the various inequities of our world. She will make you a good friend as well as a useful aunt.”

“And Lord Waterston?”

“Charles Henry Beaumont, Lord Waterston, the fifth Viscount I believe, is
not
a pleasant man, but as he is very wealthy, he is, as men are judged, important. I should think that the management of his extensive estates and a quarter of a million in the funds would constitute a full-time occupation, but a reliable rumor has it that he is also employed in some sort of delicate way in the conduct of the war. Years ago he was, for a short time, in the army but returned from the Continent when his wastrel younger brother was killed in a hunting accident. And, as you know already, he is
the
preeminent sponsor of music in London today. As a cousin he can only serve to advance your career
if you
are careful to win his favor.”

Miss Trowle smiled and answered in mock seriousness, “Richard, I promise I shall make
every
effort to be on my very best behavior.”

“You
will
be on your best behavior, Adela. Lord, do you realize, that there are men in this room who would commit murder to have the opportunity of that interview tomorrow?”

“I am being interviewed for employment as an instructor of children—not to play with Clementi. But, I agree, it
could
be a splendid opportunity ... still, I have heard that he is excessively proud.”

“True. Waterston
is
very high in the instep, but he is also reputed to be scrupulously just
and
he pays his bills with dispatch.”

“And what else should I know, Richard?”

Richard shrugged. “There is not a great deal known about him among the gossips. He is a well-made man in his mid-thirties and remains unmarried, although it is understood that he is betrothed to the Lady Diana Rathbone who will undoubtedly make him a suitable mistress of Ashleigh. Lord Waterston is honorable by the standards of his class ... Do you wish me to continue?”

“You were about to say, Richard, that while Waterston is honorable by the standards of his class those standards are not themselves unimpeachable. That, I think, means that he hunts, drinks on occasion, and keeps mistresses.”

“I cannot confirm the drinking, but it is clear that he has always had at least one highflier under his protection. These women have nothing in common except that they are all, as is Lady Diana, breathtakingly beautiful. He has never been known to set up a flirt or a flirtation with a woman whose appearance was not a thing of perfection.”

For the first time she chuckled. “You are saying, I take it, that I should have no fear of being compromised by Lord Waterston. First because his sense of honor would forbid the seduction of a cousin in his own house and secondly because his taste in companions is very discriminating and I am certainly not a beauty.”

Taking her hand and looking into her eyes, Richard answered, “Please do not misunderstand me, Adela, men of Lord Waterston’s sort for all their distinction are very simple-minded really. They may have eyes but they do not see.”

The butler’s voice, she noticed as he announced her, was a full-blooded baritone but somewhat lacking in musical quality. Soames bowed her into the library with the words, “Miss Trowle, your lordship.” Lord Waterston rose briefly from the chair behind his desk. “Good afternoon, Miss Trowle, I hope you will excuse me if I take a few moments to finish with these papers. Please be seated.”

Thus Adela had a few minutes in which to study her host and possible employer. What she saw was a very tall dark man—elegant, aristocratic, and handsome. His few words and the hard little half-smile that had accompanied them revealed a man accustomed to dictating to everyone and accustomed also to women being somewhat in awe of him. He had the look of a self-satisfied autocrat and Adela disliked him on sight. Miss Trowle had come prepared to be pleasant but she anticipated a difficult interview. Silently she set her face and waited.

Waterston finished his work and looked at the woman seated across the desk. He was not impressed.

She was distressingly plain. Miss Trowle had light brown hair of an undistinguished color and a remarkably pale little pinched face with two hazel eyes, which were at the moment curiously opaque. She was undoubtedly of gentle birth but looked as if there were no blood in her veins, no thoughts in her head, and clearly no beauty to compensate for this lack of spirit and intellect. She might just barely make an acceptable governess. Bundled up in the chair, Adela Trowle put him in mind of a Mother Goose illustration of Little Miss Muffet.

“Miss Trowle, thank you for waiting. Would you care for some tea while we talk?” He gave her his best poor little governess smile.

“Yes, thank you,” she responded with what he thought might be a glint of hostility in those unmoving hazel eyes.

“Yes, well where shall we begin? I understand from Lady Spencer that we are related in some way. Your mother was my father’s cousin was she not?”

“So I have been told.” Adela waited.

Really, he thought, she is a woman of remarkably little conversation. “In any case, Lady Spencer has said that you are in need of employment and I have some need of a companion for my niece Rebecka. Sophia also mentioned that you have some skill on the pianoforte, which, it happens, is essential, as Rebecka is
addicted
to the instrument.”

He waited for her comments, and when she made none, he added with a great show of patience, “Miss Trowle, what may I ask are your qualifications?”

“For what, my lord, companion or pianist?”

“For either.”

“I have no qualification for companion beyond the minimum of any lady of gentle birth.”

“You are, however, Rebecka’s kin and therefore, by definition, a fit companion.”

“You
must be the judge of that.”

“Of course. And the piano?”

“I believe I play well, my lord.”

“You are an accomplished young lady?”

“Sir, I am a pianist by profession not a dilettante. I am a fine musician and I enjoy teaching gifted students.” While he looked at her skeptically, she continued, “And, my lord, while I respect your desire to help me I do not choose to impose upon our kinship. I will stay only if you find my playing satisfactory and I think, in that case, that we should both prefer an employer-employee relationship.”

Waterston, who five minutes earlier would have readily agreed with her, was, however, not at all accustomed to being told what he preferred by anyone, and so, almost instinctively, he became recalcitrant. “Nevertheless, if you do stay, Miss Trowle, it will
not
be as an employee but as a member of this family.”

“Sir!”

“Nor, I might add, will you receive a salary. I trust you will be able to subsist on forty pounds per quarter pin money.”

Adela bit her underlip, counted to ten, and schooled her face into impassivity. One hundred sixty pounds per annum was a great deal of money. Waterston was surprised to see that while the plain little face across from him had returned to a closed blank there remained some semblance of emotion in the eyes. He was now quite certain the emotion was hostility.

At that moment a young girl, a rollicking cherub of a child, came tearing into the room. Her head was a mass of yellow curls and her eyes were blue saucers alight with excitement, friendship, and just a hint of mischief.

“I knew it. You must be my cousin Adela. Aunt Sophia says you play like a trooper. She says that you are a real pro-professional, and you have come to teach me.”

Taken off guard, Adela, almost laughing, hugged the child.

“Rebecka, mind your language and make your curtsy to Miss Trowle.”

Rebecka dipped down into a curtsy and came up saying, “Miss Trowle—pooh! May I call you Cousin Adela? I have very few cousins and I can see that you are quite wonderful. I think you may be a kindred spirit after all and one cannot have too many cousins you know.”

“I know, and I have hardly any cousins myself, so I would be honored if you would call me Adela,” Miss Trowle answered with great seriousness. “And may I call you Rebecka?”

“Becka, if you please.”

“Becka it is then.”

“Can you really play?”

Again Waterston intervened. “Miss Trowle will be quite willing to demonstrate her skill, Rebecka, but even she, I feel certain, cannot do so
without
a piano. May we adjourn to the music room?”

The child grabbed Adela’s hand and dragged her out of the room. Her uncle held the door and wondered for the hundredth time how he managed to live in the same house with such a dose of uninhibited exuberance and where in such a reserved family all that wild energy had come from. Certainly not from his side, the Beaumonts. He smiled inwardly.

The music room was large and lined with shelves of manuscripts, assorted instruments, and tasteful paintings. Its centerpiece, however, was the piano—the finest instrument Adela had ever seen.

Quietly she turned her back on Waterston and the child, sat down at the keyboard, and ran her fingers through a few arpeggios.

Instantly Adela fell in love. What a beauty! What a wonderful maker of music! Compared to this piano all the other pianos in her life had been lumpy clods. For such a piano she would have sold her very soul, even without the promise of one hundred sixty pounds per annum, a roof over her head, and a delightful eager student. Clearly she could learn to accommodate the arrogant eccentricities of an insensitive, disagreeable employer.

Adela began to play; the others almost immediately forgotten. For the next half hour her whole life, her whole existence, was in the piano and the music.

With the last chord of the sonata, the room was silent; suddenly there was a tiny humble voice beside her and a small child said with awe, “I knew it. I just knew it. You play like an angel, as if your music came from heaven. It is so very beautiful I could cry. Will you stay and teach me?”

It took a moment for Adela to realize that she was no longer playing and she turned easily and smiled at the child.

“Becka, we shall both of us learn together.”

Charles cleared his throat—an outsider once again. “My compliments, Miss Trowle. You do indeed play well.” For some reason he could not bring himself to say more. He was not accustomed to underestimating people, and he had definitely underestimated what had seemed to be only a little mouse of a woman. This Little Miss Muffet
was
Horace’s godchild.

“Rebecka, show Miss Trowle to Mrs. Soames, who will make arrangements for the removal of her things from her lodgings.” He rose to leave.

“One moment, my lord,” Adela said. “I have very few possessions, but I do have my own piano and I would prefer a room below the rafters large enough for my piano where I may practice without disturbing the family.”

“Is your instrument superior to mine?”

“On the contrary, sir, it is far inferior.”

“I cannot understand how you can prefer an inferior instrument. You may use this one for practicing. Sound, when the doors are closed, does not penetrate the walls of this room. As you are a member of the family a room under the rafters is quite inappropriate.”