Intermezzo (7 page)

Six

Early the next morning Adela quietly left St. James Square to visit the cemetery where Jon and her mother were buried. Unfortunately, one of the few disadvantages of her new position was the relative lack of freedom allowed her to wander about at will. Each time she crossed the threshold she had to run the gauntlet of both Mr. Soames’s austere sniffs and Mrs. Soames’s less austere but equally nagging little humphs. On the occasion of Adela’s first visit to the cemetery, Mrs. Soames had loosed a veritable barrage of criticism at her. That worthy matron had relentlessly belabored Adela for a full hour on the evils of unattended young ladies walking the streets of London. Adela, nevertheless, stood firm and, in the end, had been quite severe with Mrs. Soames, so that, although she was finally allowed to leave the house, it was only with the clear understanding that she was doing so over the strongest possible objections. On all subsequent occasions the sniff and
the humph
were repeated, but she was spared the lecture.

The morning after the theater, his lordship returned quite early and inquired routinely after the state of health of the household. Soames, deciding that his lordship should be informed of Miss Trowle’s absence, sniffed ominously and asked if he and his missus might have a word with his lordship. “Certainly, Soames.”

Whereupon Mrs. Soames was produced out of the nether regions of the house and began her own very lengthy explanation of Miss Trowle’s aberrant behavior.

After some minutes spent on the general deterioration of society and on the evils of young ladies of quality being raised in ramshackle homes where they were allowed to go about unattended, Waterston asked, “My dear Mrs. Soames, are you attempting to tell me that Miss Trowle is not at home.”

“No, sir, she is not and it’s not the first time neither that she has gone out alone in the morning.” Waterston continued with studied restraint.

“Mrs. Soames, I cannot believe that
you
would, even on a
single
occasion, allow Miss Trowle to leave this house unattended.”

“Well, sir, the young lady is extraordinarily stubborn, that she is, and she would not have a footman. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but while it may look like she is a meek biddable little thing, when that young lady lowers her voice and
insists
on anything, it is something like your own late mother calling one to account for a dirty apron...”

Waterston interrupted, “Nevertheless, Mrs. Soames, you should have brought this matter to my attention earlier, I can assure you that
I
would have seen that Miss Trowle was accompanied by a footman.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Soames answered, “but I never had no intention of letting her go out
alone.
I just thought it might be better if the young lady
thought
she was alone.”

“John Coachman’s nephew Matt the Mole?” his lordship asked.

“Yes, sir,” Soames answered.

Waterston spoke with a shade less restraint, “I have come, slowly, to believe Mathew the Mole is a pearl without a price and I have never regretted retrieving him from Newgate, Soames.”

“Nor should you, my lord, and I know John Coachman is very grateful. He’s a talent, that boy. You must know that Matt the Mole could follow a minnow clear to America and not be seen at it.”

“And, if I remember correctly, he is also quite competent with a knife.”

“Better by far than your average footman,” Mrs. Soames answered. “No one would get near Miss Trowle with Matt the Mole about.”

“And what has our little spy reported, Mrs. Soames?” His lordship’s voice was crisp.

“Well, sir, beggin’ your pardon, but I don’t choose to call him a
spy
no how—he is a footman in disguise so to speak.”

“Quite, and where does this ‘footman in disguise’ follow Miss Trowle to?”

“Each time she be going to the cemetery. O’ course, Matt keeps his distance, but he says she just goes and stays for hours on end.” Mrs. Soames would have liked to have said more on this peculiar and unnatural behavior, but she saw that his lordship was already perilously close to real anger and she knew that, even under ordinary circumstances, he would not have tolerated the housekeeper passing judgment, in any significant way, on her betters.

Once relieved of his fears for Adela’s safety, Waterston was, in fact, experiencing an overwhelming repugnance, almost nausea, at the thought of using John Coachman’s nephew in this way. Of course, she must be protected and he knew that he could still force a footman on her as well as a carriage. Instinctively, he realized that to do so would be unjust. Miss Trowle had as much a right to freedom, freedom of movement, as he did himself. A footman would necessarily inhibit that freedom and Miss Trowle suffered already from a superfluity of inhibitions.

Mrs. Soames was asking, “Shall we continue to send Matt the Mole, my lord?”

Reluctantly he answered, “I suppose we must. But be certain he does not go beyond the entrance to the cemetery. There, at least, Miss Trowle must be assured her privacy.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Mrs. Soames, henceforward I should like to be kept informed of all Miss Trowle’s excursions.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Almost a week later, at tea during an unusual lull in the conversation, Charles turned to Adela. “Miss Trowle, I am curious; are you still interested in a career as a concert pianist?”

“Of course I am, my lord.”

“Despite the fact that you are no longer reduced to penury and starving in a garret?”

“I have never
starved
, sir, and I
am
a professional musician. I am interested in becoming a great professional musician.”

“You are already one of the finer pianists of my acquaintance and your style is almost unique. Still, I cannot think that a
profession
of any sort is appropriate for a
lady
.”

“Thank you, my lord, but being an instructor for Rebecka is a profession, sir.”

“Yes, yes, to be sure, but you are not an employee here. You are after all a cousin.”

“A cousin on wages, sir.”

“Miss Trowle, you are an exceedingly difficult woman. And I don’t know how I became involved in this dispute. I was about to offer you a modest opportunity to display your talents as a professional musician—a public performance of sorts. But you are
sorely
trying my patience.”

Adela screwed up her eyes. “What
sort
of an opportunity, sir?”

“Skeptic! Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you. In three weeks I will be having a ball to honor the new Austrian ambassador. Sophia will act as hostess and there will be dancing. I had wondered if you, Miss Trowle, would be willing to provide the music. I am aware that you have done similar work in the past; nevertheless, I am not at all certain that your playing, on such a
public
occasion, is entirely suitable, and I would certainly understand your refusal of my offer.”

“But I have no intention of refusing. I am honored, sir, to have been asked and I would be delighted to play.”

“It is settled then.”

Adela nodded and then added, “I do not think that the single piano would be sufficient, my lord. My friend Richard Brewer is a gifted violinist and I’m certain he would be quite willing to join me. We have worked together before, although not for such a
tonnish
affair.”

Lord Waterston hesitated a moment, studying her face, and then said, “If you wish to, engage this fellow.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“And please to remember, Miss Trowle, that you are a lady and my kin—you are not a musician
for hire
in this house.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Adela answered meekly. Although being a musician at a ball was not the height of her ambitions, there would be important people there, nearly all of whom were accustomed to organizing musical evenings in their own homes. It would be a splendid opportunity for both Richard Brewer and herself.

Then Waterston intruded once more into her thoughts as he turned and addressed Becka, “Rebecka you and Aunt Sophia will see that Miss Trowle is decently attired.”

With this last comment he quickly excused himself and left the room before Adela could think of a suitable response.

That afternoon Adela wrote a short note to Richard Brewer and the next day she returned to Helene’s. Adela would have preferred to have worn the cinnamon velvet, but as acquiescence to Sophia’s judgment had clearly become a precondition of her performance, she agreed to purchase another gown. Having agreed to buy a gown, Adela had begged Sophia and Rebecka to consider some other establishment which was somewhat less exclusive and considerably less expensive. Again she was overruled, although Sophia did suggest that the judgment of a younger more modish woman might be helpful. And so Nancy Owens was invited to join the party.

Adela selected a subdued russet silk gown. It was hardly the color or cut of a ball gown, but it was a gown in which Miss Adela Elizabeth Trowle—pianist—felt comfortable.

Neither Lady Spencer nor Miss Owens were delighted with her choice, but they did not interfere. When Nancy Owens had stepped aside to examine some fabrics for a new ball gown of her own, Adela turned to Lady Spencer and braced herself to ask the price of the russet silk.

Almost before she could begin, she was interrupted by Sophia, “
I
will be responsible for the purchase of your clothing, Adela.”

“Thank you my dearest and only aunt, but you must know that I cannot accept your charity.”

“Stuff and nonsense. I, my girl, am an old tartar, a dowager countess, an institution, if you will.
I
must be humored.” And then seeing the closed look in Adela’s eyes, she continued in a different vein, “Adela, you are my
family.
I was quite fond of your mother—I grew up with her and yet, somehow, I neglected to search her out in the wilds of Yorkshire and lend her comfort and refuge during those dark years of her marriage. Can you imagine how wretchedly guilty I feel now? Surely you will let me expiate a very little by helping her daughter.”

Adela was not proof against such an appeal. “I do beg your pardon, Aunt Sophia. I have been so used to being poor and the poor, you know,
must
be proud—they have nothing else.”

“I understand, child.”

And then, glimpsing three dresses Rebecka had brought her to try, Adela gasped, “Becka, Becka, dear sweet Becka! They are lovely gowns all of them and so
a la mode,
but I
could
not wear them.”

“You need morning dresses and ball gowns and ever so many things, Adela.”

“Perhaps I do, child, but I must go slowly or I will be outfitted with many inappropriate clothes. Do not you agree, Aunt Sophia?”

“In this instance I do, but I must insist on at least one walking dress to supplement the gray silk.”

“Very well, I see a blue muslin over there which I think I could wear to advantage.” And as she was fitted into the rather severe walking dress she watched Madame Helene taking the three lovely silk and satin gowns from the disappointed Rebecka.

The child was determined. “The russet silk and the blue muslin are all very well, Cousin Adela, but they do not look at all like something Miss Oliver would wear.”

Nancy Owens had returned and Adela found herself blushing furiously, but Miss Owens, grinning, was well in command of the situation. “Rebecka, do you think that Miss Oliver’s clothes would
truly suit
Adela?”

“Miss Oliver
is
a professional,” the child answered. “Becka, I am not aspiring to be just that kind of professional.” Then thinking that she was being a little prudish, Adela added, “A concert pianist isn’t
quite
like an actress, you know.”

Later, when the four of them had stopped for tea and ices at Gunnings, Rebecka returned to the subject of the gowns. “I understand, Cousin Adela, that you would not wish to wear anything very
showy;
but must the dress be quite so
drab?
Even the Ice Queen, who is very restrained, would never wear anything quite so drab.”

“What Ice Queen?” Adela asked abstractly while stirring her tea and concentrating on the wonderful sensation of a sugared ice melting in her mouth.

“Surely you know, Adela, the Ice Queen is Lady Diana,” the child answered with perfect seriousness. “It’s a sort of nickname.”

Adela began automatically to reproach the child for a lack of respect to her elders when Lady Spencer came to Rebecka’s defense. “I’m afraid Becka is truly not to blame.
All
the ton refers to Lady Diana as the Ice Queen.”

“Still waters is she?” Adela asked, determined on finding an honorable interpretation of the title.

“Oh, she isn’t still waters precisely,” Rebecka volunteered. “More like ice, you know. Not like Miss Oliver at all. But even Lady Diana would not wear
such
a restrained gown to a
ball
.”

Nancy answered for Adela, “True, Becka. But Lady Diana, although very restrained, as you say, is also very, very expensive in her tastes and attracts a good deal of attention to her person. Your cousin Adela would not want a gown half the ton will discuss for days on end.”

“Precisely, Nancy. You see, Rebecka, I want a dress which is almost anonymous. It will be perfect for a pianist. I do not want people to notice my clothes; I want them to notice my music. As it is, I shall be quite terrified in a room full of people who are unfamiliar to me. I shall most probably be acquainted only with Aunt Sophia, your uncle Charles, Miss Owens, and Mr. Worthing.”

There was an awkward hesitation before Nancy spoke again, “I don’t believe I will be there, Adela. You shall have to manage without my support.”

“Not be there! Why ever not, Nancy? Are you leaving London?” Adela asked somewhat ruffled.