Leading Lady (40 page)

“I’m glad you haven’t rehearsal today. That worked out nicely.”

But of course it had, for before she even set the date for the phantom party, she telephoned the office of the Royal Opera, identifying herself to the theatre manager as the wife of a Mr. Braedeker from the
Cornhill Magazine,
who wished to photograph the empty theatre interior for an article he was writing. Naturally she would ask rehearsal and performance schedules before making an appointment.

She wondered if the magazine would receive an irate telephone call from the theatre manager this afternoon.

“Would you care for some refreshments before my guests arrive?”

“No, thank you.” He glanced about the garden. “Where shall I . . . ?”

“Here.” She led him past the table and past a semicircle of six chairs. “By the rose trellis, if you please. There’s a bench there, if you’d care to sit for now. Have you a music stand?”

“I brought no music,” he replied. “Miss Rayborn said you specified light classical. I committed several pieces to memory during the course of my schooling—Rossini, Mozart, Haydn, and the like. More than enough to fill a couple of hours.”

“I’m impressed,” she said. And not just with his repertoire. Even knowing of his University degree and seat in the Opera, she had expected his speech to be more common, as befitting the offspring of servants. But his was as cultured as that of any of her peers.

For the fraction of a second he seemed on the verge of a smile. But with a blink of the eyes the somber expression resumed itself. “Thank you. I’ll tune my violin now, if you please.”

“By all means.”

He walked over to the trellis and leaned down to open the case, while Muriel loitered about the garden, straightening a chair here, inspecting the table there. Mr. Russell was absorbed in drawing the bow across a string, listening, tightening or loosening a peg. He might as well have been alone for all the attention he paid her, but still she played the part of the anxious hostess. Mr. Webb would be proud of her for staying in character, she thought.

“Please ask Mrs. Burles if anyone has arrived yet,” she said to Joyce, even though the housekeeper would naturally bring such a person through the house.

“Yes, m’Lady.”

Muriel waited on the edge of the terrace. When Joyce returned to answer in the negative, she allowed herself an uncertain smile.

“Ham delivered the invitations on Monday. I’m quite sure I wrote the correct date on them. But do you think I gave enough notice?”

The maid, unused to being asked for advice, looked at her as if she had chewed and swallowed a May bug. “I don’t know, m’Lady.”

Muriel nodded. “They’ll be here. It’s just such a pretty day . . . everyone moves a little more slowly.”

She had no idea what she even meant by that. But that was good. The excuses people made to save face were usually feeble ones.

“Yes, m’Lady.”

As long as she was playing a part, she had to play it to the fullest. It was important that the servants be convinced as well. She went inside and approached Mrs. Burles in the foyer, put on an anxious expression. “No one yet?”

“I’m sorry, your Ladyship.”

Muriel reached for the doorknob. “I’ll step outside and . . .” She turned to the housekeeper. “Or would that make me look too eager?”

“I expect it would, your Ladyship. Shall I?”

“Yes . . . no. That would be the same as my looking.” Allowing herself a little frown, raising her chin a bit, she added, “If they’re snubbing me again, I won’t give them that satisfaction.”

In the garden again, she was pleased to notice the helpless concern in Mr. Russell’s expression. She gave him a brave, quick smile, mindful not to pay him
too
much attention, and wandered over to one of the chairs. Sitting sideways, she draped her arms about the back and rested her chin upon her clasped hands.

Presently Mrs. Burles came outside, looked about, and approached. “It’s half past two, your Ladyship.”

“No one is coming,” Muriel said dully.

“It doesn’t appear so, your Ladyship.”

“I thought they had changed their minds about me.” Muriel sighed and brushed a gloved fingertip beneath her dry eyes. She could feel Mr. Russell’s eyes upon her as she got to her feet. “I suppose it’s time to bring everything inside. What pains me the most is that all of you went to such trouble for nothing.”

Mrs. Burles’s eyes widened as had Joyce’s earlier, but she covered her surprise and said, “Yes, your Ladyship.”

Muriel turned toward Mr. Russell, now approaching.

“And I’m sorry that your time was wasted, Mr. Russell. If you’ll accompany me inside, I’ll draft your cheque.”

“That’s not necessary, Lady Holt.”

“I insist. You came out here prepared, whether or not you had the opportunity to play.”

He shook his head. “Really, I’d rather not.”

She pressed fingertips against the base of her neck and gave him a look that suggested a struggle to maintain composure. “I had high hopes for this afternoon, Mr. Russell, and it’s turned sour. Cheating you out of your just compensation would just be heaping guilt upon the disappointment I already feel.”

“Very well,” he said finally. “With the understanding that the next time you need a musician, you must allow me to play—for no fee.”

“That’s very kind of you.” Dishes rattled at the table, where Mrs. Burles and Joyce and Gladys, the scullery maid, were packing up trays. Muriel gave them a thoughtful look, then turned again to the musician. “But you know, you could earn your wages today after all. The afternoon is still young. And it’s a shame that you went to all the trouble of tuning your violin for nothing.”

“Would you like me to play?” he asked, his smile not quite masking the trace of puzzlement in his blue eyes.

“If you please. But wait.” To Mrs. Burles, stacking teacups and saucers, she said, “Please leave those and ask everyone inside to come out here. We’ll have our own party.”

She smiled to herself at the lightning-quick look that passed between Joyce and Gladys. Mrs. Burles, more clever at hiding her astonishment, sent the scullery maid inside for the others. Minutes later, Mr. Watterson was bringing out a chair under each arm, and Mrs. Arnold the cook, Evelyn, Joyce, Gladys, and Mrs. Burles were awkwardly placing little sandwiches and cakes upon dishes.

“Here, I’ll do the pouring,” Muriel ordered with a smile when Mrs. Arnold touched the handle to the teapot. “I’ve already had mine.”

At her urging the servants sat upon the chairs, rigid, balancing dishes and saucers with cups upon knees. Muriel slipped into an end seat. They were all looking expectantly at Mr. Russell. He obviously sensed that a concert would be more appropriate than background music to nonexistent conversation, smiled, and took a few steps closer.

“Franz Joseph Haydn’s Symphony number eighty-eight, first movement.”

He tucked the violin into his neck and drew the bow across the strings as if bow and violin were extensions of his body. After Haydn, he played Bach’s Violin Concerto in E Major.
The music was as moving and sweet as a lullaby. Still playing her part, Muriel sent an occasional wistful look toward the garden wall. Once she willed tears to her eyes, blinked until they traveled down her cheeks, then wiped them with the back of her glove.

The servants nibbled on sandwiches and pastries, balancing them upon knees again to applaud each piece. Mr. Russell played some Mozart and then lowered the violin during the applause. “Have you any requests?”

After a second of silence, Mr. Watterson cleared his throat and said, “That was pleasing to the ears, sir. But we don’t know much fancy music.”

Mr. Russell gave him an almost tender smile, and Muriel wondered if the gardener reminded him of his father.

“It doesn’t have to be classical,” he said, tucking the violin beneath his chin again. The first floating notes of “Come Back to Erin” caused exchanged smiles and nods, and Mr. Watterson’s foot to start tapping.

“Do you know ‘Listen to the Mockingbird’? Gladys asked timidly.

“I’ll give it a try,” Mr. Russell replied. His forehead furrowed as he drew the bow across the strings for a couple of short strokes. And then the song, every note perfect.

Mrs. Arnold asked for “Silver Threads Among the Gold,” and Joyce, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

“And you, miss?” Mr. Russell asked Evelyn.

She asked for “Grandfather’s Clock,” and during the song wept quietly with her head upon Mrs. Arnold’s shoulder. Muriel’s lips tightened. That was the trouble with servants. One could purchase a corset at Harrod’s without even knowing the shop assistant’s name, but servants invariably insinuated their own private dramas into a household. Everyone sent the girl sympathetic looks, so Muriel had to do the same lest Mr. Russell, the son of servants, assume she had no feelings toward her own.

Mrs. Burles, in an obvious and successful effort to lift spirits again, said, “Do you know ‘Waxie’s Dargle,’ Mr. Russell?”

He winked at her. “I’ll play it if you’ll sing it.”

“Oh, no,” she said with a shake of the head that made her topknot quiver.

“I’ll sing it,” Gladys offered and broke into a slightly off-key soprano.

“Very grand!” Mr. Watterson exclaimed amidst the applause when the song was over.

Gladys rose to give a little curtsey, and Mr. Russell bowed and said, “Thank you. You were a lovely audience.”

“I’m glad the neighbors didn’t show!” Joyce blurted.

“Joyce . . .” Mrs. Burles said with a worried glance at Muriel.

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Burles,” Muriel said, hoping Mr. Russell was paying attention. “I’m glad as well.”

As the servants cleared the table and Mr. Watterson started carrying chairs to the terrace, Mr. Russell went over to the bench to put the violin in the case. Muriel waited one second, two, three, then followed.

“I can see why you made the Royal Opera, Mr. Russell.”

He latched the case and turned to her. “It’s very kind of you to say so, Lady Holt.”

“Is that an expensive violin?”

“Not at all. I found it in a secondhand shop years ago and had it restrung and refinished in Bologna.”

“You do wonders with it. And how is it that you know so many songs from different categories?”

“I inherited my mother’s ear for music,” he said almost apologetically, as if fearing he might sound boastful. “Once I’ve heard a tune, I can fairly well play it. And studying music for most of my life helped build a repertoire.”

“We made you up a plate, Mr. Russell,” Mrs. Burles said, approaching with dish in hand. “And will you have tea?”

“I can’t stay, but thank you,” he replied. “We’ve a performance tonight.”

“So have I.” Muriel looked at her wristwatch. “But it’s only half past three. You’ve time.”

“I really must leave.”

Muriel thought she detected the slight hesitation before his reply, but decided not to take advantage of it. “Very well. I’ll draft that cheque now. Please come with me.”

He accompanied her through the house and into the parlour, where her writing desk had occupied a corner since yesterday, when she decided it would be too obvious to ask him to follow her upstairs to the morning room. Raising the lid, she said, “Do have a seat, Mr. Russell. This will take but a minute.”

“Thank you, Lady Holt.”

From the corner of her eye she watched him look about and settle in the nearest chair, hat upon the chair arm and violin case upon the floor. She had left the door open, so as not to arouse any suspicion of her motives. The servants would be using the kitchen stairs for carrying in trays and dishes. If any were to come onto the ground floor, they would know better than to disturb her without good reason.

“That was very kind of you . . . what you did for your people,” he said, standing again as she rose from the chair.

“I’m only ashamed that it took a snubbing from the neighbors to make me think of it,” she said with a sad smile. “But it’s an ill wind that blows no good, yes?”

She crossed the carpet and handed him the cheque.

“Thank—” he began and glanced at the face of it. He held it out to her. “Lady Holt, I can’t accept this.”

“You must, Mr. Russell.”

“But it’s twice what we agreed upon.”

“You earned it. You were a friend today, when I desperately needed one. Jewel says you’re saving for a house for yourself and Bethia. Put that toward it, and you’ll make me very happy.”

With obvious reluctance he folded the cheque and slipped it into his coat pocket. “I meant what I said about playing again—free of charge.”

“If I ever have friends enough to entertain, I’ll remember that,” she said dryly, holding out her hand.

He thanked her as he took her hand. Upon releasing it, he picked up his hat and violin case. But he did not move. “Forgive me, Lady Holt, but why don’t you leave here? There are people all over London who would be honored to have you as neighbor.”

“Sheer, stupid stubbornness, Mr. Russell,” she replied. She raised her hands, dropped them. “How else can I explain? We moved from this neighborhood when I was eight. Even though that was seventeen years ago, people have long memories. My father is remembered as an insurance salesman. It was common knowledge that it was only an inheritance from my grandfather that allowed us to live here.”

“But now . . .”

“Yes, now I have a title,” she said with a little nod. “One I did not come by rightfully, Mr. Russell, if truth be known. But I was young and naïve. I’m sure you’ve heard the story.”

He actually blushed. That amused her. She could not recall Sidney ever blushing.

“You may not understand this,” she went on, aiming the arrow where she imagined to be his most vulnerable spot, “but there is this drive in me to prove that I’m as good as anyone else. Truthfully, I’m not even certain if it’s to those
others or to myself I must prove it. I only know that it can’t be done by running away.”