Sedition (31 page)

Alathea began to walk. The diamonds rippled. None was strategically placed over any part of her and it was obvious to everybody that she had been at work with the tweezers. Apart from the hair on her head, the sculpted eyebrows, and eyelashes thick as pelts, she was completely shorn. Against those deep, suggestive shadows even the diamond fireworks played second fiddle. Her hands were bare of jewels. Around her neck she had a diamond-spiked choker, as a fighting dog might have, and this served to complete her nakedness. “Ye gods,” said Brass. “
Ye gods
.”

A sixth sense made Alathea aware of her father. She did not acknowledge him. She was beyond him. She moved slowly up the center aisle, looking neither right nor left. When the fathers and sons breathed again, they did not meet each other’s eyes, nor the eyes of their wives or mothers. Those hard stones; that yielding flesh; the submission and the arrogance of that choker; those dagger flashes and—throttled throats—those shadows. Footman and duke were as one: they all wanted her; she was all they wanted.

*   *   *

A
NNIE HAD
found it hard to open the note delivered by the courier, convinced it was the rejection she dreaded and expected. It stood to reason that Alathea’s treasured detachment and the separation of the past weeks would have made the note easier to write. She had tended her mother with the letter still unopened, then sat on the chair beside her mother’s bed and propped the letter against the candle. She comforted herself. She could never leave her mother and rejection would mean she did not have to. In the circumstances, rejection was the best thing. She focused on that. She picked up the note. If she opened it here, her mother’s presence would ensure detachment, or at least some self-control. She broke the seal. The ring fell out. She read the written words. She could not control herself. She folded over.

“Annie?” Her mother whispered. “Annie?” Mrs. Cantabile tried to sit up. Fear injected strength. Her waxy face grew waxier still. “Annie? What is it? Tell me.”

Annie did not know how. She must go with Alathea. She must. She could not ask Alathea to wait until her mother died. It might be months or even years. Alathea would go alone, and if she did that, Annie would lose her.

“Annie?” Her mother’s voice was frailly insistent. “You must tell me.”

Annie moved the candle and handed her mother the letter. Her mother tried and failed to read it. “Read it to me.”

Annie read it. When she looked again, her mother was staring at the ceiling. For one wild moment, Annie thought the shock had killed her. Her mother’s lips moved. Annie leaned over in a dreadful confusion of hope and despair, each muddled and tainted.

“Go,” her mother said.

A great weight descended. Annie knew she could not go. “We’ll take you,” she said. How ridiculous.

Her mother’s fingers found hers. “Annie,” she croaked, and fixed her daughter with eyes empty of everything but pain, rheum, and broken veins. “I can go with you,” she mouthed. “But not like this. Release me, Annie, as I release you. Let my soul fly from here. God brings death, I know, but sometimes he needs a little help.”

“I can’t!” whispered Annie.

“Don’t lie to me, Annie. You can, and why not? You want it. I want it.”

“No,” Annie said out loud.

“Yes, my sweet girl. Wishing me dead and wishing I was dead—they’re not the same. Not for us. You know that. Don’t deny it. Don’t. There is no need.”

Annie was silent.

Mrs. Cantabile lay back on her pillow. “Your father won’t help me. Only you have the courage and the generosity.”

“Generosity?” Annie burst out. “Ah, Mother! Not generosity.”

Mrs. Cantabile’s fingers curled around Annie’s hands. She smiled. “Generosity, Annie. Yes, generosity, because it won’t be easy. The body struggles for life against the wishes of the soul. My struggle will haunt you. But you’ll bear it for me. You’ll do it.”

“I don’t know how, Mother.”

“I would say laudanum,” Mrs. Cantabile said. “Drifting off while you were playing one of your own compositions would be like being in heaven already. But it must be quick.” Her breath was shallow. “The pillow,” she said. She did not let go of Annie’s hands until Annie repeated “the pillow” and both knew the decision was made.

Now Mrs. Cantabile looked directly at Annie and Annie looked directly at her. Both were afraid, but the strength of purpose in both faces cut through the fear. Mrs. Cantabile placed her own hands over her breast. Annie kissed her mother’s forehead—a real kiss, the first. She kissed her mother’s hands, a real kiss, the second. Then she slid a pillow from under her mother’s head and with all the force of love held the pillow down. Ten minutes later Annie left the house carrying her small bag with her. Alathea would not have to come and fetch her after the concert. Annie arrived at the Pall Mall saloon doors as they were closing.

*   *   *

A
LATHEA REACHED
the top of the aisle and sat in her allocated chair. Monsieur, blinking, got up from the stool of the second pianoforte. He fiddled with his lapels. “We are going…” His voice was high. These girls. They were wonderful. And Alathea. Alathea. He tried again. He must bring himself and the audience back to the music. He dispensed with the proper greeting for such a gathering. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, his omission of titles gaining the titles’ immediate attention. “We are going to play for you today the last part of Herr Bach’s
Clavier Übung
.” Uttering Herr Bach’s name helped Monsieur, though what Herr Bach would have made of this spectacle, he had no idea. “We shall play this work in its entirety for the first time ever in London. It is a very particular work. It is a work those of you with taste and discernment will not forget and a work only those of very particular accomplishment can offer. These young ladies have that accomplishment. It is rare. As you can see”—he gestured at the girls—“they are rare. Please save your applause until the end.” He sat down.

Alathea’s nakedness moved to the brown pianoforte. She did not open the score. She did not need to. She sat until expectation tightened to suspense. Had this diamond vision forgotten the music? Was this naked girl ever going to start?

Only when she was completely ready did Alathea pick up her hands and, into the silence, drop top G, G, A ornamented dotted quaver, to B. The tender run. Then the lower G, ornamented twice and the running semi- and demisemiquavers measured into the steady cadence of the bass. The aria was begun, so economical, so clean, so clear—so slow, Monsieur thought at first with alarm, then with increasing and wondering admiration. His buttocks unclenched. Of course. Slow, slow, slow. It was quite right. Alathea made no fuss, no untoward movement, no pedal. The aria was played straight as a die, just as Herr Bach intended. That it could sustain such a deliberate pace was Alathea’s miracle. Monsieur had tears in his eyes.

The astonishment of the audience was palpable. This sound, so rich! How could it be coming from this brown thing that most had assumed, not having read their invitation properly, was a harpsichord. Plum cake indeed, even to the uninitiated.

Sawney Sawneyford heard as through a cloud and saw as through grit. He was sweating. His daughter, his lover, as he only should see her, a blur of sparkles and skin, on public view displayed. Jesus Christ. How could silk cling so close? And those fingers, those fingers that were his, creating this beautiful, truthful sound. Sawneyford pinched his forefinger nail into the mound of his thumb.

On the side opposite Sawneyford, Annie never took her eyes from Alathea. She waited through the aria’s second section; the long lines, the gathering tension. Half a bar before the resolution, Alathea turned her head. Through the heavy gauze of her veil, it should have been impossible for Annie to see. What need had she to see? She felt that turn. She felt Alathea feeling her presence. This was the trumpet welcome Annie longed for. Why had she ever doubted? Her veil billowed in, out. Breathing was the only movement she made.

Behind the pianofortes, almost out of sight, Cantabile was sitting bolt upright, his hands gripped together in furious astonishment. His pianoforte had never sounded like this. How dare this naked girl confound him? It was impossible that she had talent. It was unforgivable. It was not what he had expected, and what he did not expect could not be. The aria came to an end. Alathea, shimmering, left the pianoforte stool to Marianne.

Marianne rustled the score and rushed into Variation 1 like a horse out of the stalls. Monsieur winced. Cantabile relaxed. This was more like it. Marianne fluffed the hand crossing. Monsieur tutted. She had often missed the G. She was going far too fast. Marianne gulped and slowed for the second part, keeping her eyes glued to the music. This was utilitarian, a respectable marshaling of notes. Monsieur nodded his head. Good. However long he might have had with her, Mademoiselle Marianne could never play better than a tolerably efficient automaton. He glanced at the audience. The initial speed of the variation, such a contrast with Alathea, had impressed. Frogmorton, Drigg, and others were tapping their feet. What idiots, thought Monsieur. Still, the variation did have something of a swing to it. Marianne banged to a halt, returned to her seat, and patted her wig. Monsieur gave her an encouraging nod.

Now Georgiana. Variation 2, a duet of echoing melodies over a steady bass. She began with obvious nerves, her timing careful, the tune taking its turn in each register, a walk after Marianne’s gallop. She remained at the pianoforte for Variation 3, the first canon, introducing it with the same care. Only when the bass quavers erupted into semiquavers did she surprise both the audience and Monsieur by directing a light smile into the air suggestive of girlish elation.

Harriet made the most of her great entry, playing Variation 4 like a businessman constructing a letter of serious import. Pay attention. No slacking. Hint of whip crack. Yours sincerely. The audience liked it. This golden girl had spirit. Thomas Buller remembered just in time not to clap. Taking a deep breath, and glancing briefly over her shoulder at Alathea, Harriet began Variation 5. Over the first three bars, a nervous metamorphosis took place. She was no longer the businessman. Now she was a tease. Her face registered only concentration—the variation was technically difficult—yet what was it about the set of her shoulders as her left and right hands crossed and recrossed that made every man in the room feel as if her hands might, if he was lucky, land in his lap? As she gained confidence, Harriet’s mouth turned up at one corner. The semiquavers, that deliberate fingering, turned Variation 5 into something sensational in the literal sense. Monsieur sucked in his cheeks. He clicked his tongue at Harriet. In the audience, Frogmorton tensed, although Mrs. Frogmorton was clearly enjoying herself. Harriet was marvelous. The alderman scolded himself. He had been upset by Alathea. She made everything seem peculiar. Anyway, this variation would end soon. It did. Harriet stood, imperial once more, turban intact, face slightly flushed.

Everina rose. The contrast with Harriet was appreciated, and the scent released by the arm petals wafted pleasingly toward those in the front row. Monsieur nodded to her. She emanated panic. Monsieur frowned. He gestured to the pianoforte stool. She sat down, adjusted the score but did not start. Monsieur was annoyed. Everina could play this variation alone. He had heard her. Yet if she was nervous, it was unjust to be angry with her. He slid onto the stool next to her. They could play this variation on one piano without impeding each other. Everina, happy now, eased into the music, a picture of unspoiled, childlike maidenhood. Mr. and Mrs. Drigg pressed together. Oh, this was lovely. Everina was lovely. The dress was lovely. Everything was lovely. Mrs. Drigg knew, without even looking about, that every mother in the room wished her daughter were sitting up there at the pianoforte, just like Everina. Only Monsieur was annoyed as Everina mistimed the runs and forgot the accidentals. It was good, though, he thought, to reassert control.

Everina started Variation 7 so quickly after Variation 6 that Monsieur was trapped beside her. Under Alathea’s instruction, Everina had learned this variation by heart, and how to make it naughtily provocative. She accentuated the gigue, and showed her teeth, touching Monsieur’s shoulder with her own and smiling at the audience from under her lashes. Mr. Drigg’s stomach lurched. That was not so lovely. He felt his wife stiffen through the stiffness of her gown. Both were glad when Everina was back on her chair. Marianne again. Monsieur moved to the black pianoforte. Marianne patted the seat beside her. Unless he was to cause a scene, Monsieur had to join her. She played cat and mouse with the music master, shimmying a little as their hands muddled and crossed. Monsieur tried to pull her back to earth, moving down an octave so that their fingers did not touch. Marianne moved down an octave too. The audience had no idea whether this was in the score or not, but the pantomime effect made the fathers and sons grin and the wives and mothers fan themselves disapprovingly. Funny it may be, but for all Marianne’s velvet and powder, it was not ladylike. Mrs. Drigg gripped Mr. Drigg’s knee.

Alathea next. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly how she turned a stately melody of dowager propriety into an erotic invitation. Yet this is what happened to Variation 9, Herr Bach’s third canon. With clustering diamond dewdrops between breasts and legs and that tantalizing, breath-throttling tan where there should have been dark cover, she played the audience as she played the keyboard, painting a picture of slow pleasures in which she was clearly well versed. Come, join me, Alathea said, see how pleasure can be found in unexpected places. Cold diamonds challenged; warm lips enticed. Above, a halo of hair; below, smooth as a glove.

Mrs. Frogmorton’s palms had not yet begun to sweat, though she was no longer sitting easy. Harriet would have none of this, surely. Mrs. Frogmorton remembered businesslike Variation 4 and pinned her hopes on that. She was only gradually aware of Variation 10, Georgiana’s intense fugetta, during which this vision in white never once looked at the keyboard, but leaned with passionate and, so the mothers could see clearly from the gentle sway of her head, intimate intent at Monsieur. Brass refused to believe his eyes. Georgiana was simply showing character! This was all to the good. He felt his wife sit up. He nudged her. She began to rock.