Rondo Allegro (50 page)

“Is this room never used in the mornings, then?” Anna asked.

“No. It is very cold, in winter, this side of the house. We
sit here in summer.” The dowager stirred a little. “I am thinking about what
you said. If Henry comes home, and . . .” Once again she paused,
and Anna wondered if the lady was so in the habit of being interrupted she
rarely finished a sentence.

“Should you care to be read to?” Anna offered. “I must
practice my English, and there are many delightful books in the library.”

The dowager brightened. “If you will pull the bell, my dear,
I will send for Madame de Genlis. I have not heard French spoken properly since
my visit to Paris. This was well before the troubles. Would you greatly mind?”

“I would be happy to.”

And so Anna’s third evening passed more pleasantly than she
had hoped.

o0o

The next morning, after breakfast, all the household’s
principal people dispersed to their pursuits. Finding herself alone, Anna
entered the drawing room. It was bitterly cold. She forced herself to move, and
in moving, discovered all the old pleasure.

She danced through all her old patterns twice, thinking
about Hortense and Lise, Catherine and Helene, even Ninon. Where were they all
now? She hoped they were happy.

When she had finished, she was warm, except for her
fingertips. She sat down to the fortepiano and softly keyed a chord. Then,
equally softly, she began her drills.

Each note thrilled her with pleasure. All the joy was back.
Up the range and down again, and then she began an aria, pitching her voice to
the limits of the room. For an hour she sang, and then, feeling refreshed in
body and spirit, she was able to go about her day playing the role of Lady
Northcote.

Several days passed in a similar manner.

There were two days left before mourning would officially be
over when Anna came down to breakfast and, for the first time, found a letter
on the silver salver beside her plate. Her heart drummed as she worked her
finger under the seal.

Aglaea, off Gibraltar

Lady Northcote, I write certain of your forgiveness for the
necessary delay, because you, as a wife of an officer in the service, will
understand the Demands that permit one in my position little free time.

But however, I have gained a Respite, and my first task is to
do myself the Honor of writing this Letter. I am delighted to report that
Captain Lord Northcote is awakened, and in full possession of his Intellects.

I was not permitted a long interview. The medical Men insist
that quiet is Necessary, and he said his head Ached fit to break. Plus they
have his eyes firmly bandaged, which he has been ordered to endure for at least
Twelve Weeks, possibly Three Months, if the head-ache persists.

His first Question was to ask after you, and following that the
ship’s people. I take Great pleasure in reporting that we lost no more than we
had. Our Butcher’s Bill was severe, but many ships suffered a worse. Once we
discharged our prisoners, we set about repairs, though the Weather continued
ill for some days.

But however that, too, has passed, and I will close with a
piece of good news: this Letter will go with the next packet, and with it, or
soon after, you will find Captain Lord Northcote arriving in Yorkshire for his
Recovery.

Your obedient serv’t to command, Theophilus Sayers

Anna laid the letter down carefully, as if it might vanish.
Then she looked up to discover a row of waiting faces.

“He is well, and is to return,” she said breathlessly.

The dowager put her napkin over her face and burst into
tears.

The Friday anniversary of the baron’s death, Anna expected
the house to be colder and gloomier than heretofore.

The dowager was certainly subdued through the day, but Anna
could not see any material change in others of the household.

On Saturday, mourning officially ended, and the hatchment
was taken down from the door. Other signs of deep mourning vanished, from black
hatbands to bombazine gowns.

All week long, Parrette had grimly endured her freezing
room, at first retiring with a pot of hot water in order to warm her hands so
she could sew. Only the water cooled so very rapidly. She discovered that the
servants were permitted one candle end at a time. She used hers to warm her
hands as she considered this new household.

Saturday morning, as the servants bustled about removing the
signs of mourning, Parrette considered them carefully before settling on Polly,
among the youngest, but not too young and silly. Taking care to catch her
alone, though she knew nothing would prevent Polly from gossiping as she would,
Parrette said, “In this country. Is it still against the law, if I look out for
a Catholic church?”

Polly gaped at Parrette, then said, “I don’t know, ma’am.
But you ought to put your question to John-Coachman, Mr. Cassidy as was before
he took over as stable master. He being from Ireland, is Popish.”

Parrette had never ventured into the stable area. She found
it scrupulously tidy, the animals munching in their airy loose boxes, or
running about in the fenced area beyond.

As she minced across the mushy ground in a pair of pattens
left for general use, her skirts held high, the stable master saw from the
horses’ ears and tails that a stranger approached. Parrette reached the door
and glanced up at a handsome blue-eyed face. John-Coachman had been cleaning a
hoof-picking tool, which he set aside. “Ma’am?” he said on an inquiring note.

Emboldened by Polly’s words, she said firmly, “I am told you
follow the true church. If that is so, where I can attend Mass?”

John-Coachman’s expression of reserve altered to politeness.
“You can ride along with me and my daughter Peg, if you wish, then, ma’am.
There is a chapel at the Aubignys’, where a priest comes to us Sundays and most
Holy Days. We leave prompt at six o’clock, for I must be back in time to take
the family to St. Andrews Church.”

Parrette found his slow voice, with its slight lilt,
soothing to her ears after the sharp, high English voices that were sometimes
very difficult to follow. “Thank you,” she said. “I will be here before six.”

And the following morning she was, having laid out
everything for Anna, who was to attend church for the first time with the
family.

Anna was scarcely less apprehensive than the town was
interested.

At last Barford Magna was to be vouchsafed a glimpse of the
mysterious new Lady Northcote. Mrs. Bradshaw had lost no opportunity in
describing to a few friends the occasion of her surprise caller, swearing them
to strictest confidence in respect to the family’s mourning, in comfortable
expectation of the word spreading all the faster.

Between her and Polly’s brother Ned, the first footman, who
often spent his free evening among his cronies at the Pig, Anna’s fame had
spread, gaining glory with every repetition.

Though Dr. Blythe was much esteemed by his parishioners, it
is safe to say that scarcely anyone heeded his sermon that Sunday. People were
too busy gazing into what could be seen of the Northcote family pew, and
afterward watching for a glimpse of the duke’s daughter who had crossed from
Paris to Spain in a coach-and-six to marry their new baron, Boney’s frogs
having waited in the offing out of respect, until the honeymoon was over.

Lady Emily Northcote looked like a golden angel, wearing
pure white with no ornamentation. She had been overheard to say on her way into
church that “Lord Northcote always loved to see me in white.” In this way, she
signaled that there would be no extended half-mourning, though the new Lady Northcote
was correctly dressed in dove gray, a gown (so said those who considered
themselves experts, Mrs. Bradshaw in the lead) come straight from Empress
Josephine’s own dressmaker.

Anna was unaware of this simmering interest. Her
apprehension was due to the fact that she had not attended church since her
mother was alive. St. Andrews was small—Anna’s memory was of the beautiful
Duomo ni Napoli, and the chapel at the Palazzo Calabritto, where the English
legation had stayed.

This church was built of mellow stone, its arched windows in
triune pattern glorious with color. But what Anna detected with her trained ear
was how beautifully sound carried within those walls. Someone had understood
sound, and music, in building it.

The rhythms of the liturgy, the rise and fall of English
voices in the poetic cadences, reached back into her childhood memories. Even
the hymns evoked memories, her earliest love of music. She still did not
understand how she stood in relation to God, after her father’s alteration at
the end of his life from negligence to a desire for the comfort of absolution,
and the casual atheism of some revolutionaries followed by the evident relief
of many Parisians at Napoleon’s permission for the churches to reopen, and
following that the deeply ingrained religious traditions of Spain. What she
heard at the end of the benediction was the beloved voice of her mother
whispering, “God loves you.”

So, though few of Dr. Blythe’s parishioners heard his words,
Anna did. The sermon drew from Bible verses Anna had only the vaguest memory of
from childhood, but she felt comforted by Dr. Blythe’s homily, and his prayer
that Napoleon Bonaparte would find peace in his heart, that all the nations
might return to peace.

Then there were more liturgical responses. Anna remained
silent, for she did not trust her memory enough to follow what everyone else
seemed to know so well. So she rose when they did, sat, knelt, and bowed her
head, her spirit bathed in the comforting sound.

When they came out, there was Dr. Blythe. “Welcome among us,
Lady Northcote,” he said. He was a tallish, balding man with the light eyes so
common in this part of the world. Anna liked his smile.

Anna dipped a curtsey and thanked him, wondering if it would
be polite to comment on the service. But what was proper to say? She was
evidently not expected to say anything, for there was the sense of pressure
behind her. The line must move forward.

She stepped onto the flagstones before the church to
discover people gathered in little groups talking. She understood from the way
people came up to them, greeting them all, that the family was no longer
prevented from social intercourse.

Anna had a few moments to observe this before being confronted
by Mrs. Bradshaw, who made a bustle and business with her curtsey, then said in
a high, carrying voice, “Lady Northcote, I beg you will forgive me for this
presumption, but I simply
must
thank
you again for bringing us news of our dearest Beverley. I live in hopes of
receiving a missive—”

An arm slipped through hers. There was Emily, who gave Mrs.
Bradshaw the briefest of nods. “Come, your elder sisters-by-marriage are
waiting to be properly presented,” Emile said to Anna and gently but inexorably
led her away.

Anna glanced back apologetically at Mrs. Bradshaw, who performed
a small, jerky curtsey, her face flushed. “I trust my husband will bring news,”
Anna called over her shoulder.

Mrs. Bradshaw curtseyed again, then was lost from view as
Emily brought Anna to women wearing spinsters’ caps under their bonnets, their faces
familiar. As Emily performed the introduction, Anna remembered them from their
portraits, made when they were considerably younger: the Misses Penelope and
Caroline Duncannon.

Penelope appeared to have aged the most. There was a prim
set to her mouth, and lines furrowing her brow as she said, “I trust you will
forgive us for neglecting to call during the week, Lady Northcote.” Her voice
was deep, and Anna could hear the possibility of melody under those flat tones
as she went on. “But the family understands our case. Caroline and I are not to
be profligate; the carriage we usually hire was either in hire or it rained,
and then there was our duty to our brother’s mourning, which may, in the
strictest sense, now be regarded as permitting a quiet family gathering.”

A draft of cold wind blew a few remaining withered leaves
across the mossy flagstones. Anna shivered, glad of her sturdy gloves, and
Penelope pulled her black knit shawl closer about her as she began to inform
them how dreadful the weather had been this past week, and predicted a
worsening, as Caro’s bonnet turned.

Anna could not help glancing in that direction, but all she
saw was Dr. Blythe, who talked to an elderly couple, the woman all but hidden
in a worn calash, the man wearing a dun-colored coat shiny with age.

Dr. Blythe glanced their way—at Caro?

“Come, Caroline,” Penelope said sharply, interrupting
herself. How could Anna have thought that voice musical? “You will catch your
death standing about in this wind. It is time to depart.”

The social circle around the family broke up, parishioners
bowing and curtseying as the family moved to the carriage.

Harriet caught up with Anna, smothering a laugh behind her
gloved hand. “Penelope
would
think
that Caro still is attached to Dr. Blythe.” She chuckled. “Fancy that! He must
be fifty if he’s a day, and she’s nearing it. “

Anna thought of her father, who had been a year shy of fifty
when he met her mother. As a girl she remembered their shared smiles, and his
hands when he would pass behind Mama’s chair, how he would caress the back of
her neck, or touch her shoulder.

But she kept her thoughts to herself as Harriet rattled on,
“They probably want to talk about the school. Caro teaches the great girls in
household arts. Oh, Jupiter! Now that mourning is over Penelope is
still
going home with us. I ought to
have known. Guess who must sit back, which I don’t mind, but not with her sharp
elbow in my side, just so she gets out of ordering a Sunday dinner.”

Large as the coach was, they were a tight fit, Penelope
directing Caro and Harriet in the calmest manner to sit with their backs to the
horses. Then, with an air of sacrifice, she placed herself in the center of
them, leaving the opposite bench to the dowager, Emily, and Anna.