Rondo Allegro (66 page)

Harriet burst in right then, and Anna laid aside the
magazine as the words came tumbling out.

Anna almost laughed. Only the increasing stomach distress caused
by the spoilt tea kept her from giving in to the impulse. At the end, Harriet
said, “Marriage! I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Then you ought not,” Anna said. There were so few years
between them, and yet at times she felt ten years older, or more. No, it was
not the years, it was marriage that caused the gulf. Or, was it the wish to be
married?

She swallowed, wishing she had not drunk that tea. Making an
effort to quash the unpleasant sensations, she said, “One thing perhaps we
might consider, when the time comes, is your inviting Georgiana to stay in
London. Your brother has said he wishes to take me there to attend the theater.
Of course you will be with us if you wish.”

“A capital plan! Oh, Anna, you are a trump!” Harriet grabbed
Anna to hug her, then let go when Anna gave a gasp.

“I am sorry,” Anna said quickly. “That tea this morning.
Something was amiss. I should send Parrette to Cook . . .” She
suspended her sentence. “Excuse me.” Her voice was muffled by her handkerchief
as she left the room precipitately, and hurried upstairs.

She lay on her bed, eyes closed. Presently the door opened
softly, and Parrette’s quick step approached, her clothes rustling. “Anna, Miss
Harriet said you are ill?”

“Please. Tell Cook there was something bad in the tea. It
tasted wrong, but I drank it anyway, and it made me sick.”

Parrette was silent a moment, then she said in French, “When
was your last English visitor?”

Anna sighed. “I don’t remember . . . Christmas
week, I think.” She opened her eyes, reddening at the new idea that occurred.
“Do you think I am in child? But nothing happened before, and I thought it
impossible.”

Parrette laughed. “Impossible? No. I do know there was
nothing amiss with the tea. Everyone drank of it. But,” she said as Anna
started up, her hand pressed to her middle, “it is perhaps early days yet.
Anything can still happen—sometimes the English visitor comes late, or
something else goes amiss and it does not take. Oh, that we were in Naples, we
could get lemon so easily, or even root of ginger. But I know they have mint
laid away in the spice closet. I will get you some.”

Anna lay back to consider how she felt. As Parrette said, it
was early days. She would say nothing until she was certain.

o0o

Over the next few days, the unease persisted. Anna
discovered that if she ate plain food in small amounts, and drank hot lemon or
barley water, she was able to quiet the symptoms. That, in turn, enabled her to
go about her days without anyone asking awkward questions.

She recognized that the greater portion of her unsettled
spirits were due to the memory of her mother dying after the birth of her
little brother, who had scarcely outlived her.

Everyone had said that her age was the chief fault, that
women in their forties often succumbed to childbed fever. Anna was more than
ten years younger than her mother had been when she bore her, and she knew
herself to be in excellent health. But she would wait, just to be certain, and
to understand her own emotions. She did not want Henry sensing her worries.

And she was so very busy. There were teas and dinners to
attend, and with Harriet the afternoon dancing. She continued to read to Henry,
and occasionally pen letters for him that he did not wish to give to young Mr.
Bradshaw.

She also continued the girls’ lessons. For the first time
she did not leap about with Justina, though Parrette said that dancing was not
the least danger. The only women who languished about were rich ones. Everyone
else carried on exactly as usual. But Anna found that her stomach did not care
for twirling and leaping, at least not now.

On Thursday, the snow had thawed enough that she decided
that she needed fresh air, so she would go alone to pay calls. Harriet was
already gone, and she did not approach Emily, her excuse to herself that she
wished to practice her driving, but she knew she was avoiding the woman as much
as Emily avoided her.

She left the park phaeton, which required a team—she thought
of it as specifically Emily’s—and took out the simple gig.

As soon as she was out in the crisp air, the last melting
snows gleaming brightly in the light of the strengthening sun, she knew it was
the right decision. Her heart soared: in a few days, Henry’s physician would
arrive to examine him and perhaps take away the bandages that he had come to
hate. The little girls would have their governess in a fortnight, after Miss
Timothy was granted an opportunity to visit her family before she fixed herself
in her new situation.

And . . . Anna found she rather enjoyed her
secret, until she was absolutely certain.

She got her obligatory call on Mrs. Squire Elstead out of
the way first. Fulsome compliments about Lady Northcote’s being a true
proficient in the world of music, said in a tone that recalled those words
about malice, could not disturb her, but she was glad to get away.

Far pleasanter was her call on the Rackhams, where she found
Cicely Elstead, Harriet, and Jane with their heads together, planning some sort
of party.

She could not help but notice that the beautiful Cicely, who
all agreed would be the reigning belle of the parish when she was officially
presented to the world, was not as shy and retiring once away from her home.
She chattered as much as the rest of the girls, and her soft voice lacked the
angry undertone so distinctive in her mother and elder sister.

Anna stayed half an hour, Mrs. Rackham trying hospitably to
press her into partaking of jam-filled cakes and custard-tarts, then took her
leave. The slight increase in Anna’s queasiness prompted her to take the short
road to the rectory to break her journey to the Ashburns. Usually she left the
rectory until last, but she knew that Dr. Blythe’s generous housekeeper would
offer simple fresh-baked scones, whose plainness was what her stomach craved
now.

So she drove around to the church stable, where the rector’s
one-armed stable hand took her reins to walk the animal so it wouldn’t chill.
She thanked him, and had no sooner stepped inside when Mrs. Eccles approached
on tiptoe, her aspect excited.

“Lady Northcote,” she said in a whisper. “I would never
ordinarily take the liberty, but I know with you, there will be no resentment,
I trust?”

“No, not at all,” Anna said, intrigued.

“It is just that he would come instantly if he knew you had
honored him with a call, but right now, he is in the book room with—it is of
the first importance.” Mrs. Eccles touched her lips with her finger.

“I can call another time,” Anna said.

“Oh, that is not necessary. I am sure they are finishing up,
and he would be sorry to miss you. I could take you into the kitchen, though
I’ve pies in making, and flour everywhere.”

“I will take this opportunity to walk about,” Anna said,
knowing that the fresh, cold air would be good enough for now. “And you will
send for me when he is free?”

“I’ll send my Katie to come for you first thing. Thank you,
thank you, Lady Northcote. You are all goodness.”

Anna stepped outside again, thinking that if goodness were
the same as politeness, more of the world would be at peace, surely? She turned
her steps to the flagged path alongside the avenue of tall trees. The melting
snow was muddy from many feet, making her disinclined to step off the path,
until she discovered she had reached the front of the church.

The doors were open. She thought, why not step inside?

She had no plan in mind, but when she walked up the aisle in
the empty space, the light through the stained glass windows bright with
jewel-toned hues, she took a breath to test the sound, and tried a quick, soft
scale. And then another, and yet another.

Oh, that sound! The deeply resonant hush, the brilliant
light, the sense of peace, and her own awareness of deeply sustained happiness
like a pool beneath the continual flurries of the day’s activities, welled up
in her. She drew a proper breath, head back, hands out, and began to sing.

She had no idea that Dr. Blythe’s book room abutted the
little court between the rectory proper and the church. Of the three people in
the book room, two—the rector, and Caroline Duncannon, whom Henry had brought
on the excuse of visiting the school—were head to head in the most important
conversation of their lives.

Henry sat at a little distance, unsure whether he ought to
stay or go. He had told young Bradshaw to take the team for a gentle drive, as
much to get curious ears away as to keep the horses warm, or he would have
called for the boy’s help. But he disliked the notion of blundering about a
room he did not know, and so he sat silently, possessing himself with what
patience he could muster, until gradually a sound was borne in upon him.

Softly at first, so soft he was not certain it was even
real, but gradually increasing in volume, rose and fell a beautiful, bell-toned
soprano. He lifted his head to listen, his breath catching.

It was so like
the
sweet, pure voice, the one he had dreamed when he was struck down, fighting for
his life, which in turn echoed the glorious voice he had first heard years ago,
under that dome in Naples that smelled so strongly of fresh paint.

It was, of course, impossible, but grateful for the
miraculous gift of unexpected beauty, he intended to enjoy it just the same.
Was that “Madre Diletta” from
Ifigenia in
Aulide
?

A miracle indeed. He smiled when next came “Air pour les
mesmes” from Lully’s
Phaeton
, which
he had first heard as a midshipman in Rome.

And then, to crown them all, “Ah! Si la Liberté me Doit être
Ravie,” from Gluck’s
Armide
—a
heart-wrenching song of the triumph of love over hatred and revenge.

Midway through he was startled by a voice close by, “Who
is
that?”

It was Caroline, whispering in disbelief. Henry became aware
that the two had fallen silent.

Dr. Blythe murmured, “I hardly know. At risk of sounding
sentimental, it almost sounds as some celestial presence has wandered into my
church, does it not?”

Henry stirred. “I would never gainsay the possibilities of
miracles, but in this instance I believe there is a living woman singing, as
she made a false start on the Lully, and corrected the tempo on the Gluck. With
your permission, I would very much like to discover who that is. But can it be
done without disturbing the singer?”

Dr. Blythe said, “Perhaps if we go up the back, and look
down from the gallery?”

“Lead the way, will you?” Henry said, holding out his arm.

As they made their way, the two whispered together. “I am so
afraid that Penelope will be very disappointed in me.”

“Caroline,” Dr. Blythe murmured tenderly. “If you feel you
must wait—”

Henry stopped them. “Before we enter the church, permit me
to say one thing. For no good reason Pen has kept you two apart these twenty
years. If you flinch now, another day of possible happiness is lost to you.
Another week, another year.”

“But I do not know what to say to my sister.” Caro’s voice
trembled.

“I will speak to her, Caro. You need say nothing at all, and
if you feel trepidation at the prospect of stopping at Whitstead until your
wedding, then you must come to the Manor. You know my mother would like nothing
better than to arrange a wedding, and she was balked of mine.”

“He is correct, Miss Duncannon,” Dr. Blythe said
reassuringly.

“Very well, Henry. It shall be as you say. I know it is
selfish, but I am too happy to speak against you.”

“Good. Then pray let us enter the church; that aria is
nearing its end, and I must know who that singer is.”

There came an unpleasant interval as Dr. Blythe helped him
up the narrow stone staircase. They left Henry seated on a bench and passed
beyond him as the remarkable voice continued to shower them with brilliant
sound.

Then there was a step nearby, breaking the spell, and the
hiss of fabric as someone bent. Caro murmured in a breathless undertone,
“Henry, dear, I believe that is your wife.”

“Anna?”
Henry
exclaimed, then could have cut out his tongue as the singing stopped.

Below, Anna gave a start, her nerves flaring. “Henry?”

Dr. Blythe took Caro’s elbow. “Let us conduct Lord Northcote
downstairs, and leave him with his wife.”

With the parson’s large hand under one elbow and Caro’s
small one under the other, Henry stumbled his way down as fast as he dared.

Dr. Blythe and Caro left him in the transept. “Anna,” Henry
said, hands outstretched as he fumbled deeper into the church. The urge to rip
the bandage free had never been stronger. “Where are you?”

Anna rushed to take Henry’s hand. She, too, trembled,
bewildered to find him there. “Henry?” she said again.

“That
was
you,”
Henry exclaimed, his wits so scattered he could only repeat himself. “That was
you
, Anna? Come, let us sit down. That
was you singing? Why did you not tell me?”

Henry held her hands in such a tight grip she gave a little
wriggle, and he loosened his grip at once. “I dare not lose you,” he said.
“It’s almost like . . . no, I cannot explain it. Sayers told me
when I was lying in that infernal hospital at Gib that you had sung for the
sickbay, and the midshipmen were all in love with your voice—angels, genius—but
I put that down to trite expressions, and homesickness. I see now that I
entirely underestimated them. That was you, in Naples, was it not?”

“I—”

“Why not tell me? Why do you not sing, every day, at home?
Anna, there are very few things in the world that would give me greater
pleasure, give my
entire family
pleasure. Why would you hide this talent, this marvel of a talent?”