The River Rose (8 page)

CLINT BREATHED ON HIS wool-gloved hands and stamped to send some blood into his frozen feet. He was waiting on the courthouse steps for Eve Maxfield.

Finally he saw her carriage, and smartly the driver pulled up to the steps. Clint went and opened the door to hand Eve down. In a delicate cloud of flowery scent she alighted, and for a few moments Clint was bemused. She wore deep holly-green velvet and a velvet cape trimmed with that most royal of furs, ermine, a silvery-white with the signature black spots, which was the end of the white ermine's tail and the only color on them. Her hands were buried in a large ermine muff, and instead of a bonnet with the deep brim hiding the face, she wore a hat with a close-fitting leather crown and a wide band of ermine that framed her face. She looked magnificent. "Wow," he said gutturally. "Wow."

She smiled placidly. "Thank you. Please hurry, Clint. It is absolutely frigid out here." She led the way into the courthouse, followed by Clint and Eve's maid, a stolid, rather dour black girl named Beattie. Eve went past the grand staircase to a hallway behind, and walked into an office with an elaborate brass nameplate by the side of the door that read:
Judge Eugene Poynter, Esquire.

Clint followed her in and looked around the room curiously. He had never been in a judge's office. It was large, and on every wall were books from floor to ceiling. An enormous expanse of a mahogany desk was in front of a double window that looked out onto Court Street. Along one wall was a five-foot-high fireplace, and a great fire roared and snapped. Just to one side of the fireplace was Eve's harp.

"Oh, no, no!" she said angrily. "Look where those idiots put my harp! Right by the fire! Hurry, Clint, come and move it right now."

Obediently, he snatched off the purple velvet cover, lifted it, and gently placed it away from the fire in front of the judge's desk. Her dark eyes stormy, Eve took off her gloves and practically threw them and her muff to her maid. Then she strummed the strings of the harp and groaned, and Clint winced. "It sounds like a cheap Irish fiddle," Eve fumed.

"Yeah, it's definitely sour," Clint agreed. "But you've got time to tune it, Eve. They haven't even started the puppet show yet."

Eve retorted, "I have time to tune it! Whatever makes you think I tune my own harp? Mr. Lilley does it for me. We'll have to find him."

"You know he's working with the boy's choir and the Choristers," Clint said. "Besides, how hard can it be? I've seen you tune a string or two when they went flat during rehearsal."

"Tuning one slightly flat string is very different from tuning the entire harp! I can't do it!"

Clint moved to take her hands. "You
can
do it, Eve. C'mon, I'll help you."

She stared up at him. His eyes were intent on her face, and a slight smile played on his lips. "Yes, I can do this," she said softly. Turning, she ordered, "Beattie, wait outside." The maid silently disappeared, closing the door behind her. "I certainly don't want anyone seeing me fumbling around doing this," she grumbled.

"Except me," Clint said cheerfully. "You won't fumble around."

Eve moved around to the back of the harp, where the tuning pins were. She had told Clint that once Mr. Lilley had been standing in front of the harp, reaching over to the tuning pins, and he had tuned one wire much too sharply. It had snapped and whipped out, leaving a thin red streak on his jaw. After that he had always stood behind to tune, and Eve had no intention of standing in front and having a wire mark her face or put her eye out. She touched the pin for middle C and plucked it.

"No, no, it's—
aaaahhhhh,
" he sang a long note, and Eve tuned to it.

She went up an octave, found the correct peg, and plucked the string, turning the pin slightly to raise the tone. Frowning, she plucked the string again and again.

"You're plucking the wrong string, Eve," Clint said with a hint of impatience. "That's the D string."

Petulantly, Eve said, "I can't help it, it's all backwards. And I can't possibly reach over to pluck from the front, where it makes sense."

"Then just—oh, here, let me," Clint said, and went around to the back of the harp. He put his fingers on the correct tuning pin, then reached and plucked the correct string. Eve had not moved; he stood behind her, reaching around her to finger the harp strings. He seemed to have forgotten she was there. She stayed very still as he tuned, expertly and quickly. After a while she stole a look at his face; it was drawn up in fierce concentration, his eyes a dark midnight blue. With very small slow movements she moved back until she was against him, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.

"I didn't know you could tune a harp," she said softly.

"Neither did I. 'Course, you're not making it very easy on me. Kinda hard to concentrate. That perfume you're wearing is hypnotic." Still, he efficiently plucked strings, played chords, tried octaves.

"I wish I could hypnotize you, Clint," she said. "Then I could make you do whatever I wanted."

"Mmm-hmm," he said absently.

She decided to wait until he had finished, and it didn't take him long. He brushed the strings, and the familiar web of notes filled the air in the room. "Now try it," he said with satisfaction.

She turned and put her arms around his neck. "In a minute," she whispered. Then she pulled his head down and kissed him passionately. Clint responded with heat, for he was a full-blooded man and she was voluptuous. His hands went around her waist and he pulled her close to him. She moved to whisper, "My parents are going to a friend's plantation next week for a New Year's celebration. Will you come visit me, Clint?"

"Never say no to a lady," he said, and kissed her again.

They were still kissing when the door opened and Choirmaster Lilley popped in. "Ah—er—ah—" he said, blushing a fiery red.

Neither Eve nor Clint blushed. They merely let go of each other and turned to the poor little man. "Yes, we're ready, Choirmaster," Clint said with a devilish glint in his eye. "As you can see, we're already warmed up."

Without a word, Mr. Lilley whirled and almost ran out the door.

Eve said, "You're wicked."

Clint said, "Madam, you would know."

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

The Christmas puppet show was wonderful, and when it was over the children shouted, "More! More! Again, again!" but the puppeteers took their bow, men came to remove the theater, and the narrator made his bow and left the stage. The children rejoined their parents, and the City Council members, judges, dignitaries, notables, and wealthy planters and their families all filed into the front of the stage to take their seats on the benches that had been brought out from the courtroom.

Marvel came running back to Jeanne, her eyes shining. "What's next, Mama?"

"The Calvary Choristers are going to sing for us, and it's my understanding that they are very good, as good as a professional opera troupe," Jeanne said, taking her hand. "Would you like to go get close to the stage, over on the side there by the stairs?" Of course no one could stand at the front of the stage and block the view of the important persons seated on the benches.

Ruefully, Marvel looked at the wide empty front expanse of the bandstand. "Angus says that we call them 'swells.' He wouldn't tell me what they call us."

"Angus O'Dwyer is ten years old and he doesn't know everything," Jeanne said dryly. Taking Marvel's hand she said, "Come with me. I'll get us close to the stage and hold you up so you can see."

The bandstand floor was four feet high, which was about ten inches over Marvel's head. Jeanne wormed her way through the gathering crowd until she had a spot right at the corner, with only three people in front of her. She hoisted Marvel up to rest on her hip, just as she had done when she was a toddler.

The Choristers were coming onto the stage, beautifully dressed women in wide hoop skirts and frilly bonnets, and men in fancy double-breasted topcoats with brass buttons and beaver top hats. Behind them came three violinists, and Jeanne was a little surprised to see that they were dressed in workingmen's rough clothing. Last was a little doll-like girl with golden curls, dressed in maroon velvet and carrying a flute. She took a seat on one of the four chairs for the instrumentalists and her feet didn't touch the ground. The violinists strummed a few strings, the little girl made a couple of experimental notes. Then the choirmaster in a white surplice came to stand in front of the group.

He held up his slender baton for long moments, and then at his signal the choir started singing "It Came Upon a Midnight Clear." After a few bars Jeanne and Marvel exchanged satisfied looks. The Calvary Choristers were indeed good musicians, the men's voices deep and sure, the women's clear and clean. Even the three violinists, who looked as if they would be more at home fiddling a romp in a saloon, played well. The sweet notes of the flute were perfect.

When they were on the next-to-last stanza of the song, Marvel and then Jeanne were momentarily distracted by a small stir at the steps. They couldn't see exactly, but people moved away from the steps, murmuring slightly. Then the hymn ended, and a man walked up the steps carrying a great purple-clad triangular-looking thing, bearing it easily aloft as if it were a standard. Behind him came a proud-looking lady sumptuously dressed in velvet and furs, and her maid followed behind, her head down. The crowd murmured in low tones, and Jeanne heard someone say, "It's a harp."

The man set the harp down and began to untie the gold satin ties that held the fabric to the harp's shape. Jeanne studied him curiously. He was a muscular man, with dark flashing eyes and rugged features. He wore a shabby but clean brown wool jacket, canvas duck trousers, and sturdy brogans. Instead of a hat he wore a dark flat cap. At first glance, from his dark features, he seemed a looming, brooding man, but he wore a cheerful bright red muffler with a big sprig of holly tucked into it, and when he looked up at the lady he smiled, and looked warm and pleasant. She stood watching behind, like a distant queen, her hands tucked into her opulent white fur muff.

The man stood and pulled the velvet casing off, and it was a grand concert harp, the pillar almost six feet tall and covered with gold leaf. The pillar was topped with an elaborate golden crown. He knelt to check the pedals, and for the briefest moment he glanced around the crowd. When he saw Marvel, his eyes crinkled a little at the corners, and he winked at her. Marvel's eyes widened and then she giggled. Now the man looked straight into Jeanne's eyes. She met his gaze squarely, but then grew a little uncomfortable and felt herself blushing. But she didn't turn away from him. For some odd reason, she felt drawn to him. But he gave her a quick nod, then looked down at his task.

"He winked at me, did you see?" Marvel whispered to her, for the crowd was waiting and watching quietly, with only low murmured words.

"I did see. I'm sure it's because he thinks you're the prettiest girl here," Jeanne whispered back.

"Do you think he's married to that beautiful lady?"

Jeanne almost laughed aloud. "No, darling, they aren't married. I think he's probably just carrying her harp."

"But—" Marvel started to say, but just then the man stood and retrieved a small padded stool from someone at the foot of the steps that was holding it up. He placed it behind the harp's pillar, then turned to the grand lady. Slowly she took her hands out of her muff, handed it to her maid, took off her gloves and handed them, then raised her arms to pull the ermine cape back off her shoulders. Taking the man's hand, she delicately took a seat on the stool and pulled the harp to rest on her shoulder.

The man turned, walked to the center of the stage where he stood alone, took off his cap and held it with both hands in front of him, then turned and nodded to the lady. Soft haunting harp music wafted delicately on the still air, and the man began to sing.

Ave Maria! Gratia plena
Maria Gratia plena . . .

At the first sound of his voice, Jeanne, and many others she was sure, took a sharp indrawn breath. She felt Marvel gasp. His voice was resounding, rich, and powerful. It rolled over them, and they forgot the cold. He sang into a profoundly reverent silence.