“I suppose he feels he has a vocation.”

“Vocation, fiddlesticks! He can have a vocation for working here at home. Why does he want to go to one of these far off places. I said to him, ‘The heat will kill you, Mr. Brown, if the cannibals don’t.’ And I didn’t mince my words. I told him straight out that I for one should consider it his own fault.”

I was thinking of the quiet young man…and Edith. And I wondered whether his decision to go right away had any connection with his feeling for her. I was sorry for them both; they seemed like two helpless children caught up in their emotions.

“I’ve told the vicar to talk to him. Good curates are hard to come by, and the vicar is overworked. In fact I have thought of telling the vicar that the bishop might be able to help. If Mr. Brown was told by the bishop that it was his duty to stay…”

“Is Mr. Brown very eager to go?” I asked.

“Eager! The young idiot is determined. Mind you, since he told the vicar of his decision he has been growing more and more mournful every day. I cannot imagine how he could have got such a foolish notion. Just when the vicar…and I…had taught him to make himself so useful.”

“And you can’t persuade him?”

“I shall go on attempting to,” she answered firmly.

“And the vicar?”

“My dear Mrs. Verlaine, if I can’t persuade him, nobody can.”

What about Edith? I asked myself as I went into the house.

When I saw Edith that morning, I noticed how desolate she looked. She stumbled through the Schumann piece, not in time, playing several false notes.

Poor Edith—so young and so bitterly buffeted by life. I wished I could help her.


* * *

After I had played for Sir William, Mrs. Lincroft came into the room and said that he wished to speak to me.

I took the chair beside him and he told me that he had fixed a date for the occasion when he wished me to play for his guests.

“You could play for about an hour, I thought, Mrs. Verlaine, and I shall choose the music. I will let you know in good time so that you can run through it a few times if you feel that is necessary.”

“I should like to do that.”

He nodded. “My wife used to be rather nervous on these occasions. Mind you, she enjoyed them…but that was afterwards. She would never have been able to perform in public. It was quite different in the family circle.”

“I think one is always a little nervous when one is going to perform before an audience. My husband was and he…”

“Ah, he was a genius.”

He closed his eyes, which was an indication for me to leave. Mrs. Lincroft told me that he became tired suddenly and the doctor had warned her that when he showed the least signs of fatigue he needed absolute quiet.

So I rose and went away. Mrs. Lincroft came in as I was leaving. She smiled her appreciative smile. I had the notion that she liked and approved of me, which was pleasant.


* * *

The musical evening was obviously a great event.

The girls were always talking of it.

Allegra said: “It will be like old times…before I was born.”

“So,” Alice said gravely, “we shall know what it was like before we were here.”

“No, we shan’t,” contradicted Allegra, “because it’ll be quite different. Mrs. Verlaine will be playing instead of Lady Stacy. And then nobody had been shot nor committed suicide, nor got the gypsy servant into trouble.”

I pretended not to hear.

They were excited though because although they would not be at the dinner party, they were to be allowed into the hall to hear my playing, which was to take place between nine and ten o’clock.

They were having new dresses for the occasion and they were very pleased about this.

I had decided to wear a dress which I had not worn since Pietro’s death. I had worn it only once—on the night of his last concert. A special dress for a special occasion. It was of burgundy-colored velvet—a long flowing skirt, a tightly fitting bodice which fell slightly off the shoulders. On the front was an artificial flower—a mauve orchid—so delicately colored, so beautifully made that it looked like a perfect bloom. Pietro had seen it in the window of one of the boutiques in the Rue St. Honoré and had bought it for me.

I had thought never to wear that dress again. I had kept it in a box and never looked at it until now. I had told myself it would be too painful to look at it. Yet when I had known that I was to play before these people I had thought of this dress and I knew that it was just right for the occasion and that it would give me the confidence I needed.

I took the dress from its box, lifting it out from the layers of tissue paper and spread it on my bed. How it came back to me…Pietro…coming onto the platform, that almost arrogant bow; the quick searching for me, finding me and smiling, comforted because I was there, because he knew that I shared every triumph and that I cared as deeply for his success as he did himself, and at the same time he would be telling me: You could never have done this.

When I thought of that night I wanted to throw myself onto that soft velvet and weep for the past.

Put it away. Forget it. Wear something else.

But no. I was going to wear that dress and nothing must prevent me.

While I was looking at it the door of my room opened stealthily and Miss Stacy looked in.

“Oh, there you are.” She tripped to the bed. Her lips formed a round oh. “It’s lovely. Is it your dress?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t know you had anything so grand.”

“I had it…long ago.”

“Ah, when your famous husband was alive.”

I nodded.

She peered up at me and said: “Your eyes are very bright. Are you going to cry?”

“No,” I told her. And then to excuse my emotion, I added: “I wore it at his last concert.”

She did her mandarin’s nodding but I sensed her sympathy.

“I suffered too,” she said. “It was the same…in a way. I understand.”

Then she went to the bed and stroked the velvet.

“Bows of the same velvet would look so pretty in your hair,” she said. “I think I’ll have a new velvet dress. Not this color though…blue, powder blue. Don’t you think that will be pretty?”

“Very,” I said.

She nodded and went out, thinking, I was sure, of the powder blue velvet dress she would have and the little bows to go with it.


* * *

A few days later Sir William had a bad turn and Mrs. Lincroft was worried. For a whole day and night she scarcely left his room and when I did see her she told me he was a little better.

“We have to be very careful,” she explained. “Another stroke could be fatal and of course he’s vulnerable.”

She was clearly deeply moved and I thought how lucky he was to have such a good housekeeper who could at a moment’s notice become a first-class nurse.

I mentioned this and she turned away slightly to hide her emotion, I imagined. “I shall never forget,” she said, “what he has done for Alice.”

Because she seemed so overcome by her feelings I sought to change the subject briskly and said: “I suppose this means the dinner party will be canceled?”

“Oh no.” She was immediately in charge of herself. “Sir William has actually said he doesn’t want that. All arrangements are to go ahead. In fact he sent for Mr. Napier and told him so.” She frowned. “I was alarmed,” she went on, “because Napier always upsets him. It’s not his fault,” she went on quickly. “It’s merely the sight of him. He keeps away as much as possible. But on this occasion…it passed very well.”

“It’s a pity…” I began.

“Family quarrels are the worst,” she said. “Still, I think that in time…” Her voice faded away. “I believe when there are children…Sir William is very anxious that there shall be children.”


* * *

There was a knock on my door and Alice came in. She smiled demurely and said: “Mr. Napier wishes to see you, Mrs. Verlaine. He’s in the library.”

“Now?” I asked.

“He said at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Alice.”

She lingered and I wished she would go because I wanted to comb my hair before I went down to the library and did not want Alice to see me do it. She was a very observant girl.

“Are you looking forward to playing before all those people, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Well…I suppose in a way I am.”

I was taking surreptitious glances at my hair. It was untidy. I wished that I had piled it higher on my head because that gave me height; it gave me a look of dignity too. I smoothed down my dress. I wished I was wearing the lavender with a faint white stripe on it. That was most becoming. I had bought it in one of the little shops near the Rue de Rivoli. Pietro had liked me to have beautiful clothes—when he had become famous of course—even before that I had always been able to get the most out of clothes…in contrast to Roma.

Now I looked down at my brown gabardine dress. The cut was good, the dress serviceable, but it was not one of my best; and I wished that I had known this summons was coming.

I could obviously not change my dress but I could comb my hair. I did so while Alice still stood there.

“You look…pleased, Mrs. Verlaine,” she commented.

“Pleased?”

“Well…more than that. Different in a way.”

I knew that I must have betrayed the excitement of going into battle, for that was what it was like…having an encounter with Napier Stacy.

I went past Alice and down to the library. I had been in this room only once before, when I had been struck by the character of the oak paneling. There was a design of arches divided by pilasters which was surmounted by a frieze and a cornice. The carved ceiling was the most intricate in the house, and the arms of the Stacy, Beaumont and Napier families were entwined up there to make an intricate pattern.

One wall was entirely covered by the most exquisite piece of tapestry which had interested me immediately not only because of the fine weaving of wool and silk on a linen warp but because of the subject—Julius Caesar landing on these shores. Mrs. Lincroft, when she had shown me this room, told me that it had been started soon after the house was built and that it had been put away—forgotten for more than a hundred years. Then a member of the family having committed some misdemeanor at Court for which she had been banished, discovered the unfinished work and to while away her exile had completed it. In a house of this kind one was always stumbling on little incidents of this kind—links with the past.

The three other walls were lined with books; some in leather binding with gilt lettering, behind glass. There were Persian rugs on the parquet floor, the usual seats in the window embrasures, and a heavy oak table in the center of the room with several arm chairs.

There was an air of solemnity about the library. I could not enter it without imagining all the serious family conferences which must have taken place in it over the centuries. Here, I had no doubt, Napier had been interrogated after the shooting of his brother.

Napier, who was seated at the table, rose as I entered.

“Ah,” he said, “Mrs. Verlaine!” Those lights seemed to shoot up in his eyes making them a more dazzling blue than ever; I called them mischievous—but they were more than that. He was looking forward to an amusing quarter of an hour which he was going to make as uncomfortable for me as possible. “Please sit down.” His voice was silky. Dangerous, I thought.

“I suppose you’ve guessed that I want to talk to you about your performance. The tuners assure me that the grand piano on the hall dais is now in perfect condition, so everything should be satisfactory. I am sure you are going to delight us all.”

“Thank you.” So polite, I thought. Where is the sting?

“Have you ever played on the concert platform, Mrs. Verlaine?”

“Not…seriously.”

“I see. Did you have no ambitions to do so?”

“Yes,” I said, “great ambition.” He raised his eyebrows and I went on quickly. “Not great enough apparently.”

“You mean that you failed to reach the standard demanded?”

“I mean just that.”

“So your ambition was not strong enough.”

I said as coolly as I could: “I married.”

“But that is not the answer. There are married geniuses, I believe.”

“I have never said I was a genius.”