Page 14 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)
Fourteen
SOPHIA
S ophia approached the beautiful pianoforte with awe.
If it sounded nearly as lovely as it looked, it would be a wonderful instrument.
A pretty case, of course, could disguise a dreadful interior—look at all those beautiful people with hearts of stone, after all—but one seldom put such effort into crafting such a musical instrument without paying equal attention to the inner workings and a lovely sound.
She lifted the lid and let her fingers trail over the keys, running them up and down the keyboard without making a sound.
It was this first, silent touch, where she felt she was introducing herself to the instrument, asking if it would become her friend.
Much, she laughed to herself, like one would approach a horse with an apple before attempting to ride it.
“Do play something,” Mrs Ashburton called from across the room. “I should so love to hear a true proficient play it.”
“And I am not a proficient?” Mr Bladestock laughed. “I am wounded. Wounded, I say. Mortally so.”
“Silly man!” He and Mrs Ashburton were clearly good friends to tease each other so. As if hearing her thoughts, Mrs Ashburton explained, “I have known John longer than I have known William. Indeed, it was John who introduced us.”
“And a lovelier and better suited couple I have never known,” Mr Bladestock grinned back.
“I am delighted my friend has made such a grand match. Now, Miss Bradley, let us hear what songs this instrument can sing.” He sat down, crossed his legs at the knee, and relaxed into the embrace of the chair, waiting.
Thus encouraged, Sophia took her seat at the pianoforte and tried an exploratory scale, then some arpeggios. The action was good, and the sound rich and warm.
“It has a full five-and-a-half octaves,” Mrs Ashburton boasted, “exactly like the one Mr Beethoven plays upon. I would have been happy with my old smaller fortepiano, but my father insisted on purchasing this for me as a wedding present. I can only hope one of my children will learn well enough to do it justice.”
“It is loved,” Sophia said, “and that is surely enough.”
She played another scale and some short figures, and then began a simple piece that she knew well. Outside, she caught the flickering images of the others amusing themselves at some game, but her attention was entirely on the instrument and the music piled up on the table beside it.
Sophia selected a piece, set it on the stand, and began to play, letting the world dissolve around her.
The hours slipped by. After she finished her sonata, Mrs Ashburton presented her with the music to a set of Italian songs? * , and then some arias from the most popular operas that entertained people on the London stage.
Mr Bladestock had been correct: Mrs Ashburton’s voice was quite lovely.
It was rich and clear, without muddiness or nasal tones, and she had a supple technique that matched anything Sophia had heard from the opera singers who occasionally came from London to sing at a musicale or soirée.
“Delightful! Just wonderful!” Mr Bladestock cried when they paused at last to rest and take something to drink. “I have never heard better. What a treat for the ears. Do you not think so, Ashburton?”
And, indeed, their host stood in the doorway, admiration in his eyes.
“Perfectly splendid!” His words were directed at both musicians, but his eyes were fixed entirely on his wife.
As the ladies took some refreshments, Mr Ashburton played. He was an adequate performer at the pianoforte, and likely fine enough to accompany his wife’s beautiful singing, but nowhere close to Sophia’s abilities.
But it was the violoncello that lay on its thick side against one wall that caught Sophia’s attention. She glanced to Mr Bladestock, who answered with a wide grin and a nod.
“You must hear him play, my dear,” Mrs Ashburton said, noticing this exchange. “He is quite gifted.”
And, indeed, no sooner had Mr Ashburton sounded the final notes to his short piece than Mr Bladestock strode over to collect his instrument. He adjusted the bow and tuned the strings, and began to play.
It was a short piece, and quite simple, little more than a student’s exercise, but it was clear this man had a natural gift. And, when he had finished and handed some music to Sophia, she was quite eager to accompany him.
They began with a sonata for violoncello and pianoforte, which he knew well, but she needed to learn better, and then attempted to play through an arrangement of a concerto.
His fingers flashed over the ‘cello, rapid and strong, and the bow which danced in his other hand coaxed a symphony of sounds from the instrument.
Thunderous applause greeted them when they concluded the piece, the music having drawn all the rest of the party in from the gardens. “Wonderful!” they cried, and “Very good, very good!” and all were beaming their approval as they clapped long and loud.
Except for Isaac, who stood alone by the window, sadness etched on his face and pain searing his eyes.
What had she done? Sophia peered at Isaac through the lashes of her lowered eyes as he sat beside her in the carriage that rumbled its way back to Roslyn Court.
She had thought them friends… perhaps her heart wished for something more.
And they had, indeed, been on very pleasant terms until these last days.
Suddenly, he was distant and cold, not quite angry, but bordering on sullen. She could not account for it.
Had she said something to offend him? Offered some unwitting insult, or otherwise occasioned his bad opinion? She replayed every conversation in her mind, but could think of nothing she had said or done to bring about this unhappy change of heart.
He had seemed quite content to be with her until recently.
She recalled their walks to the village and back or around the lake with pleasure, and he had seemed quite content—eager, even—to be near her when she took to the keyboard to play that evening.
It could not have been anything Louisa had said during their forced ride to the arbour, because even now, she recalled his look of undisguised admiration when she took off her cloak that evening at the Wrights.
Could—
Oh no! Could it be that?
Isaac had been perfectly content until she had played that evening. Until she had been at the keyboard, with Mr Bladestock at her shoulder, turning the pages of her music. Could he be jealous? Could he possibly think…?
Furrowing her brow, Sophia let her thoughts turn to Mr Bladestock.
It made sense, now that she considered it.
Unlike Isaac, Mr Bladestock was a musician.
Isaac was musical, in that music seemed to speak to his soul, just as it did hers, but Mr Bladestock played.
He knew his composers, he had similar experiences learning and developing his skills.
He was, in many ways, well suited to her.
But while she enjoyed making music with Mr Bladestock, while she was quite pleased to spend time talking to him about music, and presumably art and theatre as well, should his tastes extend to those arts too, his was not an acquaintance she felt could grow into anything deeper.
He was animated and keen, but he lacked the depths of understanding that had drawn her to Isaac.
His character, like his performance on the violoncello, was bright and outwardly appealing, but it lacked something else, something soulful and profound, that she had found in the broken soldier, despite that man’s bouts of melancholy and terrible dreams. Perhaps, conversely, it was the very experiences that had afflicted him that had, in turn, brought out something in his very essence that she found attractive.
Call it an understanding of tragedy, or the sympathetic cognisance that experienced pain can engender, it endeared him to her in a way that Mr Bladestock could never hope to achieve.
But Isaac, as much as his own tragedies opened him to a more caring understanding of others, could not know her own heart.
Nor did it matter. He would not marry her; she could not expect any man to do so.
She carried with her the indelible ignominy of her scandalous parents, and the real danger that such behaviour was in the blood.
A mother who ran away with a lover; a father who took his own life.
These were not the connections any man of sense would wish to have, and certainly not one destined to be a viscount.
No, no matter which of these two gentlemen she preferred—Isaac or Mr Bladestock—she was destined for neither one. Her lot was a life of service. She could never marry.
Sophia closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the squabs as the carriage jolted along the lane.
Sir Neville’s coach was the very picture of modern comfort, with the latest springs and the softest cushions, but nothing could entirely compensate for the uneven rock-strewn road that ran between Clarehurst and Roslyn Court.
She felt the beginnings of a headache tease her temples, and each bump and lurch, minor though they might be, made it worse.
She rubbed at the back of her neck. It offered some small relief to the growing pain behind her temples, but none from the pain that was growing in her heart. She was coming to realise that she liked Isaac far too well for her own good. It would only bring heartbreak and misery.
The ear-splitting shout from the driver’s box wrenched her from her melancholy musings.
That bellow was followed at once by a crack, the wild whinnying of the horses, and a great lurch that sent the carriage rocking.
“What is it? What is happening?” exclaimed Louisa, while Diana emitted a muffled cry. Sophia believed she called out as well, but in the moment of chaos, she could not be certain that voice was hers.
The hushed silence of the vehicle from a moment before was ripped away, replaced by the unreality that comes with unexpected chaos, and it felt like the whole world was being flung into madness.
Then, as quickly as the commotion began, it stopped.
There came a stifled curse from the coachman, and the carriage righted itself, to continue in its normal path.
“What is it, Robert?” Louisa called, now having caught her breath. She was still breathing quickly, but she was quickly regaining her accustomed poise.
“Nothing, Miss. Sorry about that. Just a fox darted across the lane, scared the horses. No harm, only a little bump. We’ll be home in no time now.”
“Well, thank goodness for that,” Louisa breathed. “Are you alright, Diana?”
Her sister’s eyes were still wide from the shock, but she soon began to laugh at their little adventure.
“A fox! All that for a fox! What a silly creature. Sophia? Are you well?”
“Perfectly fine, other than a small headache.”
But one person was not fine. When she turned her head to ask after Isaac, she let out another cry, this time of despair.
His face under his hat was as white as the points of his shirt collar and his mouth a grim line under wide, unseeing eyes.
Afraid for a moment that he had been seriously injured, Sophia grabbed at his hand to find his fingers clenched into tight fists, quite too tense to loosen, and his breath came in short, rapid pants.
“Isaac? Isaac? What is wrong? Answer me!” she shouted, but although she was inches from him, she received no response.
“Robert! The major is ill. Home, as quickly as you can,” she called to the coachman, her voice sounding quite desperate to her ears.
At once, the coach picked up speed. No more incidents hindered their way, and within short minutes, they were before the front doors to Roslyn Court.
Robert shouted something to a footman from his perch, and two servants hurried out to help the stricken man before the ladies could alight from the vehicle.
Through all this, Isaac remained white-faced and stone-silent. Sophia hurried along beside the two servants who carried him into the house and to the closest small sitting room with a sofa long enough to lay him on.
“A cool compress for his head,” she called to whoever would hear her, “and something to drink… some wine, or sherry, something sweet. Matthews,” she looked up to see the young man who had been appointed Isaac’s valet, “loosen his cravat, and let us undo some of the buttons on his coat and waistcoat so he can breathe more easily. Perhaps somebody can remove his boots…”
Through all this, Louisa and Diane stood at the doorway, wringing their hands, until their mother came to shoo them away. This was no place for a lady.
But nothing would induce Sophia to leave him. Even if she could not help, she needed to be near him, in case he needed her.
Then she knew what to do. He needed music. The pianoforte was too far, but there was that little guitar. Music had helped him before, and might help him now.
But when she turned around to ask somebody to bring it, nothing prepared her for the look of fury on the face of her aunt, who glared at her from the doorway.
* ? Vincenzo Righini, Three Italian Songs, arranged by Joseph Karl Ambrosch (1810)