Page 3 of Love’s Refrain at Roslyn Court (Noble Hearts #2)
Three
ISAAC
I saac, to his mortification, was unwell for three days.
Never one to succumb to weakness, this sudden infirmity came as a shock.
Perhaps the rigours of his journey had taken their toll on his body as well as his spirit, for he found himself quite ill.
His mind was unsettled, his body both agitated and leaden, and he writhed and tossed under the blankets, unable to rouse himself, equally unable to submit himself to restorative sleep.
He soaked the sheets in perspiration more than once, and had some notion that a doctor was called in over his fever.
For nearly a full day he languished so, raising his head only to sip at warm broth and cold water and to take care of his personal needs, and then, on the second morning, he rose to stumble around his room, trying with limited success to read or write letters, before collapsing back into his bed.
Sir Neville had stopped in to visit on that second day. The man was gracious, as Isaac had expected of Henry’s father, and insisted that he remain at Roslyn Court for as long as he needed to recover completely.
“I will not hear of you departing until a week is out, at least. I hope you will remain longer still. We have little enough company, and I am surrounded by women. I would not object to some male company for a time. Have you any need to be elsewhere?”
Isaac contemplated his host. The man seemed sincere, this room comfortable.
Matthews was unobtrusive and helpful, and the countryside, from what he could see through his window, was lovely, with hills just high enough to be interesting and the promise of a picturesque village not far distant, if the steeple that poked its head above the rise of trees was any suggestion.
With no head to make other decisions at the moment, this seemed the easiest course.
“I must, at some point, visit my sister and tend to matters in London, but I have no pressing engagements at the moment. I will gladly stay the week to recover.”
“And, perhaps, longer. A full month, until the races in June, would do nicely for you. I always attend the races, and would enjoy your company. You can tell me about Henry, bring him back to life for a moment or two. That might ease my thoughts a bit. I shall let my wife know.”
Isaac nodded. His head was starting to throb again, and this invitation, this prospect of staying in a comfortable house with ample tea and biscuits and no expectations, was a boon.
He did not wish to be a burden, but Roslyn Court was far superior to the cheap rooms he had expected to find in London.
He would come into some money soon, but at the moment, he was husbanding his funds.
“Your kindness is welcome and appreciated.”
The older man bowed his head.
“You were a friend of Henry’s. You are always welcome here. Always.”
On the third day, still feeling quite unlike his usual self, Isaac decided to find his way about the house.
Roslyn Court was by no means extraordinary, but it was not without a great deal of charm.
Neither too large nor too small, too grandiose or too intimate in style, it seemed to fill the exact middle ground of what such a house, belonging to a minor but wealthy baronet, should be.
The rooms were well proportioned and elegantly furnished, and he was invited by Lady Poole to explore them at his leisure, since her husband was out with the horses.
He had the impression that this seemingly gracious gesture absolved the baronet’s wife of taking the trouble to show them to him herself. He did not object at all. He could not summon the energy to be charming at the moment.
He wandered first to the parlour where he had met the family when first he arrived.
It was, as per his earlier impressions, a bright and pleasant room, cheerily lit by a series of large windows behind pale curtains, each now flung open to allow the fresh May air into the space.
Sunshine streamed in and he paused to appreciate the scenery beyond, with the beautiful gardens and the rolling hills that crested above the surrounding curtain of trees.
Yes, this would be a fine place to recuperate for a few weeks. He should be comfortable here.
He decided to sit for a while and read. His sister had sent him a book, which had been waiting for him at Portsmouth, and which he now carried in a pocket. He sat first in this chair, then on that sofa, but the slim volume of poetry in his hand was insufficient to keep his attention.
Another room, perhaps. He resumed his wanderings.
He found a large dining room, a smaller breakfast room, a study that must be Sir Neville’s domain, a billiard room that seemed also to serve as a sort of library, and under a bank of skylights that lit a gallery above, a rather formal sitting room, presumably for the finest company.
Then something tickled his ears. Music. Somebody had begun to play a pianoforte, and rather well, from what he heard.
He followed the sounds to the very end of the far passage, on the opposite side of the house to the family’s parlour, and let his fingers rest on the door.
It was pulled closed but the catch had not engaged, and it swung open a crack under the soft pressure of his hand.
Through the wedge of space, he could see the lower part of a lady’s skirts as she sat upon the bench, as well as her hands that caressed the keys of the instrument.
Her face was not visible, but she played extremely well.
It did not take a trained musician to recognise this.
Her music was to the average parlour musician as Raphael was to the pencil scratches of a five-year-old.
He did not know this piece of music that thundered up and down the keyboard in raging arpeggios and crashing chords.
The melody, when it came, was unsettled and restless like him, never still, always shifting underneath even when it seemed calm, but it was somehow grounding as well.
The turbulent waves of sound ought to have sent him back to those terrible moments that haunted his head when he closed his eyes, but instead, he found the controlled chaos steadying.
How strange and unexpected the effects of music! He stood there, unmoving, as the hidden musician finished the piece, and began another, equally unknown to him, this time slowly and haltingly. She was clearly unfamiliar with it as well.
Then, after an ill-placed note, she stopped and let out a most unladylike exclamation.
Isaac could not hold back a chortle at the sound of it, and the musician’s gasp in response was audible.
“Diane? Is that you? Leave me to learn my notes in peace.”
Isaac pushed the door open enough to step through into the room.
A harp graced a spot near one window, near where a guitar and violoncello leaned against a padded cabinet.
Closer to the centre of the room, a beautiful pianoforte stood proudly before a collection of seats for listeners, and on the bench sat the one person he had not yet met.
This was the person half hidden in the shadows when he had arrived, the one who had not been present when he tried to show Henry’s drawings to the family.
And, from what he had heard when she let out her oath of frustration, the owner of the calm voice that had led Isaac through the worst of his torment and up to his room on that awful day.
She leapt to her feet, surprise etched on her face.
“Forgive me, Major Hollimore. I did not know anybody was listening.”
“No apologies needed, madam. There is little anybody can say that would shock an old soldier.” A grin twisted her lips for a moment, before she schooled her expression once more. She stood there, silent.
“May I come in? I am no musician, but I know exceptional playing when I hear it. It is… it is most welcome.”
She blinked, seeming to recollect herself.
“Yes, yes, of course, Major. I am learning my notes still, so please do not expect perfection.”
“You belittle your abilities to please, Miss…”
She was young, no more than two or three and twenty, and wore no cap. She was no servant, then, nor a married woman. Miss… who was she?
She understood his question at once.
“Miss Bradley. Sophia Bradley. We have not yet been introduced. I did not wish to intrude on the family when you first spoke to them about poor Henry, and came in late. You were already looking quite ill.” She stopped.
“Forgive me again. I seem to have a habit of telling you that you look dreadful.” The twist of a smile slipped through. “It was not intended that way.”
Isaac could not help his own grin from stealing across his face. The motion felt strange. How long had it been since he last smiled?
“I am not offended at all, Miss Bradley. Your kindness was most gratefully felt. But please—” he gestured to the pianoforte bench. “Do not let me stop your practising. I hope my presence will not bother you.”
He took a chair, off to the side where he would not disturb her, and she returned to her notes.
She worked through several passages, repeating sections and mumbling to herself about fingerings and voicing, and then after having set this piece aside, began to play something else again.
This one she clearly knew well. It was gentle and flowing, more a meditation of harmony and rippling sound than any tune he could find to hum.
Dum-da-dummmm, dum-da-dummmm… The gentle rocking of the low notes under that hypnotic thrum was a balm, soothing his troubled soul where nothing else had succeeded for months. ? *
If that first tumultuous onslaught of arpeggios and towering chords had somehow anchored him and given him a foothold from which he might face the onrushing storm, this new piece, then, calmed the raging tempests that battered him, easing the waves and dispelling the worst of the gales.
It was as a moment of tranquillity, the eye of the storm, perhaps, but a respite of calm all the same, and he almost wept from the sheer relief of it.
Each gentle ripple of the undulating bass line steadied him, each motion from one strong chord to the next took some of his burden, each repetition of that not-quite-melodic rhythm was cool water in the mouth of a parched man.
It brought relief, momentary peace, and most elusive of all, the promise of hope.
He sat, almost unblinking, as Miss Bradley caressed this meditation from the instrument before her, wanting it never to end, and when at last the final chord died away, all he could do was beg her to play it again.
She did not question him or argue, but simply set her fingers on those keys and repeated the piece, once, twice, three times more, until at last, he felt he could move.
“It is a remarkable piece of music,” was all she said when he thanked her.
“You cannot understand, Miss Bradley, how it made me feel.”
“No, perhaps I cannot, but I see it has had some powerful effect.”
“I feel I can rest now. Do you play every day?”
She nodded. “Most days, if I am not otherwise needed for something. I try to be useful.”
“Then I hope to hear you again tomorrow. Thank you.”
He rose and bowed, and returned to his room, where he slept without nightmares for the first time in months.
* ? Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata #14 in C-sharp minor, “Moonlight Sonata”, Adagio sostenuto (Op.27, 1801). The piece Sophia was playing when Isaac first heard her was the third movement from this sonata, Presto agitato .