Rondo Allegro

  When she and Miss Shaw arrived, shedding snow in clumps, Peg and Polly were already there with their sewing, the first with linens, the second with Miss Harriet’s newest set of handkerchiefs. Noll was also there, sitting by the fire repairing horse tack. Bringing Miss Shaw to add to their party was a way to add another voice, Parrette thought, to put another obstacle between her and John-Coachman.

  Not that the conversation ever transgressed into the personal. The closest they ever got was in talking about how they both had a son at sea, and they had compared notes on how little one heard of their dangers: Parrette had written to her son, but had yet to hear back, and the Cassidys had said that they rarely received post more than twice in a year, though the letters, when they came, might arrive in a bunch.

  The conversation was so easy and general that Miss Shaw began to relax. It was as if the threat of her mistress in the next building had been removed, enabling her to participate in the conversation, innocent as it was, as they all went about their work.

  When the clock on the mantel tingled ten times, Polly joined Miss Shaw and Parrette in trudging through the drifts of still-falling snow back to the house.

  Polly followed Parrette to her room, round-eyed with interest. “How did you get Miss Shaw to speak?”

  “I asked,” Parrette said wryly.

  “We all tried to talk to her last summer,” Polly retorted good-naturedly. “She wasn’t having any of us.”

  “She said that her mistress might turn her off for familiarity,” Parrette said.

  “Familiarity,” Polly repeated in affront, eyes flashing wide. “As if Mrs. Diggory wouldn’t turn us off, did we dare! But Ned and Thomas never come in our way, Mr. Diggory sees to it.”

  Parrette said, “Might there be another meaning to this word?”

  Polly shivered in her shawl, putting her mind to the problem. To her, familiarity meant one thing: walking out with a young man, which was strictly forbidden. “Could it? All I know is, Miss Shaw is the third maid in as many years, and that was after Betsy, who grew up in the squire’s house, and was promoted to lady’s maid. She’s now doing for Jane Rackham, a far better place, she says.”

  Parrette suspected that this conversation was precisely what Lady Emily Northcote would define as ‘familiarity,’ but she did not like Lady Emily Northcote, and further, knew that Polly could not be turned off by the widow. That was now Anna’s prerogative. “Why was Betsy sent away?”

  “Because her ladyship caught Lord Northcote following after Betsy up the stairs one morning, when he thought her ladyship was gone calling, and she came back to change her hat. Betsy was in a wax—tried to put him off—but it was she who had to go. The same happened to Miss Porter, the governess, and right after that the next lady’s maid, but she was pert, and Mrs. Diggory said she was making eyes at him,” Polly said. “We all thought, good riddance to bad trouble, for she was on the catch for Ned, too.”

  “And then?” Parrette asked.

  “Her la’ship discovered the next one sitting over tea with Miss Cooper.” She named the elderly maid who had been taking care of the dowager for thirty years, who customarily sat with Mrs. Diggory in the housekeeper’s sitting room. “It being her night off.”

  “That would be this familiarity, I suspect,” Parrette said.

  Polly’s eyes widened. “A good gossip over tea is familiarity? The things you learn! All I know is, Mrs. Diggory said we mustn’t be anything but polite to anyone new come to do for her. And a shame, too, because until you came, Miss Shaw had the neatest way with repairing lace, and can turn a seam so you scarcely notice it’s there. But we dursn’t speak to her, not if it was ever so.”

  o0o

  The next morning, when Anna went up to give Eleanor her lesson, she discovered Justina and Harriet dancing about the crowded room. Watching the child’s quick steps, an idea occurred to Anna.

  At first Justina had sometimes tried to sing because her sister sang, but she was either too young to land on the note, or she hadn’t an ear, and Eleanor fretted that Justina was dragging her off key. Now Nurse kept her aside, and Anna had noted that mutinous little face. It wrung her heart, making her feel guilty that she was giving the one sister something and denying the other.

  After the singing lesson, she went to Justina, who was listlessly cutting up paper. “Would you like to learn to dance?” she murmured.

  Justina’s eyes widened. She bridled, and said in a shrill voice, “Harriet teaches me.”

  That voice sounded unpleasantly like Mrs. Squire Elstead. Wondering if she was deepening her error, Anna said, “That is good. If you do not want lessons with me, it is fine.”

  Justina held onto her resentment for two heartbeats. As Anna began to turn away, she said quickly, “I want lessons.”

  “Then come with me.” To Nurse, she said, “I will bring her back.”

  She took Justina’s thin little hand in her own, and led her through the upstairs to the old wing, and thence to the gallery. As soon as they entered this long, shadowy room, bisected by occasional slants of light, the little girl shivered. “I’m cold. I hate this place.”

  Anna was now feeling that sick sense that she had made a grave error. But she draped her cashmere shawl around the little girl, who preened, running her fingers over the soft fabric. Anna said, “Watch me. If you want to learn this, I will teach you. If you do not, then we will return to the schoolroom.”

  Giving her legs a couple of quick swings to ease tight muscles, Anna moved to the center of the room, and then danced down the middle, combining the leaps and twirls she had performed over and over with Lise and Ninon, and then ended with the Spanish zarzuela.

  Then, warm and breathless, she returned to Justina, who flung off the shawl as if it were an old rag, and demanded, “Teach me that!”

  “I could try,” Anna said. “But can you do this?” She stood in third position, her feet turned out in a line.

  Justina struggled to emulate, her balance wobbly.

  “Then this?” Anna lifted her leg straight up.

  Justina tried to kick, and nearly fell. Her brow drew down, and her lip quivered.

  Anna pointed to her feet. “All dancers begin with the simple steps, and then you learn and build strength.” She recollected her early days, the painful struggle, and resolved to stick with the basic five positions. “They do them again and again, until they are perfect. Exactly the way you practice your alphabet, that one day you might write letters beautifully.”

  Justina was silent, struggling with disappointment that she was not to get taught that beautiful whirling dance. But at least her sister was not getting this much!

  So she obediently mimicked each of the five basic steps, and the proper way to get to each.

  Anna finished by saying, “You may practice those in the schoolroom. When you get them exactly right, I will teach you how to lift your legs and arms.”

  They returned to the schoolroom, where Eleanor turned away, looking hurt.

  Later that day, Anna brought Eleanor down to the drawing room with its leaping fire, where she could hear the notes played true on the fortepiano. Eleanor was delighted, and Anna, as teacher, found her opportunity to sing, as she could not go on her walk.

  She had trusted in the family’s habit of each departing to separate parts of the house, but the dowager, drawn by the sound of the fortepiano, entered in time to hear Eleanor singing the last part of “Norah, Dear Norah.”

  The dowager paused inside the door, holding her breath. At the end, she clasped her hands, her spectacles twinkling in the reflected firelight as she exclaimed, “I did not know we have a genius budding in our midst!”

  Eleanor flushed with pride. But she was at heart a truthful girl, and she had forgiven her idolized preceptress for taking Justina away for dance lessons. She exclaimed, “Oh, you must hear Lady Northcote. She sings like an angel.”

  “Then we have a house full of angels,” the dowager retorted with good humor, treating the trite expre
ssion as childish enthusiasm. “For your mother is also acclaimed for her celestial voice.”

  “Mama is a beautiful singer,” the child said loyally.

  “Indeed she is,” Anna said, glad to have the subject of her own singing shifted. “Would you like to try ‘Toll for the Brave’?”

  Eleanor, much shocked, whispered, “Oh, no. Is it not to be a surprise for Mama, and Uncle Northcote? What if he chances to come in, before it is ready?”

  Anna knew that her husband was in the library with Diggory, wrestling with estate matters, but she would not gainsay the little girl. “You are quite right. We should not like to spoil the surprise.” And then, suspecting the real reason the dowager had come in, “Shall we listen to Grandmama play instead?”

  The dowager had indeed come in to sit down to the instrument. She warmed up by playing some of Harriet’s favorite airs, knowing that her younger daughter was restless being confined to the house. Soon Harriet and Anna were practicing their dance steps, which Eleanor begged to join; when Nurse appeared to check on her charge, Justina took one look and began to grizzle at being left out of the fun.

  She was pulled into the circle. They made so much noise that Henry, finished consulting with the butler on household affairs, was drawn hither.

  Mindful of what he had told her about noise, Anna said instantly, “We are become too loud. Perhaps a quieter game?”

  “No, no,” Henry said. “Pray continue. It sounds festive, and I would not interrupt for the world.”

  They continued for a short time until Justina, unused to being in company, became shrill and over-excited. Nurse took the little girls upstairs. Harriet followed, promising to read to the wailing Justina, and the dowager turned to her more serious music with an air of determination.

  Henry groped with his hand, palm open, fingers slightly cupped in what Anna had begun to recognize as his gesture of question. It was a gesture he used only for her, and she came to him at once. “I am here,” she said, suppressing the questions he hated.

  And he said as soon as they closed the door behind them, “I’m fine. Shall we go into the book room?”

  When they reached it, he said, “Truth to tell, I am astonished to discover that I survived Justina’s screeching without my skull shattering. That puts me in mind of a question. Mrs. Diggory tells me that the Rackhams have promised their Jane that her governess can go when she turns eighteen this March. Mrs. Diggory recommends her for those girls, who ought to have had a governess these two years. But she says that Mrs. Squire Elstead has taken it upon herself to find out a governess on her daughter’s behalf. What do you think?”

  “I do not think my opinion is wanted by Lady Emily Northcote,” Anna said.

  “But I want your opinion,” Henry said. “I am the one having to pay the salary. Have you met this Miss Timothy?”

  “Oh, I have, two or three times, when I have gone to the Rackhams to dance. She is a good woman, liked by everyone. Her French is excellent, I found that out when the others insisted we speak together, and Jane is very well read. Also, she plays well. Mrs. Rackham likes to play for these parties, but she is not always free to do so, and Miss Timothy performed that office.”

  Anna thought about how Miss Timothy had with a quiet look quelled Harriet and Cicely Elstead’s romping when it threatened to become shrill, then said slowly, “She also seems to have a good way with discipline.”

  “That is what I wanted to hear,” Henry said, well pleased. He loathed the idea of anyone chosen by Mrs. Squire Elstead coming into his house; he would tell Mrs. Diggory to cut out Mrs. Squire Elstead before she could land her spy in their midst. “I will put it to Emily on her return, and if she agrees, that will settle the matter. There is a deal else to be done, no thanks to my brother. But death, we are told, forgives a multitude of sins, so the least said the better. If you are at liberty?”

  “I am.”

  “The post was got in finally, and there’s a significant pile of letters. Will you read them to me?”

  She went to the desk, and began slitting seals as Diggory saw to it they were brought warm sandwiches and tea.

  The top letters held little interest for Anna: a long screed from the solicitor listing creditors’ bills outstanding; a begging letter from a fellow captain Henry had not seen for a dozen years, seeking a place for a young son should Henry return to sea; another naval friend writing from the North American station, wanting details of Nelson’s last battle; a third sea captain who wished for his old friend, a hero of Nelson’s Glorious Last Action, to speak to the Admiralty on behalf of his son, a new-made lieutenant, who longed for a place aboard a frigate where there might be hope of prize-money.

  The fourth was from Lt. McGowan, who had been sent to London with dispatches.

  Sir: I trust you will forgive me, not knowing how you ought to be addressed. That is, I know you are now Lord Northcotte, but is it Captain Lord Northcotte, now you are between commands? At any road, Captain Sayers, on learning that I was to be Sent, bade me write a Letter if I was in time to witness the Admiral’s funeral. We having had a topgallant breeze into the Bay of Bis-Quay, we not only set t’gans’ls but—

  “Anna, you can skip over the details of the wind and matters of sailing, if you like. I expect it is long and detailed.”

  Anna ran her eyes down the closely written page. “It is,” she said, and turned over the paper. “Here is where he reaches Portsmouth . . .

  …everything decked in black, flags a-flying from Grennitch all the way to St. Paul’s. A mate of mine from Orion, 74, saved out space for me at Temple Barr, and there we were squeezed. It was altogether a sad Crush, but they were for the most Part sillent, so you could hear the tattoo of the muffled drums over the clop of horse hooves in the train of Carriages. In the distance the boom of cannon salute.

  Before the Admiral’s body was in approach there was a great deal of shoving, and trying to see, but when it drew near the Sillence was profound, and when it was nigh, it was as if some angel cried “Hats off,” because there was no Order spoken, but we all doffed our Scrapers . . .”

  Anna turned the page, glanced up, and saw Henry with his hand shading the bandaged eyes. She had seen that tension in the line of his shoulders, down to his long hands, on the first day. “Shall I cease?”

  “No. Please. Do go on.”

  “There is very little more.”

  And after that, the great press kept us from getting anywhere near the Church, so I cannot report on anything better than the newspapers. But I promised to write what I did see, and though we did not accompany him all the way, there was a sense of shared grief on us all as we moved away.

  There is little more to tell: Mr. Leuven has decided to retire, and Jorgensen is now surgeon. He said to thank you again for the Music you sent along of Capt. Sayers, and that they still play Bach. I carry everyone’s Respects, and best wishes for you to regain your Health.

  Your obedient servant, Lt. James McGowan.

  “I wanted to be there,” Henry said, lowering his hand. “I would give anything to have been a part of that. I suspect that does not sound rational. The rational being would assure me that one more or less would not be missed.” His voice ended on a bitter note.

  Anna was certain she had heard those words before, but could not recollect when. She said, “It might be rational to one who has not witnessed how a ship’s company, how a fleet, becomes more than a united body of men. They share for that time one spirit.”

  Henry raised his head. “That is it exactly. And we mourn together, one spirit. You have said that well. Shall we answer him?”

  Anna reached for the ink well and a tray of neatly trimmed pens. She adjusted the branch of candles so that her hand would not form a shadow on her paper. “I am ready.”

  Henry dictated answers to them all, saving out the description of the battle for last. “Will this be too disagreeable?” he asked. “It seems absurd to mouth out some toplofty proverb about war is no business for ladies. As we w
ere agreed before, we share these memories. But however, you might not wish to revisit them.”

  “The memories,” she said, “are there, whether I write a letter or not. How should it begin?”

  Henry paused many times, and she was even put to the trouble of throwing a ruined sheet into the fire and starting anew because he did not like the words he used. But once he reached the last conference with Nelson, the words came more rapidly, if not easier.

  Nothing about those memories was easy, except in the fact that they shared them. He could not shock her, because she had seen the results of the violence, and once or twice she could even put him right, especially about the prisoners and the hurricane.

  When the letter was done, she laid aside the pen and wrung her aching fingers. She did not speak, but something in her movement caught his ears, because he said suddenly, “I have worked you too long. I am used to a captain’s clerk who spends his entire day writing. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said, her heart constricting at the note of real remorse in his voice, the unconscious plea in his open hands. “We have finished them all. It remains only to seal them up and write the direction—”

  A knock at the door proved to be Perkins, to announce that it was time to get ready for dinner.

  Anna got up and moved to the opposite door, where she saw Parrette waiting.

  After another lively evening, at which everyone felt Emily’s absence as an advantage, Anna walked Henry upstairs. He was silent, and she feared he had once again succumbed to the headache. When they reached their sitting room, he said in French, “Are we alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you sit by me?” He felt his way to the satin couch.

  Anna did, and when he reached for her hand, he slid his fingers through hers. “I had not noticed until this evening, how very well we all are without my sister-in-law.”

  Though Anna had also noticed, she had thought she was alone in that—that her ambivalence about Emily was her private struggle.