Last Miss Phillips Page 4

  “Miss Phillips, you recall Miss Harwick, surely–the daughter of the late Charles Harwick?” The elderly Mrs. Munly in her plum-colored gown, a close friend of Kitty’s mother in life, evidently believed she was renewing a favorable acquaintance with this presentation. “I have just been speaking to her of you and she desired to pay her compliments to you and your sister.”

  Hetta stood before Kitty, her fan folded in one hand against her gown as she curtseyed. “Miss Phillips,” she said.

  “Miss Harwick.” Kitty bobbed in curtsy at the same moment, the power of reply momentarily gone from her lips. “I hope you are well. And happy to be among you friends in London again.”

  A slight smile–sardonic, as Mrs. Fitzwilliam would decry–appeared on Miss Harwick’s face as she listened to these words. “I am happy enough,” she answered. “I trust that your family is in good health?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Kitty answered. “My sister Louisa is here, as you see.” She extended her own fan in the direction of Mrs. Hobbins, who was close by with her circle of acquaintances. Louisa offered a polite and somewhat cold bow to Miss Harwick; it was returned in similar fashion, although with the same inscrutable little smile upon Hetta’s lips.

  “I am pleased to hear that they are all so well,” said Hetta, when addressing Kitty again. Her voice was mild and polite, without any true interest evident in this subject, Kitty surmised. It was not hard to believe, for there had been only a mild friendship between the Harwick daughters and the Phillips’s and virtually no regard between the families themselves. The Phillips with their proper connections and modest fortune, the Harwicks with their pretensions and ever-hungry pursuit of society’s ranks.

  “The last piece–the Rossini–was very prettily played, was it not?” ventured Kitty. “He was nervous, I’m quite sure, before such a large party who do not all truly know music, but he did not show it in his playing.”

  A subtle flicker of interest was detected by Kitty’s eye, a sign that this was a more promising subject to ease the discomfort of conversing than the awkward discussion of acquaintances’ health. Before Hetta moved to speak, the approach of Mrs. Everton prevented her from reply. In the presence of her elegantly-attired hostess, Kitty shrank back, unconsciously creating a slight distance between herself and the others present, as if preferring not to be noticed.

  Mrs. Everton had been eager to make introductions on this evening and had been detaining the arm of Scheimann for this very reason. He had been presented to Sir Giles, to the duchess and her stiff-lipped daughter, among others; and had now been extricated from his introduction to the young Blakely, who was indeed eager to know about the rumored opera. She was intent upon presenting him to the heiress of recent acquaintance, whose charms could not fail to impress him, she believed.

  A moment before, Mrs. Everton had noticed the composer gazing in the direction of the heiress conversing with her fellow guests. His expression was neither that of curiosity nor admiration–it was something she could not interpret, given the recentness of their friendship–so she surmised it was the lady’s beauty which had caught his eye.

  “You are admiring my recent acquaintance?” she had said to him, her tone one of good humor as she tapped his arm with her fan. “My heiress of the gold coronet, as I have titled her, recently arrived from Germany.”

  “I see,” he answered. He turned from the distant figure to his hostess after a moment’s pause. “She is–young? The daughter of a London gentleman, no doubt.”

  “Young? You cannot be asking her age, surely, Mr. Scheimann? Or do you mean–is she out? Most certainly yes; she is old enough for that. Her father was a London gentleman, but he is deceased.”

  He said nothing. His hostess waited for a moment for his reply, then spoke again.

  “She is exceedingly pretty, is she not? And well-accomplished. She has lived in Italy and France, but has recently taken a house in London.”

  “Then she has not been in England recently?” he ventured. “Not for many years, perhaps.”

  His hostess laughed. “I really have no idea, sir,” she answered. “I only know that she has traveled in her very recent history.” The composer did not ask any further questions, turning his back to the vision of the heiress in favor of the gentleman at his elbow.

  Still, an expression of interest could not be ignored by Mrs. Everton, no matter how fleeting it might be. A moment later she had maneuvered herself and her circle of conversing guests, by way of gentle nudges and the feminine art of gestures and coercion, into a position by which an introduction might be made.

  “Miss Harwick,” she said, “allow me to present Herr Magner Scheimann, lately arrived from Salzburg. Herr Scheimann, Miss Harriet Harwick.”

  Until now, perhaps, the man at her elbow had not known the intention of his hostess, but was made fully aware of them as he stood face to face with the golden-haired lady from his previous glance. His form and expression had become stony, as if riveted in an ill-looking pose.

  “Mr. Scheimann,” repeated Miss Harwick, curtsying. She raised her eyes briefly to his face before her gaze flickered away again.

  “Miss Harwick,” he repeated, his voice thickening. The coldness of his tone and countenance had little effect upon the lady in question, except to check any evidence of pleasure in this meeting. Her expression was languid, without trace of any emotion except politeness.

  “I am afraid I cannot please Mr. Scheimann with my tastes in music, try as I might, Miss Harwick,” said Mrs. Everton. “Perhaps you shall have more success with him than I–Miss Harwick has been trained in her youth, sir,” she added, for Scheimann’s benefit.

  The lady smiled, faintly. “I do not think I would please him with mine, either,” she answered. “I have very common tastes in music. Too much so for the preferences of many in my acquaintance in the past.” Her glance had fallen upon the composer again, after taking in the room at large.

  “On the contrary; I would expect you to prefer only the best, Miss Harwick,” Scheimann replied. His wooden expression had met her gaze as he spoke, in a tone of distant coldness which would be an affront to anyone with feeling.

  Miss Harwick, however, appeared to be without feeling in this moment, for her countenance was not altered by this reply.

  “Mr. Scheimann is a composer,” said Mrs. Everton hastily, by way of explanation, “so he is very harsh upon our poor sensibilities. He is no doubt a harsh master also upon his music pupils. He taught music in France and Germany to several private pupils.

  “In Paris,” said Scheimann. “And also in Hamburg.”

  “Hamburg? But Miss Harwick was there but recently; perhaps you were both in Germany at the same time and under different circumstances might have formed an acquaintance.”

  “No,” said Scheimann, abruptly. “We were not.” He glanced at his hostess as he spoke. “I was in Hamburg three years ago. I have not taught any students since then, except for my protégés at the Conservatory.”

  “That is an unfortunate loss indeed for the musically-inclined among the upper classes,” murmured Hetta.

  “Miss Harwick must play for us, Scheimann,” said Mrs. Everton. “You will consent, will you not, Miss Harwick? For I have heard your talent boasted as rivaling even Mr. Blakely.”

  “I do not think it would give your guest pleasure,” said Hetta. There was a note of uncertainty in her voice, although this statement was uttered in her most casual tones.

  “By all means, do as you please, Miss Harwick.” This was all the contribution which Herr Scheimann was inclined to make on the subject.

  Mrs. Everton’s eye fell upon Kitty, who had taken her seat again but a few feet away, between her sister and Mrs. Munly. “Miss Phillips,” their hostess cried, “you will come and turn the pages for Miss Harwick, won’t you? For you are a musician also, I believe, and that is always such a comfort when one is playing.”

  There was no excuse but to obey; with hesitation, Kitty rose from her seat and accompanied Hetta
to the piano. The heiress’s satin train rustled across the floor as she mounted the low stage and seated herself at the instrument’s keys. Her figure was upright and graceful, drawing the attention of several guests below who had been conversing until now.

  Kitty stationed herself beside the piano, waiting as Hetta glanced over the sheets of music open before her, selecting one after a moment’s doubt.

  Even in the low light of the candles, she was noticeably paler than before, when they had spoken after Blakely’s performance. “Are you well, Miss Harwick?” Kitty whispered softly.

  “I am perfectly well,” Hetta answered, in a voice low, but placid. “Do you know this piece? It is Zerlina’s song,” she said to Kitty, after a moment. The woman beside her glanced at the title printing, visible by the candles stationed near the instrument.

  “Fra Diavolo,” Kitty read. “It is a French opera–a comedy?”

  “It is,” said Hetta. “I heard it performed in Paris. I think certain aspects of the story are fitting for the occasion.”

  The plot of this opera was unknown to Kitty, whose French would not permit her to know at a mere glance the meaning of its lines, but she had already surmised that Hetta’s remark was not meant for her understanding. She fell silent, along with the waiting performer, as Hetta’s fingers touched the keys, then sounded the notes.

  Hetta Harwick’s voice had not been heard in an English drawing room in more than thirteen years; most of the party present would not have remembered a threadbare gentleman's daughter whose coquetry ended with no successful marriage. Nevertheless, more than one admired her at this moment, regardless of what stories might already be circulating among them about her past and family’s reputation.

  “What do you think?” Mrs. Everton asked the composer, in a half-whisper once the song was well underway. “Is she as well-trained as everyone says?”

  “She is.” Until now, the composer had directed a brooding stare in another direction from Hetta’s, although he looked briefly in the direction of the songstress with Mrs. Everton’s remark. His friendly manner, although brusque in itself, had declined steadily throughout the evening’s progress, until even his most polite voice for his hostess seemed gruff.

  He cleared his throat slightly. “I have heard this song performed often,” he said, carelessly. “But the play’s overture–that is the popular choice for a pianist. Miss Harwick has been taught to be something more of both and does not choose the common, it seems.”

  Hetta’s voice was a soprano’s, clear and powerful tones which rose above the piano’s chords. As a girl, she had possessed a pretty skill, but years of training had succeeded in making it something more than a mere display of feminine arts. Her lilting French resounded like a bell’s vibration through the chamber even as her fingers flew lightly over the keys with the temperance and ease of an artisan.

  When directed at the listening audience, her gaze was one of carelessness; at moments, with a spirit of a coquette’s smile as if assuming shades of the opera’s heroine for the benefit of her performance.

  At the close, she adopted a charming smile before rising from her seat, as if to express no further intent of playing. Mrs. Everton approached, her hands held out in entreaty.

  “You must play another, Miss Harwick,” she said. “You play so beautifully. Young Mr. Warden said he believed your voice was equal to our lovely singer’s tonight.”

  “I really cannot play another,” said Hetta, with a little laugh. “You shall find another who will be happy to take my place.” She glanced at Kitty, who stood by as if waiting for the proper moment to dismiss herself from the scene.

  “Miss Phillips was a proficient in music also, I think,” said Hetta, her gaze moving from Kitty to Mrs. Everton as she spoke. In return, Kitty’s face paled with evident distress over the coming request, wishing their hostess would not take notice of such a remark as a hint of things to come.

  Mrs. Everton turned to her other guest. “It is true, Miss Phillips. Come, you must play for us as well.”

  Kitty’s performances at London dinners and card parties had dwindled noticeably over the last several years. She played for guests at Enderly occasionally, or at village parties where the young ladies preferred to dance rather than ply their talents at the keys of the pianoforte or spinnet. Playing was all Kitty dared do–she did not sing at all, now that she was no longer among the young ladies on parade for the Season.

  “I am not a proficient,” Kitty began, resisting weakly with the conviction her excuses were all in vain. “Not in the least when compared to Miss Harwick...”

  “We should all like to hear something popular, I am sure,” Mrs. Everton entreated. “Mr. Everton loves a Scotch air or reel. Please, Miss Phillips, do not disappoint us by refusing.”

  When Kitty's fingers touched the keys a moment later, she was surprised to find them cool already, without the warmth of Hetta’s hands evident. Her own pianoforte was not as grand or as beautiful as this instrument, although her collection of music was equal to the pieces laid open before her.

  She practiced often; and had practiced in her mind in other places when no music nor instrument was available for her pleasure. Despite this, she felt her talent wanting and did not trust herself with the open pages of Schubert and Strauss. Instead, she played a rather threadbare piece from her own collection, exhibited upon this piano’s music stand on a similar sheet: a variation on Beethoven’s “Quartet in C-Sharp Minor” which displayed skill on her part in its unusual form.

  It grew easier after a moment’s time and she relaxed despite the knowledge that several guests were seated on the sofa and chairs nearest the platform. The murmur of conversation from the guests behind them gave her comfort, as if the world was going about its business and she were playing alone and for her benefit only. It was as if she were at home in the townhouse drawing room, practicing in the morning hours as her nephew and nieces ran about upstairs and the grey rain pattered against the window’s glass.

  There were only a few attentive listeners below and scarcely any notice was paid to her, since most of the guests felt sufficiently enlightened by the performances of the harpist and soprano, to say nothing of young Blakely’s efforts. Her hostess, however, paid her the compliment of turning to Mr. Scheimann and remarking upon her effort.

  “I did not realize Miss Phillips was such an accomplished musician,” she said. “I expected an Irish reel or a little sentimental air, but she is rather better than that, don’t you think?”

  This question received a moment’s consideration from the composer, who seemed for the first time to openly listen to the performance of one of the party’s amateurs. He inclined his ear in the direction of Kitty’s skill for a half-minute before replying.

  “Her manner of pressing the keys is weak,” he said, “but the sound of her playing is not altogether without charm or skill. Better than many who entertain for pleasure.”

  “I think she is almost as good as Miss Harwick,” said Mr. Everton, who was giving their conversation his attention now. “This is a little less lively and altogether a better choice of song.”

  “There is no comparison,” said Scheimann. “Miss Harwick is well-trained. She might have been a professional in other circumstances; she has had a master’s proficiency driving her voice and playing at some point. Such efforts have not been wasted upon her performance.”

  “But you are comparing this lady to Miss Harwick, who may possibly possess a natural genius for music. You must admit that Miss Phillips’s performance is not without talent,” pressed Mrs. Everton.

  Scheimann smiled in response, a gesture marked by a trace of sadness. “Miss Harwick is the realization of what might be done with great attention to such gifts,” he said, gently, “whereas, Miss Phillips’s performance is only a reminder of what might have been possible.”

  “Rather harsh of you, Magner,” said Mr. Everton, “but true enough, I suppose.”

  He concluded this remark at almost the same momen
t as Kitty’s performance reached its close, the lady rising with a brief curtsy before yielding her place to the next exhibitionist.

  Chapter Five

  “I was surprised to see Lady Lufton there,” said Louisa. “She was not well pleased with the present company, of course, so she was quite disagreeable. And everyone knows the Duchess is beyond hearing anything but a shout–not that Mrs. Everton cared, for all her unaffected airs.”

  Kitty was seated near the window, hemming one of her little niece Elizabeth’s aprons. Across from her, Mrs. Fitzwilliam was puffing for breath as she seated herself on the sofa after admiring a handsome watercolor recently finished by Mr. Hobbins’s sister.

  “Lady Lufton’s lip was always curled above the rest of the world, even though her mother was a mere Miss Smith of five thousand pounds,” was Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s answer, once sufficient breath had returned.

  “Mr. Hobbins told me that Countess Nicy was invited but didn’t appear, of course,” continued Louisa. Before she could continue further in her narration, however, the footman entered with a card.

  “Miss Hetta Harwick,” he announced. This produced a jarring effect not unlike lightning’s electrical shock among the occupants. Kitty’s fingers froze in mid-stitch, while Mrs. Hobbins drew herself more upright despite the fact she was already standing in a lingering pose near the fireplace.

  In the doorway appeared Miss Harwick, clad in a grey walking costume of silk, her jacket and bonnet a perfect match. She drew off a pair of dove-colored gloves as she surveyed her fellow guest Mrs. Fitzwilliam before curtsying in the direction of Mrs. Hobbins.

  “I fear I am late in paying my calls,” she said. “I had many pressing engagements upon my return to England, so I must apologize.” This statement was accompanied by a small smile for the benefit of all present, her eye falling last of all upon Kitty with these words.

  “I am pleased you have paid us the honor,” answered Mrs. Hobbins, stiffly. “Do sit down.” She took a seat herself upon a nearby chair, as Hetta seated herself at one end of the sofa.