to the other side, retreating in a final, plaintive minor chord.
My throat constricted with the beauty of it.
Motionless for a long moment, I sat with eyes closed, breathing as one in a trance. When finally I opened my eyes, I met his green gaze. “That is how you know a genuine Stradivarius,” he said huskily, letting the instrument rest on his thigh.
His eyes, smoky and deep, continued to hold mine with an intensity of emotion that tightened my chest. The urge to touch him was a physical thing yet I remained motionless, afraid to break the spell.
Suddenly the door burst open and Maeve, Missy in her arms, and Anne barrelled into the room. “Oh Pat that was marvy,” his sister gushed, oblivious to the weight of feeling between her brother and me.
“We heard from the hall,” Anne added. “May we join in?”
“Play that Congreve – oh what’s the name of it? My favourite one.” Maeve plumped to the rug beside her brother, settling Missy on her lap.
Anne carefully arranged her skirt about her and added, “Yes a Congreve, and we shall sing along.”
A warm wave of well-being washed over me. Patrick’s eyes had continued to hold mine, and now we smiled as one conspirator to another. Without comment, he raised the Strad and launched into his sister’s favourite tune and she began to sing in a thin pure tone. Upon recognition, Anne and I joined in.
False though she be to me and love, I’ll ne’er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.
In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I’m grateful for the past.
We made our way through many more songs before the afternoon was over and, each time Patrick’s glance met with mine, the thrill of something shared ran through me.
Mother joined us for supper, and large though she was now, she seemed in good spirits.
Retiring to the parlour afterwards, she and Eleanor stitched baby clothes. Eleanor’s habitually disapproving face beneath the flaming red wig did not inhibit the merriment of the evening as a giggling Maeve told us how Tom, the baker’s son, had inadvertently baked his mother’s entire store of apples saved for the winter.
“She wanted to dry them, you see – out in the sun – sun-bake them. He thought she said to bake them.”
Simon and I laughed heartily for we were well acquainted with the unfortunate Tom’s lack of sense. While Mother’s mouth twitched slightly, Eleanor’s expression never changed. “When Mother Croft came home from the market,” Maeve continued, “she found every single one of them shrivelled and brown like those shrunken heads you see in books about natives in the africas … oh, poor Tom.”
“Poor Tom indeed,” Lord Thorncliffe remarked from behind a newspaper. He turned to his son and Simon, “Seems there’s still much trouble on the continent.”
“Oh Gerrard, why ruin a pleasant evening with talk of war.” Mother grumbled.
“Good grief, woman! Our troops have been there since July last year!”
“If it were that important, Isabella Camelleri would have mentioned it in her letter. She reports that things are wonderful in Italy at the moment.”
“Well it is affecting us … damned difficult getting a good brandy these days.” Lord Thorncliffe swirled the rich liquor in his glass. “In any case, it’s strangling Britain’s economy.”
“Isabella Camelleri?” Simon interrupted. “Didn’t she visit some years back?”
Mother nodded absently and failed to notice as Simon jabbed his elbow slyly into Patrick’s ribs. That individual, roused from reading over his father’s shoulder, turned to Simon.
“Isabella Camelleri has two of the most charming daughters a fellow could meet.
“Is that a fact?” Patrick responded, with interest.
Simon began extolling the virtues of the two young ladies, descriptions that were aided in some large measure by imagination, for many years had passed since their last visit.
Lord Thorncliffe watched the boys’ exchange indulgently for a moment before returning to his paper. “It says here – wait-on, I’ve lost the spot, ‘Napoleon himself, led two-hundred thousand men into Spain’, there – Spain. Nowhere near your friend in Italy.” He continued. “ ‘The thirty-thousand British soldiers, led by Sir John Moore, fought their way through Burgos, Sahagun, Benavente and Cacobelos. Finally, after valiantly defending La Coruna, Moore was killed, resulting in an evacuation of the British troops. Napoleon has passed control to Nicholas Soult, and has returned to France.’ ”
“That tyrant must be stopped or Europe will not know a moment’s peace,” Simon stated with conviction.
“And when he’s done with Europe, he’ll march on Britain,” Patrick added. “You know, Sime, they’re always after soldiers – they’ve commissions available.”
I swallowed hard, awaiting Simon’s response, but it was a moment before he spoke, “Yes, but I’ll wager they’ll want doctors too. If I could gain some medical training first, it would go well.”
As one, Maeve and Anne cried, “You can’t go to war!”
“You could be hurt,” Maeve reasoned.
“Or killed,” Anne added dramatically.
Mother spoke without raising her eyes from her needlework, “You each have responsibilities at home – it’s out of the question.”
“They accept junior officers,” Patrick continued.
Mother sighed and put aside her work. “Gerrard, say something!”
“They’re right, they do accept junior officers.”
“That’s not what I meant!”
“Madam!” Patrick said suddenly, his eyes blazing vividly, “You may bully your son, but you may not bully me. What I choose for my future is no concern of yours.”
Having not heard anyone speak so to Mother; Simon, Anne and I stared in open-mouthed amazement.
With great dignity, she raised her chin and said, “Be assured you have my unconditional blessing to go and get yourself killed. But you’ll not take my son with you. Eleanor, gather my needles and things, I shall retire now.”
Two nights later, I was awakened in the small hours by the sounds of a banging door and the pounding of urgent feet along the hall. Jemima leapt from her basket and I poked my head into the corridor in time to accost a pair of scurrying housemaids carrying hot water and linen. Eleanor, poker-straight and empty-handed led the way.
“Judith!” I whispered hoarsely
