Music and Mistletoe: A Ridlington Christmas Novella Page 4

  Mrs. Muir cradled her child’s face with gentle hands. “I’m not surprised, darling. It’s been a busy day, hasn’t it?”

  “Why don’t we let you settle in,” said Grace. “Sir Peregrine and I will continue our surveillance of the house, and perhaps you’d like Edward to bring up a bag or two for you?”

  “I can do that,” nodded Muir.

  “An excellent suggestion, Mrs. Chaney. Thank you.” His wife smiled tiredly. “I might join the children in a wee nap myself.”

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” said Perry, preparing to usher Grace out of the room. “Oh, and I’ll talk to Edward about a fire in here. He’s probably the best one to ask about the chimneys. I’d rather not burn the house down before we’ve had a chance to look it over.”

  Grace laughed. “Come along. Let’s do a little more exploring.”

  *~~*~~*

  The first floor landing was wide and stretched from one end of the building to the other, as near as Grace could tell. There were windows allowing some light, but she observed the empty sconces along the walls and knew that come nightfall they’d be needed.

  Once out of the master bedrooms, they turned to traverse the rest of the floor, stopping and peering in to each room they passed.

  “It’s well laid-out,” said Perry, closing a door behind him. “These rooms are a good size. You wouldn’t be embarrassed to assign them to an honoured guest.”

  “I agree,” she nodded. “And I do admire how they’ve worked the windows into each of them. Natural light is much to be desired, since it keeps down the cost of candles, and lessens the likelihood of fires.”

  “I had no idea you were so practical, my sweet,” grinned Perry.

  “I’ve had my own home for some years now, remember,” she admonished. “I haven’t been wet behind the ears in regard to this sort of thing for a long time.”

  He merely smiled and opened the next door. “Aha. Furniture.”

  She peered around his shoulders. “Oh, lovely. This must be the best guest room. Look at the windows…”

  They were the first thing she noticed, since the elegant curved array invited the eye and encouraged the visitor to walk into the wonderful view.

  At least Grace assumed it would be a wonderful view, once the weather let up.

  “You should take this room,” said Perry from behind her. “It is looking as if we are marooned here for a little while. Certainly there’s no going back to town today.”

  She stared out at the ground, clearly bearing the burden of several inches of ice. The patter against the window had begun to coat the glass as well, making it seem as though they were encased in crystal.

  “This will do a lot of damage to a lot of people,” she observed with a sigh, thinking of the scant harvest.

  “Yes. Yes, it will,” he put his arm around her shoulders. “We can’t help all of them, but at least we got the Muirs off the road.”

  Giving in to impulse, she leaned back against Perry’s chest, taking comfort from his warmth. In response he hugged her.

  “You should take this room, Perry. It has a large bed and you’re tall.”

  “And that leaves you where?”

  “I’m sure I’ll find another suitably equipped. Or at least that will serve me for a night.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Come on, let’s go and see.” She moved away from his arms, missing their warmth but persuading herself this flirtation could lead nowhere, so it would be best to keep it light from now on.

  Together they walked to the end of the hallway, finding more rooms, but all of them bare and unused.

  “Perhaps downstairs. We haven’t even begun to explore there.” She looked at him hopefully.

  “Thank you for not suggesting the upper floors.” He raised an eyebrow at the staircase leading to what were likely to be smaller children’s rooms, and the servants’ quarters. “Judging by the dust, I’d say they haven’t been used in more than a few years…”

  Grace nodded and turned to go back the way they’d come. “Do you know anything about the previous owners?”

  Perry frowned. “Very little. I was told they were elderly and had lived here for several decades. I met their son Sinclair at my club in town, and he’s the one who told me that they were thinking of selling. Apparently they’d decided to retire to a much smaller place in Cornwall, near family. I’d mentioned I might be interested, so the next time we met he told me they had moved out; it would be in the hands of an agent in a few weeks. I asked if I could view the place. Sinclair said yes, and here we are.”

  “Respectable couple, then?”

  “Very,” he agreed. “The Standishes, Archibald and Clara. I seem to recall hearing that Archibald was Lord Lieutenant of the county at one point in his career.”

  “Oh.” Grace stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs and looked at him. “Any relation to Cornelius Standish?”

  “Uh…I have no idea. Who’s he?”

  She sighed. “Only one of the most impressive current composers of woodwind quartets.”

  “Ah.” Perry’s face was a study in polite interest.

  “You’re not fond of woodwind quartets?” She held back a grin.

  He took her arm, slid it through his and led her down toward a large corridor they’d not yet explored. “You know I enjoy music. But even I have my limits and I’m afraid woodwind quartets are low on my list of performances to suffer through.”

  She couldn’t restrain a chuckle. “Let me guess. You were made to practise the oboe as a child?”

  “The flute.” He shuddered. “I had the misfortune to be struck down with a lung infection. To improve my breathing, the flute was recommended. Apparently I didn’t have the chest capacity for the oboe.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your chest,” remonstrated Grace. “How absurd an observation.”

  “Thank you.” He grinned. “But right or wrong, I was handed the damn thing, along with a tutor, and spent two years trying to convince the poor man that I could not learn to play it.”

  “Not a single note?”

  “I think I managed the first few bars of Summer is a’comin’ in…”

  “Ah yes. Loudly sing cuckoo…”

  “Please don’t. I shall start coughing in protest.”

  Grace’s laugh rang out as they opened an impressive set of double doors. “Oh my…” Her amusement was replaced by surprise as they stepped into a ballroom that took her breath away. “Perry. Do you see?”

  “I see,” he murmured.

  Their boots clicked as they walked in over a checkerboard floor of deep polished mahogany squares interspersed with a lighter wood. The whole was coated with dust, but the gleam lingered, making Grace’s fingers itch for a mop. “What an amazing floor.”

  “I’m looking at the ceiling,” he whispered.

  She raised her head and tilted it back, only to gasp again. There were paintings, exquisite paintings of nymphs, elves, goblins and other fanciful creatures ringing the three massive chandeliers that ran the length of the room.

  The glass decorating the chandeliers, dirty now and home to spiders whose webs hung like sparse lace, defied description.

  “It must be Italian,” murmured Perry, walking beneath one and circling it in awe. “Look at the flower petals, the birds…all in glass. I do not know another place capable of making such magnificent pieces.”

  “Are those little flowers porcelain? The ones cupping what look like old candles?”

  “Could be. Hard to tell with the dust all over it.”

  “But nothing seems damaged. Just neglected.” She glanced at the walls.

  They were covered with pale ivory fabric, silk perhaps, with gold leafed acanthus chair rails and ceiling cornices. A perfect background for elegant gowns, brilliant colours and the glitter of a ball in full swing.

  On one wall were two sets of tall French windows which opened out onto the terrace and the lawns beyond. A small fireplace nestled between them, but Grace
supposed that if a ball was going on there probably wouldn’t be much need for a fire, even on a cold night.

  Perry was wandering around, pausing here and there, tapping, poking, prodding and appearing to be enjoying himself. He paused with a grunt and she turned to watch.

  “Well I’ll be…” He tugged at what looked like a decorative ornament and a screen emerged, delicately slatted, unfurling as he pulled it out. It would segment the ballroom into two spaces; a brilliant notion for smaller affairs where there were fewer dancers and more people who might wish for cards.

  This room must have seen its share of laughter and magical evenings.

  For a moment she closed her eyes and envisioned the wonderful space filled with couples twirling to a waltz, or following the measures of a quadrille.

  “The musicians. I wonder where they’d be?” She opened her eyes and looked around for a gallery, but saw none.

  “Well, let’s see now…” Perry prowled toward the far end. “This looks interesting…”

  Grace frowned as she walked to him. “What are you doing? Don’t break anything, Perry.”

  “I won’t.” He was fiddling with something in the centre of a panel. Suddenly it seemed the entire wall split in two halves, each sliding away from each other.

  “Good God,” she gasped.

  “Hidden doors to go with the hidden screen,” he said, turning with a grin. “I’ve seen these before, but none so well done.” He turned to observe the space he’d revealed. “And here’s where your musicians would have played.”

  It was indeed.

  It could also have been a small theatre, since there was plenty of room for a stage. She was entranced, but what caught her eye and drew her in past Perry was what sat on the top of the dais within.

  A beautiful grand piano.

  Chapter Six

  Perry stepped back into the shadows and watched as Grace’s eyes widened and the allure of the instrument began to exert its magic.

  She lifted one hand to her chest—as if to hold her heart inside—while the other featured fingers spread wide in what might have been a stretch or a flex or a reaction to the thought of touching the keys.

  Stepping up to the top of the platform she stood for a moment, looking at the cover, then slowly bent forward to raise it and reveal the black and ivory array.

  “It’s in surprisingly good condition,” she murmured, more to herself than him, he guessed.

  She pulled the seat out from beneath and moved between, easing her skirts as she sat and adjusted the stool’s position. He saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath, and then gently spread those elegant fingers over the keys.

  A soft chord emanated as she did so.

  “Wait,” he said, walking up to the side of the piano. “’Tis better with this raised, yes?”

  Glancing at him, she nodded, a vague smile on her face telling him she heard his words, but her attention was all on the joy of being in front of a piano again.

  He lifted the solid wood and found the stay to secure it into position. “There. Now, Grace. Now you can play.”

  She hesitated. “I haven’t touched an instrument like this in years. It’s a far cry from my pianoforte at home.”

  “It makes music. Yours makes music. I fail to see any difference…”

  She snorted. “You have no idea…but it may be out of tune, anyway.”

  Her voice tapered off as she gingerly let her fingers create chords from various places on the keyboard. There were no dead notes that he could hear, and to his amateur ear it sounded quite lovely. He had to wonder how that came to be since the rest of the ballroom showed all the signs of disuse that prevailed throughout the house.

  As she grew more confident, her touch changed, the chords became a melody, something light and fanciful, notes dancing around the empty ballroom, ringing sweet and pure against the icy glass of the windows.

  He half-recognised it; a dance perhaps? It begged for movement, for toe-tapping, for the laughter and smiles of an informal evening among friends.

  Was this her youth? Was he hearing the sounds she remembered from long ago?

  He didn’t know.

  It didn’t matter. It was enough to watch her entire body relax as she let herself go, flowing into the music she herself created.

  She swayed a little now, her fingers moving faster as the tempo picked up, the lower notes marking a rhythm for the liquid upper tones to dance to.

  It was joyous, spellbinding, and it hit Perry like a ton of bricks. His heart thundered as he watched this quiet and unassuming woman play her way into his soul. She was everything he’d ever wished for; beautiful, creative, intelligent and independent.

  He had been so young when he wed, and still young when his wife passed away. Guiltily, he realised he could barely recall her face. The decades had indeed dulled the pain of her loss. But he’d never found a replacement for her in his life. And, in truth, he hadn’t put much effort into looking, since he’d discovered the single life was to his liking.

  Yet now, here in this dusty ballroom, he found himself yearning to take Grace into his very being. To share his life with her, to touch her, to love her, to watch her laugh and sigh and dry her tears if she cried.

  He wanted her in his bed and his home. He wanted her here because he was going to buy this damned house for her. Not only because she seemed to like it but because it already had a piano.

  And he wanted her to feel about him the same way she felt about her music.

  Was that too fanciful? He admitted it probably was.

  He’d been aware of his strong attraction to her. Kissing her had been educative, teaching him that there were still surprises left in the world.

  But this? This clawing, deep-seated need?

  A new sensation.

  And it took his breath away.

  He moved to stand behind her, watching her fingers fly over the keys, sensing her pleasure as they did so. Would she touch him like that? He hoped so.

  Resting his hands on her shoulders, he could feel the soft and relaxed muscles moving in concert with her arms. Instead of tensing when she played, she eased, giving herself over to the music.

  The tune slowed, turned almost wistful, and then ended on a rippling trio of chords. The last tiny sounds wafted up to the ceiling and died away.

  He wanted to turn her into his arms, to hold her closer than close and kiss the living daylights out of her. Then take her upstairs, strip her naked and do it all over again.

  But the sound of applause brought that line of thought to a crashing halt. He turned, as did Grace.

  “Oh, Mrs. Chaney,” sighed Mrs. Muir. “I don’t believe I’ve heard such lovely playing in my entire life.”

  “Indeed, Ma’am, that were a rare treat,” added Edward, who stood next to the Cook.

  She was wiping her eyes with her apron. “Pardon us, Ma’am,” she dropped a curtsey. “But we ‘asn’t heard the likes o’yer music in a long time. Missus Standish was the one what played. But nowhere near as good as yerself…”

  Grace blushed as she rose, accepting Perry’s arm for support. “You are all very kind.” She glanced to her side. “It’s a wonderful piano. And well-cared for, too…”

  Edward nodded as the little group at the door broke up, and he came toward Perry and Grace. “Mr. Standish has a permanent arrangement with a piano tuner. Comes every six weeks or so, he does. Dusts it, tunes it and makes sure it’s in good workin’ order.”

  “Even though they’re gone?”

  Edward smiled, a bit wistfully. “Mr. Standish were that kind of gentleman, Ma’am. Knowing that things were difficult for Mr. Pierce, the tuner, he gave him a lifetime contract, no matter who lives here. As long as the piano’s here, it’ll be cared for, and so will Mr. Pierce. His wife loved it that much, you see…”

  “And it wouldn’t travel well to a smaller home in Cornwall, I’m guessing,” added Perry.

  “That’s right, sir. But I think the master bought a
smaller pianoforte for his wife before they left. I expect she’s having fun with that one now.”

  “I do hope so,” said Grace.

  A sudden increase in the noise outside the hall heralded the arrival of the rest of the Muir family, who skidded to a halt at the door to the ballroom. Gasps of surprise and wonder could clearly be heard.

  “Come in children. There’s not much to damage here, so you might as well take a look around.”

  Little Elizabeth walked to Grace and Perry. “That’s a vewy big piano…”

  Grace leaned down. “It is, isn’t it? Perhaps when you’re older your Mama and Papa will let you learn how to play it.”

  The little girl nodded, her eyes wide as she stared at what must seem like a monstrous piece of three-legged furniture from her perspective.

  A shout from the windows distracted them all.

  “It’s snowing. Look…” Jonathan was standing in front of the French windows, jumping up and down at the sight of the fat flakes falling from a steel grey sky.

  “At least it’s not ice,” sighed his mother.

  “Can we go out and see? Please Mama?” Jonathan’s plea was echoed by his brothers and sisters.

  Mrs. Muir glanced at Grace. “A good romp outside would do them good.” She paused. “And tire them out too, come to think of it.”

  Perry looked at the garden. “The ice though. Might it be risky?”

  “Not if they stay on the lawn,” replied Grace. “Yes there’s ice there as well, but it’s less likely to be a hazard on grass.” She turned to the other woman. “I agree with you, Mrs. Muir. I think it’s a good idea. But urge them to keep off the terrace and be very careful? You can sit in here and watch if you like, rather than go out with them…”

  “I have a feeling my husband would be ready for a snowball battle,” she grinned. “Sometimes boys really never finish growing up.” She glanced at Perry. “With all due respect, Sir Peregrine.”

  He chuckled. “Please note I’m not arguing that point at all.”

  Grace leaned close. “You’re planning on joining the snowball fight?”