There was nothing “bright and sparkling” about this one. It was subdued, almost melancholy. Heroine Anne Elliot, perhaps my favorite of the Austen women I’d encountered, waited as circumstances and her world closed in around her. She helped where she could, she got tossed about with little care—and she waited. There was no other word for it.
But if Anne’s story ended like Austen’s others, I knew she wouldn’t stay there. She’d get her glorious end, most likely with that handsome Captain Wentworth who kept popping up in memory and now in person. But something told me that, as in real life, it might not be so easy this time.
“Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away; and he said, You were so altered he should not have known you again.”
I tapped off the Kindle and let my head bump back against the bed’s headboard. Poor Anne. I could only imagine the hope, the anticipation, and then the anguish of that moment while Mary had her sport. Austen really had a thing against Marys.
I’d met Mary Bennet first. Then came Mary Crawford from Mansfield Park. She initially misled me. She had all the wit and vivacity of a Lizzy Bennet, but it took me time to catch on. She had none of the wisdom—no discretion. And she got no happy ending. And now Mary Elliot . . . We Marys weren’t a kind and gentle lot. We didn’t grow. We didn’t change. We didn’t get redeemed.
I threw back the covers, grabbed a sweatshirt to pull over my pajamas, and slipped into my ballet flats. Gertrude’s graciousness had welcomed me to the house, and the camaraderie at dinner had made it feel like a home. I decided to wander—again.
I found my way to the Day Room. The dying fire threw off a weak warm light, and I dropped into my same blue-and-green armchair to watch the embers glow.
Soft treble notes captured me. G-sharp. B-flat. The tune changed, and a Debussy song drifted to me through a cracked door I hadn’t noted earlier. I cracked it further, but at the squeak the piano silenced.
Gertrude spotted me before I saw her. “Did I wake you? Or are you not tired?”
I stepped into the room. It was about the same size as the Day Room, but painted a soft salmon. There was a tiny fireplace, almost a miniature one, with a lit gas fire; a baby grand piano; and two chairs, only two chairs.
“This is lovely.”
“It was the Music Room.” Gertrude looked around as if seeing it for the first time. “Still is, I suppose. There used to be a harp sitting where the chairs are and a cello propped in that corner, but both were of little value. I think the Stanleys disposed of them.” She nodded to one of the chairs. It was plush, floral, and of a larger scale than the set in the Day Room. “Please join me.”
“I’m not disturbing you?”
“Not at all.” Gertrude resumed her song. “This is your home for the next two weeks.”
“‘Clair de Lune.’” In reply to her quick glance, I said, “I started playing the piano when I was ten. That was one of the earliest I learned.”
Gertrude looked comfortable seated at the piano bench in a cardigan sweater and soft shoes. Her pants flowed around her legs like wide yoga pants. She finished the last stanza, stood, and gestured to the stool.
“I don’t play anymore. I haven’t touched a piano in years.”
“If you played ‘Clair de Lune’ at ten, then you were talented. Jane Austen would call you ‘accomplished.’” She tossed me a wry smile.
We’d met only hours before, but there was something about Gertrude I understood. It was almost as if I were looking at my mom, or at myself. She stepped back. I could not step forward.
“It’s a piano.” The unspoken only floated between us.
I stepped forward and sat down. I didn’t even need to adjust the bench. We were the same height.
I laid my hands on the keyboard. Fists tight. Knuckles white and strong. I had to force each finger to spread wide. I hadn’t seen them this open in years. It surprised me how far they stretched. My breath felt shallow, like it did when I stood on the high dive at the pool. Isabel always came up the ladder after me. Without her behind me, I would retreat.
Close your eyes and jump.
I tested the tone. It was rich and true, and the keys held a perfect strike. I warmed my fingers and my memory with a series of slow, heavy scales, and then “Brahms’ Lullaby” emerged without summoning. It was light. It danced.
My past swept through me on the notes—lessons from Mrs. Danvers next door; playing for Mom; recitals with Mom and Dad sitting in the front row bursting with pride; more playing for Mom when she was weak, and listening was better than talking, better than sleeping, and the only thing that brought a smile.
Another memory struck, and I heard the discordant note that accompanied it. I’d planned to audition for the piano part in our high school’s spring musical. Voice auditions came first, though, and Isabel won the lead role. When it came time for instrumentals, piano had been scratched from the sign-up sheet. Word was that Isabel had insisted that the music teacher, Mr. Lennox, play. Anyone else would make me too nervous, she had said. We were close then, but that’s when I noticed the few sharp notes in our friendship that never vanished.
I pressed on, letting that memory and others wash over me. Isabel and I had pushed and pulled for years. Iron sharpening iron? We were safe in each other, but never quite. Maybe that’s what held us together. Neither of us would have trusted the other had it come too easy.
The song ended and so did the memories.
“You’re very good. Why did you stop playing?”
I rested my hands in my lap. “Music is memory.”
Gertrude’s eyes flickered from mine to the fireplace. “I play to remember.”
“And I stopped to forget.” I ran my hand over the mahogany top. “It’s a beautiful instrument.”
“I’ve always thought so.” She returned her attention to me. “If you choose to remember more, please feel welcome to practice anytime. There is also a grand piano in the ballroom. You must try it. The acoustics are powerful in there. When the house isn’t occupied, I practice there. This is more the equivalent of the housekeeper’s room.”
The curl of her lips indicated a joke, but she didn’t explain it. She pointed to the ceiling. “The servants’ quarters on the third floor were converted into three full-living suites during the renovation. I live in one, but I couldn’t bring myself to go up tonight. Not yet.”
I looked up as if, like Superman, I could see through the walls and peer into her home, and suddenly I knew.
“This was your family’s home, wasn’t it? Two hundred forty-four years in your family?” I cringed as I sank into the chair next to her. I hadn’t needed to calculate the years and throw them at her.