The Heart That Lies Page 11

  “George is a fool. Your very presence here will reflect badly on him.”

  “He knows.” Anna could say no more. Of course Meldon knew that people would say that she was his mistress and it upset him, but only, she thought, for her sake. She had begged him to let her go away, even suggesting that she live in the hunting lodge while his guests were here, but he had refused. Of course he had refused, a woman could not live alone out there.

  “You are well enough to travel,” continued the countess, “I do not mean to be unkind, my dear, for you have proved to be a good companion and I can see that you esteem my son greatly, but I am hopeful that he will find a bride amongst his guests. He has invited far more people than usual and it is time he married. He is almost thirty and it is unseemly. Yes, Simpson?”

  Anna turned to see that Meldon’s butler had entered the sitting-room.

  “Mr Carstairs has arrived and wishes to pay his respects to you.”

  “Show him in, Simpson. Miss Smith, Mr Carstairs is our neighbour. He is a gentleman and very entertaining. Mr Carstairs, what a pleasure to see you again. My son is away in Kent buying sheep, but our guest, Miss Anna Smith is also here.”

  “Lady Meldon, Miss Smith.” Carstairs bowed to each of them in turn.

  Anna admired the way he moved. He was possessed of a lazy grace that went well with his good looks. Despite his looks he had what Anna thought of as a face without character. All the proportions were perfect, but there was nothing to mark him out from anyone else with perfect features. Although pleasant to look at whilst he was in the room, they would be forgotten as soon as he left. He dropped into the chair, rather than sat down and Anna recognised a type she had heard of, but not encountered, even in London. He was one of those who followed the whims of fashion – a dandy. His clothing was immaculate and, she thought, rather silly. That he had nothing to do with the land was clear. He could not have walked a mile in his boots and the least speck of dirt would show on his shirt and waistcoat. He was determined to be charming and focused his attention initially on Lady Meldon. When he had finished congratulating her on her good health and enquired after her grandchildren he turned to Anna.

  “I have heard of you, of course, Miss Smith. A beautiful woman coming suddenly to a small quiet place like Meldon excites much talk.”

  “It is true that my arrival must have seemed sudden, but I’m sure the excitement died down after a few days.”

  “I am but newly returned myself and everywhere I find talk of Miss Smith, la belle jeune femme. You are also considered to be very mysterious.”

  “There is very little to say,” said Anna. “I was attacked among strangers and Lord Meldon very generously took me into his home. When I am fully well, I shall leave.”

  “And your home, Miss Smith?”

  “Is in the Midlands. I have no family now.”

  “You travel alone? Vous êtes toute seule?”

  “I have little choice.”

  Anna managed to keep the bitterness out her voice, but the speed with which her father’s cousin had taken over the house and made it clear that she was not welcome still pained her.

  “With no one to protect you.”

  Anna was sure she did not mistake his intent as she had with Meldon. His tone implied that he thought he might be the right man to offer the kind of protection she could not desire.

  “For the moment I am the guest of Lord Meldon and the countess. I need nothing more.”

  It was the formula that she and Meldon had agreed, but it sounded false. It would almost be easier if she were Meldon’s mistress.

  “Good afternoon, Mother, Miss Smith. Mr Carstairs, I presume.”

  Meldon strode into the room still in his riding coat. He bent to kiss his mother on her cheek, smiled at Anna and bowed to Carstairs.

  “And here’s some tea. Something a bit stronger for me, please, Simpson.”

  He eased himself out of his coat and sat next to Anna.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Carstairs, but I trust my mother has been entertaining you.”

  “Yes, we have passed a pleasant few minutes.”

  “Good. I’ve never managed to be here when you called before and I was looking forward to meeting you at the ball.”

  “Je vous remercie pour l’invitation. Now that I have met Miss Smith I have even more reason to be grateful for it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure that Miss Smith will be a great success with my friends and neighbours. By the way, Carstairs, I’m aware that it’s considered very fashionable to speak French, but in this house it’s considered an act of treason.”

  Anna was sure that the tone of Meldon’s voice had not changed, it was as pleasant as it had been when he had greeted his mother, but his body told a different tale. It was as tense as if he were about to go into battle. There was an awkward silence, then Carstairs inclined his head slightly to indicate his acquiescence.

  “Oh, quite right, Simpson. I was rude not to have asked Mr Carstairs to join me.”

  Meldon took one of the two glasses that Simpson had brought in on a tray and offered the other to Carstairs.

  “I am happy with the tea, thank you, Lord Meldon. It is a little early in the day for me.”

  Only her mother’s training enabled Anna to stifle her gasp. This stranger was calling Meldon a drunkard in his own house. In a society in which it was usual to drink wine at breakfast, this was an incredible insult. Anna looked at Meldon, fully expecting him to jump up and demand satisfaction. Instead she watched him stretch his long legs out before him and settle back into his chair. He saw her watching and raised his glass to her before he took a long sip. She could not hide her smile from him.

  “Early for you, perhaps. I was on my horse before dawn this morning and it’s cold out.” Meldon’s voice was cool, but his politeness took the edge off his insult.

  “Surely you didn’t come from Kent today.” Carstairs’ voice didn’t falter; hadn’t he realised how close to being called out he had come?

  “No, I visited friends in Sussex last night.”

  “Your letters only arrived this morning. We were discussing them when Mr Carstairs arrived,” said Anna, sensing that Meldon was not comfortable with Carstairs showing so much interest in where he had been.

  “When do the sheep arrive?” enquired Carstairs.

  “I shall send one of the shepherds to collect them tomorrow, so a week, perhaps two, I should think. Are you interested in sheep, Mr Carstairs?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “No? Fascinating creatures. Nowhere near as stupid as many people think.”

  “I’m sure I’ve never thought about sheep long enough to have an opinion on the matter.”

  “Talking about having opinions based on a little knowledge, I have a present for you, Miss Smith. I had a great deal of difficulty in bringing it back with me. Simpson, the two bags in the hall, if you please.”

  Simpson returned with a hat box and a large leather pouch.

  “The hat box is for Miss Smith. Let me have the other.”

  Anna opened the box. To her surprise the bonnet was exactly to her taste.

  “Oh, Lord Meldon, thank you.”

  “You’re surprised I got it right, aren’t you?”

  “A bit,” she admitted. “It’s beautiful.”

  Meldon smiled.

  “Mother, this is for you.”

  He unfurled a beautiful woollen shawl from the pouch, took it to his mother and laid it tenderly around her shoulders. This, too, was beautiful and Lady Meldon’s delight was plain to see.

  Meldon returned to his seat and placed the pouch on the floor.

  “You enjoyed your visit to Kent, then, Lord Meldon?” asked Carstairs.

  “I never enjoy being away from home, Mr Carstairs, but my visit served its purpose. In a few years I shall have a new flock producing wool of the quality that you see in the shawl.”

  “Then the women of Hampshire will have much to be grateful to you for.
”

  “Possibly.” He paused. “Well, Miss Smith, what do you and Mother read when I’m away?” He picked up the book that Anna had put down when they had received their letters. “The Italian. Mrs Radcliffe. Caro used to read me her books to scare me when I was a boy.”

  “They are only good for women and children,” scoffed Carstairs.

  “Do you think so?” said Meldon quietly. “I have long since understood that my mother has better taste than I have in such things. As for Miss Smith, I believe her taste in literature in better even than her taste in bonnets and I trust that implicitly.”

  “But Miss Smith reads to the countess, perhaps she does not ... ah... appreciate Mrs Radcliffe’s particular talent.”

  “On the contrary, Mr Carstairs, I am enjoying her work very much. I was not allowed to read such things at home, my father did not think young women should read romances. But it was I who asked Lady Meldon if we might read Mrs Radcliffe’s works.”

  Anna had asked only because she knew that Meldon had just finished The Italian and was interested in understanding his tastes. She was enjoying it immensely.

  “Mrs Radcliffe is a favourite of my son,” said the countess.

  “Men of sense and taste appreciate her work,” said Meldon. “I have tried to visit her in London, to let her know how much I appreciate her stories, but she won’t be found.”

  “It is not right that a woman should write such things,” said Carstairs.

  “Why? Because she should not know them, or because she should not be able to express such knowledge?”

  “Because women are wives and mothers, nothing more.”

  For a moment Anna thought Meldon would argue with Carstairs, but he simply smiled benignly at the other man, returned the book to her and stood.

  “Perhaps you’ll let me know the next time you and Mother are reading in the afternoon and permit me to join you? Now, I should wash and change. You’ll dine with us, Carstairs?”

  “Thank you, Lord Meldon. It would be a pleasure.” He smiled pointedly at Anna and Meldon left the room.

  Meldon had hoped that playing the pianoforte would calm him, but his emotions ranged from guilt to anger as he played around with the themes that represented Vincent and Anna in the sonata he was writing. It was almost the end of October and Vincent’s murderer was as hidden to him as he had been when he and Finch had collected Vincent’s body. What he had done in Kent was important; he didn’t doubt for a moment that it would set Bonaparte’s plans back for a while, but there was still the feeling that he had missed something important and that unveiling the murderer would be even more important in the war against the French.

  His feelings towards Anna were far more complicated. He had missed her far more than he had expected in Kent. It surprised him how much he had grown used to living with her. Finch had borne the brunt of his displeasure stoically enough, but had made some very pointed comments. Meldon knew that it was only their long acquaintance that had saved their friendship these last few days.

  Now that he was home he was not as comfortable as he had hoped to be. Anna had been happy to see him, of that he was sure. He had even felt that they were in agreement about Carstairs, until... No, he was working very hard to forget about that. It was the sonata that was important now.

  His sonata combined the two things in which he had failed the most. For Vincent’s theme he had used the little song that Vincent used to whistle or hum when he was bored. Meldon had composed Anna’s theme himself. In it he gave her the freedom he denied her in life. For most of the movement it surged alone, unhindered by the brooding baseline that represented Meldon himself. His aim was to make his theme the dominant part of the final movement, joining it with Anna’s at the end. This was proving to be as difficult musically as it was in life and now an irritating minor theme representing Carstairs kept creeping in.

  Carstairs had been entertaining at dinner and afterwards had played the pianoforte to accompany Anna. Her voice had been a revelation to Meldon. It was pitched higher than her speaking voice had led him to expect and her full tone made listening to her a pleasure. Then Carstairs had joined her in a duet and his tenor voice had blended perfectly with hers.

  All evening Anna had smiled at Carstairs and laughed at his jokes. Meldon wished he had not invited Carstairs to stay and he wished he had thought to ask Anna to sing before. All the time he had spent in Kent he had wished himself here, sitting with Anna and his mother after dinner. Before he had gone to Kent they had fallen into the habit of sitting together in the sitting-room in the evening. He or Anna would read aloud and they would discuss what they read. Sometimes he would read from a letter sent by one of his friends who had attended a play or a concert in London. Since Anna knew many of his friends she was always happy to hear their news. Many times they had discussed his plans for the estate and her suggestions were always sensible and well-considered. It was just such an evening he had looked forward to for this evening. When Simpson had told him about his visitor Meldon had lingered outside the sitting-room door listening to the conversation, trying to gauge Anna’s opinion of Carstairs. He found her polite, but not warm. She was ready to be Carstairs’ friend, but not, he thought, in love.

  This opinion had not changed over dinner. She behaved exactly as a young woman should who had just met a man for the first time. Carstairs, however, made his appreciation of her obvious. Meldon could not blame him; Anna was beautiful. Since she held his own heart he could easily understand that other men would fall under her sway.

  Meldon could not warn her; there was still no evidence that Carstairs was anything other than what he seemed. Meldon began to wonder if he could bear to continue living here if Anna married Carstairs and lived a mere two miles away. No, he could not allow her to marry the man; he must find a way...

  His hands came to a halt on the keys. That discord had no place in his sonata. Reaching for his pen to make some notes he saw Anna in the doorway. He stood.

  “Miss Smith.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord. I had meant only to listen for a moment, then return upstairs.”

  “Come in. You do not disturb me.”

  “You play wonderfully. What was it?”

  “I am writing a sonata. Sadly, it is lacking a conclusion.”

  Anna smiled.

  “I am glad to find that you have a passion for something other than your sheep.”

  Meldon laughed. “Don’t tell the sheep, or my shepherds.”

  “Will you play on, or does my presence hinder you?”

  “My thoughts hinder me. I have a plan for the sonata that doesn’t work out.”

  “That’s because you tried to use part of the song that I sang with Mr Carstairs this evening. It doesn’t fit.”

  “You have a good understanding of music.” Meldon wondered how much of what he was writing she understood.

  “Not really, but there were already two themes that worked well together. The third seemed to be an intrusion.”

  “Do you think so? The bass theme seems too heavy to me.”

  “But when you played them both together they fitted perfectly. Each is beautiful on its own, but when you put them together they were so much more.”

  Meldon sat down, then realised what he had done.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Smith, for my poor manners, but you are right and now I know what must be done.”

  He started to play and, combining the two themes earlier than he had intended, he reached the end of the piece. It worked. He had composed a sonata. It was exhilarating.

  “Does it feel like this when you complete a poem?” He looked up at her, almost breathless with excitement.

  “It feels as if each word balances with every other word in sound and meaning and to add or subtract anything would destroy it.”

  “Yes. I have tried before and failed so often. Perhaps you should always be my guide when I get stuck.”

  Anna smiled. “You would have worked it out for yourself.”r />
  “There would have been many more discords and bruised fingers.” He paused as he wiggled his fingers to show that he jested. “You sang beautifully this evening. You should have done it before.”

  “If I had known how well you play, I would have asked you to accompany me.”

  Meldon needed no other encouragement, but started to play one of his favourite songs. Anna joined in eagerly.

  When they had finished Meldon took out a small book of duets from the table by the pianoforte.

  “These arrived recently from Prussia. Sit beside me and we will try one or two of them. My voice is not as good as yours, but we will hear how they fit.”

  Anna sat beside him and Meldon started to play and sing. Anna was hesitant at first and he wondered what held her back. Then she stopped singing.

  “Is my voice so unpleasant that you can bear it no longer?” Meldon made light of it, but he had thought they sounded well enough together.

  “You have lost your passion, my lord. The man in the song is saying farewell to his lover before he goes to war. He is sad to be leaving her.” She stopped and he could feel her embarrassment at criticising him. Then she sighed. “You sang as if to send your sheep to sleep.”

  If she expected him to laugh, she was mistaken.

  “I thought I had chosen badly and... No mind. I will play the part.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Why did she sound disappointed?

  Meldon took a breath and started again. Whilst he had no intention of leaving Anna, it was easy enough to portray the fear he felt that he might lose her to Carstairs.

  He could not look at her as they sang, but when it was finished he saw that she had tears in her eyes. He longed to kiss them away, but dared not move.

  “You sing well, my lord,” she said finally.

  “You sing better.”

  “May we do this again?”

  “I shall choose a less affecting song.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m sorry I said you sang without feeling.”

  “You were right to do so.”

  “I should...”