The Heart That Lies (13 page)

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 Mel
don. “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 them
e 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.”

“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...”

Anna rose from the bench.

“Wait. I am sorry to interrupt
you, but I have just remembered my other gift.” In truth, he had wanted only to be alone with her to give it to her, but had not had the opportunity that evening.

“Another gift? But the bonnet was more
than I deserved or expected.”

“One of the things about being wealthy is that you can afford to do the unexpected.”

He stood and walked to where his leather bag still lay under the sofa. Bringing it back to the pianoforte, he took out another woollen shawl. It was finer than the one he had given his mother and was the closest blue he could find to complement the grey of her eyes.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed
, as he laid it around her shoulders. Her fingers reached up to stroke it and bumped his. Neither of them moved.

“
It should be beautiful, for it is a gift for a beautiful woman,” he whispered, enclosing her fingers briefly in his.

Slowly Anna’s fingers left his and she pulled the
shawl around herself and closed her eyes. A smile played across her lips.

“You are very generous.”

“I would do more. Ask me to do anything and I will do it.”

She opened her eyes and turned her head to him. He had only to lower his head an inch or two and their lips would touch.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

She thought a moment and it seemed she wanted to request something of him.

“Mr Carstairs...”

Carstairs? Meldon straightened.

“What of Mr Carstairs?”

Caught by surprise, he could not hide his anger.

Were there tears in her eyes again? Had Carstairs upset her? They had been alone for a while when Meldon escorted the countess to her bedroom.