Chapter 5
For some reason, that night Elsie was shy about entering the ballroom. She opened the door and peeked in, giving a small sigh of relief when she saw Alexander was there hard at work. He turned and lifted his head in greeting when she moved toward the softly glowing lamplight.
“Are you all right?” she asked, moving into the light.
He gave her another of his uncomfortably intense looks, before looking back to the mural. And he did something rather remarkable.
“Thank you.”
The words, spoken softly in a clear baritone, seemed to echo in the nearly empty room. He stared at the wall, that familiar tension making his entire body stiff.
“You’re welcome,” she said, acting as if it was not unusual for a mute person to speak. He gave her a quick look, as if assessing her reaction, and slowly relaxed. “I worried about you all day, after that verbal slashing Monsieur gave you. Are you in terrible trouble?”
“No.”
“Well, good, then. May I stay for a while?”
For the first time, he looked at her and grinned, a full smile that lit his beautiful eyes. “You may,” he said, still smiling.
“I’m going to a house party next week. Would you like to hear about it?”
He nodded, and Elsie walked back to the couch, her heart singing with unexpected joy. And then, as if he’d never spoken a word, she talked about the upcoming house party she and her father and aunt were planning to attend.
“It’s at Stapleford Hall. Have you heard of it?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but forged on. “The Wrights are absolutely marvelous and have a rather large and boisterous family. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have many brothers and sisters. Of course, I have Mary. Oh, you haven’t met Mary, have you? She’s a darling. You’ll adore her if you can meet her. I suppose you will after the mural is done and Monsieur lifts that ridiculous ban on allowing us into the ...”
Alexander worked, half listening to Elsie, and knowing he was in the presence of a miracle. And Lord above knew that was a frightening thing, indeed. If she had gasped or gaped or peppered him with questions when he’d spoken, it would have been far better. He would have been angry and humiliated and it would have been a good deal easier to ignore her. But she had only smiled and said “you’re welcome” as if the fact that a mute man had spoken was of no consequence whatsoever.
He had finished with his sketch and would start painting the mural’s intricate border tomorrow. Monsieur was a genius at mixing paint to the precise colors and consistency necessary and it was one aspect of the mural painting that he insisted on continuing. Alexander was glad to let that particular job go to Desmarais so he could concentrate on the mural itself.
“You begin painting tomorrow?”
She had walked up next to him silently, and stood now looking up at the mural, the soft glow of the lamp bathing her in its light.
“Yes.” He could feel her eyes on him, almost as tangible as a touch.
“Do you mind if I watch?”
“I don’t mind.” He didn’t. In fact, if she didn’t come, he would miss her. They stood together in silence, as he gathered the courage to ask her a question. He swallowed, trying to dislodge the growing knot in his throat. “Why didn’t you react when I spoke?”
She smiled, in that impish way he already recognized as being uniquely hers. “I did. On the inside. I was shouting for joy. Couldn’t you tell?”
“No,” he said, unable to stop a smile of his own. All these smiles felt so odd on his face.
“Well, I’m brimming with curiosity and I’m confident that some day you’ll share your story with me. In the meantime, you may listen to my stories. I imagine when you get tired of hearing about me, you’ll tell me yours.”
He nodded, feeling his heart swell in the oddest way. What a singular girl she was, he thought.
“One question,” she said, holding up one finger, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. No doubt she was simply dying to know why he remained mute for so long. “Does Monsieur know you can speak?”
He could feel his cheeks flush, as if he’d been caught in a great lie. “He does not know and I cannot tell him. It would hurt him, and that is one thing I have vowed never to do.”
Her delicate red-gold brows creased. “I don’t understand.”
“He believes me to be mute, to need him. It would crush him, I think, to know I’ve kept this secret from him for so long.”
“I should think he’d be pleased.”
“Perhaps,” he said, but he shook his head, struggling to explain to this girl about the delicate balance he had with Monsieur. He needed Monsieur nearly as much as the older man needed him. Alexander knew he could never obtain new clients, solicit work, and negotiate a price. The thought of going into strange homes and talking to people was enough to make him physically ill. He felt far, far more comfortable around strangers now than he had as a child, but he dreaded such confrontations. It was a weakness he had struggled with his entire life. The nightmare of his childhood had eased over the years. He could speak, but it was something he must force, a subtle torture he must sometimes endure to communicate.
The relief that this beautiful girl had accepted his ability to speak with almost no curiosity was nothing short of astounding. If he’d been charmed by her before, now he was completely and unalterably smitten. A completely ridiculous state to find himself in, but there it was.
Every day for a week, she would come into the ballroom and talk—she far more than he. But as each day passed, Alexander became more and more comfortable, until someone listening to the pair of them would have noticed nothing odd about the young painter. He told her about his days traveling around with Monsieur, learning how to paint, the years they’d spent in Rome repairing ancient murals. Alexander hadn’t spoken so much since he was a child, and he realized he could not remember such pure happiness as the hours spent with Elsie.
On the fifth day, he’d been working for nearly two hours before he realized Miss Elsie had not made an appearance. Disappointment stabbed at him. He’d become so used to her presence, he found he missed her happy chatter, missed her, in fact. The border along the bottom of the mural, an intricate twining of leaves and vines, was nearly done. Monsieur and he would have to build a scaffold soon so he could continue painting. He stepped back, lamp held in hand, and examined his work, frowning. Working by lamplight was always more difficult than painting in the full light of day, and he constantly made adjustments when he joined Monsieur in the ballroom after his rest. He wanted this mural to be magical for Elsie and for himself.
“Good evening.”
As always, she entered the ballroom silently and smiling.
“Good evening,” he said, giving her a small bow, which for some reason made her smile broaden.
“I’ve a surprise for you,” she said, skipping over to a dark corner of the room. He could hardly see her, only the faint glow of her white nightdress. She sat, and he heard the sound of a match being struck, and then she was illuminated by a lamp sitting upon a piano that had not been there earlier that day. Music, soft and vibrant enough to fill the large room, hit him like a cool breeze after a sweltering day.
“Chopin,” he whispered almost reverently, and had the sudden and rather embarrassing urge to weep. He’d played this piece, Chopin’s Nocturne No. 9, in his teenage years, long after he’d joined Monsieur, making music when he could not speak. Oftentimes, he and Monsieur would work in a house where the residents were not at home. Monsieur would let him seek out a piano, for most great homes had one, and he would lose himself in the music for hours at a time.
He still remembered sitting at one such piano and discovering the Chopin nocturne sitting on the music stand, and his joy when he’d heard the music Chopin had written. Alexander had been such a quiet boy, and the piano had allowed him to express himself in a way he never could verbally. It was now two years since he’d touched a piano, because he simply had had no opportunity.
The music, the woman, drew him and he stood and watched her play. She grinned at him when she made a small error, but forged on, giving a competent rendition of the beautiful piece.
“You’re quite good,” he said, and she laughed.
“I suppose you could do better, then.”
“Perhaps.”
Elsie lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Do not tell me that in addition to being a master painter you also play the piano.”
“A bit.”
Elsie moved over and made a gesture for him to sit next to her. He hesitated only a moment before taking a seat, giving her that shy smile she found so completely charming. If Elsie were honest, she could admit she found everything about Alexander charming.
“No one will hear?” he asked uncertainly.
“The ballroom is an addition and quite separate from my father’s suite. He won’t hear a thing.”
He placed his hands, strong and only slightly paint-stained, on the keys almost reverently. “I haven’t played in years.”
And then he began, and Elsie felt her skin prickle with overwhelming emotion, as if what she was hearing was so beautiful it could not be contained. She played well. He played masterfully.
She looked at this man next to her and knew, deep inside, that he was something special, something undiscovered and far, far more than a muralist’s assistant. She’d already noticed he spoke like an educated man, his rich baritone sounding almost aristocratic. His manners were impeccable. And she could not overlook his raw beauty, his quiet strength. In Elsie’s world, men were not kind or passionate, or beautiful. They were polite and, frankly, quite boring. Who was he? Where did he come from?
As he played, he grew more confident, and lost himself entirely in the piece, his eyes closed, his strong hands creating nuances she was not capable of. When he finished, she clapped softly, but with exuberance.
“Marvelous. Oh, that was lovely. I shall never play that piece again,” she gushed, and he looked down at the keys and smiled.
“I’m out of practice,” he said.
“Really, Alexander, you cannot be modest when you play like that.” She stared at him, this puzzle next to her. “Who are you? You’re more than you seem, aren’t you?”
His smile slowly disappeared. “I am Monsieur’s assistant. Nothing more.” And he stood abruptly. “I must get back to work.”
Elsie reached out and grabbed his arm, touching his sleeve but feeling the heat of his skin beneath the well-worn cotton. “I’m sorry. Please. Play something else.” His arm was rigid beneath her hand, and he closed his eyes as if he were in pain as he drew his arm slowly out of her grasp. “Alexander, I’m sorry. I’ve no right to question you or demand anything of you. Except perhaps to play for me again.”
He looked at her almost unwillingly, that handsome face hard, his expression implacable. “I don’t think you should continue coming here at night,” he said. “I have work to do and you are nothing but a distraction to me. Besides that, it is highly improper. Surely you understand that as an unmarried woman you should not be here, alone, with a man.”
“Oh. I suppose not. I just... I never ...” Elsie felt unshed tears stinging her eyes. He’d just given her the harshest set down she’d had in years.
“You never what? Considered me a man? Because I am a servant? Or because I cannot speak in front of people.”
Elsie shook her head. “No. I just thought you were nice.”
And I’m so very, very lonely.
She twisted her hands in her nightdress, suddenly realizing how terribly improper it was to be alone with any man in only her nightclothes.
He let out a sigh, his anger deflating, and he sat at the edge of the piano bench staring at the keys again. “I was raised in an affluent family, but my affliction caused my father to abandon me to an asylum when I was ten years old. I was there only a short time when one of the doctors helped me to escape and introduced me to Monsieur. That is my story. That is all you need to know.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell me anything. It’s really none of my business.” She sat there feeling simply awful, and finally asked, “Do you still want me to leave?”
Another sigh. “No.” But it sounded most begrudging.
“I don’t think of you as a servant. I think you are wonderful,” she said, daring a quick look at him. “But you are right, it is highly improper and for that reason, I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“Another secret, then?” His mouth quirked as if he were trying not to smile.
She nodded. “Can I tell you something? A confession? I don’t want to go to that house party, because I shall miss our visits and I will think of you working in here all alone.”
His expression grew pensive. “You shouldn’t think of me at all. Nor should I, you.”
“But do you?” Elsie held her breath, knowing she had crossed a line that should never have been crossed. She knew she thought about Alexander far too much, she knew she shouldn’t visit him each night. She knew she shouldn’t touch him or even talk to him, but these nighttime visits were all she looked forward to.