Part Two

*****

She had always been beautiful. Even as a child, which was how he had regarded her when he had first come into Conyngham's house, although he was just sixteen, and she but two years younger.

"Signorina Anna Francesca Gabrieli!" cried Mr. Conyngham as he brought Adam, for the first time, into the sun-filled music room at St. Martin's Lane. With a squeal of delight she had left her place at the harpsichord and raced across the room, throwing herself into Conyngham's arms as he lifted her off the floor, as if he was her long lost papa, rather than the sad-faced older gentleman who stood behind the abandoned instrument, nodding and smiling patiently, his ivory baton half-raised, arrested in mid-measure.

"I call her my little Fancy," Conyngham said fondly, as he stroked the glossy, dark curls. Small, and still childishly plump, she had not yet begun to bloom, but the fine, dark eyes, large and slightly tilting, the smooth, golden complexion, and full, beautiful mouth Adam had admired even then, but with some detachment, as he would any pretty thing, simply for its own sake.

In a few years, the pretty child had become a lovely young woman, but nothing had prepared Adam for this night, and the sight of the dazzling creature who commanded the dais that had been set before the tall, graceful windows of that same music room, itself transformed by the blaze of chandeliers and candlelabra, the reflected glitter and spark of the assembled company that crowded the floor. The great double doors had been thrown open wide to the adjacent salons and the long hallway beyond and the guests moved between the rooms like water overflowing a dam, but always flowing back, drawn, he imagined, by the glow of her fire, like so many moths to a flame.

"Most extraordinary!" Mrs. Threale's voice carried over the din as she clasped Mr. Conyngham by the hands. Adam knew he had never seen such a profusion of diamonds on one person, nor so lavish and abundance of lilac silk. He smiled a little, sipping at his champagne. The master was the most generous man on this earth, and his sweet-faced, boisterous mistress was the happy beneficiary, as were so many in this room tonight, of his cheerful open-handedness.

"A full three octaves above middle C!' the lady gushed. "Why it is hardly credible! Not even the great Agujari---whom you know, my dear Thom, was my own bosom friend---could achieve such a range! I can compare her to nothing I have ever heard! Such a powerful voice! So astonishing a compass! Every note, so clear and full---so charming! Then her shake---so plump! So true! So open! Ohh!" Her gilt fan fluttered, and she made almost to swoon, and the master caught her in his arms, laughing, and kissed her, full on the mouth.

"Now you have heard the great Gabrieli, my love," he cried, as he squeezed her delightfully overstuffed form. "And Haymarket---nay, nor the world---shall ever be the same!"

His words, somehow, struck Adam in the oddest way. "Shall never be the same." He swallowed the final drop of champagne and grimaced slightly. Too sweet, and he did not care for the bubbles. He wished for a brandy or a whiskey.

They were calling for her to sing, and she raised her arms, bowing, acquiescent, and yet, for she appeared more as a queen bestowing her favor. She moved to her father at the harpsichord, and bent low, whispering, and he spoke something to her and smiled in his dear, sad way, and bent his head over the keyboard, the loose, overlong silver hair falling forward to cover his face, the long, graceful fingers spreading over the keys. It was appropriate that he should accompany her tonight.

She was so beautiful; awesomely, frighteningly so, and he had truly never seen it before in such a way, had never known…gowned in pale gold, with garnets and pearls at her lovely throat, and threaded through her rich, dark hair. But it was not the gown, or the jewels but the girl that shone as hot and bright as the candles, brilliant and blessed and glowing with triumph.

The room grew quiet as Signor struck the first notes, and she lifted her head slowly, her hands clasped over her breast.

Adam recognized the old aria of Scarlatti, "Su 'l margine d'un rio". By the banks of the river. The song of a pretty shepherdess disinclined to waste herself on a lukewarm lover. It was a sweet, sentimental air that the crowd would love and it would not tax her voice. After tonight's performance in the theatre, she should not have to sing another note, but plainly she wished it, as did they all.

"Imparare a amare, poi e ritorno a me se lei fara…"

Learn to love, and then come back to me if you will.

He wondered if she had even seen him there, in Conyngham's box, or now, hanging back by the door on the edge of the crowd. It did not matter. This was her night and he rejoiced for her; he must not mind.

And he did want a drink.

Leaving the empty champagne glass on the nearest table, he slipped out into the hall, and in his slight distraction, ran straight into Daisy Threale, sending the contents of her own brimming glass up and over a fine, white bosom that was daringly exposed, even for the current fashion.

"Oh, Mr. Clayton!" the young lady bubbled. "I fear you have wet my front!"

"I do beg your pardon," Adam said smoothly, fishing for his handkerchief. He held it out to her, but she made no move to take it. Instead, she took a step closer to him and seemed to thrust herself up at him, as if to suggest that she wished him to perform the necessary work himself. She looked up at him with the round, saucy blue eyes she'd inherited from her mother, her plump, pink lips slightly parted.

"Do forgive me," he said. "Here you are," he reached for her hand, pressing the handkerchief into it.

"But where are you going?" she asked, making no move to dab at herself, and he could hardly help looking down to see the glisten of wet on her pearly skin. "Dear Francesca has just begun to sing!"

"I am just going out to take some air," he said, and instantly regretted it, knowing what would come next.

"Oh, do take me with you. It is ever so hot and close!" She laid a hand on his arm.

He smiled down at her and sighed, and placed his hand over hers. "Miss Thr---" he began. "Daisy," he said in a lower tone. "Did we not agree at New Year…?"

She lowered her head, looking at him from beneath long, curling blonde eyelashes. "Oh, but you know I don't mind at all."

That was an understatement, at the very least. In their brief association he had learned very well that there was little indeed that Daisy Threale minded or that she would not permit.

People were moving through the doorway and they seemed to be blocking the path. He took her arm and drew her aside, turning her to face him, her back to the wall.

"Nonetheless," he said gently. "We did agree that perhaps it was not for the best, given our associations. Your mama and my employer…"

"Yes, of course. Our associations. Hmph." Pouting, she crossed her plump little arms under her wet bosom, causing the indisputably tempting mounds to swell even further over the top of her already precarious decolletage, a move calculated, he had little doubt, expressly for his benefit.

She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, and her pique, along with her bosom, seemed to deflate slightly. She gave him a pretty, rather wistful smile.

"You are a handsome hypocrite, Adam Clayton," she said. "I know you're in love with her." She reached up suddenly and with both hands, gave his cheeks a hard pinch. "Everyone is!" she laughed, and ducked, flouncing off to the music room, clutching his handkerchief to her chest.

Shaking his head, he walked on down the hall to the top of the marble stair. In the foyer below, still more guests were arriving, and he greeted a few familiar faces as he made his way downstairs.

The master's study occupied a wing that projected at the back of the house, with windows that would, if the draperies had not been drawn closed, look out on a private garden that was among the largest and prettiest in London.  Colored paper lanterns had been hung over the walkways in the garden, to light the way for any guests who cared to stroll in the still rather cool spring air. But with the drapes closed, it was quite dark indeed, and Adam left the door open until he could find a candle and light it.

In front of the windows and beside the massive oaken desk was Adam's chair, where he would often sit of a morning, playing whatever pleased him as Mr. Conyngham—Mr. Thom, they all called him---worked away at his accounts. Sometimes the master would take up his own violin, and they would play together, although Mr. Thom, for all his honest practice and sincere fervor never had quite achieved, "the facility".

The afternoons were very busy, and he generally spent them with Signor, transcribing music, taking his lessons, teaching junior pupils, running errands. He played, too, in the Drury Lane band and often hired out to play in private homes in the evenings.

"Shall never be the same." Mr. Thom's words came to him again as he searched in the bottom desk drawer for the brandy bottle he knew would be there. The master wouldn't mind. They often shared a drink together. Indeed, Conyngham was perversely proud of what he called his "democratic little household". A widower with no children, and---as besotted as he was with the happily abandoned but still very married Mrs. Threale--- unlikely to remarry and produce any, he seemed to have made for himself a family of his own choosing, and treated Adam rather more like a son than an employee.

And Fancy, of course, was his treasure.

For his part, Adam knew he should not care if everything remained the same forever. He was as content, as at home, as he had ever been in his life, whether here in London or in the big house in Lynn, although London was always to be preferred, both for its pleasures and diversions, and for the fact that when he was here, he need make no pretense of visiting with his mother, who still lived in Norfolk with her second husband and a new crop of children. Still beautiful, still cool and indifferent, the most she had to say to him on seeing him for the first time after four years at sea was that she was pleased that he favored her in looks, and not his father.

He supposed he did take after her. He had her fair hair and green eyes, her fine bone structure and smooth, pale skin. In addition he was tall and slender and quite well made. Women and girls seemed to find him handsome.

When he had come, he had wanted to learn all he could from Signor Gabrieli. He had thought that he might share his father's creative gift, and inspired by the maestro, be able to achieve in his own career that which his father had been denied by circumstance and early death. Mr. Conyngham, he knew, had hoped it as well. But when, after a few years, it became plain that he was a talented and proficient musician---but nothing more---no one had seemed disappointed. He was appreciated and regarded for the gifts he did possess. They were useful gifts, and he served a useful purpose with his life. He thought he wanted nothing more.

That was perhaps not wholly true.

He found the bottle and a little silver cup and carried them to the sofa. He took off his good dark blue coat, and laid it over the arm, then sat down heavily, feeling suddenly very tired, and untied his neckcloth with a yank. He poured himself a draught, re-stoppered the bottle, and set it on the floor. It was French brandy, delicious and powerful, and he drained the cup in one swallow.

He lay back, his head resting on the sofa back, letting his eyes close.

*****

"Adam, do come here! I need you!"

He laid down his pen and rose. She had never looked up when she called him. She knew that he would always come.

"My lady?" he said, with a tone of exaggerated obsequiousness. She seemed not to notice.

"Sit down, please," she said. "I have an idea." She slid over on the bench, making room for him. She'd been playing a part of the Little Fugue over and over. He'd been about to ask her to stop, as it was becoming a little tedious, and breaking his concentration, causing him to make errors in his copy.

"Play the second melody for me," she pleaded. "And I will show you what I mean."

"All right." He knew the piece by heart, of course. He placed his fingers on the harpsichord keys, having to put one of his hands between her two. She arched her delicate wrists over his to keep out of his way and somehow they managed to avoid fouling one another as they played.

 Her papa was a great proponent of the new classical style, and his work shone with that perfect simplicity that had so impressed Adam those years ago on the "Princess Amelia", when he had first encountered that sad, exquisite little tune. Fancy, however, was in love with the baroque; the more complex it's intricacies, and the prettier its embellishments, the more she loved it.

"Here, you see," she said. "A more exaggerated pause between the notes…here…and…here. And then…" she glanced up at him quickly, her face animated, her eyes flashing with the pride of her inspiration. "Do you see how it lifts the tempo and makes the conversation even livelier?"

Adam chuckled. "I wonder that Mr. Bach did not think of it himself," he said.

She frowned. "All art is open to interpretation. And improvement!"

"I did not say otherwise." He smiled at her. She was so near, he could see the little pulse beating at the base of her throat, and a single inky lock of hair curled against it. Her skin was golden and smooth, and her eyes, regarding him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, were so dark and warm, with that beguiling exotic tilt. As he looked at her, he saw her drop her gaze suddenly, and he followed her down to see their hands, clasped together above the keys.

Go to Part Three