At her fingertips, p.16
At Her Fingertips, page 16
Peter glanced sideways at Ivy. “‘She’s hard to guide any way but her own,’” he quoted.
She wanted to laugh, but she refused and found her way to Gibson.
A bit later, there was talk of performing, as she’d predicted, but with Ivy and Cassie both there, she had nothing to fear. Also as predicted, Ivy took charge.
“Mr. Strauss, would you like to perform?” Ivy asked. “They asked me to play, and Cassie said she would sing if you would.”
Mr. Strauss agreed and stepped forward to the piano. Cassie turned to him, beaming, and placed a page of sheet music in his hands. Alice watched as he fumbled in his pocket for a moment before withdrawing a pair of spectacles and placing them on his nose—after almost dropping them twice of course.
Her cheeks hurt from keeping her laughter contained to a polite smile. Honestly, could this man do anything that wasn’t hopelessly awkward?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Miss Ivy played the last bar of the song and let her hands drop onto her lap. Around them, the few listeners applauded, praising the trio for a good performance. Peter was proud. He had acquitted himself well enough, though the real talent plainly lay with the two ladies. Lady Mary had a rich, full voice, the kind that was searched for and rarely found in sopranos.
Miss Ivy played the song with unusually brilliant emotion, plainly not following the music as much as her own sense of what the song should be. She hummed along with the music, singing snatches to herself, and Peter sensed that Miss Ivy, too, had a fantastic voice, though different from Lady Mary’s. Miss Ivy’s was a soprano as well, but airy—like the singing of some fairy. That well described Miss Ivy. Fairy-like.
A few in the audience asked for another song, but both Lady Mary and Peter hastened to say that they thought it best to relinquish their places for someone else.
Miss Knight stepped forward. “Please, Mr. Strauss, won’t you just perform one more song?” She placed a hand on his arm.
Peter took a minute to respond, staring at her and trying to figure out why he wasn’t answering. Though, of course he knew why—because his feelings for her were continuing to grow, and he’d have to continue to rein them in. It simply took discernable effort. “I will.” He forced the words through his tight throat.
“Now, Cassie, you won’t let him sing alone, will you?” Miss Knight asked, turning to her friend. Her hand was removed in doing so, and Peter breathed again.
Lady Mary shook her head. “I suppose not,” she said. She approached the piano and began discussing music with Miss Ivy.
“You gave in easier than I expected.” Her lips twitched as she met his gaze. She could look him in the eye evenly—not surprising as she was a tall woman and his height was below average.
He remained silent, not sure how to respond. He couldn’t very well say, ‘You touched me and my mind went blank.’
She cocked her head to the side, eyes thoughtful. “I hope I didn’t talk you into doing something you didn’t want to do.”
“Not at all,” Peter said. “I’ll be glad to do it if it brings you enjoyment.”
“It mostly brings me an excuse to not play myself,” Miss Knight said in an undertone. “I’d go to ridiculous lengths to avoid that.” She smiled, almost weakly, and returned to her seat. Peter went to the piano and held a whispered consultation with Lady Mary and Miss Ivy before they began another piece.
When they finished, Gibson Ashfield stood before anyone could say a word.
“Thank you to the lovely trio. Now, I’d like to beg Miss Knight to perform a duet with me.”
Miss Knight whitened visibly at Gibson’s words, and Peter couldn’t stand that. He stepped up to Gibson.
“Don’t make her. You see the expression on her face?” he said in a whisper.
Gibson ignored Peter, keeping his eyes on Miss Knight. “Won’t you?”
“I’d rather not.” Miss Knight forced a cheerful smile, but her eyes still held terror.
Peter pretended to be adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “Just leave her be.”
Gibson continued to ignore Peter, transfixed on the girl he was both courting and torturing—whether he knew it or not on the latter count. “Please, Miss Knight? It would be a great honor. One song?”
“No. Perhaps some other time,” said Miss Knight. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips pressed together in a tight line. Not everyone was talented that way, and she should be allowed an escape without embarrassment. But how to go about preventing the embarrassment?
Peter glanced about the room, looking for such an escape. People were starting to be curious over the delay and had even begun to glance at each other, to whisper. That was the way of society. It sought the slightest hint of gossip—and pounced.
“Miss Knight, please.” Gibson stepped over to her side and took her hand.
“I can barely play or sing,” Peter heard Miss Knight reply softly. “Please excuse me, Mr. Ashfield. I’d really rather not.”
“Nonsense. Don’t be modest.” He tugged her hand gently in the direction of the piano.
“Gibson.” Peter strode over to Mr. Ashfield, sure that that action was the only way now. “Miss Knight isn’t going to play tonight. Leave her alone. She has the right to refuse you, and it’s not right for you to press the matter. She’s a lady; be a gentleman.”
Obviously offended, Gibson scowled, but obliged, and went off to talk to a few gentlemen, who had chosen the comfort of the fire and conversation over the sound of music.
Peter turned away, leaving her time to recover from the apparent terror the idea of having to perform in front of people had caused her. He managed to get other people to begin, making it as if Miss Knight had never been asked to play. In no time, he glanced back to see her composed, and went to her.
“I’m sorry about Gibson,” Peter said. “When he gets an idea in his head, he’s incorrigible.”
Miss Knight smiled. “It’s all right. Thank you for standing up for me. I think playing in public is the only thing I’m afraid of. I really do have a terrible singing voice, and I’m no pianist.”
“Perhaps I could help you with that—at least with the piano playing; I’m no expert on voices, as I’ve never really struggled with it myself, nor had professional training.”
“No, thank you. I’d prefer to remain mediocre. It’s not important to me, and I don’t think I’ll ever truly be forced to perform. Although, that was rather hard to avoid. Thank you again.”
“It was nothing,” Peter said, glancing down.
“It was something. It was wonderful of you,” Miss Knight replied before turning to join those gathered around the piano, listening to a young lady sing a duet with another gentleman.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Alice watched as Gibson Ashfield, still moody and irritated after Mr. Strauss’s rebuff, nearly stomped out of the door. Of course, Mr. Strauss had to leave with the Ashfields, but he lingered in the foyer, bidding good-bye to her.
They talked for a few minutes about random, unimportant things. Mr. Strauss was obviously putting off his departure, likely wanting to say something to her about her refusal to play the piano but not knowing how. So she made it easy for him.
“I want to thank you once again for stepping in for me.” Alice swallowed. “I would have been very embarrassed, my pride injured, if I had to play. My poor mother—she would have been worse off than me. She can’t stand to see me fail at anything. She’s so determined upon perfection.”
Strangely enough, Mr. Strauss seemed surprised to hear her bring it up. She wondered vaguely why he lingered when he obviously felt no need to hash out the subject. “Well. Of course. I’m just sorry if I embarrassed you by being so fervent.”
“You didn’t at all. I think sometimes Mr. Ashfield needs to be told to behave himself. The expression on his face was quite amusing.” She found it easy to smile at this thought. “I know I’ll see you at church, but I thought I’d ask now, before you leave. Will you be at the opening of the Royal Academy of Arts Monday next? That’s considerably more to my taste than music, you know. I paint and sketch—or I do when I have time.”
“That’s lovely.” Mr. Strauss’s face slowly broke into a grin. “I would enjoy that.”
“Then you will come?”
Mr. Strauss looked over Alice’s head, presumably at her father, though Alice didn’t turn, and then returned his eyes to her face and nodded. “Yes. I’m sure Gibson will want to come, too.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be there. Good night, Miss Knight.” Then his brow wrinkled, and his mouth twisted.
Alice laughed; she’d heard the homophones before, and it didn’t bother her, but his expression was so amusing. “I’ll see you Sunday, then.”
“Yes. Sunday.” He fumbled with his hat again and made his way out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
May 3, 1880
Peter glanced around him, swaying from side to side in an effort to take in as many of the fabulous paintings as he possibly could. The Royal Academy of Arts was indeed quite the spectacle, and though Peter understood little about art, he could tell this was an impressive collection.
Gibson Ashfield was a lot less interested in the art and a lot more interested in Miss Knight. Which was to be expected, but ever since that night when he’d tried to convince her, unsuccessfully, to play a duet with him, the mood between the two ‘sweethearts’ had shifted.
Miss Knight was considerably more annoyed. She seemed to spend more time avoiding him than she spent talking to him. Meanwhile, Gibson maintained his pouty presence, the only child who had, at last, met his match as he never had been forced to as a boy.
They were both being immature in their own way, though at least Miss Knight was hiding it fairly well. Gibson wasn’t even trying, and his lack of respect for the lady’s wishes and decisions grated at Peter’s nerves.
Furthermore, Peter’s position in the Ashfield house was tenuous. Mrs. Ashfield actually seemed pleased with Gibson’s having been put down a peg or two, and had paid attention to Peter for the first time. He’d had a few conversations with the lady since, and there’d been something about her … something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something familiar, though.
Mr. Ashfield was never there, unless they were entertaining, and Gibson was decidedly chilly. He apparently didn’t appreciate Peter’s interference, but if Gibson was going to treat Miss Knight badly, Peter would interfere. He would interfere every time, and Gibson would just have to get used to it.
Except, Peter couldn’t be there forever. And Gibson was looking to find a more permanent position in Miss Knight’s life.
Oh, Lord, please. Show them the way. Show her the way. This can’t be right. I thought You might be changing him, but …
At last, Gibson broke away from Miss Knight, as if frustrated with her for her lack of response to his comments, and started speaking to Claire and Philip. Suddenly he was animated, suddenly he knew everything about art. Flaunting his knowledge, showing her that he could captivate others. Acting like a child of six or younger. Probably not saying anything accurate, though Peter didn’t know for sure. However, Miss Knight’s screwed-up face told him he was just babbling for the sake of babbling.
She had to get out. She had to get out of this attachment to Gibson Ashfield, and she had to get out fast.
Peter stepped to her side and offered his arm, which she promptly took. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“Oh, never mind. He’ll get over it.” Her lip trembled a bit, but she jerked her head toward the nearest painting, a large landscape depicting what might be a French or German countryside. “Lovely, isn’t it? I like doing big landscapes myself. Oh, not on this scale, but occasionally. Pearlbelle Park is just as pretty as that.”
Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, but since it was a family estate, he’d allow that. She went on to talk about the methods used, animated and knowledgeable. He admired her passion; in Peter’s point of view, true passion was always something worth noting, and Miss Knight could never fake anything if she tried.
She was too honest, too focused on reality, and her reality was that painting was a special connection to the world around her. A singular form of expression, though she seemed more interested in the practical than emotional side. She probably didn’t express her emotions in any real way, unless by accident. He wished it lay in his power to change that, to inspire … something … in her. But it didn’t. So it was best if he moved on.
Peter cleared his throat. “Passion is interesting, isn’t it? So often the things we love, that we really care about, define us. But you’ve escaped that, I suppose, by not being too all-consumed with your art.”
Her cheeks brightened slightly, and she shook her head. “I’ll never be like Ivy—or like you. For you, your words, and for Ivy, her music … They mean everything. They mean things to you that they don’t mean to other people—or perhaps they do. Perhaps they could, and perhaps that’s the goal you work toward. Me? I like accuracy. I’ve not been trained, but any artist here would say that my lack of passion stunts my growth. And I don’t care—I’ll leave them their passion, and I can take what remains of their accuracy.”
“Not everyone has to be a grand artist.” Peter cocked his head. “It takes all types to make the world go around, doesn’t it?”
“All types of men,” she murmured. “But, thankfully, I’m not interested in making the world go around. Just a house. And that, a woman must do. If Ivy ever has her own household, she will forever be torn between what she loves and what she must do. I won’t have that struggle.”
Peter shrugged. “You’re right. I have that struggle when it comes to simple things, like going to bed at a reasonable hour or remembering to go to work.” He shuddered at the thought of the few times when his writing or reading had really gotten him into trouble, late for some important event or scrambling to organize his thoughts after they’d long been lost in dreamland. “Like I said, it takes all types to make the world go around. Dreamers have worth, too, Miss Knight.”
She didn’t say anything, and Peter knew she’d rather remain silent than insult him. But he didn’t believe her completely cold-hearted toward his type, especially as a smile seemed to dance just below the surface, causing a tell-tale twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“Come now, Miss Knight. Other than Miss Ivy, what dreamers have you in your life?” He stepped in front of her, placed a hand on his hip, and that made her laugh, shook her out of the silence. He relaxed his pose. “Really.”
“The people I hold dearest are all realists, or practically. Though, I do have Nettie, who is continually giving me advice on romances I don’t intend to have.” She smiled, a soft light in her eyes. Nettie must be a very dearly loved person. “She’s almost always right, but I think her experience with love is a bit different than mine. She doesn’t understand my class, after all. What makes it tick.”
Ah, yes, because no one from a different social class could ever understand someone from another social class. It wasn’t like their struggles were similar despite their economic differences. Peter refrained from rolling his eyes. “Who’s Nettie?” He’d heard the name mentioned many times but never in context.
“My governess and my nursemaid before that. She practically raised me and Ivy before she began a family of her own. Nettie is …” She paused, searching for the right words. “The greatest Christian woman I have ever known.”
“She sounds wonderful. I’d like to meet her sometime.”
“You should! I’d like that, and I think she’d like you very much. Probably more than she likes me just now. In fact …” She hesitated, glancing at her parents. “Hmm. Nettie is coming up near London with the little ones this weekend, and we’re all having a picnic together. What if you were to come along?”
Longing hit him in the chest like a hurricane, but he battened down the hatches. Shallow, fleshly Peter wanted to go on a picnic with the lovely, confusing Miss Knight and her sweet family, but cautious, godly Peter knew very well that there were about seventy-three reasons why that couldn’t happen. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Yes, you could! I know you could. What else do you have to do?” She brushed away all his previous commitments—though there hadn’t been any, but still—with a wave of her hand. “She’ll bring her children as well as my younger siblings, and we’re making a day of it. It’ll be so fun! And it would be good for you to see a real English upper-class family behaving themselves naturally, wouldn’t it? For those articles, I mean? We’re not really ourselves without the babies, so you haven’t, exactly.”
Nonsense. He’d stayed in their home with the younger children there already. One afternoon wasn’t going to change his observations, most likely.
Yet her eyes, the firmness of her tone, the fact that she clearly thought Peter should drop everything and conform to her will … Part of him wanted to resist just to be contrary, but there didn’t seem to be any harm in it.
Oh, Lord, if this is wrong, forgive me.
“If your parents invite me, I’ll come.” Perhaps they’d say ‘no’ and save his poor heart the stretching.
“I’ll see to the invitation.”
The conversation moved on, but Peter spent the rest of the day working on shoring up his defenses. He’d have to be strong if she were to remain just a friend to him. Though, of course he’d never tell her what he’d arrived at, regardless of the outcome his own heart experienced.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
May 8, 1880
Just the feel of Caleb’s head pressed against her chest was enough to cause Alice to breathe a sigh of relief. She loved Caleb in a way that gave her hope for her own future as a mother—she wasn’t a particularly emotional woman, but the dear boy, with his mischievous grin and his endless energy, gave her the closest approximation to an emotional reaction that any child ever had.
“Alice, Alice!” His golden-brown curls bounced about his baby-blue eyes, and he shoved them back as he pulled away from her. He was in need of another haircut, but Anna always let the two youngest boys’ hair grow as long as possible. “Alice, Ella says I’m not a real Knight ’cause I pushed her into a mud puddle yesterday, but I am, aren’t I?”
