Page 65 of The Virtuoso
When Val—bearing the small cask and some tin cups—joined his brother on the dock, Sir Dewey was sitting on the planks, boots neatly to the side, feet immersed.
“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” Val asked as he started to work on his own boots.
Sir Dewey shrugged. “Thought the king’s man ought to see and be seen. The local lads aren’t talking, and Vicar hasn’t heard anything of note either.”
They both watched as St. Just set down the pie, straightened, and began to unfasten his breeches. “Tap that keg, why don’t you, baby brother? It’s hot out here, and we’ll need to wash down our pie.” His shirt followed, and he was soon standing naked at the end of the dock. “You have the prettiest pond, Valentine.”
He executed a clean, arcing dive into the water, the movement combining grace and strength.
Darius quickly followed suit, while Val merely swizzled his feet in the wonderfully cool water.
“Are you always so quiet?” Sir Dewey asked.
“I’m hearing a song in my head,” Val mused. “A sort of rollicking, triple meter that men might sing in German.”
“A drinking song?”
“To the Germans, if it’s triple meter and rollicking, then of course it’s a drinking song. Even if it isn’t, enough schnapps and beer, and it will do whether the piano’s in tune or not.”
“There’s a decent piano in the assembly rooms over the shops,” Sir Dewey said. “The damned thing is sorely in need of tuning, not that anybody seems to care. It would serve for pounding out a drinking song and I’m sure you’d be welcome to use it.”
“Why not get it tuned?”
“Hire a tuner to come work on one instrument?” Sir Dewey scoffed. “Even in the enchanted confines of Little Weldon, the concept of economy is practiced to an art. Each year, I think they’ll simply inflict a pair of violins on us at the summer assembly, as the humidity afflicts the instrument badly.”
“Who tunes your piano?” Val asked, swirling his feet thoughtfully. He was grateful, he realized, for the particular pleasure of simply soaking his feet on a lovely summer day while a merry little oom-pah-pah tootled along in his head.
“I’ve had my piano only a few months, and because you so generously provide that it gets tuned before your delivery crews depart, it still sounds lovely.”
Val looked out over the water. “Why aren’t we in the water, earning our pie?”
“You’re not going to tune that piano for us, are you?” Sir Dewey observed softly. “Belmont said you hadn’t set foot in his music room, either, which is puzzling. You are Lord Valentine Windham, and if there’s one epithet attributed to you, it’s ‘the virtuoso.’ Your musical artistry precedes you even in the rustic circles I frequent.”
Val eyed the pie. Lovely summer day, indeed. “Since when does the cavalry teach reading tea leaves and tramping around in a man’s head for a pastime, Fanning?”
“I’ve heard you play,” Sir Dewey said. “It was at a private gathering at Lord and Lady Barringer’s last year. There were the usual diligent offerings and even competent entertainments, but then there was you, and the true art of a genius. I ordered one of your instruments the next day. You have a gift, Windham, and you likely deny yourself as much as you deny those around you when you don’t use it.”
“Oh, likely.” Val started working at the cork on the small keg. “We artists are a complicated lot. Are you going in for a swim or not?”
Sir Dewey drew his feet from the water. “When you’re willing to play for us, I’ll join you all for a swim, how’s that?”
Val scowled, watching as Sir Dewey rose and gathered up his boots. There were implications there, about exposing one’s vulnerabilities, and trust and self-acceptance, but it was a pleasant afternoon; there was plenty of ale to drink, and Val wasn’t the least bit interested in tramping around in his own head, thank you very much.
Particularly not when there was a very charming German drinking song rollicking about there already.
***
“How are things coming?” Abby asked as she turned Ellen around to undo the hooks on her dress. “And how did you get this thing on?”
“You fasten it most of the way then drop it over your head, then contort yourself in a learned maneuver that takes years to perfect.”
“I know that maneuver, and I know the tendency to choose practical clothing over the pretty. Shall I brush out your hair?”
Ellen intended to politely refuse. Abby Belmont had a busy household to run, her stepsons would no doubt want to greet her, and there was a meal to get on the table.
“Would you mind?”
“Of course not.” Abby hung Ellen’s dress in the wardrobe and fetched a brush from the vanity, while Ellen took the low-backed chair before it. “When I was married to That Man, he thought I should not have a lady’s maid, claiming it set an example of sloth and dependence on one’s inferiors. The Colonel was so full of nonsense. You have beautiful hair.”
