The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [102]
“Thank you, Mrs. Radley.” He smiled, meeting her eyes with unusual frankness. He seemed to search beneath the easy surface to know if she meant what she said, if she had any understanding of music and its meaning, its textures and values, or if she were simply being polite. He was apparently satisfied. A slow smile curved his lips. “I love to play.”
She sought for something further to say; the situation seemed to invite it.
“It is a very beautiful instrument you have. Is it very old?”
His face darkened immediately and a look of acute pain filled his eyes. “Yes. It’s not a Guanerius, of course; but it is Italian, and about the same period.”
She was confused. “Is that not good?”
“It’s exquisite,” he said in a soft, fierce whisper. “It’s priceless; money is nothing, meaningless beside this sort of beauty. Money is just so much paper—this is passion, eloquence, love, grief, everything of meaning. This is the voice of man’s soul.”
She was about to ask him if someone had insulted him by giving it a monetary value when her eye caught a blemish on the perfect smoothness of the wood, a bruise. She felt a sudden distress herself. The instrument had so many of the qualities of a living thing, and yet not the great gift of healing itself. That mark would remain forever.
She lifted her eyes and met his and saw them full of a blistering rage. There was no need to say anything. For that moment she shared with him all the helplessness and the loathing of the artist face to face with the vandal, the senseless damaging of irretrievable loveliness.
“Does it affect the sound?” she asked, almost certain in her heart that it did not.
He shook his head.
They were joined by Thora, looking extremely handsome with cascades of ivory lace from her shoulder to elbow, and swathed across a deep décolletage. The skirt was smooth and boasted only the smallest bustle. Altogether it was highly fashionable and most becoming. She looked at Victor with a slight frown.
“You are not distressing Mrs. Radley with that miserable accident, are you, dear? Really it is best forgotten. We cannot undo it, you know.”
He stared at her with an unwavering gaze.
“Of course I know, Mama. When a blow is struck, it can never be undone.” He turned to Emily. “Can it, Mrs. Radley? The flesh is bruised, and the soul.”
Thora opened her mouth to say something, and then changed her mind. She looked at the cello, and then at her son.
Victor seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“No,” Emily said hastily. “Of course it can never be undone.”
“Do you think we should pretend it didn’t happen?” Victor asked, still looking at Emily. “When friends inquire, we should smile bravely and say everything is well—even tell ourselves it does not really hurt, it will all mend soon, and doubtless it was an accident and no one intended any harm.” His voice had been growing harsher and there was a note of something like an inner panic in it.
“I am not sure I agree,” Emily replied, weighing her answer for something between honesty and tact. “An inordinate fuss helps no one, but I do think that whoever damaged your cello, accident or not, owes you a considerable debt and I can see no reason at all why you should pretend otherwise.”
Victor looked startled.
Thora colored uncomfortably and frowned at her as if she had not totally understood.
“Sometimes accidents are caused by carelessness,” Emily explained. “And regardless of that, we do need to be responsible for what we do. Do you not agree? We cannot expect others to bear the brunt.”
“It is not always so easy …” Thora began, then stopped.
Victor shot Emily a charming smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Radley. I think you have said it exactly. A lack of care, that is it. One must be responsible. Honesty, that is the key to it all.”
“Do you not know who bruised your cello?” she asked.
“Oh yes, I know.”
Thora looked puzzled. “Victor …”
But before he could answer, they were interrupted by a stout woman with remarkably black hair.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Radley, I simply had to say