Outside a spring storm raged. The small window of her room rattled and she knew immediately that it must be a nor’easter. Usually these storms came in the winter with heavy wet snow but this was a spring one. Thunder shook the roof, but amidst the cracks of lightning and the rumbling of thunder, there was another sound. A vibration separate yet seemingly responding to the cacophony of the storm, a resonance that rose through the house like a single silver thread. No, not a thread—a string!
Hannah had a clear mental image, as if the reverberating object were right before her in the darkness of her room. It was the harp. She threw back the covers, swung her bare feet to the floor, and left her room.
For the second time she had violated one of the most important rules of the house, but she barely gave it a thought as she entered the music room. There was a loud crack and a filigree of lightning was framed in the panes of glass behind the harp. Hannah could see the strings quivering. The very air around the harp seemed to flutter as if stoked by hundreds of invisible midnight butterflies. As if in a trance, Hannah walked toward the harp. I can make music, she thought. I can!
She sat down on the stool. Very gently she eased the harp back so it rested on top of her right shoulder. As Hannah closed her eyes, the memory of the woman’s fingers on the strings came to her. She curled her hand so the fingers rested lightly against her palm and her thumb lay on top of them. The strings of the harp grazed her knuckles. Then very slowly she opened her hand and placed her fingers, except for the smallest, on four strings and lightly plucked them. The harp’s subtle vibrations became something else—a pattern, a wave of motion with depth and texture. Swirls of sound floated through the air.
She had played for less than a full minute when suddenly she was aware of a presence. There was a tiny sharp click that pricked the sounds swirling through the room and shattered the brief harmonies. She felt a tingle go up her spine. A crack of lightning illuminated the room, and the grotesque shadow of a cat sprang across the hot flash of white, followed by a strident ringing as Jade leapt onto the piano, unleashing a wild crash of notes. Hannah froze. The cat bared her fangs and screeched.
Jumping from the stool, Hannah raced from the room. She was not sure if the cat was following or not. She took the stairs two at a time. The skies opened up and a raucous roll of thunder obliterated the sound of her footsteps. She finally reached her room and slammed the door.
Sinking against the door, Hannah could hear nothing but the pounding of her own heart wild with fear. She shut her eyes tightly. How could she have been so reckless? But how wonderful it was—just those few seconds when the notes had been released into the air. It was as if she had crossed over into another world—a liquid, floating world where she fit. She latched the door and was determined to banish the horrid cat from her thoughts. She would go to bed and remember those few notes and her fingers—yes, the wonderful feeling of her fingertips on the strings. Hannah was amazed by that brief moment, and yet it had felt very natural, as if this music, those few notes were a gift that had always been within her but of which she had never been aware.
By the time the storm pushed out to sea, Hannah was sound asleep, and even when she woke the next morning she still felt wrapped in the harp’s music. The rest of the Hawley household was in a less than harmonious state.
“Miss Lila be having one of her fits,” Daze reported as she came in from the breakfast room with a tray. “She says that she won’t come downstairs when Mr. Wheeler comes to paint the portrait. Ran back upstairs right after breakfast.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. What is it this time?” Mrs. Bletchley huffed over a pot of oatmeal.
“The cat?” Susie asked.
“Yes, the cat.” Miss Horton entered the kitchen. “Seems that Mr. Wheeler does not like the idea of painting Jade any better than Mr. and Mrs. Hawley do. He says it will throw off what he calls ‘the chromatic balance of the painting.’” She sighed. “Whatever that means.”
“I think, Miss Horton,” said Mr. Marston as he came into the kitchen. “The word ‘chromatic’ is most often used in terms of music, the notes that belong to a scale of the key in which it is written.” Mr. Marston enjoyed indulging in lengthy, professorial disquisitions on subjects. It gave him particular pleasure to do this in front of Miss Horton, who of all the servants in the household was closest to him in terms of rank or status. “But Stannish Whitman Wheeler is remarkable for the subtle, nuanced layering of color in his painting. The girls, have they not all been dressed in rather dark shades of mauve, gray, and violet? The vases themselves loom tall and alabaster white with their fine filigree of blue figure painting. Now throw a big, fat, snowy white cat into that palette…well, it is going to spoil all that. Unbalance things.”
Miss Horton gave him a look of undisguised contempt. “That’s a lovely theory, Mr. Marston. But you and I know we’ve got trouble brewing.”
Mr. Marston at once looked chastised. His face turned grim. “You’re right, Miss Horton. Forgive my digression.”
Hannah spoke up now. She felt a bit sorry for Mr. Marston, and his theory sounded very learned to her. “I remember, sir, last night in the dining room Miss Lila asking Mr. Wheeler about the dress she was wearing and him saying that she should talk with her sisters about what they were wearing because it was appropriate to have a balance of color in the painting.”
A slight frown creased Mr. Marston’s brow. “Yes, very astute of you to understand this essential balance, but, Hannah, it is not appropriate that you listen in quite so carefully to the dinner table conversation and repeat it with commentary.”
Hannah’s face swam with confusion. “I don’t understand, sir. I was only doing the same thing you were when you talked about the big, fat cat spoiling the chroma…” Her voice dwindled away.
“Not quite the same, Hannah, but you will learn. Now, don’t worry too much. It’s a rather chilly morning. So make sure the fires in the drawing room are lit well before Mr. Wheeler arrives.”
“Yes, sir,” Hannah muttered. Some thanks I get for trying to defend him against Miss Horton. The stupid rules of Mr. Marston! If he had only known what she had been up to last night in the music salon before that loathsome cat had appeared. Suddenly the entire household seemed so silly to her. It dawned on her in this moment that what she had loved so much when she heard the harp’s music and then began to play in the midst of the storm was this sense or suggestion of a place, a world without such rules. A place where boundaries simply did not exist, but living things moved freely, in a limitless space, and yet were still connected to everything in much the same way the harp’s music enveloped all the people in the music room last night. But there was something else, she thought. She shut her eyes, trying to remember. In the few brief moments she had played—those notes, the fragments of the harmony, the slips of melody were like remnants, shreds from a song she could almost recall.
A report came down from upstairs that a deal had been brokered between Lila and Mrs. Hawley. If Lila would cooperate with the requirements for the portrait, she could have an off-the-shoulder gown for her debut like the one she craved from the House of Worth. “All is well for now.” Daze sighed as she sank down onto a kitchen stool, exhausted. “I tell you, that girl is the devil herself.”
When Hannah had cleaned and prepared the drawing room, she had left the door that led off the back of the room open just a slot. She planned to take a peek when she could during the painting of the girls’ portraits. Daze and Florrie and Roseanne were charged with preparing the girls in their portrait dresses. So Hannah had no chance of glimpsing them any other way.
Mr. Wheeler arrived at ten o’clock sharp. A servant of his had already delivered his easel and materials. It was not until almost eleven that Hannah was able to steal upstairs and peep through the crack in the door.
They were apparently having a break, and Ettie was regaling Mr. Wheeler with a story about how she had witnessed the birth of a baby elephant at the Paris zoo. There was much laug
hter and many giggles.
“Well, I didn’t actually see the moment. But I was so happy Miss Ardmore was sick that day and Annabelle, our French parlor maid, took me.”
“Annabelle used to dance in the Folies Bergère,” Clarice added. “But don’t tell Mummy or she could get fired and she’s our favorite Paris maid.”
“Anyway, Annabelle took me and it had just been born. They get born standing up.”
“No!” Stannish Wheeler exclaimed.
“Well, not quite standing up,” Clarice corrected. “I looked it up in the Le Livre d’Histoire Naturelle des Animaux Exotiques, and it said that within an hour of being born a baby elephant usually stands.”
“But it still had some bloody stuff on it, and its belly button cord hanging down.” Ettie spoke in a hushed awe.
Lila looked entirely bored. “Can we get back to the painting?” Lila yawned. “I have heard this elephant story a thousand times.”
“No, you haven’t,” Ettie said staunchly. “Because nobody ever lets me tell it.”
“Why is that, Ettie?” Mr. Wheeler asked as he crouched down and pulled at the hem of her skirt. Surreptitiously he slowly turned his head toward Hannah’s door, and winked. Hannah felt the blood rush to her face and began to draw back, but he shook his head. The current had begun to flow again. She felt it. He must have sensed me even before he saw me.
“They say it’s inappropriate to talk about such matters,” Ettie replied to Mr. Wheeler’s question. “But it’s about getting born. I mean, if it’s inappropriate to get born, where would we all be?” Hannah clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing out loud. She noticed that the corners of Mr. Wheeler’s eyes crinkled up and there was a flash of white teeth. He looked at her again. There was something utterly delicious in sharing a joke in this clandestine way.
The painter had arranged the girls in an interesting tableau. Clarice and Ettie were in the foreground. Ettie was the closest but sitting on the floor. Her legs were straight out and she was holding one of her stuffed animals. Clarice was a few steps behind her, and then in the background Lila leaned languidly against an immense vase. Hannah almost experienced a feeling of envy as she saw that the top of Lila’s head grazed that cresting wave from which the fish tail broke.
She knew it was silly. It was not as if Lila were in the sea. But in her casual posture she seemed to be claiming it in some way. She was the only one not facing the painter. All three girls were wearing rather young-looking frocks in shades of rose and lavender with fresh white pinafores. It was almost as if they were to be frozen in time at an age that represented the delicate cusp between little girl and young maiden. Hannah realized that she, too, was on this same edge, but how different her life was. She was expected to work and to learn how to negotiate the harsh realities of life.
The painting proceeded with the girls posing for the next few days. But there was a noticeable tension that had settled on number 18 Louisburg Square. It was as if the entire household was holding its breath…waiting…waiting, but Hannah was not sure exactly what for. Mr. and Mrs. Hawley would often drop their voices suddenly when servants entered the room. On the fifth morning after the painting had begun, Lila boldly sailed into the drawing room with Jade cradled in her arms.
Hannah crept back into the hallway, out of sight, but able to hear. Ettie’s voice scratched the air with a slight whine that Hannah had never heard from her before.
“Lila, why’d you bring Jade?”
Hannah hated how Lila was standing there nuzzling the cat, so satisfied, so smug. Lila buried her nose in its thick white fur while the top of her head almost brushed the tail of the sea creature painted on the vase, the precise spot where Hannah had held up the tiny crystal to the teardrop-shaped scales. She actually had to push down an urge to rush out from behind the door and shove Lila away from the vase.
“You don’t like cats, Mr. Wheeler?” asked Lila.
“Now, I never said that, Lila.”
“You don’t have to say it. I know it. It’s against your nature. But natures can change.”
He laughed nervously. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Lila replied in a husky whisper.
Her words sent a chill through Hannah. It almost seemed like a threat.
“Mr. Wheeler doesn’t have to paint Jade. I just want to hold my dear kitty.” Lila paused. “It calms me,” she said pointedly.
“My goodness, Lila. Why would a lovely young lady like yourself be agitated?” Mr. Wheeler asked.
“I don’t know,” Lila replied. “But many young ladies and older ones are afflicted by nerves, Mr. Wheeler. I have yearnings that cannot be fulfilled.” She looked at him.
Yearnings? The word shot through Hannah like a bolt of lightning flaring within her with sizzling hot light. What is she saying—yearnings? She has everything. Everything except him!
Hannah heard Mr. Wheeler cough slightly. “Well, shall we get on with it, then?”
“My yearnings?” Lila’s brittle laugh shattered the air. She posed with the cat the next day as well. The tension in the house increased. But in that moment Hannah realized that yearnings was the perfect word. She, too, yearned for something, but what exactly? The music she had so briefly played? Or was it what those fleeting notes that had spiraled into the night air represented, that elusive place where things moved freely?
Mr. and Mrs. Hawley continued their hectic social schedule with Lila and Clarice accompanying them to many concerts, teas, and the theater. There were more dinner parties as well, which they hosted at number 18. Lila attended these and perhaps to the guests she appeared quite normal. But her family and the servants knew she was wound as tight as a spring. They tiptoed around her. Mrs. Hawley made all sorts of concessions. Jade was now allowed to come to the breakfast and luncheon table.
Hannah tried to finish her upstairs tasks in Lila’s bedroom quickly. She never again had a standoff with Jade as she had the first night. The cat seemed to know that she was the servant, who like Dotty before, brought milk and often thick cream. But Jade had a peculiar way of watching Hannah. And, oddly enough, when the cat watched her, it almost felt as if Lila were there.
The scullery maid was always the first up in the morning and the last to bed in the evening. There had been a great deal to clean up after that night’s dinner party. It was well after midnight when Hannah made her way up the back stairs to her bedroom. The guttering flame in the oil lamp that she carried cast only the smallest pool of light, but when she arrived at her room, she froze in the open doorway and stifled a cry. Suspended in the darkness were two small iridescent slashes. Then a mound rose from her bed. Jade arched her back, her tail swooped up like a scimitar, her jaws dropped open revealing two curved white fangs, and her eyes fastened on that spot on Hannah’s chest where the pouch rested beneath her dress. Hannah felt something seize within her. Her free hand automatically clutched at the pouch as a long hiss scalded the air. She wants my pouch! The thought streaked through Hannah’s mind.
She lunged at the cat, her oil lamp swinging. Shadows danced off the wall. “Out! Out!” The cat darted from her bed and out of the room, swallowed up by the darkness of the hallway. Hannah stood motionless, her chest heaving, her heart pounding.
She lay rigid in her bed all night. From her window she watched the darkness wear to the dim gray of the dawn. And finally, long before she had to get up, she rose and began her morning activities. But all day long the sound of that hissing cat seemed to follow her through the house. The only place she did not hear it was in the music room. The instant she stepped into the lovely room that now spun with May sunlight, the liquid sounds of the harp came back to her. And each time she entered the room her fingers longed to touch those strings. Suddenly she was aware of someone watching her.
“Mr. Wheeler! Wh…wh…what are you doing here?”
“I might ask the same of you.”
“I come here every d
ay to lay the fire and dust.”
“It’s so warm. Is there really a need to come and build a fire on a lovely spring day like this?” Hannah didn’t know what to say. He took a step forward. “I’ll tell you what I think, Hannah.” She started at the sound of her name. Guests in the house never knew the names of servants of her rank. “I think you long to play that harp.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked in a trembling voice. He took a step closer to her. I should move away but I can’t, she thought. I can’t. I won’t. I don’t want to.
He was very close to her now. He picked up her hand and pressed it between his own cool hands. “I see music in you,” he said simply. She stared at his fingers. She could see a remnant of paint near the cuticle of his thumb, a dark, purplish gray that he had used to make the shadows and to bring out the folds in the girls’ dresses.
“You can’t say these things,” she said in a whispered voice. She felt the threat of tears, a hot, burning sensation beneath her cheekbones. Then the tears began to seep in a frail stream down her cheeks. He was drawing her closer. His face was very near hers. He’s going to kiss me.
His lips brushed her cheek, which was wet now.
“There.” When he stepped back, something sparkled on his lips. He released her hand and raised his fingers to his lips. A teardrop no longer liquid gleamed like the small ovals contained in the pouch Hannah wore. Taking her hand, the painter placed it gently in her palm. “Yours,” he said quietly.