Chapter Five

The Music Room

 

 

The Confession of Mary Carson

 

HAVING BEEN ENGAGED by Mr Thorne, I soon settled into a steady routine. I rose at four each morning, made my toilet and presented myself at his study. From there, Mr Thorne conducted the majority of his business, venturing forth only when necessary.

In addition to his mill, he owned tenements in Manchester and warehouses at Salford Quays. He was a shrewd businessman; he could hardly have been otherwise to attain his wealth. The world of commerce, he told me, was like unto that of Nature: red in tooth and claw. Softness or pity had no place in it, and could benefit no-one, least of all himself. On the contrary, it could only expose him to risk, that others would exploit. There could be no consideration other than whether an action brought him profit or loss.

Mr Thorne had learnt to delegate, and picked his subordinates with utmost care. In them he sought two qualities above all. The first was a ruthlessness almost equal to his own; the second, even stronger quality, a healthy fear of his displeasure. These employees he handsomely paid, for they would save him the cost many times over.

I had, of course, known something of Mr Thorne’s reputation when I came to Springcross House, but as his secretary – well, I need not tell you, Mrs Rhodes, how intimately one becomes acquainted with the workings of a business in such a role. Hardly a week seemed to pass without an appeal from some public-spirited body regarding the conditions at his mill or his properties. Even by the standards of the time, he was a harsh and pitiless taskmaster. The apprentices in his mills were brought from workhouses and orphanages in the South, paid a pittance and worked harshly. Having no family or friends here in the North, they had, therefore, nowhere to go.

The only act of apparent generosity I saw him perform in relation to them was when two ’prentices ran away. He dictated to me a most full description, to be printed and disseminated across the city, of both boys, down to the very clothes they wore – even these, you see, the apprentices owed to him.

The generosity was in the reward offered, which was handsome indeed. My father had, of course, taught me that no-one is beyond hope of redemption. Here was, I thought, some small seed of compassion and grace, one that might, if nurtured, bloom. But when I complimented Mr Thorne on his solicitude for the boys’ welfare, he only snorted. “They are mine,” he said, “bought and paid for, and I mean to have them, Miss Carson. There is a principle at stake, and in any case, such ingratitude cannot go unanswered – else every apprentice may try to abscond.”

Thinking of all my father had striven for in life, I did not wish to think of how he would have viewed a man who believed himself the owner of the children he employed. Had he lived, I thought, he might have found new purpose seeking to ameliorate conditions at mills such as Mr Thorne’s.

As it was, I closely examined my conscience on a daily basis. If truth be told, I hardly liked what I found, but what alternative did I have, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes? I could not afford grand gestures: my savings were, at long last, beginning to grow, but if I left Mr Thorne’s employ they would soon be exhausted on the simple costs of board and lodging. And what prospect of employment then? To leave suddenly might mark me as unreliable, flighty, and I would need a reference from Mr Thorne – one he might well refuse to give under such circumstances.

As for the other servants – if they had ever been troubled by their employer’s actions, they no longer were; on the contrary, they were most at ease with them. Among them I found not one to call a friend: to a man and a woman they were base, greedy souls – and in Kellett’s case, I shuddered to think what else.

And so my life at Springcross House, in its first phase, was a secure but solitary affair – my physical wants were taken care of, my savings steadily grew, but a deep loneliness soon set in.

I spent my days at the house – even the days off. I knew neither Manchester nor Salford well – to the extent that I knew any city, it was Liverpool – and never quite found the courage to explore it alone. Besides, I had no wish to fritter away my salary on trifles. The great, rambling house, and its gardens, were room enough.

Winter became spring, and the gardens of Springcross House bloomed. Winding gravel paths led through ranks of trees and flowers, some native to Britain, some not. There were forcing-houses, where delicate tropical blooms and fruits were cultivated, and little paved clearings with seats and statuary, ornamental ponds and fountains. Around the back of the house, a small stream ran, winding and glittering and foaming, through the grounds, before vanishing under the girdling wall in the direction of Browton Vale below. Yes, it was possible, on the whole, to find beauty, solitude and a substantial measure of peace in the gardens of Springcross House, and so, indeed, I did.

A gardener – as unforthcoming and charmless as the other staff – maintained them, but to this day I think I may have been the only soul at Springcross to appreciate them. Mr Thorne never seemed to spare them a glance; perhaps his late wife had loved them, I thought, and he maintained them for her sake. But that was no more than a guess, for of her I knew nothing. No picture of her hung in the house; her name was never spoken. But for Mr Thorne’s single passing reference to her, she might never have lived.

The gardens were particularly charming when it rained lightly, if one took a parasol, but there were days when it rained so heavily it seemed the Flood was about to come again. On those days, I could only remain indoors, where I spent my time reading, either fiction or instructive and improving works with which I might hope to extend my list of accomplishments.

I have, Mrs Rhodes, led a somewhat lonely life – at least until I met my husband and found myself an anchor in this world – and so can attest there are few companions so constant and comforting as a good book. Reading is an addiction I have never outgrown; indeed, the ordering of new books was my one extravagance at Springcross House.

However, one rain-filled day I finished the novel that had occupied me for the past week and found myself restless and dissatisfied; I possessed several unread books but none, just then, attracted me. I found I would rather be up and about – but the weather, of course, prevented it. The house being empty – it was the servants’ day off – I began exploring my new abode.

‘Rambling’, did I call it? A poor choice of words, perhaps; it implies something wandering and random, and Springcross House was never that. Every part of it had an intended function. However – since the death of Mrs Thorne, I suspected – many rooms remained unused. Most of the disused chambers seemed intended for entertaining guests – which Mr Thorne, I knew, had no interest in whatever. There were guest bedrooms, a ballroom, a drawing-room and much besides, including, I discovered, a music room, of which I shall say more presently. Having no need of them now, he had abandoned them to gather dust – out of sight, out of mind. It surprised me a little that he did not lock their doors, to seal away all memory of his loss – but he was but lately widowed, and perhaps not yet ready to put all memory of Mrs Thorne aside.

It was difficult to tell, as Mr Thorne made it a point of pride to show none of the softer emotions; to the outward observer he seemed as unfeeling and pitiless as flint – indeed, so I had thought him at first, but now I wondered, a little. In any case, the doors opened readily into those forgotten rooms. For the most part I did no more than look into them, afraid I would disturb the dust and make it obvious I’d been in there. But then I found the music room.

I opened its door just as the sun broke briefly through the rainclouds and lit the room with a pale golden light, making the dust motes in the air glimmer. It was an arresting sight, so I stood and viewed the room more fully. It was fitted with a pale green carpet, walls punctuated with fluted columns and adorned with floral wall-paper, rows of chairs, and – the feature which caught my attention most – a large pianoforte.

It was this that sealed my fate, in a way. My father had had one at the vicarage in Burscough. He had played passably, and had instructed me. And, in all modesty, I can say that the pupil outstripped the master. It had brought cheer and gladness to our home, admiration from our few visitors, and had been a pastime in which I’d taken both pride and enjoyment. Doubtless some would say that those sins brought about my downfall.

I looked up and down the corridor to ensure that no-one was there, then slipped into the music room, letting the door swing shut behind me.

Thunder rumbled. A wind moaned, dashing rain against the windows. The gap in the clouds closed, and that pale golden light dimmed and faded. But the pianoforte... the pianoforte remained.

I had had no opportunity to play since we had left Burscough, but now I lifted the instrument’s lid, perched myself on the stool and ran my fingers lightly over the keys before attempting a few brief chords – low, hesitant, casting nervous glances at the door lest the unaccustomed sounds bring someone running, even though the house was empty. The pianoforte was a little out of tune – only to be expected if it had been left unused so long – but otherwise in reasonable condition.

After a few moments had passed, I ventured to play the first notes of a piece by Beethoven. When no thunderbolt came to smite me, I continued, feeling my confidence grow. I was surprised at how readily my fingers found their way across the keys, how easily skills I had almost forgotten returned.

I played, faster and louder and more fluently, and as I played it seemed the room brightened once again. The piece was the 14th Sonata and it had always seemed, to me, filled with a kind of aching, ungraspable melancholy, for something that once had been and now was lost. Perhaps it was about love. I would not know; other than my father I had never really known it, and if the tune was about any kind of love, it was a different one from that.

But, like all young girls, I had been in love with the notion of being in love – indeed, I blushed to recall how in my youth I had conceived grand passions for the unlikeliest of men. (Although this, Mr Muddock, Mrs Rhodes, had more to do with the paucity of remotely eligible bachelors in my immediate circle of acquaintances than any perversity of mind on my own part.) While we all collude in the fiction that a good woman has no such thoughts, a fiction it is! And so I could, perhaps, feel something of the melancholy Beethoven’s music seemed to hold – not for a lost love, but for the lost possibility of it.

The music was melancholy, was regret, was sorrow, and I fed it with my own. And still that light seemed to fill the chamber. Do you know the 14th Sonata, Mrs Rhodes? The first movement, the adagio sostenuto, does not raise its voice; it is quiet, it is modest, and it gently fades away. I had played it from memory, with my eyes very nearly shut; now, as the last notes sounded, I opened them again.

The room was still bright, and there were shadows on the floor. Of the chairs, I thought at first, but then I saw that the shapes were wrong. The chairs – all of the chairs – were occupied.

I turned and looked. They were silhouetted against the pale light that shone through the French windows. They were silent and unmoving; I could not make out their faces – which is not, I can assure you both, any cause for regret on my part – but knew that they were watching me. This vision lasted but a moment; as the pale glow faded, so did their silhouettes, like shadows on the air, leaving only the empty chairs behind.

The light was gone, and did not come again. The music room was almost dark now, so overcast with rainclouds was the sky. There was a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, and more rain streamed in torrents down the glass.

I looked away at last, not a little shaken. Yet, I told myself, I could not have seen the spirits of the dead. It was nonsensical – even should I grant that such things could make themselves manifest; Springcross House was a new building, not some old castle with a rich history of bloodletting. The only death I knew of to have taken place here had been that of Mrs Thorne, not of a whole ensemble of children – for the seated figures had been very small.

Whatever it was, it could do me no harm. So I told myself, at least; convincing my rebellious instincts was another matter. Under other circumstances I would have wanted to continued playing, but now I only wanted to leave. I reached to lower the lid, and as I did looked towards the door of the room.

It was open, and Mr Thorne stood watching me in silence, arms folded, face as impassive – and as awful in its impassivity – as that of some dreadful sacrificial idol.

“Mr Thorne,” I stammered, but could say no more. You may perhaps guess at the tumult my thoughts were thrown in. I had no doubt that my employer was angered, and I could hardly play the innocent – the rooms had not only been left undisturbed but had been intended to remain so, and the mere fact they were unlocked was no excuse.

In that moment I was certain that I was to lose my position, and that there would be no letter of recommendation for me, no reference to help me find another situation. Such money as I had saved would sustain me a few short months, and then I would be facing the same grim choice I had before being offered this position, between the workhouse and whatever other unsavoury alternatives there might be. I had known, how could I not have known, that this was, for Mr Thorne, a kind of sacred ground? I was ruined, doomed by my own foolishness, by a few minutes of vain idleness. How could I have been so stupid? What would my father have said, could he see me now?

I cannot quite tell how much time passed before he spoke. It might have been seconds, or minutes, where I tried and failed to meet those stern grey eyes. “You play well,” he said at last. “Where did you learn?”

Caught quite by surprise, I was at first lost for words, finding them only when Mr Thorne’s eyebrows rose in imperious demand for an answer. “My father.”

“Of course. He was clearly a good teacher. Or had an apt pupil, perhaps.” He nodded at the piano. “The instrument was my wife’s.”

My face burned. “I am sorry, Mr Thorne. I –”

“I have little use for company, Miss Carson. My wife, on the other hand, greatly enjoyed the society of others. I can take or leave the trappings of wealth and power. She was neither vain nor greedy, but appreciated the regard those things brought her – it is a truth, deny it as we will, that a book is judged by its cover. And so when I had Springcross House built, there were rooms like this, for her to entertain guests. They have been unused since her death.”

“Mr Thorne, I’m very sorry – I meant no disrespect –” I knew I sounded abject, but the fate this job preserved me from was still very much on my mind. Pride comes more easily to someone who has no such fear hanging over her. But he went on.

“She played very well,” he said. “I’d forgotten... how pleasant it could be.”

His face remained as stone, his voice level, but the words – they did not come easily. It was a little like hearing a machine forced to perform in a way it was not used to: cogs and gears creaked and struggled, unfitted to the task, and yet accomplished it. Arodias Thorne, I realised, though appearing made of flint, might be of a more varied composition after all.

He gestured towards the piano. “Please, Miss Carson. Continue.”

I rested my fingers on the keys, tried to pick up the sonata’s threads. I had finished the first movement, the adagio sostenuto; now came the second, the allegretto. After the first movement’s quiet melancholy, this was bright, joyful, full of sunlight and hope. I let my thoughts turn to the love I’d hoped to know – that, perhaps, only perhaps, I still might. When that ended I plunged, without hesitation or a glance at Mr Thorne, into the final movement – presto agitato, full of storm and fury. By now I was playing with a kind of mad, exhilarated defiance, no longer knowing or caring what game was being played, caught only in the heady moment, at last doing something that gave me joy.

At last I finished the final movement and was at rest, spent, leaning over the keys as the last notes echoed away and the room once more was silent. Only then did I look up and turn towards Mr Thorne for a response.

But the door to the music room was closed, and he was not there.