Ursula stood at the threshold of the Great Hall as Charles hurried in ahead of her, impatient, bustling with an energy she had not suspected he possessed, like a cork popping from a bottle of fizz. If only he had shown some of that before today, before he had already lost her, there might have been hope for them.
They were the first to arrive, it seemed, apart from Donald Metcalfe, who was already seated at the harpsichord, obviously eager to get his hands on the novel instrument. His fingers raced over the keys with that firm but effortless precision that almost always took her breath away. To say that Donald was a cold fish was an understatement. As far as Ursula could tell, it was not that he kept his emotions bottled in, simply that he did not have any. So how he was capable of producing such soul-wrenching music was a mystery to her. Were there hidden depths to him? Somehow she doubted it. Was he even aware of the effect his playing could have on others? She doubted that too.
The oak-panelled grandeur of the hall was saved from an oppressive gloom by a magnificent vaulted ceiling, inset with three large windows on either side and one at the back of the hall. An expansive light streamed in from the window behind her. Three impressive chandeliers were hung from the arches that divided the ceiling. Facing her were the pipes of the organ, arranged like the teeth of a great monster, and the organ loft. The stage below was set with banked seating for the choir. In front of the stage a space was left for the orchestra with a small podium where Sir Aidan would stand to conduct. Metcalfe’s piano and harpsichord were off to one side.
The hall itself was filled with wooden seats arranged on either side of an aisle. She watched her husband stride away from her with brisk, purposeful steps. It struck her, curiously, as an ironic reversal of her wedding day, when she had walked down another aisle with a slow, measured tread towards Charles.
She heard the door swing open and was aware of someone shifting restlessly behind her, but she felt no inclination to get out of the way.
‘Excuse me, Ursula.’ The sound of Paul Seddon’s voice stirred angry emotions, not so much on his own account – Ursula supposed she had nothing against the man – but because of his association with that woman. Ursula pretended not to have heard him, standing her ground so that he was forced to step round her. He gave her a look between pity and irritation as he bumped past her, buffeting her like a weathervane in the wind.
She felt the rage rise up.
Pity! How dare he pity her!
Ahead of her, Seddon bent over to take the bicycle clip from around his right ankle, presenting her with a sight that was either a considered insult or an invitation to a clownish act of subversion. If she had been able to move, it would have been to run forward and kick him in the backside. It was perhaps better for all of them that she felt herself frozen to the spot.
For as long as she could remember, Ursula had felt on the cusp of something. It was a dreadful feeling. It left her nerves frayed. Butterflies had taken up residence in the pit of her stomach. Her skin tingled as if it had been whipped with feathers. When she was not grinding her teeth, she was clenching her fingers or flexing certain internal muscles in preparation for some great feat of courage.
She wanted to scream or weep or howl with bitter, sarcastic laughter.
And yet it was not wholly a dreadful feeling.
This sense that nothing had been settled, that her life was up for grabs, contained within it a vast reserve of hope.
For now that Charles had taken the initiative to move things on, something had been set in motion. Things had been said which couldn’t be unsaid and could only be followed through. Through to the end.
She heard her husband bark out a brusque greeting to Donald in a voice she could not recognize as having anything to do with her. Donald did not break off his playing to answer. Charles’s voice reverberated in the vaulted ceiling, as if it were a demand he were making of the empty hall rather than the pianist. ‘Is he here?’
It came to Ursula that what hope fears more than anything is resolution. There can be no room for hope when everything is settled.
She heard the door open behind her once more, followed by a burst of chatter as a group of singers came in together.
It was the push she needed to carry her forward.