Red, White and Blue (Book Two of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Thirty Five: Home

A few hundred yards behind them, in a room which overlooked the Star-spangled Banner, but had its curtains emphatically shut against the sight, Magda was opening Elliott's post, and reading it out in a tone of forced cheerfulness that grated on his nerves.

"Sir John and Lady Julia say they're just dying for your next performance."

Elliott answered her in monosyllabic grunts and tried to drown her out with Chopin's Nocturnes.

"And Mr Gambosi – do you remember him? From the Italian Consulate in Hanover Square? He says he's already obtained a box at the Opera Garnier for the entire season, so he can be sure to have a seat for your concerts when you play there."

"Uh-huh," said Elliott woodenly.

"And I've had a letter from Father--"

For the first time in three days, Elliott's fingers paused on the keys.

"--congratulating me on the engagement. He says he always knew his children had the courage and the brilliance to take on the British establishment, but he would never have guessed we had the patience to charm them as well. He says he couldn't be more proud of us."

Elliott resumed his playing with gloomy ferocity and let Magda's voice roll over him again.

Occasionally, she would throw in some little suggestion for the improvement of his spirits – something like: "Couldn't we hear something more cheerful than Chopin's Nocturnes?" or "Why don't you let me open the curtains? It's a beautiful night."

But Elliott did his best to ignore her – especially when it came to the curtains. He was not only increasingly terrified of the population of Oxford peering in, but he was sure his lone, pretty audience member only hovered outside when she was certain she could remain unseen. Opening the curtains would frighten her away.

In fact, he had developed a whole, neurotic list of the things that would frighten her away. Playing anything other than Chopin's Nocturnes would frighten her away. Ceasing to play the piano at all would frighten her away.

And, when he was forced to stop – through cramp or hunger or sheer exhaustion – he often wondered whether he could get from the piano to the window quickly enough to catch her. Although he probably wouldn't have been in a fit state to make small-talk if he did.

Still, if he was going to imagine a perfect woman, why do things by halves? Why not just pretend she was the sort of girl who didn't need small-talk? Why not just say "We're going to settle down together in the country – in a small house with a large piano – and never, ever, ever invite anyone to stay."

He was, in many respects, going mad – although perhaps not as mad as Magda when she insisted on pretending that everything was all right.

"And – oh, look," said Magda, holding up one of the innumerable posies of flowers he got sent every day. "The Countess has tied your forget-me-nots in a red, white and blue ribbon tonight, for Independence Day."

"Who?" said Elliott blankly.

"The Counte--" Magda sighed and stamped her embroidered slippers. "Elliott, she sends you the forget-me-nots so you don't forget her! That's the whole point!"

"Well, it's a stupid system," said Elliott. "She should send me her visiting card every day – or a framed picture – that would make me more likely to remember her."

"If you had bothered listening to her the first time," said Magda sniffily, "you would know that she sends you the flowers so you'll know that her devotion doesn't have anything to do with her wealth or her title."