Pieces played in this chapter: 24 Préludes (Chopin) and The Art of Fugue (Bach)
When Miss Kincaid leaves, he feels something off about the room he now sits in. Although it's vacant with the only exception being him, he can still faintly hear the music ringing off the walls, the conversations between him and the lady still running through his head as if she's there, still communicating with him telepathically.
The thing that sticks with him most, is that she doesn't know him. He has the chance to begin a friendly relationship with someone who is unaware of the rumors surrounding his name, the true reason why he has to escape from the public, and why he needs to hide away for his own sanity. She looks at him without a thought about his reputation in her head, no previous knowledge of him, his engagements, his life outside of music. It's what he's always wanted isn't it? Someone who looks at him and sees his achievements and not his faults.
It can be argued that Harry has many faults, and they especially show through in his relationships, friendly or personal ones. There must be a reason for them to show them, and he decides at that moment he will take advantage of the situation with Miss Kincaid. A clean slate is what he's been given, and he'll be damned if he doesn't take full advantage of it.
But, how much longer until she is made aware of his past? How much longer until she realizes it's not right for her to be seen with him? How much longer until he's ruined her reputation as well, just by mere association? These lessons must remain private or the public will assume the worst about them. He must hide further into his shell, making no unnecessary trips outside the estate.
But as he's packing the rest of his sheets away, he remembers what Miss Kincaid had told him about the restaurant. He'd be lying if he didn't feel the slightest bit of curiosity at how awful this restaurant might be treating his piece. Maybe he'll go.
The idea of going may not have been attractive before, but he suspects that the thought of seeing a certain Scottish woman at the restaurant makes it all the more appealing.
***
The following night, Roger looks at the master of the house apprehensively. "Good evening, sir," he says, watching Harry fix his gloves over his fingers. "Shall I call for a carriage?"
Harry turns to look in the foyer mirror. "Should I cancel my night out?"
His butler's eyes widen. "Not at all, sir. I can get a carriage ready within moments."
"Be honest with me. Is this a bad idea?"
"Sir, I admire your bravery."
Harry can't help but snort. "Bravery," he repeats, buttoning his coat. "This is nothing like real bravery. But yes, please get a carriage ready as soon as possible. Preferably before I change my mind."
Roger steps back and begins to head outside. Harry hasn't made use of his horses since the ball, and guilt settles into his stomach. They must be restless.
The carriage is prepared just moments later and he finds himself ushered into the carriage by Roger before he's able to change his plans, but he's grateful of his butler's actions. Harry requires that firm push, and he's more than happy to supply it at the most convenient of times.
The restaurant isn't far at all, but every minute passes slowly. He continues to put distance between him and his house, but it doesn't feel comforting.
He recognizes the restaurant from years ago when he sold a few of his pieces, just getting his name out there. He must have been 23 or 24, and he hasn't been at this particular place since then.
Harry steps out of his carriage and instructs the coachman to stand by since he doesn't plan to stay long. He removes his hat as he steps into the warm restaurant and then peers at the diners.
The set up of the bar, kitchen, seating, and stage doesn't look too different than what he remembers. When he begins thinking about how the restaurant looked years ago, he suddenly remembers what this place meant to him.
He imagines his younger self standing in this restaurant for the first time since arriving in Manchester, having been just bestowed with his new estate. He recalls coming in after hours, running his hands along the top of the piano. He plays a single note. C sharp. It echoes throughout the room, making goosebumps spread over his arms and the back of his neck. The excitement sharply runs through him, the thrill of being in control for once in his life. The rush of blood in his ears. The seats, he imagines, are empty, but he can easily count over a hundred seats. One hundred people listening to his music with delight. Or horror. It doesn't matter which one. It'll be his masterpiece whether they think it's one or not. He'll have a name to call his own.
Returning back to the present, he wishes he could stand there and use that nostalgic emotion to fuel his inspiration. His younger self may have been easily influenced positively, but the opposite happens now. There is a full house tonight, and it's clear that they're eagerly waiting on the next piece to be played. He, however, feels himself dreading it.
The piece begins. A lanky man with long limbs begins playing. Harry recognizes him as the man he sold his license to. A Spring Evening.
Harry scans the crowd, appalled at himself for looking for the satisfied looks on people's faces. He's never craved approval from anyone, so why does he react to the smiles on people's features with hope blooming in his chest. Have they decided to shun him, but love his creations?
He's always tried to limit the distinctions between himself and his music because it's his outlet. His therapy. He's always wanting it to be known that he is his own music, everything the notes embody. Sitting there, he realizes that it'll never be possible. They can love his music, but will they love him? Is this the case with all his listeners? They will clap for the music, but not for him.
Except perhaps Aaliyah Kincaid.
Despite their lack of relationship, Harry knows that she'd clap for both of them. He's not sure how he feels about it.
It was all a lie, he wants to tell everyone sitting there ignoring him. Everything Emilia said was a lie.
He should have brought a companion with him. Faiz and Ruhina maybe. Would they have come? Something tells him they absolutely would, but shame joins the hope in his chest. Harry will never be the one to reach out, too desperate to hide away from real conversation and people.
Aaliyah would come. Though she's a stranger, she would enjoy coming here with him, so she could ridicule the player more vehemently than she would do alone.
Harry stands, hearing enough of the music. They sound like notes put together, with no emotion behind them. The player is stone faced, his wrists stiff. There's no love behind the melancholic music being played.
He scans the crowd one more time thinking he'll see her there. She's not there.
He'll see her tomorrow. See that blinding light in her eyes. See that wide smile on her face. Hear her nonstop jabber. Lord, that woman talks a ridiculous amount. Not only that, but she also speaks fast, sometimes replacing English words with what he assumes is Gaelic. He doesn't always understand what she's saying, but the manner in which she says anything grabs his attention. If Faiz talked his ear off like that, he'd scold him, but Aaliyah is passionate in a different way. She loves life and loves talking about life.
She doesn't know about him or his past. Similarly, he doesn't know about hers. The mystery of it all is attractive. Perhaps this alliance will be slightly different.
But when she finds out about his true self, she'll likely leave him and regret ever being his pupil. What will he do then?
It's all too much at once. The music pounds into his eardrums even though the keys are supposed to be played with gentleness. The player's hands are supposed to fly up after each set of notes. There is supposed to be raw emotion.
There's nothing. And yet, everyone seems content at what they're listening to.
Unable to take more, he stands and turns, leaving the restaurant.
***
Roger aids Harry when he returns, taking his coat.
"There's a letter for you, sir," he tells him, most likely aware of his employer's foul mood. He hands him the letter from his pocket and steps back to watch him read the letter.
Harry rips into the envelope and tries to read the letter without checking who the sender is. He's instantly taken aback by the messy scrawl, squinting his eyes to read it the best he can.
"Who sent this?"
"It was delivered by the Kincaids' butler. He came in person."
Did Aaliyah send this? "Bloody woman doesn't know how to write either. Talks my head off and then goes and does this."
Besides him, Roger stifles a laugh.
Harry says, "Doesn't she speak so much?"
"She does, sir, but it's amusing sometimes."
"Sometimes," he gruffs.
With great difficulty, he reads the note.
Mr. Styles,
I cannot wait two entire days to be able to tell you my thanks for allowing me to play these pieces. I wish to hear you play them because only you will be able to do them justice. Thank you. I look forward to our next lesson. I hope to make you proud.
Sincerely,
Miss Aaliyah Kincaid
He reads it twice, making sure he hasn't looked over any word. She's looking forward to tomorrow.
Harry tucks the letter into his pocket and bids his butler goodnight.
***
Aaliyah wakes and arrives early at Harry's house. She's made sure to not make him wait long, putting on a cream colored dress, her braids tied with her baby hairs curled against the frame of her face. Mr. Lewis has already given her a few once overs as if dissatisfied with her appearance, but she's unsure why. She looks pretty. She knows it.
Harry is waiting in the drawing room as usual, but this time he's in the middle of having a cup of tea.
"I've arrived," she says with a grand smile to the piano. She turns to greet Harry with a small bow. "Sir."
"Miss Kincaid. I'm pleased you've arrived earlier."
"Aye, I have. I despise it, but what my instructor wants, he will get."
Harry gestures to her to sit and then pours her tea. "How do you like your tea?"
"With a wee dram."
His unamused eyes meet hers. She's already grinning. "Really?"
"No, sir. I only start drinking in the afternoon. Helps me stay warm."
"Is this an everyday occurrence for you?"
"No, I dinna enjoy drinking alone. Milk and sugar please."
Harry pours her some milk and then pushes the pot of sugar towards her, allowing her to place two spoonfuls of sugar into her tea. She stirs slowly and then brings the cup to her lips.
After a slow swallow, she says, "Mr. Lewis, would you like some tea?"
Mr. Lewis has taken a seat on a separate loveseat, removing his novel from his jacket pocket. "No, miss."
Aaliyah turns back to Harry. "Did you go to the restaurant, sir? I was unable to go because, well, my cousin was feeling a wee bit under the weather and she couldn't go, and I dinna like to be alone." She leaves it as that. He doesn't need to know anymore.
"I did," Harry says, putting his cup down and standing up. "Can't say I enjoyed myself."
She sits up. "I told you so! It's so dreadful, isn't it? I hope you gave them a good talk and not just a slap on the wrist, sir."
"I did neither. I left promptly."
Aaliyah frowns. She drinks her entire tea with a few gulps, aware of Harry's eyes on her. He doesn't seem to be in the mood to have a conversation about this.
"Aye, well, I would leave too if the food weren't delicious. The restaurants and taverns in Scotland have either the most wonderful food that could make any man salivate, or stale bread and cheese and wine that could be the sourest. For a while, my Ma used to work at a restaurant so she knows how the food is created and served, and let me tell you sir, you dinna want to be going to some of the restaurants. The food may be good, but the process and the hygiene status will make you turn to the nearest door." She chuckles softly to herself, recalling the nights her mother would tell her those tales. "Sometimes I forget about those stories just to relax and eat." She glances at him. "What did you have from the restaurant?"
"I didn't eat."
"Och, well, did you go hungry for the night?"
"It's alright. Listen, Miss Kincaid. We're going to do another exercise."
Perhaps he's not in the mood to talk altogether, she thinks to herself, curiously watching him fix his neck tie. "Do you recall the exercise we did just a few days before?"
"Aye."
"It'll be a repeat of that, but not exactly. Come to the piano please."
She wipes her mouth with her napkin and stands, fixing her skirts. She removes her coat, noticing how Harry looks away to give her some privacy to adjust her dress.
She sits at the piano confidently.
Harry says, "Are you ready? Or would you like to talk more about restaurants and taverns with me?"
Aaliyah shoots him a look, but chases it with a grin. "I could speak about any issue for any amount of time."
"I'm aware," he says. "Have you been practicing?"
"Talking for hours? Oh, I hardly need any practice for that."
"The pieces I gave you, Miss Kincaid."
"I've been practicing more than you could ever imagine, mo thidsear."
"I will listen to them next week. Keep practicing. I did have something to ask you."
"What is it?"
"Do you read novels?" he asks, a simple question really, but it makes her pull a face instead as if it's the most distasteful question she's ever asked him. "What?"
"Aye, I try to. But dinna ask me which ones I've read in the past year or you'll be extremely disappointed with me."
"Why would I be disappointed with you?"
"It seems like you're the type of man to enjoy reading novels. Or else, why would you ask me about it?"
He scowls. "I have plenty of reasons to ask such a question. We're in the middle of a lesson, not having tea and brunch, Miss Kincaid. Everything I ask you has a purpose."
She only smiles. "I imagine so. So my revised answer would be that no, I dinna often read them, however, if I'm forced to, I can make the space in my head for it. Otherwise I canna."
"Why would you be forced to read a novel?"
Her eyes shine. "Are you not about to recommend something to read so I can, in turn, be as intellectual as you. I canna say I'll be able to do that because I'm like a wee calf that's just been born, unsure what to focus on. Or so my Ma says. She says it often. Says my brain canna comprehend everything all at once, or even tell the rest of my body to stay still. That's why I canna sit and read often, but, sir, if you force me to read it, perhaps I can make an exception for you."
Harry stares. "Are you mocking me?"
"Och, it was easy to tell?"
He scowls again. "I am not going to recommend you any literature only to have you butcher it, leave it lying around, or give it no care in the world."
"You have quite an imagination," she marvels. "Fine, sir, what is the real reason you ask about my literacy?"
Harry sits on the edge of the futon, crossing one ankle over the other. "Oftentimes, musicians say that they can write a novel if they were to be subjected to living without music. This is because the story is already in the head. There are different types of storytellers, ones who have the idea in their head and the means for expelling said idea onto the paper, or the ones who keep it in their head. There is rarely a person who tells a story without knowing it themselves."
Aaliyah nods. "Aye."
"Which means that when you play, like the examples we did two days ago, there should be something brewing in your head. A story that you've already created, a memory, or an experience that exists at the sound of the piece you are playing. I don't imagine you're sitting there with a blank mind when you're playing. You told me you think about making no mistakes. Wouldn't that make playing seem like a chore?"
"Aye, and I no longer wish for it to be a chore."
"So what shall we change to fix that issue?"
"Think about something else."
He nods. "Think about something that reminds you how much you love playing – that playing is not a chore."
She turns towards the piano and fixes her stance, making sure her wrists are positioned well to support her entire arm. "Should I try something?"
"We can practice together."
Aaliyah likes that idea.
He continues, "Let's do another exercise. I'm going to tell you an emotion. You have to dig through your memories to find one that fits the feeling I'm describing, and then you play me a piece."
"I have to make one up?"
"No. Play a piece you already know."
"Aye." She cracks her knuckles. "I'm ready." She closes her eyes.
Harry's silent for a moment but seconds later, he says, "Play me something that reminds you of anger."
Anger. What makes Aaliyah angry? Or what is something she's experienced that could potentially make her angry right this moment?
Something immediately comes up in her mind, but she pushes the thought away immediately as it comes. Though her eyes are closed, she can feel the weight of Harry's stare on her face as he assesses her. She's unsure if he's watching her position or trying to read her expression, but whatever it is, she can only imagine him behind her eyes. She waits for something else to strike her, something like a memory that could make her so angry, her fingers would pound against the keys with a heavy speed that could make the music bounce off the walls.
Harry sighs, "I've gathered that you, annoyingly, do not have many emotions outside of the positive ones."
She can't help the smile on her face as she opens her eyes. She turns to look at him, his chin rests in his palm as he watches her. "You're right, sir. I simply dinna get angry. Perhaps you can give me another feeling."
"The purpose of this is to get you out of your comfort zone. I'm using the techniques I used for myself."
"In your case, which was the emotion you felt the least so you weren't able to play it much?"
As soon as she asks the question, the answer dawns upon her. Harry looks away and a muscle in his jaw jumps. Though she knows little about this man, she immediately knows that sheeting positive is the emotion he's least experienced. Why, she can't understand. But it's evident.
He doesn't answer her question, instead dodging it with another demand, "Play me something lonely."
Loneliness. What evokes loneliness? She thinks for a short amount of time before her eyes shut and she begins to play.
Imagery flashes through her head as it had done when she was practicing yesterday and the day before. Images of herself in the large house of her aunt and uncle, her cousin hiding in her room with a book while her aunt and uncle are out at a restaurant to spent time with each other. She's left wandering the halls of this cold, empty house that was meant to be like home away from home for her. She ran away from her past hiding from people, but now she despise the echo that greets her as she ascends the large stairs. It irks her so much that she wishes to take her shoes off and spend her time in the house barefoot like a child.
All the friends and family she had in Scotland, now left behind. And how long? How long will she exist like this, doing things to pass the time? Weeks have gone by in a frenzy, and now the months have slowed and she exists in this awkward space and time where she feels she should be surrounded by the people she loves, but cannot bring herself to get her foot out the door.
Aaliyah has never been lonely in her life. Now, playing this piece that she didn't even know she had completely memorized, she thinks that it's a blessing she's never known the true meaning of loneliness. If she did, perhaps she would have gone insane by now.
She cannot be her own sole company.
The piece is relatively short, so she finishes and opens her eyes.
Harry's eyes are narrowed, but clear, watching her fingers. They drag back up, skating past her shoulders and exposed neck to her face.
"E minor," he says, "is the saddest scale any musician can play in."
Aaliyah presses her lips down together. "Was I any good?"
"Yes. You were." He raises his head. "Our of curiosity, what were you thinking about?"
He looks as if he's ready to listen, and perhaps a part of her yearns to tell him what she's been thinking for the past few minutes, but then she thinks it's better to keep it to herself.
"Loneliness," she answers, noticing the shift in his expression. "What else shall I play?"
"You play a lot of Chopin. That piece is part of Préludes. Are you a fan of his?"
"I am," she says. "But he's not my favorite."
Harry looks away from her. "I see. Play something lazy then. Lazy and luxurious."
She immediately knows which one she'll play for this one. The Art of Fugue comes to her mind and fingertips begin playing immediately.
She imagines the memory vividly, recalling her visits to the highlands on summer mornings when her parents would want to take trips to the mountains. She recalls the lovely sun on her skin, laying against the bright green grass with the white clouds in the sky. She remembers herself, around 8 or 9 years old, turning her head to see her parents embracing, smiling. Being happy. She remembers stretching luxuriously and relaxing onto the ground. She remembers announcing that she could fall asleep here.
"Good," Harry says, breaking her out of her memory. He didn't let her finish the piece, but she's not fazed by it. She's done something right that's caused him to be okay with how she's played.
"Let's do one more. Play me something that reminds you of fear."
Aaliyah pulls her hands away from the keys at his words. She suddenly frowns down at her hands, thinking deeply. Fear. What has she experienced that would make her feel fear? And how does one describe fear?
Goosebumps rise on her skin and she suppresses a shiver the best she can. The only memory that comes up deals with what she's been suffering through the past few days, the memories hitting her hard at night, especially in the dark.
The thought of that memory causes something to turn painful inside of her. She recalls the shadows suddenly and the man who spoke to her when she didn't want to be spoken to and the reassuring words of her family that lasted weeks without any relief to her. The reason she fled.
How does one play that? How does one manage to forget that?
She can't go back into that terrified state right now. Not here. Not without any place to hide.
"Give me something else," she says.
Harry doesn't say anything for a long time, but she knows he's assessing her like he always does with his intense eyes.
"Sir?"
"What's wrong with that one? Play me something that reminds you of being scared."
She can't. There's the sole memory that comes to her. She can't relive that, not without any form of escape. She's relived it numerous times in the past two days. Isn't that enough? Must she suffer more?
Her hands are cold with sweat. "I really don't want to. Could I play something else please?" she insists, twisting her fingers together nervously. "Please."
She glances up at him. He stills, eyes narrowed. She worries that he's about to pry like most people try to when they find out what's happened to her, what's made her run away from her homeland. Something must have been big in order for her to enter foreign territory.
Harry, however, eases his gaze, and then he says, "Something else then. Play me something...sad then."
***
"Play me something sad then," he says, trying to get her to play something that doesn't necessarily make her uncomfortable, but one that gets her out of the comfort zone she's encircled around herself.
Aaliyah, seemingly still lost in her head, manages to get her hands to move without consulting their brain. Her eyes are still hazed over when she begins playing. And damn her hands, they immediately begin playing Serenade No. 3 by none other than the man in front of her.
Harry's heart drops to his stomach, having heard enough. She plays a few notes and then forces herself to stop, suddenly realizing what she's playing. "Ah, excuse me! Let me play something else."
"No," Harry says, perhaps a bit too quickly. "I don't care if you play my piece. You immediately thought of it, so I won't stop you from playing it."
She peeks at him. He's suddenly glad her braids are tied together in an elegant bun instead of framing her face; now he can see her all he'd like. "I'm embarrassed now, sir."
"It's not as if I've never heard my own piece played back to me." He doesn't like how she's removed her hands from the keys altogether.
He doesn't understand what's happening. She was fine just moments ago, playing away with her eyes closed as usual. But now he can see she's pulling back into herself, her posture all wrong, the eyes that aren't looking at him anymore unfocused. Her fingers are cramped into a fist now.
"I'll play something else," she insists, making no move to actually play. "I just have to think of something."
Harry doesn't say anything since clearly whatever he says will go in one ear and out the other, so he simply crosses his arms and waits for something.
The problem is that she never plays.
Harry purses his lips. Sighs. "Just play it. I don't mind. Why can't you?"
She peeks up at him again and he decides that he really likes it when she does that, looking at him through her curled eyelashes, eyes a beautiful shade of brown. "Sir, respectfully, you're very intimidating."
He frowns. "What does that mean?"
"It means I'm afraid that if I play even a single note wrong, you'll throw me out of here."
He stares at her incredulously for a long time. "I'm beginning to think you're out of your mind at all times, Miss Kincaid."
This statement sparks a smile to twitch onto her lips until it's growing into a full one. "Maybe so. But I canna play your piece to you. You're scary, sir."
Harry thinks about this, and he knows he'll continue to think about this for the next several days that she's not here in his drawing room, taking over his piano. He thinks about how he's never wanted to be scary, but perhaps a bit out of the spotlight he's made for himself, and that he just prefers to have a curated surrounding that doesn't involve all that many people.
But then he thinks about that same environment and sees his dark curtains and barely lit candles and gas lamps that are barely at their full potential despite it being late at night. He'll see that his lonely footsteps echo as he walks through his large estate he calls his home, and that Aaliyah Kincaid is the first one to visit this estate in so long, despite having thoughts about him like this.
Aaliyah twists her fingers. He catches onto it immediately. She does it so often.
"Perhaps I am," Harry says, thoughtfully. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not offended. It takes a lot to offend me."
This causes Aaliyah to brighten. "Oh me too, sir! We have something in common! Oh aside from our hobbies. When I was younger, I realized that all my siblings and younger cousins were so sensitive, and I dinna ken if it was because I was a little stupider and more naive than anyone else, but I rarely ever cried because I was offended. I dinna care what anyone said about me. I never cried. Even if I'd done something wrong and gotten myself scolded for it, or if I was given extra chores like taking the paper to my uncle's house which was nearly on the other side of Edinburgh. It seems like it wouldn't be a chore, but the lane in which my parents worked was next to the printing shops and blacksmiths so there was constantly smoke in the alleys and it was just so terribly annoying, but I wasna ever offended, not once. Even here in your country, I do get some remarks here and there, but I dinna ever feel bad about it. Sometimes people have bad days or weeks or months. People aren't ever bad."
Harry cracks his knuckles as she speaks, having tuned her out immediately at the beginning but caught the ending of her passionate speech. Seems like everything she ever says is passionate. It can't be all that important.
But the last part sticks with him. People aren't ever bad.
"You really believe that?"
"I do!"
"I see. Alright. Let's move on."
He's aware of her curious eyes on her as he walks to his bookshelf and searches through them to pick out a book.
When he returns, he holds it out.
"Read this. We'll discuss it at our next lesson."
"Why must I read?" she says in a whiney voice that makes him want to shudder. "I'm a pianist, not a writer."
"Because I'm your instructor and I said so. Now take it. I'll see you next week."
She looks down at the book and frowns deeply. Harry leans down and offers his arm to help her up, and she wraps her hand around him, purposefully putting extra weight on him to make it harder to stand up. He nearly rolls his eyes.
Aaliyah fixes her skirts and then goes to put her outer clothing back on. She hands the novel to her chaperone (who's presence Harry has completely forgotten about) and then gives him a curtsy. "Have a good day, sir."
Harry's eyes are narrowed. "You as well, Miss Kincaid." He offers her a slight duck of his head in return and then watches her leave.
As she does, her chaperone follows, slanting a glare at Harry before departing. The door shuts behind both of them, and it suddenly feels like Harry can breathe a lot better.