The Piano Tutor (6 page)

But they were here because Darien Reynard himself had sent them tickets. The thought lifted her chin again, and she met the woman’s stare with an even smile. They belonged, because the maestro had made it so.

Nicholas leaned out to view the crowd, his eyes bright. “Everyone is here. There’s Mr. Cramer from the publishing company, and Henry Bishop. I hear he’s working on a new opera.”

“Hush,” Papa said. “They are putting out the lights.”

Dimness descended and Clara let out her breath. Anticipation pulsed from her toes upward, coiling bright and warm in her chest. Only moments now, and she would see him perform. Darien Reynard. She tasted the syllables of his name as though they were chocolate upon her tongue.

The gaslights at the front of the stage flared and a hush spread through the audience, the last conversations sputtering out.

A man walked onstage and Clara leaned forward—but no, it was the accompanist, an older, sandy-haired man who took his place at the piano. He swiveled and looked back into the wings, and the audience burst into expectant applause.

Now Darien Reynard strode forward, claiming the appreciation as his due, and there was no mistaking that this was the man. Violin tucked easily under one arm, he moved with a contained grace, his tall, broad-shouldered frame poised and full of energy. A shock of wavy black hair nearly touched his shoulders, and his elegant coat was even darker—pure shadow, as though the light could find no purchase upon it.

He surveyed the crowd, gaze penetrating, then halted at center stage and flicked a glance up toward their box, almost as if he could he see them in the dimness. Clara moistened her lips, barely breathing, until his attention sheered away.

His mobile, sensual mouth set in a half-smile that only added mystery to his handsome face, Darien Reynard inclined his head to the audience. He set his instrument on his shoulder. With a dramatic sweep of his right arm he raised his bow, then held it motionless above the strings. Instantly the murmurs and rustles ceased.

The first chord sprang from the instrument and rippled into the air, followed by another, another, as he caressed his violin, the notes throbbing with passion. The piano joined in, and the music moved into a sprightlier theme. Clara’s heart beat in time; ached and sighed while the figure on the stage led her forward into rapture and mystery. This, this, was how she heard music. A doorway into another land, a place where everything was luminous with emotion.

He was never still. Even in the andante sections he swayed, as though the music was weeping through him, the notes pulled forth from his body through the gleaming golden wood he held in his hands. Clara was certain her eyes were not the only ones blurred with unshed tears.

The final movement burst like constellations through her, jubilant sprays of notes flung out over the audience. He took the melody at a blistering speed, the bow now flying over the strings so quickly she half expected to see smoke following in its wake. The music exploded about her, rushing upward as Darien Reynard drove the piece forward. The accompanist could barely keep up with him as Beethoven’s Sonata No. 9 thundered to a breathtaking close.

Instantly the audience sprang to its feet, shouting approval, the rush of sound raw and graceless compared to what had just gone before. Clara rose, program fluttering to the floor, and applauded as loudly as she could through the muffling of her gloves. Glorious. Simply glorious.

“That was Beethoven as he ought to be played,” Nicholas said. “Reynard could repeat it for the second half and I’d be well satisfied.”

Even Papa unbent enough to agree, though his approval was tacit. “The acoustics up here are improved.”

“It was much more than better acoustics,” Nicholas said. “That was a master at work.”

Clara nodded. She could not speak yet, not while Darien Reynard’s playing still echoed through her, but she was in complete agreement. She had never heard anything so splendid.

“I’m going to fetch some refreshment.” Nicholas turned to her. “Coming?”

The thought of journeying through the glittering crowd that swirled outside their box made the skin between her shoulders tighten.

She shook her head, preferring to sit quietly and savor the memory of the man and his music. Clara glanced up toward the gilt ceiling, imagining that the notes were still gathered there, spinning and dancing in the shadows. If she listened closely perhaps she could catch their bright echo.

She closed her eyes, but there were too many voices between her and the trapped strands of melody. Snatches of conversation floated past.

“…in Madrid he couldn’t even go out in the street, the crowds followed him everywhere…”

“…the crown princess fainted at his performance. Of course now it is the fashion for everyone to faint at his feet.” A feminine giggle. “I wouldn’t mind swooning anywhere upon his person, I declare. Such a magnetic man!”

It was true enough. Darien Reynard was impossibly handsome, even without the power of his musical mastery. She did not think any woman could avoid being captivated by him.

Nicholas returned with tea and she sipped at her cup. The warmth of the beverage joined the memory of music still curling about her, the heat of the theater wrapping about them. She was warm from her head to her toes. It was a delicious sensation.

Finally, the house lights were extinguished again and the crowd became an expectant, eager presence in the softly lit dark. This time Darien Reynard strode alone onto the stage, as self-assured as a man entering his own kingdom. He held up his hand, and the audience obediently stilled.

“Ladies. Gentlemen.” His voice was rich and resonant, filling the space as effortlessly as his playing had done. “It is not on the program, but this evening I have a special treat for you.”

The audience buzzed happily. Darien Reynard waited for silence to fall again.

“Tonight, I am pleased to introduce the work of a composer, little known, but of great talent. This piece moves me deeply, as I know it will move you.”

A hum of speculation moved through the audience at his words, and Clara straightened. She did not often have the chance to hear new compositions.

Darien Reynard gave a single nod. “I give you Rondo, by Nicholas Becker. Attend.”

She fell back against her seat, astonishment pinning her to the velvet. Rondo? Her Rondo?

The first notes confirmed it. Heat flashed through her as the music she had penned surged from Darien Reynard’s violin. She was insensible to everything but the man before her, the genius who played her very soul out into the open, who took the sweet, spiraling melody of her piece and transmuted it into pure emotion.

Yearning etched the air as he leaned into the notes, his unruly hair falling about his face. Clara breathed with the movements of his bow, and the entire audience breathed with her. She suddenly believed all the rumors. If he wished, the riveting figure before them could steal all their souls without a single protest.

The last note faded into stillness, an awed hush of perfect quiet. Her heart beat, knocking against the silence, three, four times. Then cries of “bravo!” and wild applause thundered down, like a dam giving way before the torrent. Darien Reynard held his head high and let it wash around him, seeming unconcerned that the force of such adulation might sweep him away. Surrounded by the tumult, Clara sat transfixed, unable to make even a pretense of clapping.

Her music. Her very heart.

Then Darien Reynard raised his arm, palm upwards, and gestured to the box where they sat, bidding the composer to rise and take a bow. Without meaning to, without any thought at all, she gathered herself to stand. Only the weight of Papa’s hand landing heavily on her shoulder kept her in her seat. Turning her head, she met Nicholas’s eyes.

Wonder and pride shone there. And then guilt. His gaze slid away from hers and he stood, cheeks growing pink as he acknowledged the applause washing over him, the shouts of approval.

Darien Reynard nodded, a sudden smile flickering across his face. Throat tight, Clara swallowed and tried to remember what was most important. It didn’t matter that Nicholas must be the one taking the credit. Darien Reynard had played her music. Played it before all of London, and played it splendidly.

Eyes burning, she smiled, while her heart twisted equally with pain, with joy.

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