The Piper's Tune by Jessica Stirling Page A

sweet-voiced young thing so filled her with gloom that she no longer attended choral society concerts. Recently her fear of losing not just her place in the household but her place in Mr Arthur’s heart had become so great that she could hardly bear to be civil to any of the women who turned up at Brunswick Crescent soirées. In the words of Osgood Turner’s famous song, ‘The years were passing, passing, passing, and the light in her heart grew dim.’ The trouble was that the light in Eleanor Runciman’s heart was not growing dim. Indeed, the older she got the more fiercely it seemed to burn.
    When, just after eleven, Arthur opened the front door he found Miss Runciman waiting in the hall. He paused, a guilty silhouette, then whispered, ‘Eleanor, what are you doing up at this hour?’
    â€˜Waiting to lock up, sir.’
    â€˜I can do that, you know.’
    â€˜I’ve left the whisky cabinet open and some cheese and oatcakes on a tray in the parlour in case you’re hungry.’
    He removed his overcoat. She took it from him. The fragrance of the night clung lightly to the cloth; the fragrance of the night or the perfume of one of the flowery young women with whom Arthur had shared a hansom. Eleanor gave the overcoat a violent shake, hung it on a hook on the hallstand and locked the outside door and glass-panelled inner door. Arthur watched.
    He called her Eleanor only when they were alone. Now and then she had been tempted to try him with Arthur but she could not relinquish her ingrained feelings of deference. ‘Do you wish me to pour your whisky, sir?’
    â€˜No, but do come and join me for a nightcap.’
    â€˜Thank you. I would like that.’
    The parlour was lit by firelight and a single gas jet, the piano alcove filled with soft summery shadows. Eleanor wished that Arthur would play for her, would let her turn the music sheet and place a hand on his shoulder as Lindsay did, or Matilda Perrino, who was as slender as a willow and talented.
    Mr Arthur didn’t have to ask what she would have to drink: a thimbleful of brandy and scoot of soda water. He handed her the glass and invited her to be seated. He cut himself a sliver of cheddar and, nibbling it, lowered himself on to the upright chair at the edge of the alcove, half in and half out of shadow.
    â€˜Did the concert go well?’ Eleanor enquired.
    â€˜It seemed to. What did Linnet have to say about it?’
    â€˜She appears to have enjoyed it. She did not say much.’
    â€˜She’s changing,’ Arthur said. ‘Growing up.’
    â€˜She is grown up. She will be married and gone before we know it,’ Eleanor said. ‘Did you go back to Harper’s Hill afterwards?’
    â€˜No, a gang of us went on to Pettigrew’s.’
    â€˜For supper?’
    â€˜Hmmm. To celebrate the end of the season.’
    â€˜Another year gone,’ said Eleanor Runciman. ‘How it flies.’
    Arthur dusted crumbs from his fingers, drank from his glass.
    â€˜Talking of change,’ Arthur said. ‘My father will be leaving Harper’s Hill in a day or two. He takes possession of this Perthshire place on the first of June.’
    â€˜He will be missed.’
    â€˜Lindsay will be next to leave, I expect,’ Arthur said. ‘I’ll feel very cut off when that day comes. Perhaps I should marry again. What do you think?’
    Eleanor kept her voice level. ‘Do you have someone in mind?’
    He shrugged. ‘No one in particular.’
    â€˜Miss Perrino, perhaps?’
    â€˜Matilda? Far too young for me.’
    â€˜What age is she?’
    â€˜Twenty-two or -three, I reckon.’
    â€˜Nevertheless, you have much in common.’
    â€˜Matilda already has a young man.’
    â€˜Does she?’ said Eleanor, less evenly than before.
    â€˜In the other choir, the So-Fa. A Highlander, I believe, a tenor. She keeps rather quiet about him. Apparently her