Intermezzo Read Online Free PDF Page A

Trowle’s consciousness of his presence that disturbed him. On the contrary, it was his consciousness of her presence that disturbed him. While Waterston had become almost mesmerized by the music, he could not and would not associate that music—that extraordinarily powerful music—with the plain prim little Miss Muffet. He was determined in his own mind to keep the music and the musician quite separate. Such music could not, he reasoned, be produced by such an excessively plain female. It was somehow contrary to the laws of nature.
    All his life Charles Henry Beaumont had surrounded himself with beauty, and he felt he was among the rare men who understood the nature of the beautiful. In an age of reserve, he had never associated beauty with pain of any sort. Pain he knew to be ugly and sordid. Miss Trowle’s grief, on those rare occasions when it showed in her face, was indeed ugly, but the same grief expressed every night in her music was indescribably beautiful. Here was an apparent contradiction which left his lordship uncomfortable. And it was a contradiction which he did not choose to resolve.
    Adela found that as the weeks passed her earlier antagonism for his lordship mellowed into intermittent resentment. He was her employer—she could not think of him as her cousin—and, as employer, he was in a position of power and therefore alien. He reminded her physically of her godfather Horace, but while the long dark features might be similar, the psyche housed by the body was quite different. Horace was lanky, almost casual, shuffling, and kind. The same features in Charles Henry Beaumont were sternly erect, arrogant, and aristocratic. Lord Waterston was never shuffling, never soft, and seldom kind. He shared with Horace a passion for collecting beautiful things, but even a dilettante, Adela knew, would profit from the possession of a soul. Waterston’s collections reflected no soul, only his quiet perfection, his arrogance, and his refined discernment.
    Both Waterston and Adela would have been quite comfortable in continuing the armed truce of their first meeting. Fortunately they were under considerable pressure from Sophia and Rebecka to assume at least the guise of a friendship. So, although they could not manage the easy informality preferred by Lady Spencer, his lordship and Miss Trowle eventually settled into a significantly less hostile relationship. They were soon able to treat each other with the measured respect due second cousins, and with a very tentative, but growing affection. Rebecka was delighted with the situation. The house on St. James Square was being slowly transformed into a home. Afternoon tea had become something of a ritual, and on occasion, the atmosphere at those teas became almost soft.
    On her first day in the house Sophia had insisted during tea that Rebecka and Miss Trowle join herself and his lordship for dinner. While Rebecka was eager to abandon schoolroom dinners, Adela was not.
    “Rebecka, my dear, I for one prefer to dine in the schoolroom. Nor do I think that you would enjoy wasting a good deal of time each evening primping yourself only to sit in a large empty room being served by Friday-faced servants.”
    “But Adela, did you never join your father for dinner when you were a little girl?” Becka asked.
    “Yes, on those occasions when he was at home, and I can assure you, those dinners were not at all pleasant. Hours and hours spent over indifferent meals in an almost absolute silence. Becka, you will have years in which to enter polite society. Enjoy your youth.”
    Charles Beaumont had joined them and was taking his cup from Sophia. “I hardly think, Miss Trowle, that dinner in our saloon should be described in quite such gothic terms. I quite agree with Rebecka. Henceforward dinner will be served formally for the family in the dining saloon and I will join you on those occasions when it is convenient. Now, scamp upstairs if you are to finish your work in time to make an