The Music Master

By

Nancy Pirri

Prologue

1878

New York City

Amidst the sweltering, brilliant lights aimed on him at the Niles Theater, twenty-five year old Jasper Hughes, piano virtuoso, slowly rose from the piano bench and faced the audience. Breathing a relieved sigh that his performance had been perfect, he mentally prepared himself for a difficult task.

Hundreds of people stared in silence, waiting for him to speak. He knew they would be shocked by his announcement. His heart still ached knowing he’d never perform before an audience such as this again. It was the right thing to do—retire now—before the disease riddling his right hand struck hard and prevented him from playing the music he’d had a passion for since childhood. He would have been humiliated if he had failed in front of an audience.

He would no longer be able to perform, but he could teach.

“Thank you, all of you. It is with much reluctance and sadness, as I stand before you today, that I must inform you this was my last performance.”

“Ever?” someone shouted from the audience.

Jasper heard the playful tone in the voice of the questioner, who obviously didn’t believe him.

“Yes. Ever. Thank you for your continuous praise and patronage. I will never forget them—or you.

Utter silence greeted his announcement as he bowed and then rapidly left the stage. No one saw the tears of anger and frustration in his eyes as he left, and no one ever would.

Chapter One

1885

New York City

Annabelle Watkins stood outside the Hughes School of Music, her gloved hand poised and ready to knock on the heavy wooden door. The prestigious school in an old brownstone building was located on the corner of Fifth and Cedar. Annabelle was personally familiar with the school. Covertly, she glanced around, knowing she shouldn’t be out and about without a chaperone. Society frowned upon unmarried women of an available age still on the marriage block gallivanting alone about town. But, heavens, it was daylight and she was twenty-years old, not some young girl directly out of the school room. While she was not all that old, she had yet to marry, and had nearly resigned herself to the possibility of being a virgin spinster for the rest of her life.

She straightened her peacock-blue hat and brushed a piece of lint off her matching woolen coat. Tucking one strand of hair into her upswept coiffure she knocked briskly. Arguing with herself as she waited, she thought the worst that could happen was that Master Jasper Hughes could simply tell her ‘no’, he wouldn’t take her as a student. And could she blame him if he declined, she mused, thinking of their past history. Embarrassment swept through her as she thought about her last momentous lesson with Hughes several years ago; it had not been pretty. And now she’d come begging on his doorstep when she’d told him she’d never step foot inside his studio again.

The pounding of footsteps let her know that someone was approaching. The door swung open quickly, heat escaping with it. Annabelle welcomed the warmth and was eager to enter. She lifted her chin and, glaring at her, was one of the world’s most talented pianists, Jasper Hughes. He stood, slim and tall, golden blonde hair flowing to his shoulders, eyes a perfect shade of robin’s egg blue. Attired head to toe in black, his hair was a stark contrast. Undeniably handsome, he was also, in Annabelle’s memory, a harsh task master who expected nothing less than perfection from his students.

“Well, what is it?” he said rather impatiently. “I’m with a student.”

“I…well, I…”

“Spit it out, girl,” he snapped. Then he narrowed his eyes on her until she noted how they darkened and a humorless smile crossed his lips. He remembered her. “Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Annabelle Watkins, in the flesh.”

“Not quite,” she said briskly, knowing well how he’d always hated her argumentative behavior toward him. Still, she couldn’t help but taunt him, “I’m wearing a simple day dress under my coat, and—”

“I could care less what you’re wearing. You could be standing there without a stitch and I wouldn’t care. I must return to my student. Good day.”

Annabelle snatched up her skirts, moved up to the stoop, and stood in front of him. “But you’ve no idea why I’ve come!”

He faced her, brow raised as he started slowly shutting the door. “I could have sworn I’d just said I-don’t-care.”

Annabelle jammed her black kid boot in the doorway, for once in her life satisfied with the rather large size of her foot.

When he couldn’t shut the door all the way, he looked down with a sigh. Then he glared at her again. She imagined him steaming inside; imagined at any moment she’d see smoke seeping from his ears and eyes. The thought nearly caused her to laugh aloud, but that wouldn’t have done at all. From past experience, she knew that Mr. Hughes possessed no sense of humor. Never had she seen him so much as crack a tiny smile.

“You left five years ago, Miss Watkins. You said you were through taking lessons from me. As a matter of fact, I distinctly recall you telling me to go to Hades. Now remove your foot.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Please.”

She knew how difficult it was for him to be polite, but he was much aware that she was a vital member of society, an important member due to her father’s position as Ambassador to Great Britain. It would serve him well to treat her civilly. To her mind, this was a good thing, as it gave her a slight advantage.

“I’ll wait here until you’re through with your student. I must speak with you about taking lessons again.”

“Oh, my God.” He rolled his eyes heavenward.. “Heaven help me. Never could I have imagined such a day would arrive.” He tossed back his long hair. “Stay then, if you must.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her inside, slamming the door behind them.

She stifled her shriek of surprise. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

“I can’t very well leave you sitting on the stoop to freeze to death in the cold and snow, can I?” He led the way into the parlor, which she knew was next to the music room. There, she took a seat in a chair positioned in front of a blazing fire, grateful for the warmth.

He turned to leave her but paused when she gasped at the sight of two huge dogs rising from their bookend places by the hearth.

“Stay there. I’ll be done shortly,” he ordered.

Her hackles rose. Had he been talking to her or his dogs? She stood up and gave him a brisk salute. “Yes, sir! But aren’t you taking them with you?” Annabelle pointed at the dogs, now seated and watchful.

“Still the comedienne, are you?”

She shrugged. “No one has ever accused me of not having a sense of humor.”

Oh! She shouldn’t have said that, for she knew well that he’d heard much along those lines said about his lack of humor.

He shrugged. “Roscoe and Rufus will keep you company.” He started to leave but stopped and swept his gaze over her body “You may want to remove your coat. The fire will roast you, otherwise.”

He left the parlor and she turned to stare into the fire. In other words, his watchdogs would be watching over her so that she couldn’t change her mind and leave. She knew the dogs were the same ones he’d had five years ago, and she knew of their ornery dispositions, with all except Master Hughes, of course, whom they adored. She stood, ready to pace the floor, when the dogs rose in unison and growled.

She sank down in her chair, rearranged her small bustle, looked down, and saw her hands trembling. Usually, she enjoyed animals of all kinds, but not these two. The dogs settled down again and closed their eyes, but she guessed that they weren’t sleeping at all, but instead sensing her every move.

She shrugged out of her coat and tried to relax, listening to the music from the adjacent room. Whomever the student, he or she was gifted, for not a single note was missed.

Annabelle watched the leaping flames for a while, then checked the delicate gold watch pinned to her bodice. It was after four, and she must arrive home by five, before her father, or else he would worry. He didn’t want her ‘traipsing about’, as he called it, after dark. With the coming of November, the days had grown ever shorter and darkness came earlier and earlier.

Her eyes fluttered against her cheeks and she sighed as she slumped low in the high-backed, comfortable chair. Waking with a start, she sat straight up in her chair. The fire had dwindled and she heard nothing but the ticking clock on the wall in the corner of the parlor. No music.

She rubbed her sleepy eyes and glanced around the parlor, gasping at the sight of Master Hughes sitting on the divan across from her. He appeared relaxed and calm, but wore, an intense look in his eyes; his dogs at his knees. She’d fallen asleep and her cheeks heated in embarrassment, thinking he’d been staring at her. For how long?

“You have turned into a beautiful woman, Miss Watkins. I’d bet my last half dollar you cause your good father more than a hint a worry in life, don’t you?” He raised his brows. “Or have you a husband and his worry now?”

Annabelle chose not to take umbrage with his personal comments and said, instead, guessing he’d be surprised, “No husband and thank you for the compliment. I think.”

He laughed, loud, crisp and clear as he rose to his feet and stuck out his hand to help her. Momentarily stunned by his smile and laughter, she finally placed her hand in his and he pulled her out of her seat. With her free hand, she picked up her coat and carried it over her arm. Jasper tucked her arm through his, guiding her into the music room, first turning to his dogs which she realized were padding along behind them. “Stay,” he ordered. She watched the dogs return to their places on either side of the hearth.

In the music room, he released her and waved at the piano bench.

“Sit. Play. I’d like to hear where I left off with you five years ago.”

Annabelle stayed riveted in place, far away from the piano. “Um, that’s why I’m here. I believe I’ve forgotten everything you taught me.”

Jasper groaned and waved a negligent hand to a side chair nearby. She moved to the chair and took a seat, straightening her skirts and not meeting his eyes. She looked at him when she heard his foot treads and saw him move to the piano. Sinking down on the bench, he sat facing her rather than the piano and clasped his hands in front of him. “Tell me why you require my services.”

That was blunt, Annabelle decided, and it was much to her liking since she had no time for dilly-dallying. “Months ago, my father asked me to learn several pieces of music, in order to entertain guests from Great Britain coming to visit us over the holidays. As you well know, Christmas is only five weeks away and—”

“Months ago, you said. Had you begun attempting to learn the pieces?”

“I am certain you recall my penchant for procrastination.”

“Unfortunately, yes. It’s the only reason why I could no longer instruct you. You refused to practice between lessons.” Sweeping a disdainful look at her, he dryly added, “It seems you have not changed as much as I believed after all.”

Annabelle’s cheeks grew hot at his accusation, wanting to tell him how wrong he was about her, yet she refused to defend herself --- refused to tell him how she had struggled with the music from the day her father had asked her to prepare to play for his guests. Over the past several months she’d gone from teacher to teacher, but no one had been able to help her. Quite frankly, she was a dunderheaded female when it came to learning music. Let him think the worst of her. She did not care. As long as he took her on as his student, she knew she’d have somewhat of a chance of learning the music. The only procrastination she’d done was delaying coming to him for help.

“Think what you like,” she said crisply.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, or is your head still in the clouds over some boy.”

“Man, you mean. I am, after all, a woman full grown.”

Her spine straightened in the chair and she grew uncomfortable at the piercing, long look he gave her, sweeping his gaze from her head to her feet. Softly, she heard him say, “Yes. You certainly are that.”

* * * *

Shaking himself out of his stupor, Jasper was disgusted with himself and his attraction to this woman whom he’d always believed was too shallow, too societal for his tastes, and, unfortunately, far too easy on the eyes. Five years ago, she’d also been too young. Yet, presently, he could not deny that the tall, elegant Miss Watkins had grown into an exceptional beauty. He’d noticed her smooth carriage from the moment he had dragged her into his house. He also noticed how her young, girlish shape had swelled into beautiful womanly curves as he admired her in her russet-colored day gown. Her voluptuously thick hair she wore tucked up inside a woolen hat…

“That’s all you have to say then? You admit you procrastinated?” he snapped.

“Yes! Why are you in such a snit over it, might I ask?”

“Because nothing has changed!” he roared, and leaped to his feet. Pacing in front of her, his voice shook as he spoke. “You cannot expect to become a decent musician if you procrastinate in practicing the lessons I, or anyone else, teach you. Why should I waste my time on you? Why?” he asked, whirling to face her. He planted his hands on his hips and scowled down at her in his most intimidating manner.

She didn’t answer his question but said instead, “I’ll double your normal fee.”

“Do you think I teach because of the money? I earn a pittance from the lessons. I don’t need money. I’ve inherited enough for ten lifetimes,” he snarled, sinking to the piano bench once more, facing the piano this time.

He started playing a tune, loudly, boisterous and angry. By the time he finished he turned and found his guest cringing with her hands over her ears. He was sweating, adrenaline flowing, and he felt ready to play again harsh, pounding music to remove the woman from his mind. If he didn’t, he wasn’t certain what he’d do to her. Then pain shot through his wrist and hand and he knew he’d strained himself.

“Leave,” he ordered. He set his hands to the keys once more but played in a tame, easy manner now, having spent some of his impatience and anger with her. When he stopped and rose from the bench, he was surprised to see Annabelle sitting there still, her eyes closed and tears running down her fair cheeks.

“Why haven’t you left?” he asked, his voice filled with exhaustion.

Her eyes opened and he saw the pain in them, and he knew that he had no choice but to teach her again. It would be tormenting because he wouldn’t be able to touch her, still he knew he’d do it. He had to—for her—even though she didn’t deserve him to, even though he knew it would be a waste of his valuable time. He’d had plenty of regrets when she left all those years ago—he had, in fact, taken her desertion personally. She’d had potential as a pianist but no drive, and she had been in love with a boy.

“I can’t. You must help me.”

He heaved a sigh. “Once again I ask, what good reason have you for procrastinating and not following your father’s wishes?”

“My father will be hugely disappointed if I don’t learn to play. I have been a disappointment to him anyway, since leaving from my lessons with you. He has always wanted me to be like my mother. He still hasn’t come to terms with the fact that I’m not like my mother. I am who I am. Still, he’s asked this from me and—”

Jasper heard her shaking voice, heard her pause. Yes, her mother had been musically gifted, and anyone would have had difficulty following in the woman’s footsteps.

He noticed how Miss Watkins would not meet his eyes but stared down at her hands. “And?” he asked.

Lifting her chin, she met his gaze. He saw the tears there still. Groaning inwardly, he thought, Lord, keep me from taking her into my arms and offering her comfort. She is nothing but a willful society woman with little brains in her head.

“I don’t want to embarrass my father in front of his guests.”

“Or yourself?” he snapped.

She didn’t reply at first, but instead gave him a long thoughtful look. He knew her answer even before she said it, and his heart soared with hope that she was not still the shallow young woman he once knew.

“Why, I hadn’t thought about myself at all.”

“Ah.” He sank back against the piano, hitting keys with his elbows. “That is quite the answer I hoped to hear but didn’t expect.” After a long moment, he rose, stepped over to her chair and pulled her to her feet. He escorted her to the door, an arm around her waist, the scent of her intoxicating. “Here are the lesson times and conditions. I’ll give you a lesson three times a week for two hour sittings. You will practice, at the minimum, two hours each day after you take your lesson.”

“Oh!” She stopped in the hallway, frowning. “I can’t possibly make that sort of lesson commitment. After all, you likely don’t believe this but there are other things to do in life aside from playing the piano.”

“For instance?” he asked mildly, keeping his temper in check as he strode ahead of her and opened the front door.

She rushed up to him. “Paying calls to friends, for one. With the holidays approaching, I have many social engagements, evening and day, to attend to.”

He jammed his hands on his hips. “Apparently, I was wrong. You have not changed one bit, have you? Do you know you are still a shallow excuse for a human being?”

“And you are horrible as ever!” she spat. Her posture was rigid as she drew herself up.

“That is nothing I haven’t heard before,” he said dryly. “Those are my terms. We’ve much ground to cover between now and Christmas. Be ready to work like you’ve never worked before.”

She stepped outside and looked at him over her shoulder. “And if I choose not to abide by this unreasonable schedule?”

“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he replied with little inflection. “Good day, Miss Watkins.” He closed the door on her stunned expression, shut his eyes, and leaned back against the door until he heard her footsteps fade away.

On the ride home, Annabelle clenched her jaw and fisted her hands in her lap. Shallow? How dare the man! He knew nothing about her or her charity works; knew nothing about her work at the hospital. Why hadn’t she told him about her good deeds instead of using the excuse that she had—being a social butterfly? She knew the answer; it was difficult talking about her good deeds, mostly because she believed she was behaving normally, or as a normal human being should. No one had ever accused her of being boastful.

Gathering her courage, she decided she would have to inform her father that she wouldn’t be able to entertain his guests and that there was still time to hire a professional musician. Wryly, she thought, since Master Hughes was so critical of her, perhaps her father could pay him to perform.

She arrived home quarter of an hour before her father and was helping cook serve up supper when he arrived. Arthur Watkins was a tall, distinguished, gray haired man in his early sixties and was prone to frowning—not in anger but in concentration. He was calm and gentle, and, as Ambassador to Great Britain, he was a logical, analytical peacemaker, and a true diplomat.

Annabelle had always been proud of him, though he hadn’t always demonstrated his pride in her. Before her mother died, he’d doted on his wife and daughter. But things had changed between him and Annabelle with her mother’s death. Her father had wanted her to be like her mother, but had learned with the passing of time she would never be like Grace Watkins.

Arthur seated Annabelle and then took his own seat with a rare smile. “How was your day, dear?” he asked her.

Annabelle smiled. “Wonderful. Remember the two children who’d been burned in the tenement fire down on Cook Street?” At his nod she added, “They’ve been released from the hospital.”

“That’s a good thing, though I have to say their lives will never be the same, will they?”

She shook her head sadly. “No. Unfortunately they’ll live their lives as scarred individuals, inside and out.”

After a few moments of small talk, Annabelle tensed up, guessing the direction of the conversation would be turning. As they sat back in their chairs and drank coffee after finishing their meal, Arthur smiled. “How is the music coming along?”

“Oh! Oh, well, it’s coming along…marvelously.” Darn it, why couldn’t she be truthful? Why couldn’t she just tell him that she was incapable of learning Mozart, Chopin and Beethoven? Oh, she could play popular music just fine but the famous musicians—no, the music was too difficult and beyond her capabilities.

Leaning forward in his chair, he placed his elbows on the table and smiled at her. “I am so proud of you for taking up the piano again, and I’m looking forward to hearing you entertain my guests.” He tossed down his linen napkin and rose from the table. “Are you finished?”

She stumbled to her feet. “Yes, I…I believe I’ll retire early tonight.” She gave him a small smile. “I may possibly be taking a lesson or two with Master Hughes.”

“Hughes?” Her father arched one eyebrow. “Your old teacher? Why, you hated the man.”

“No, I hated the piano lessons.”

He frowned. “But you don’t now.”

“No,” she said, “I’ve grown up, I suspect, and I have become more disciplined.”

“You’ve returned to him then?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, think about it hard. He’s an excellent teacher; his reputation is fine and his talent unmatched by none. Truthfully, Annabelle, I’ve no idea why you left him all those years ago. Think of how good a pianist you’d be now if you’d stuck with the lessons.”

She had thought about it a lot lately. While she enjoyed playing piano, she just didn’t have the talent, or the passion for it.

Her father cinched things for her taking lessons from Jasper Hughes when he said, “Your mother would be so happy if she were here. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said softly, “I know she would.” Annabelle swallowed down the lump in her throat -- the one that was always there at the mention of her mother.

In her bedroom that night, she made a mental list of both the good and the bad things about taking lessons from Master Hughes and, in the end, decided that the good outweighed the bad.

She would learn to play for her father’s guests. She would not disappoint him.

Tears trickled down her cheeks as she lay down on her bed, thinking about her mother. Oh, why did you leave us, mother? If you were here, I wouldn’t feel the need to try and make father happy. Besides, I could never compete with you—I never wanted to. I miss you so much.

She’d show Master Hughes, prove to him tomorrow that she could learn to play, and she would be the best student he had ever had. She’d sacrifice her charity work to spend the time with lessons, to save her father humiliation, and spend the time Master Hughes believed necessary to instruct her.

No one could ever accuse Annabelle of being less than tenacious when she desired something.

Patricia Fuller

The Music Master

By

Prologue

Chapter One