[Eleanor]: 668.Amelia.Chapter XIII

XIII.

The next day dawned grey and dreary. A low-lying fog obscured the buildings on the other side of the street when Amelia stepped out of the shop door, harp wrapped carefully in an oilskin against the damp. She had woken very early in anticipation of the rehearsal Jason had asked her to attend, unable to fall back to sleep. So she had risen and made herself a cup of tea and gnawed on a bit of crust left over from last night’s loaf, then silently practised on the harp and hummed quietly until she felt sufficiently warmed up. 

The chill of fall was in the air as Amelia made her way through the grey mist toward the lower town, and she wrapped her cloak closer to shut it out. Her mask kept half of her face warm, but her hands were cold and the damp seeped through her garments. Everything looked strange in the fog and sound was muffled. She saw no one in the quiet streets and was greatly cheered when she finally arrived at the tavern and opened the door to Martha bustling about and a fire leaping in the hearth.

“Emily,” Martha greeted the girl. “Where have you been? Louise told us you left the kitchen at the manor house, but she didn’t say where you’d gone.”

“I’ve been staying with Mistress Pyms,” answered Amelia as she took off her cloak and hung it over the back of a chair to dry from the damp. “She’s been very kind.”

“Can I get you something to eat? Would you like something hot?” inquired Martha. “It’s becoming wintery out there. I haven’t put on my soup yet, but I’m sure we can find something for you, maybe a bowl of gruel to warm you up.”

“That would be lovely, Martha,” said Amelia. “Thank you.” Martha brought her a steaming bowl of porridge with a small pitcher of fresh cream and left to tend to other duties. Amelia ate slowly, savouring the heat as it warmed her, cupping the bowl with her cold hands. While she was finishing, Frederick came into the common room, using a thin cane to keep him from bumping into tables and chairs and other obstacles. He unerringly made his way to where she was sitting and said, “I thought I heard your beautiful voice.  May I join you?”

“Of course,” said Amelia. He pulled out a chair and sat down facing her. She wondered how he knew where to look. “Frederick,” she asked, surprised at her own boldness, “have you always been blind?”

“No, not always. I was just on the verge of manhood when it happened,” he answered. “I recall my voice cracking, a bit of peach fuzz starting to sprout on my upper lip. I thought my siblings would stop treating me like the sickly child I was if I could somehow become an adult.”

“Do you have many brothers and sisters?” Amelia asked.

“Enough,” Frederick replied. “My parents are farmers and they had a huge brood. Everyone was expected to help in the fields at harvest time, but I was always ill. Thin, weak, much as you see me now.”

Amelia smiled before remembered he couldn’t see it.

“Just around then, when my help was needed most, I became ill yet again. My parents couldn’t afford to call a doctor, nor could they spare the time to look after me. For days I lay in bed with a raging fever, only my youngest sister there to tend to me, bringing me water, sponging my brow. Apparently I was delirious. It’s a long time ago now. My parents would come back in the evenings after spending all day harvesting, and I was no better. They thought they would lose me. Perhaps that would have been a blessing: one less mouth to feed, a mouth that didn’t earn its keep at any rate. But somehow I survived, except that I lost my sight. Which meant, of course, that I was doubly useless to them. Since then, however, I have rarely been ill.”

He smiled as he told this tale, but Amelia saw regret in his expression. “And you?” he asked. “How long have you been masked?”

Amelia put her hands to her face before realizing that he must have been told by the others that she wore this covering. “Not as long as that,” she replied. “I put on the mask when I left my village. I didn’t want the rest of the world to look at me the way they had.”

Frederick reached up and touched her face with his fingertips. “I would love to know what you look like,” he said. “I can only see with my fingers, and you have rendered me blind with this covering.”

“I’m sorry,” said Amelia softly. 

The rest of the musicians came into the dining room and started setting up their instruments on the stage for their rehearsal. Jason joined Frederick and Amelia and said, “Is this crazy coot bothering you, miss? I have to pull him away now. He’s needed on stage. Oh, and so are you! I want you to meet the rest of the boys.”

Amelia shyly approached the front of the room, clutching her harp to her chest. Jason guided Frederick to his stool and then announced, “Gentlemen, I bring you Amelia, whom you all remember from our last concert here, with her beautiful silvery tones. She has deigned to sit in on our rehearsal and perhaps teach us a thing or two, if we ask nicely and don’t display our usual debauched manners. Amelia, you already know Frederick and me, but you have not yet met Victor, who occasionally excels on the flute, but more often than not is only faking it, and Conrad, who likes to hit things, and Alex who plays what passes for a lute. Watch out for that one; he’s rather a roué with the wenches. Gentlemen, please greet the lady, and be nice.”

Conrad and Victor shook hands with Amelia and bade her welcome. The percussionist was shorter than the flutist, but they were similar enough with curly chestnut hair, dark-lashed brown eyes and full, laughing smiles that Amelia could see they were brothers. They were also thin, and she remembered again what Jason had said about life on the road often involving much hunger. Alex was a little better fleshed out, his black, wavy hair combed back from his high forehead, dark eyes framed by heavy brows. He held Amelia’s hand and brought it to his lips. Jason pulled a sheaf of paper out of a leather satchel and showed Amelia the top one.

“This is our usual set list, although it’s not exhaustive,” he said. “How many of these do you know?”

Amelia scanned the list. “Most of them,” she answered. “Some I have memorized and could play right away, some of the others I would have to rehearse a bit. But there are one or two I’ve never seen before.”

“That would be because I wrote them,” said Jason proudly, “and they are the best of the bunch! Let’s start with one that you do know. How about Mary’s Wedding?”

Jason counted them in and then they were off, playing the rollicking song. Amelia joined in, then began adding harmonies with her voice and counterpoints with her harp. When they finished, Frederick said, “Amelia, shall we exchange instruments? This one really is yours, and I do like that harp you have there.” Amelia obediently handed the larger harp over to Frederick and happily grasped the smaller. As it slipped into her arms, something that she had been missing, like a puzzle piece that had gotten lost, suddenly fell into place. A wound was healed over; a balance restored.

Jason said, “Well then, shall we try that again?” and they did. After it was done, the two brothers both looked at Frederick in admiration. “I have never heard you sound like that,” said Victor in wonderment. “That harp is perfect for you, Freddy.” 

Frederick smiled and said, “I think it was fortune that brought Amelia’s harp and then Amelia to us. I say we make her our lead singer. Besides, she’s much prettier than either Jason or I.”

At his words there was a shocked silence, then Amelia burst out laughing. “Oh, Frederick, you have no idea. You are by far the prettiest one here!” At that, the rest of the group joined in the laughter, and the rehearsal continued until Martha announced her soup was ready. The young people happily put down their instruments and took up their spoons, including Amelia, who hadn’t realized just how much energy she had been expending. Rehearsing with the troupe was different than practising with Lorenzo, exacting in a different way. Whereas the latter had been all about technique and precise interpretation of the music, the former were more into spontaneity and improvisation, discovering new harmonies and adding ornaments that personalized the performance. She was exhilarated as she stretched her musical abilities and was happy to take a break and eat some of Martha’s excellent soup.

As they ate, the men had only compliments for Amelia’s participation. They were unanimous that she should join them onstage that evening, and also for their performances in the town square the following week. Jason had not yet told the others about her desire to join them on the road, and she said nothing as well, thinking it best they realize how indispensable she was before they shared that bit of news.

After lunch they rehearsed a couple more pieces, but Jason held up his hand and told them all to take a break. He wanted rested fingers and voices for that evening’s performance. Amelia started wrapping up her harp and then stopped. 

“Frederick,” she asked, “do you still have the bag this harp came in? I would like it, if you do.”

“I don’t think I got rid of it,” he said. “Come and help me look for it. You’ll find it much quicker than I.”

Amelia followed Frederick upstairs to the sleeping chambers, his thin cane tapping out each step. She wondered what it would be like to live in total darkness, but was too shy to ask. When they reached the second floor, Frederick counted each door they passed until he found the room he shared with Jason, and ushered Amelia inside. Then he closed the door behind them and put his hands on her shoulders.

“Amelia,” he said in his deep musical voice, “I must see your face. Even if no one else can, I must. It is haunting my sleep.”

Amelia’s heart started to race. She glanced at the closed door and felt the weight of Frederick’s hands on either side of her neck. Something unfamiliar rose in her chest and she felt her belly tighten. She tried to speak, but all she could manage was a whisper, “I’m afraid.”

Frederick pulled her to him and, very gently, undid the ties under her chin and pulled the mask off her head. He ran his sensitive fingers through her hair and then touched her face: her smooth brow, her closed eyelids, her cheeks, and her nose. He caressed the shells of her ears and her small earlobes. Amelia held herself still with diminishing control and tried not to pull away until he traced the outline of her soft lips.

She snatched up her mask and jammed it back on, breathing heavily and on the verge of tears. Frederick sat on the bed and looked thoughtful. Finally he spoke. “I don’t understand,” he said. “You are perfect. What are you hiding? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not perfect,” Amelia said bitterly. “I’m a monster!” Then she told him about Bartholomew and Crispin, about her alienation after their deaths and her parents’ misfortunes. But this time, as she told her story to Frederick, she realized that he could not see her, nor how mere physical beauty could be such a powerful weapon both for and against its possessor. To her own ears, her explanation for remaining masked sounded specious.

He listened patiently until she finished, then said quietly, “You are only hiding from yourself, my dear. You can’t run away forever.”

“But I’ve been pretending for so long, I started to believe it,” she whispered, “Please, don’t tell anyone. Let me decide when it’s time to take it off.”

Frederick rose and gathered Amelia in his long arms. He kissed the top of her leather hood. “Take as much time as you need. Now let’s see about that embroidered bag or everyone will wonder exactly what we’ve been doing in here.”

With her harp back in its own bag, Amelia felt as though another piece of the puzzle had clicked into place. She ran back to Mistress Pyms’ to rest up before the evening concert and lay on her cot, remembering the feeling of Frederick’s hands on her shoulders and the gentle way he had explored her face. He was so kind, so patient. She so badly wanted to trust him.