The balancier
"Josephine has told me you used to play," Friedrich said, letting his hands rest on the keys as the last notes drifting away into the air. Theodore stood in the doorway, looking around the March's sitting room or making of pretense of doing so. Jo and her sisters were out in the garden, the day being a pleasant one; the little ones were enjoying a picnic of strawberries and cream Amy had brought, a rich treat after Meg's freshly baked bread and crock of butter, the ubiquitous plum preserves Jo rolled her eyes over as she'd stirred the latest steaming pot, noting they couldn't turn up their noses at free fruit when everything at the market was so dear. He could hear their voices through the open windows, woven together like a plait, Amy and Jo's similar in tone for all Mrs. Laurence's insistence on social graces. Meg's was lower, a startlingly lovely contralto that would have suited the actress she'd once dreamed of being. He had been invited to join them, Meg asking warmly, Amy politely, Jo with her usual zest, tempered only a little by the fatigue that came from wrestling with a heroine who wouldn't mind her plotting, but he'd demurred. Beth's piano was a Pleyel, very fine, exquisitely made and tenderly cared for by Hannah and Mrs. March, a far cry from the squat, third-hand upright of unknown provenance that Plumfield had for lessons; it was a surpassing delight to play upon such an instrument when the one he was used to refused to stay in tune. He'd said as much to Jo, who'd patted his hand and promised to save him a few berries. He'd been at the piano for an unknown length of time, long enough to feel the music still in his fingers, in his wrists, present behind his thoughts like the sun behind cloud. He had a reason for being where he was. Laurence did not.
"I used to compose actually, though I'm sure you wouldn't believe it of me," he said. It was an odd remark, for Friedrich could easily imagine Laurence a younger man with a composer's longer hair and wilder eyes, with a vivid silk waistcoat and cuffs grey with pencil from his hastily jotted down scherzo.
"You gave it up—why?" It could not be for the simplest reason, money, for Laurence was rich and had been since he was a boy, richer now since a series of astute business decisions, but fortunately disinterested in his wealth, except for how variably he might shower it upon his wife. Friedrich did not consider himself an envious man, but occasionally Amy Laurence came to Sunday dinner in a ruddy paisley shawl that would have suited Jo far better than the grey wrap that was both her every-day and best, her only jewelry the narrow gold band on her finger where her sister wore diamonds and sapphires, and then he felt the sting of the emotion and must take a breath to settle himself.
"I wasn't any good. Or rather, I wasn't good enough and the music was duller with every aria I wrote. My attempt at a concerto mostly served to keep me warm during a particularly gloomy November in London."
"You did not wish to persevere?"
"I lacked inspiration. I hadn't seen it at first and then I wasn't sure and then, finally, I knew," Laurence said, glossing over days and weeks, possibly months spent, wasted if he was to be believed or perhaps that was what he convinced himself of.
"I see," Friedrich replied.
"Jo wouldn't have understood. She would have told me to do whatever I must to ignite my creative spark, by Jove, or exhorted me in that way she has. Or she might have been disappointed to hear what mediocre music I composed, despite my best efforts," Laurence said without prompting. "She's a true artist and I'm…not."
"That would not change how she felt about your friendship," Friedrich said.
"She's a better person than I am. It changed me. To know there would always be a distance between us, one nothing could bridge. Amy understands…" Laurence trailed off, becoming aware of how he spoke of his marriage, his friendship with Jo. Friedrich shrugged slightly, intending to put the man at his ease.
"Jo is herself, to be sure," he said. "But now, you do not even play? The grand piano in your music room sits untouched?"
"Amy prefers to waltz than to listen to one. And though I'm a man of many talents, I can't play and dance at the same time. And I prefer a happy wife," Laurence said with his usual boyish grin.
"A waltz is too sedate for Jo," Friedrich replied, playing a phrase from Strauss's Wiener Launen-Walzer. "She wants a polka."
"Or a mazurka. Anything lively, where she can gallop about. She's always been that way," Laurence laughed.