Chapter 15: Vinum et musica laetificant cor
"Wine and music gladden the heart."
All her memorable Christmas pasts occurred before she was ten years old; when they returned to the summer home for the holiday, when Aunt Freddie visited, when Mother and Father still believed their daughter would outgrow her unseemly interests and traits. They would sit round the fire and Aunt Freddie would slip her a spot of mead when Father wasn't looking and exchange gifts. Rosalind suspected Robert's must have been similar because he had suggested they celebrate upstairs in the music room. Or perhaps he was in the mind to create his own? He had insisted he get a fire going and she had made to bring up the pie.
She had reached the top of the stairs when the sound of dust falling was followed by—
"—Bollocks!"
The corner of her mouth quirked. He cursed on the rare occasion; static discharge from a generator, an experiment not going his way. She found it endearing.
He was dusting off the soot that had come down from the chimney when she entered the room.
"Why couldn't we hire a sweep?" he coughed.
She gestured for him to draw near to her so that she might wipe the dark blemish off his cheek with a napkin. "Soot is good, clean dirt."
He turned up his chin as best he could in her hand. "If I were a sweep."
"A good thing, then, you aren't," she said, releasing him and returning to set up.
Robert straightened. "Oh? And why is that?"
"You would be ill-fitting in such a profession." She cut the pie carefully, pausing to add, "And not nearly as charming."
He seemed pleased with her answer. "I do try."
Rosalind grinned further. "It's rather cold in here. Complimenting yourself gets us nowhere."
"It brought me here."
Walking the few steps to him, she gave him his plate and smiled. "So it did." His expression changed into something serious and he looked at her as if she was the most interesting thing in the room. "So," she glanced away from the intensity, "Shall we open these?"
They had brought up the gifts from downstairs as well; a neat pile at the foot of the velvet couch. Much more than she had expected, but still a delight. She picked up a small pine box that Comstock had given them the other day. She had wanted to open it but Robert insisted they wait until today. The box canted as she lifted it, the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle very apparent.
"I wonder what that could be," Robert said sarcastically.
No surprise it was alcohol when she lifted the lid. Truly predictable and possessing such old-world grandstanding. How many bottles had he sent out this Christmas? He was oddly sentimental. Still, she examined the bottle, he had good taste. "Christmastime," she read aloud. "O'Hare Spirits." She had sampled their Summertime Elderflower Mead and was very impressed; the first brew of the city. "Let's have a taste."
From their cupboard, she took two glasses and poured the dark liquid. She gave him his and she sat on the arm of the armchair.
"It's not Uncle Freddie's mulled mead, but it's rather good," he said.
"Do you wonder if Aunt Freddie's gender is reliant on the variable of ours?"
Robert shrugged and swallowed the large bite he had shoveled into his mouth. "They never married. Is that any factor?"
Rosalind pondered on it, if the implication he suggested was the defining factor. "In our universes." Once, when she was a girl visiting in London, she had spied her aunt in deep conversation with her dear friend Prudence in the middle of the night, and after they had spoken, they had embraced each other, and she had learned about intimacy that night. Perhaps in one universe they had been allowed to wed.
"And in your universe? Did he have a dear friend?"
Robert glanced aside as if he was recalling an old memory. "Yes. Peter."
She thought on it more. In many ways, Freddie might have been like them, accepting of their fluid existence.
"I don't think they'd have minded. Man, woman, or something else entirely." She finished the remainder of her drink.
"Neither would I," Robert said, and Rosalind smiled at him over the rim of her glass.
She rather enjoyed what they had started. There was never a clear line of labor and reward when it was simply herself, but with Robert, the division of labor remained, with twice the reward.
"So, I've opened one. It's your turn."
"Right, then."
From the three remaining packages, Robert selected the smallest one wrapped in brown paper and twine about the size of music box. Removing the wrapper, he smirked at the dark walnut box and held it up for her to see the embossed logo. "Fink."
"Go on, then."
He lifted the cover and raised his eyebrows. From the box, he carefully removed a brass and wooden object that was an assortment of gears and levers on the lower half and a miniature schooner at the top.
"Is that an automaton?" she asked, unable to mask her excitement. They were a rare art, rarer still in Columbia. The mechanisms were the principles of science made tangible, calculus and physics as expressive as a sculpture or painting. She had not expected such a gift from Fink, or that it could draw such a reaction from her. But perhaps it gave insight to the man who saw only gears and exactitude, found beauty in the precision and purpose of each piece. Rosalind turned the crank and the wooden schooner bobbed as if it sailed over a brass ocean.
"How intricate."
"Yes." Not often was she entertained by ornaments, but she stood to place it on the mantle of the fireplace. It was less a reminder of Fink in their lives and more in keeping with their ideals.
Of the two remaining gifts, she selected a thin sleeve that could only be a record. Gwendolyn had delivered it yesterday. Again, bless the girl and how observant she was, though their appreciation of music was perhaps the easiest deduction. She had been quick to notice. It was the selection of it that mattered.
"Adagio in G Minor," she read when she had removed the wrapper. "Albinoni." She had never heard of such a composer.
"Italian? Or perhaps Spanish?"
She placed the record on the gramophone and dropped the needle. Robert was at her elbow, curious as well. He refilled her glass.
"Ta." This mead had a bold flavor, a distinct citrus and spice.
They waited a few moments as the record played a soft silence. Often she thought on the phenomenon of a recording and that bit of recorded silence. Was there some odd frequency that blared they were unable to hear? She had tried capturing it on voxophones to see if they might do further research. Perhaps it could be heard in other dimensions. Or other dimensions heard in theirs.
A soft lilt of strings began over the gentle pizzicato of the bass and the violin fell in with a pining delicacy; a combination of melancholy and serenity.
"Oh," she said simply. "This is-"
"-beautiful, yes," he agreed.
He took her hand, pulling her gently and placed his other on her waist and they started a slow waltz. Truly the music was a bit slow and somber for a waltz, but it was that they danced that made it enjoyable. They had not discussed it in length, but the act of dancing was the surest and quickest way for them to return to the same mind. On occasion, when they had fallen out of sync, through dissonance or disagreement, the connection and parallel strengthened through steps and timing and music. Keeping information from Robert felt off, even something so trivial as a gift.
"I've something for you," she revealed.
Robert glanced down at her, a grin spreading across his face. "So have I."
Rosalind smiled too, and she went to the desk near the window and removed the box she had hidden last Thursday.
"Happy Christmas," she told him.
His face lit up. He took the gift, sat on the couch, and untied the twine off it carefully. She held her breath, hoping he would enjoy it. Or would he think it something too frivolous?
When he removed the sketchbook, he flipped through the pages and ran a finger down the gold inlay on the cover. He paused to examine the tool roll and the new medium she had chosen. Robert stared at the gifts, his expression unreadable now.
Was he disappointed that she had spent so much? The silence now was beginning to feel disappointing.
"We can return it if you would prefer something else—"
He stood up suddenly and his arms were embracing her. He turned his head to plant a light peck on her forehead. "It's an extraordinary gift. Thank-you."
She had not expected the affection, a bit thrown by it actually, but he released her and beamed down at his gifts. "Now I've got yours!"
Sheepishly, he went to the same desk and pulled open the opposite drawer, and she could not help but laugh. Should they continue to hide gifts there?
Robert presented a rather thick leather folio, and she thought perhaps it might be blueprints or even drawings he had done. She opened the cover, thoroughly surprised. There were 4 booklets of music, selections from Schubert, Brahms, Chabrier, and Chopin.
He picked out the Chopin and told her, "This is a personal piece. Something I think you might enjoy. But these," he pointed to the others, "Are four hands."
Rosalind was taken aback by the immensity of the gift. How long has been since she received a gift that had been selected with her in mind? Suitors gave her gifts they thought were appropriate. But Robert was different; the only one who completely understood her. She smiled.
"Shall we play one?" he offered. He let her choose.
Picking the Brahms, she flipped open the music and pored over the notes. Her fingers tapped at the keys as she sight-read. Robert pulled out the chair for them to sit as she set up the music. After making sure she had enough room, he sat next to her.
She positioned her hands over the keys, ready to play. He struggled to find his place a bit, rechecking the music. Rosalind reached across and stilled his hand, pressing it gently in gratitude.
She helped him set his hand on the right chords, and they began their duet.
Despite his casual skill at the piano, Robert was a good sport. While she had continued consistently with her lessons and playing in their youth, he had not. But, he had sought out music that she would enjoy, skill and style more to her tastes, and she appreciated his effort.
Their enjoyment of the mead however, was beginning to show and as they both stumbled over a section where the key and time measurement changed, he glanced at her and said with a smile, "My hands have forgotten how to dance."
"Mine as well," she confessed, and she took another sip from her glass that she had set atop the piano. She closed the booklet and placed it in the folio with the others.
"We've still got one more gift."
"It's your turn."
Rosalind felt at the spines of the sheet music. He had gone out of his way to get this, braved even Albert Fink for an afternoon.
"Fink called you out at the Ball," she said, hoping he might admit to his poor attempt at masking it. He had absolutely no poker-face.
"I know. I was afraid you'd figure it out."
In truth she figured he was worried she might not approve of his visit, but Albert was more tolerable than his brother, and they had reason to visit his shop on occasion.
"His description of music is of note. 'A record of time passing in a certain way.' Poetic and accurate."
"A bit cheeky of him to describe it as a science," Robert complained.
"There is that," she agreed, walking to where he was opening the last gift.
"There's a card to both of us." He handed her the small paper and she immediately recognized the neat script.
'For your splendid home. Happy Christmas, Arthurton.'
Robert pulled a roll of canvas from a leather cylinder and laid it out on the couch. "Is this a mastercopy?" he asked, amazed.
A painting of soldiers, red coats and muskets, surrounding a fallen figure unfurled in full color. She recognized it as a depiction of the death of General Wolfe, commander of the British Army during the Seven Year's War. She knew the original to be in Canada because Arthurton had mentioned it, as well as his friend the Governor General, the Duke of Argyll. Aside from that, there were four variants in existence done by the artist. Perhaps this was one of them. They had talked at length on several occasions of the arts but she did not expect a gift of this magnitude.
"I believe this might be the artist's own hand."
"How well connected is Arthurton?" he asked slowly.
"Very. Have I not mentioned his father is Thomas James Arthurton, 1st Baron Arthurton? Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales."
"You must have forgotten that minor detail."
The corner of her mouth perked. "Elsewhere he is The Hon. William Arthurton, barrister-at-law. Here he prefers to keep his peerage unknown and practices American law."
"Certainly an extraordinary man."
"He might say the same of you." Arthurton was always very adept at recognizing talent and exception.
A blush crept across his face.
"He would," she repeated. "He would not know how right he was. Now," she said, rolling up the painting, "We shall hang this up later and write a very appreciative letter inviting him to lunch and afterwards, some tea."
She placed the roll on the desk in the corner again.
"I've just remembered," Robert said suddenly. "Or rather," he murmured, and went to the desk with her. "I've been made privy to new information," he said, rifling through another drawer and he held a Christmas cracker triumphantly.
"I've forgotten I'd had that." Rosalind eyed him suspiciously as he rubbed at his left temple. She was beginning to worry of his drawing on her memories as a resource. "Do be careful."
He shrugged as a young boy would and offered her the other end. She half expected it to be a dud—it was so old— but it popped and Robert grinned, eager to see what was inside; a whistle, a bit of chocolate, and a wooden toy soldier.
"Well, I've gotten better gifts this evening," he joked.
"Good, you'll have to wait until next year."
HIs smiled widened. "I do love it," he said again. "'I've not enjoyed a gift like this since I got my microscope from Mother and Father."
"When did you get that?"
"When I was nine."
"I'd asked for one that year too, but Mother thought an embroidery set that year was more appropriate. Father managed to sneak in Newton's Principia Mathmatica," she added when she saw that Robert had become sad and was going to apologize.
"I have my suspicions," she continued, "I think Mother was still upset because I had fallen out a tree that summer."
He looked incredulous. "You fell out of a tree?"
"Yes. The apple tree near the study, you know the one—"
"—Cherry tree—"
"How interesting. But, from the apple tree, I fell right into a nettle bush."
"How have I not heard any of this?"
"If you're up for it," she offered.
He nodded.
"No spells," she pointed out, knowing full well he no control over it.
"You have my word," he said and poured another glass of mead as he sat on the couch, only for her to snatch it.
"Aunt Freddie had her bridge club visiting for the weekend. It was a house full of hens. I will spare you the details. But, one of them, I believe her name was Judith, brought along her nephew. Perhaps to build up a friendship with me, but he was a ghastly misinformed boy." She recalled his dirty fingernails and his terrible grammar, despite his privileged upbringing. "He knew painfully little about birds and their reproduction. So I had to correct him."
"Did you?" He leaned forward in his seat as if he needed to know how she put this boy in his place.
Rosalind sighed. "There was a storm the week before that must have weakened the branches. I fell into the bush. And I had to endure the entire bridge club rubbing me in chamomile. All the while, Freddie tells the story about how she fell into a rockpool. Oh you should hear that one," she realized. Perhaps he might even recall it because the memory so strong in her mind.
It was a rare occasion Mother left the city but she had come along with them to the beach.
"—And Aunt Freddie! Aunt Freddie was already two bottles of wine deep. She fell right in. Father and Prudence had to help her out."
She snorted loudly, remembering the day. The alcohol was beginning to take its effect. "As if upset, a fish came up out of the water and slapped her acroas the face. Only, she hadn't seen it and she was so perplexed, even when we explained to her."
They fell into a fit of laughter and after his own had died, Robert clutched at his side and asked, "Why don't I hear you laugh like this often?"
"Laugh like this?" she asked, fingers pressing to her lips to barely contain a snicker. "What? With the alcohol?"
"With the whole of you?" He said seriously and she sobered a bit.
"I'm only ever whole when I'm with you."
An expression formed about his face and she could sense her words had affected him tremendously. She glanced away, stifling a yawn.
"I will regret this tomorrow," she said, holding the glass. "And we know how Lutece women handle alcohol."
He yawned as well, reclining on the couch as he rubbed his eyes. "It's the men that handle it poorly."
She joined him. "We handle it marvelously." The couch fit them both, though not without adjustment. They barely fit shoulder to shoulder and he placed his arm around hers to make room.
"We are quite the pair, wouldn't you agree, sweet sister?" Robert pressed his lips to the top of her forehead again. He laughed, loosening his collar.
Rosalind glanced at him sidelong. He had never called her sister before. She turned her head slightly and kissed the corner of his mouth. His smile faltered, and he turned to face her more fully.
Avoiding his gaze, she sat up to put her glass on the table. His affection this evening had grown bold. What was the meaning behind it? A question for another day. She settled back beside him. The heat of his body was lulling; the scent of his macassar and the texture of his shirt so familiar now.
"I've told a story. Now it's your turn."
"We've shared all our stories, I believe."
"You know my stories. I do not know yours. It does not have to be funny. I will enjoy it because it is you." She yawned again and rested her cheek on his shoulder. "Because it is us."
She heard him acquiesce with a sigh, his breath escaping his lungs as his chest rose and fell.
"Do you think Prudence and Peter could be the same person?" she thought fleetingly. Her mind was becoming muddled, eye lids warm and heavy.
"I suppose…they…"
His answer faded and she wondered if they could open a tear and meet with them as sleep took her.