'Chaconne' and 'No Chaconne'
Title: Chaconne
Author: esteven
Characters: Jack, Queenie, Aunt and Uncle Fisher, London Bach
Rating: (gen)
Spoilers: The Ionian Mission - Did you ever meet London Bach?
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Patrick O’Brian and Real Life in the late 18th century
Length: about 3100
Summary: Jack and Queenie visit Aunt and Uncle Fisher
Author's Note: thanks to feroxargentea for beta and suggestions.
Sequel: No Chaconne
The opening movements were full of technical difficulties and he doubted he would ever be able to do them anything like justice, but it was the great chaconne which followed that really disturbed him. On the face of it the statements made in the beginning were clear enough: their closely-argued variations, though complex, could certainly be followed with full acceptation, and they were not particularly hard to play; yet at one point, after a curiously insistent repetition of the second theme, the rhythm changed and with it the whole logic of the discourse. There was something dangerous about what followed, something not unlike the edge of madness or at least of a nightmare; and although Jack recognized that the whole sonata and particularly the chaconne was a most impressive composition he felt that if he were to go on playing it with all his heart it might lead him to very strange regions indeed.
Jack stopped playing. He turned, nearly addressing the empty space behind him with ‘You know, London Bach’s music was much more agreeable, Stephen’, but choked it back, remembering in time that the doctor had left in Babbington’s vile tub days ago.
His determination to master Old Bach’s chaconne had evaporated, so he put the fiddle back in its case and turned for a look at the stars through the great cabin’s stern windows. Maybe he would have the chance to see Jupiter, his favourite planet ever since Queenie had despaired of trying to teach him astronomy? How often she had sighed at his inability to grasp the concept she had just explained. He sipped at his port.
'Did you ever meet Bach?'
'Which Bach?'
'London Bach.'
'Not I.'
'I did. He wrote some pieces for my uncle Fisher.'
Jack sipped again and sat down on the stern lockers. He remembered that time well. His mother had died a few years previously, and though the servants had spoilt him, most of the time he had been left to grow up wild, without any education. Only their neighbour’s daughter had done what she could to ensure that he would have at least some education and a rough idea of deportment and conversation. He smiled again. Oh dear, how often had he been over at Damplow!
There had been times, too, when General Aubrey had despatched him to relatives, most often to one of his dear mother’s brothers. Accompanied by Queenie, he had been deposited on his Uncle Fisher’s doorstep shortly after his seventh birthday…
There was a cough. ‘Which is there anything else you would like…sir?’
Jack had not heard his steward coming in. He covered his slight disorientation with a shake of his head. ‘No, Killick, thank you. You may leave.’
The door closed behind the captain’s steward and Aubrey was on his own again. He had space and to spare; and he did not appreciate it as he should have done. One of the troubles was that it was uninhabited space, since by another of the Navy's rules of extremes he now ate and lived quite alone. He relaxed against the window, watching the fine wake Worcester threw out. Then his gaze returned to faraway times and places.
+++++
They had travelled for several hours when they arrived late in the evening at a fine manor house. Some of its windows were still lit, and its inhabitants must have been waiting for the coach because no sooner had it stopped than the main door opened, spilling more light onto the steps and the gravel.
Queenie put a hand on Jack’s knee. The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘We’ve arrived,’ she whispered.
The carriage’s door was opened and she got out first with the help of a servant. She straightened her dress under the cloak and curtseyed to a tall man in a dark coat that might have been in fashion a decade earlier.
He inclined his head. ‘I am Charles Fisher, and you would be Miss Thrale? I hope the journey went well?’
‘Thank you, sir, for your welcome. Indeed, the travel went uncommon smooth.’
‘I am glad to hear so. Pleased to meet you. My wife and I take it kindly that you have accompanied Master John.’
She inclined her head and then turned to help the still half-sleeping boy out of the coach. She straightened his coat, but could do nothing about the unruly strands of hair that had escaped his bow. She bent down to him. ‘Come now, Jack, where are your manners?’
‘Sir,’ he made a leg towards the gentleman, ‘I trust that I see you well.’ He bit his lip. He had met his uncle at his mother’s funeral, but he had been little then and had only vague recollections.
‘John.’ Mr Fisher inclined his head. ‘You have grown since I last saw you.’ Both boy and man regarded one another gravely, unsure what to say to each other.
Silence threatened, but thankfully, there came a rustle of clothes and a lady rushed down the steps. ‘Do all come in. It is much too cold for the children to stand out here. Really, Fisher, I must say.’
Queenie dropped the elegantly dressed lady a curtsey, and before she or Jack could say anything, they were ushered indoors. Where Mr Fisher was tall, the lady was short; where he was broad-shouldered, she was slender.
‘Miss Thrale, John.’ Mrs Fisher smiled. ‘You two must be famished. Nothing like a bowl of hot soup and fresh bread to set you up again after so long a journey!’ She turned to Queenie. ‘I daresay, Miss Thrale, you would like to refresh yourself? Your valise must be in your room already.’ She addressed one of the girls standing nearby. ‘Betsy, show Miss Thrale to her room. Later you can show her maid where she will be sleeping.’
Queenie bobbed and followed the girl upstairs, first giving Jack a little prod that he rightly interpreted as an admonition to mind his manners towards his aunt, but before he could make his leg, she bent down and clasped him to her bosom.
‘So glad you made it safely. What a little angel you are with your blond curls.’ Jack suffered the embrace in silence. Mrs Fisher held him at arm’s length. ‘You may not remember me, because you were still a baby then, but I am your aunt Amelia, and I am sure we will have plenty of fun in the next weeks.’ She patted him on his shoulder, already turning to her husband. ‘Do you not agree, Fisher? He has your dear sister’s blue eyes and blond hair.’
Mr Fisher nodded silently. Jack looked up into his smiling grey eyes and followed his example.
‘John, Williams here will show you to your room. It is next to Miss Thrale’s. I am sure you will also want to wash before you have something warm to eat. It is already getting late for you today. Oh, what exciting times we will have over the weekend.’
Jack was still nervous, so he only bowed, murmured ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ and followed Williams.
The door closed behind him. How inviting that bed looked, but his belly grumbled; they had only had a few sandwiches and apples on the journey.
There was a short knock, and Queenie came in.
‘Come, Jack, wash your hands and face,’ she said, helping him with his hair. Having tied the bow, she ushered him out. On the landing she restrained him, telling him once more that he should not forget his manners, and reminding him that it was just not done, to bound down the stairs. That was hard for the boy, because he was now fairly sharp set and the thought of soup and bread was just the thing. Even his tiredness had receded in the face of his appetite.
The table was set for them when they arrived. Jack only managed a ‘Yes, sir - no, madam,’ between spoonfuls of thick vegetable soup while aunt and uncle talked about the children’s journey. The broth warmed Jack through and through, and it being so late, this spreading warmth also made him tired again, and his eyelids soon drooped.
His aunt took the now-heavy spoon from his hand. ‘Fisher, the boy is tired, can you not see?’ That was the last Jack heard.
At the breakfast table the next morning he was mortified to hear from Queenie how he had fallen asleep at the table and his uncle had carried him to his room, where she and his aunt had put him into his nightgown and under the covers.
There was plenty to distract him from his mortification however; the house was a beehive of activity, and the children learnt from Mrs Fisher that there would be concerts over the weekend; concerts on a piano forte. Jack wondered what sort of an instrument that would be, and Queenie said she had heard that it looked much like a harpsichord, though it sounded different. Her mother had mentioned a friend’s father who had recently written a couple of pieces for that instrument. More she did not know.
‘Mr Fisher bought this piano forte - strange name for an instrument - and had it brought up from Princes Street directly. It has just arrived. You must know…,’ Aunt Fisher addressed Jack directly, ‘that your uncle is very fond of the harpsichord and likes to play it himself. He has also composed some very charming pieces, I must declare! Only a few years ago he heard the piano forte at a concert at the assembly room in Hanover Square. Since then, he and Mr Bach…a most respected musician and a very nice gentleman,’ she nodded to the children, ‘though, sadly, a foreigner from a place I cannot even begin to pronounce, have been corresponding. Indeed, John, your uncle was so taken with this piano forte that he ordered one some time ago with the help of Mr Bach. We are already excited about hearing a few pieces in the Galant style which your uncle has commissioned for the instrument.’
Mrs Fisher spoke at length about Mr Bach’s wonderful adagios, or so she had heard Mr Fisher describe some of his music, about the new instrument, the friends and neighbours invited for the following evening’s concert, and how she herself unfortunately could only play a few simple tunes. She certainly shared Mr Fisher’s love of music in general, though she really preferred chorals and worshipful hymns to tunes more in the modern style.
Her cheerful flow of words only required Queenie and Jack to nod or make appropriate noises while they continued with their breakfast. When Aunt Fisher paused for breath, Jack asked whether they might see this piano forte. A capital instrument, he was certain. Queenie’s, - that was, Miss Thrale’s - music teacher had lately taught him a few notes on the harpsichord.
‘Oh, your uncle will be so pleased to hear that. Yes, children, you may certainly have a look later on, but please do not touch it without permission. One never knows with these new-fangled inventions. They may be delicate to the touch. I must be away to confer with cook about the menu for tomorrow’s guests.’ She looked kindly across the table. ‘Miss Thrale, would you like to be shown the library?’
Queenie smiled and nodded. How she loved books! But should she rather stay with the boy?
‘Oh tosh, this is such lovely weather, I am sure Mr Fisher will enjoy taking dear John on a ride to see the neighbours. You can ride, can’t you?’ she asked Jack, who could only nod. ‘Wonderful.’ She clapped her hands. ‘I will leave word for Mr Fisher, and ask Williams to show Miss Thrale to the library….now, John, why not change into something more suitable for riding? I must be off.’
She was out of the room in an instant, calling for Williams and for Mr Fisher’s man. Queenie and Jack were still looking at each other, stunned by this whirlwind of a lady, when Williams and someone who was presumably Mr Fisher’s personal attendant came in. The children parted on the most affectionate terms, Queenie to the library and Jack upstairs, where he was helped to dress for riding.
It was a novel experience for the boy that any adult who was not a teacher - and not Queenie (though she was not really adult, he thought) - would wish to spend time with him. Since his mother’s death, he had been mainly left to the servants, and sometimes he would not see his father for several days.
Morning and noon passed most agreeably, with Mr Fisher proving the kindest of uncles. He even promised to take his nephew duck-shooting during his visit, even though the boy might still be too young to hold a gun.
Jack heard tales of his mother and her brothers, and how they had grown up together as children. Mr Fisher talked at length, too, of music, and the boy - having lost all his shyness - eagerly admitted that he loved singing but was not very good with the harpsichord. Neither was he good with the German flute or the recorder. He would dearly love to learn how to play an instrument, though! He sighed.
‘What would you say to a violin?’ Uncle Fisher enquired, while their horses were trotting along at a slow pace. ‘Certainly one can be found for you. Like a recorder or a flute, it is an instrument that you can take with you on travels, or in your future career, whatever that may be. Maybe Mr Bach will have some advice for us?’
Jack beamed at his uncle and nodded.
‘Well, that’s agreed then! You see that copse of trees over there at the end of the field? Why do we not have our sandwiches there? The water from the brook will be cool and fresh. Whoever is there first…’, and off they set.
The next day, Mr Bach, that most respected musician, as Mrs Fisher continued to call him, had been welcomed after breakfast, he and Mr Fisher disappearing almost at once into the drawing room where the piano forte had already been set up and tuned. The day itself passed in a pleasant haze of excitement. In the evening, Jack and Queenie changed into attire more appropriate for the concert, and the guests started to arrive, the children being introduced to many of them as ‘My nephew John Aubrey - Miss Hester Thrale of Damplow.’
Mr Bach, who was dressed in a simply embroidered blue waistcoat and brown coat and breeches, stood by the piano forte engaged in conversation with Mrs Fisher. Then they bowed to each other and she went to her favourite chair. When everybody had found seats, Mr Fisher welcomed his guests, and bowed to Mr Bach, thanking the musician and composer for the pleasure they would soon derive from hearing him play.
As soon as Mr Bach touched the keys, Jack was lost to the world, concentrating wholly on the music, which seemed to him the best he had ever heard.
Time seemed to fly and sadly, the concert came to an end, much lauded and applauded by the audience. Many of them gathered to shake the musician’s hand. In a soft firm voice, Mr Bach thanked the Fishers for their hospitability and kindness, and his audience for their generous praise. Then he made a point of looking for the small boy whose absorption in the music he had noticed - the only boy in the audience - who had sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes never leaving the keyboard. Mr Bach sat down next to him and smiled. He asked him kindly about the concert and about music in general.
Jack found it a bit difficult at first to understand the musician because of his strange accent, but after a few minutes he got used to it and replied in a lively manner, telling Mr Bach that he loved to sing, but that, alas, his efforts at the harpsichord had been dismal.
‘Never give up, young man, never give up. Music is such a heaven-sent gift, and maybe one day you will find an instrument to your liking. Maybe you will even start composing your own tunes. Would that not be charming?’
Jack listened, his eyes shining bright blue, and he confessed that his uncle Fisher had only yesterday suggested the violin. Mr Bach nodded and then spoke with praise of a young boy from Austria, not much older than Jack was now. They had been introduced many years ago, and had made music together. What music, with that boy sometimes sitting between his knees, and they would play entire sonatas between them! What joy it had been when they met again earlier this year! ‘Will I talk to your uncle about a violin, so?’ Bach smiled once more, the boy bowed, and the musician got up.
* * *
Jack had been called into the study as soon as he had returned to Woolcombe. He had stood in front of General Aubrey, hands behind his back, and had looked straight at his father, who had scrutinized him for a moment.
‘You behaved at your uncle’s, I hope?’ There was no ‘I’m glad to see you again’, no ‘Did you have a pleasant time?’, and neither did the boy expect it.
‘I did, sir. You may ask Queenie.’
The man waved that suggestion aside. ‘Well, let me tell you, I feel you are now old enough to take your place in the world of men. I had first thought of finding you a commission in the Army, but Captain Willis - you remember, he’s the son of one of your grandfather’s friends - has promised to take you on as youngster next year when he is to sail for the West Indies.'
+++++
‘Ding-ding.’
The ship’s bell brought Jack out of his reverie. Oh yes, his first voyage…and to places so far away from home. He did not see his home for a couple of years…until he returned to England aboard Alert
Jack yawned, covering his mouth by habit, and then got up and stretched as much as he could. Reminiscing had made him tired. He would tell Stephen all about meeting London Bach, would play Old Bach’s chaconne for him - how amazed Stephen would be, would describe his months under Captain Willis.
‘How agreeable it will be to have Stephen safely aboard again!’
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*excerpts from The Ionian Mission in italics*
I found excerpts from JCB’s Sonata Opus 5 No 1:
Allegretto
Menuet
The commissioned pieces for Jack’s uncle Fisher may have sounded something like that, because they were described as easy for a beginner. Certainly Mr Fisher had wanted to play the pieces himself.
Title: No Chaconne
Author: esteven
Characters: Jack’s Aunt and Uncle Fisher,
Rating: (gen)
Spoilers: none here
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Patrick O’Brian and Real Life in the late 18th century
Length: about 1500
Summary: Aunt and Uncle Fisher talk about their nephew
Author's Note: thanks to feroxargentea for beta and suggestions.
Prequel: Chaconne
A fire burned in the fireplace of the breakfast room.
The lady at the table broke her toast into small pieces, dabbed some butter on them and ate them. She looked at the snow-covered park outside, then at her plate. She took another morsel of toast, spread jam on it, and put it in her mouth.
Her husband watched her over the rim of his coffee cup. There must surely be something serious on her mind. He was used to his whirlwind of a wife being bright and cheerful - most uncommon cheerful - even early in the morning. He was deeply attached to her; still, he was not really worried. She would tell him whenever she was ready.
‘I have been thinking of that charming concert several weeks ago. How dear John was so absorbed in the music, and Mr Bach so kind as to talk to him at such length. To a seven-year-old boy! I was amazed, Fisher, so amazed.’ She gestured for her cup to be filled again.
Mr Fisher was about to go through the mail that had just been brought in, but at this he looked up and nodded. ‘Indeed, Mr Bach was very taken with John’s eagerness and even spoke to him about having met that young Austrian composer, Mozart, years ago. He told me so himself the next day before he had to leave for London, him being so busy in the city, what with the concerts at the assembly hall.’
‘You advised with him about a violin for the boy, did you not?’
‘So I did, and he was so kind as to take my order for a violin up to London to a shop he had recommended. Do you not remember how the instrument arrived just in time, before John and Miss Thrale had to leave?’ Mr Fisher spoke with animation, something his wife was not exactly used to from her usually staid and quiet husband - very staid and very quiet, especially in the mornings, being not generally given to great conversation at the breakfast table. She knew he had enjoyed the time with his nephew more than he was likely to admit. She laid a hand on his arm and smiled.
‘Oh, I vividly remember John’s face when he opened the case, how he took it out at once and astonished me by holding the fiddle and bow just right, and how enthusiastically he thanked you. He would surely have embraced you, had not some of our guests been present. His eyes were so bright, and his lips trembled just a tad; the boy was quite overcome, I feel.’
‘You think so? Yes, you must be right, come to think of it.’ Mr Fisher paused for a moment, sipped at his now-cold coffee. ‘I never thought his visit would be so agreeable. He is a bright boy, eager to please and good-natured. He cannot have a single mean bone in his body.’
He asked Williams for another pot of coffee, and then continued, ‘You know, when John stood there sometimes, cocking his head to one side with that look of concentration on his face, he reminded me much of my dear sister. That was exactly how she looked when she was puzzling over a difficult passage in a book. And when we were out, it was such a pleasure to hear him chatter about the land and the fields. I quite felt as if my own flesh and blood was riding next to me. I quite miss the boy.’
Mr Fisher heard a small intake of breath and looked up guiltily. He reached for his wife and took one of her hands between his. ‘Dearest Amelia, please forgive me. I am surely brought by the lee. I never meant it as a fling against you. Please, do not be so low.’ He raised her hand to his lips and slowly kissed each knuckle before he released it.
She gave him a sweet - if slightly tremulous - smile and reached for the last piece of cold toast on her plate, though only to toy with it. She breathed deeply as if she had come to a decision.
‘I noticed that you and John agreed very well together. He is a cheerful boy, but is much left on his own at Woolcombe. Though Miss Thrale is much attached to him and surely does all she can to give John at least some education, we must not forget that she is only fourteen. Far be it from me to criticise General Aubrey, but I do not feel he attaches a great deal of importance to his son’s knowledge. John would benefit from a more stable home, so…’ here she drew another deep breath, ‘…could you not write to the General and ask whether John might live with us for a longer period of time?’ There, it was out. ‘You know, my dear Fisher, I quite miss John too.’ She patted his arm.
‘That is truly your opinion, dearest? You are not saying it just to please me?’ Mr Fisher was animated, but then he recollected himself and looked gravely at his wife. ‘Your idea has merits, and I will give it further thought. A letter of such import cannot be dashed away in a few moments. It will not do to alienate General Aubrey, lest we never see the boy again, just when we have struck up such a good relationship.’
She nodded, satisfied that she had got her proposal across, and now attacked a fresh piece of toast. Fortunately she was not a woman who had to look after her figure, and could butter her toast with impunity.
Her husband turned his attention to the mail, the top piece of which was a large envelope, tied with string. ‘It is from Burney, and I wonder what he could be sending that is so large? Only a couple of weeks ago I sent him a letter in which I told him all about John and Miss Thrale’s visit, our new piano forte straight from Mr Zumpe’s shop, Mr Bach’s wonderful concert and those charming pieces he had written for us. You recall that I had commissioned them in the galant style.’
‘You have not mentioned it above a dozen times, my dear Fisher.’
Mr Fisher shared his wife’s amusement, reached for a knife and opened the little parcel. There were two folders with sheet music and a note. ‘Ah, Charles is delighted to hear we are so taken with the new instrument. He mentions that it is quite the fashion in London and has enclosed two pieces he himself had composed for piano forte. Well I ever! Two Sonatas for pianoforte, violin and violoncello. John and I could make an attempt at these sonatas. And would you believe it, Charles knows Miss Thrale and her parents. Writes that Johnson called her Queenie. John also called her that, did he not?’
Mrs Fisher inclined her head. Again, she noticed how animated - nay, positively cheerful - her husband was, and it pleased her to see him so.
Mr Fisher continued through the mail. ‘We have only just talked of him, and here is a letter!’
‘Yes, dear?’ Mrs Fisher inquired.
‘Sorry, my heart. I mean, here is a letter from John.'
‘Oh, how lovely of him to think of us. Pray, open it at once and tell me how he is doing.’
Mr Fisher slid a finger under the seal and started to read. He looked graver and sadder the more he continued, and Mrs Fisher patted his arm impatiently. ‘Is anything wrong with the boy? Fisher!’
Her husband looked up. 'Dearest Amelia, I feel we will not be seeing a lot of him over the next few years, if ever again. He wrote this note in Portsmouth.' He held up a hand. 'Do not interrupt, I beg. As I said, this note is from Portsmouth, written the day before he went aboard a ship under a Captain Willis - a friend of General Aubrey - who has taken my nephew on as youngster in his new ship bound for the West Indies. It was supposed to happen next year, but they were ready earlier than expected. John asks to be remembered to you and sends his most affectionate greetings.'
A knife clattered on a plate, a chair was pushed back, and Mr Fisher watched his wife rush from the room, unable to withhold a little sob that pulled at his heart. He scrutinized the paper again, saw where the ink was smudged, where some words were blurred, and put the note carefully down on the table. He shook his head and felt a curious constriction in his throat. His appetite had suddenly left him, and he could finish only his cup.
He left for the library, where everyday business awaited him.
Author: esteven
Characters: Jack, Queenie, Aunt and Uncle Fisher, London Bach
Rating: (gen)
Spoilers: The Ionian Mission - Did you ever meet London Bach?
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Patrick O’Brian and Real Life in the late 18th century
Length: about 3100
Summary: Jack and Queenie visit Aunt and Uncle Fisher
Author's Note: thanks to feroxargentea for beta and suggestions.
Sequel: No Chaconne
The opening movements were full of technical difficulties and he doubted he would ever be able to do them anything like justice, but it was the great chaconne which followed that really disturbed him. On the face of it the statements made in the beginning were clear enough: their closely-argued variations, though complex, could certainly be followed with full acceptation, and they were not particularly hard to play; yet at one point, after a curiously insistent repetition of the second theme, the rhythm changed and with it the whole logic of the discourse. There was something dangerous about what followed, something not unlike the edge of madness or at least of a nightmare; and although Jack recognized that the whole sonata and particularly the chaconne was a most impressive composition he felt that if he were to go on playing it with all his heart it might lead him to very strange regions indeed.
Jack stopped playing. He turned, nearly addressing the empty space behind him with ‘You know, London Bach’s music was much more agreeable, Stephen’, but choked it back, remembering in time that the doctor had left in Babbington’s vile tub days ago.
His determination to master Old Bach’s chaconne had evaporated, so he put the fiddle back in its case and turned for a look at the stars through the great cabin’s stern windows. Maybe he would have the chance to see Jupiter, his favourite planet ever since Queenie had despaired of trying to teach him astronomy? How often she had sighed at his inability to grasp the concept she had just explained. He sipped at his port.
'Did you ever meet Bach?'
'Which Bach?'
'London Bach.'
'Not I.'
'I did. He wrote some pieces for my uncle Fisher.'
Jack sipped again and sat down on the stern lockers. He remembered that time well. His mother had died a few years previously, and though the servants had spoilt him, most of the time he had been left to grow up wild, without any education. Only their neighbour’s daughter had done what she could to ensure that he would have at least some education and a rough idea of deportment and conversation. He smiled again. Oh dear, how often had he been over at Damplow!
There had been times, too, when General Aubrey had despatched him to relatives, most often to one of his dear mother’s brothers. Accompanied by Queenie, he had been deposited on his Uncle Fisher’s doorstep shortly after his seventh birthday…
There was a cough. ‘Which is there anything else you would like…sir?’
Jack had not heard his steward coming in. He covered his slight disorientation with a shake of his head. ‘No, Killick, thank you. You may leave.’
The door closed behind the captain’s steward and Aubrey was on his own again. He had space and to spare; and he did not appreciate it as he should have done. One of the troubles was that it was uninhabited space, since by another of the Navy's rules of extremes he now ate and lived quite alone. He relaxed against the window, watching the fine wake Worcester threw out. Then his gaze returned to faraway times and places.
+++++
They had travelled for several hours when they arrived late in the evening at a fine manor house. Some of its windows were still lit, and its inhabitants must have been waiting for the coach because no sooner had it stopped than the main door opened, spilling more light onto the steps and the gravel.
Queenie put a hand on Jack’s knee. The boy yawned and rubbed his eyes. ‘We’ve arrived,’ she whispered.
The carriage’s door was opened and she got out first with the help of a servant. She straightened her dress under the cloak and curtseyed to a tall man in a dark coat that might have been in fashion a decade earlier.
He inclined his head. ‘I am Charles Fisher, and you would be Miss Thrale? I hope the journey went well?’
‘Thank you, sir, for your welcome. Indeed, the travel went uncommon smooth.’
‘I am glad to hear so. Pleased to meet you. My wife and I take it kindly that you have accompanied Master John.’
She inclined her head and then turned to help the still half-sleeping boy out of the coach. She straightened his coat, but could do nothing about the unruly strands of hair that had escaped his bow. She bent down to him. ‘Come now, Jack, where are your manners?’
‘Sir,’ he made a leg towards the gentleman, ‘I trust that I see you well.’ He bit his lip. He had met his uncle at his mother’s funeral, but he had been little then and had only vague recollections.
‘John.’ Mr Fisher inclined his head. ‘You have grown since I last saw you.’ Both boy and man regarded one another gravely, unsure what to say to each other.
Silence threatened, but thankfully, there came a rustle of clothes and a lady rushed down the steps. ‘Do all come in. It is much too cold for the children to stand out here. Really, Fisher, I must say.’
Queenie dropped the elegantly dressed lady a curtsey, and before she or Jack could say anything, they were ushered indoors. Where Mr Fisher was tall, the lady was short; where he was broad-shouldered, she was slender.
‘Miss Thrale, John.’ Mrs Fisher smiled. ‘You two must be famished. Nothing like a bowl of hot soup and fresh bread to set you up again after so long a journey!’ She turned to Queenie. ‘I daresay, Miss Thrale, you would like to refresh yourself? Your valise must be in your room already.’ She addressed one of the girls standing nearby. ‘Betsy, show Miss Thrale to her room. Later you can show her maid where she will be sleeping.’
Queenie bobbed and followed the girl upstairs, first giving Jack a little prod that he rightly interpreted as an admonition to mind his manners towards his aunt, but before he could make his leg, she bent down and clasped him to her bosom.
‘So glad you made it safely. What a little angel you are with your blond curls.’ Jack suffered the embrace in silence. Mrs Fisher held him at arm’s length. ‘You may not remember me, because you were still a baby then, but I am your aunt Amelia, and I am sure we will have plenty of fun in the next weeks.’ She patted him on his shoulder, already turning to her husband. ‘Do you not agree, Fisher? He has your dear sister’s blue eyes and blond hair.’
Mr Fisher nodded silently. Jack looked up into his smiling grey eyes and followed his example.
‘John, Williams here will show you to your room. It is next to Miss Thrale’s. I am sure you will also want to wash before you have something warm to eat. It is already getting late for you today. Oh, what exciting times we will have over the weekend.’
Jack was still nervous, so he only bowed, murmured ‘Thank you for your kindness,’ and followed Williams.
The door closed behind him. How inviting that bed looked, but his belly grumbled; they had only had a few sandwiches and apples on the journey.
There was a short knock, and Queenie came in.
‘Come, Jack, wash your hands and face,’ she said, helping him with his hair. Having tied the bow, she ushered him out. On the landing she restrained him, telling him once more that he should not forget his manners, and reminding him that it was just not done, to bound down the stairs. That was hard for the boy, because he was now fairly sharp set and the thought of soup and bread was just the thing. Even his tiredness had receded in the face of his appetite.
The table was set for them when they arrived. Jack only managed a ‘Yes, sir - no, madam,’ between spoonfuls of thick vegetable soup while aunt and uncle talked about the children’s journey. The broth warmed Jack through and through, and it being so late, this spreading warmth also made him tired again, and his eyelids soon drooped.
His aunt took the now-heavy spoon from his hand. ‘Fisher, the boy is tired, can you not see?’ That was the last Jack heard.
At the breakfast table the next morning he was mortified to hear from Queenie how he had fallen asleep at the table and his uncle had carried him to his room, where she and his aunt had put him into his nightgown and under the covers.
There was plenty to distract him from his mortification however; the house was a beehive of activity, and the children learnt from Mrs Fisher that there would be concerts over the weekend; concerts on a piano forte. Jack wondered what sort of an instrument that would be, and Queenie said she had heard that it looked much like a harpsichord, though it sounded different. Her mother had mentioned a friend’s father who had recently written a couple of pieces for that instrument. More she did not know.
‘Mr Fisher bought this piano forte - strange name for an instrument - and had it brought up from Princes Street directly. It has just arrived. You must know…,’ Aunt Fisher addressed Jack directly, ‘that your uncle is very fond of the harpsichord and likes to play it himself. He has also composed some very charming pieces, I must declare! Only a few years ago he heard the piano forte at a concert at the assembly room in Hanover Square. Since then, he and Mr Bach…a most respected musician and a very nice gentleman,’ she nodded to the children, ‘though, sadly, a foreigner from a place I cannot even begin to pronounce, have been corresponding. Indeed, John, your uncle was so taken with this piano forte that he ordered one some time ago with the help of Mr Bach. We are already excited about hearing a few pieces in the Galant style which your uncle has commissioned for the instrument.’
Mrs Fisher spoke at length about Mr Bach’s wonderful adagios, or so she had heard Mr Fisher describe some of his music, about the new instrument, the friends and neighbours invited for the following evening’s concert, and how she herself unfortunately could only play a few simple tunes. She certainly shared Mr Fisher’s love of music in general, though she really preferred chorals and worshipful hymns to tunes more in the modern style.
Her cheerful flow of words only required Queenie and Jack to nod or make appropriate noises while they continued with their breakfast. When Aunt Fisher paused for breath, Jack asked whether they might see this piano forte. A capital instrument, he was certain. Queenie’s, - that was, Miss Thrale’s - music teacher had lately taught him a few notes on the harpsichord.
‘Oh, your uncle will be so pleased to hear that. Yes, children, you may certainly have a look later on, but please do not touch it without permission. One never knows with these new-fangled inventions. They may be delicate to the touch. I must be away to confer with cook about the menu for tomorrow’s guests.’ She looked kindly across the table. ‘Miss Thrale, would you like to be shown the library?’
Queenie smiled and nodded. How she loved books! But should she rather stay with the boy?
‘Oh tosh, this is such lovely weather, I am sure Mr Fisher will enjoy taking dear John on a ride to see the neighbours. You can ride, can’t you?’ she asked Jack, who could only nod. ‘Wonderful.’ She clapped her hands. ‘I will leave word for Mr Fisher, and ask Williams to show Miss Thrale to the library….now, John, why not change into something more suitable for riding? I must be off.’
She was out of the room in an instant, calling for Williams and for Mr Fisher’s man. Queenie and Jack were still looking at each other, stunned by this whirlwind of a lady, when Williams and someone who was presumably Mr Fisher’s personal attendant came in. The children parted on the most affectionate terms, Queenie to the library and Jack upstairs, where he was helped to dress for riding.
It was a novel experience for the boy that any adult who was not a teacher - and not Queenie (though she was not really adult, he thought) - would wish to spend time with him. Since his mother’s death, he had been mainly left to the servants, and sometimes he would not see his father for several days.
Morning and noon passed most agreeably, with Mr Fisher proving the kindest of uncles. He even promised to take his nephew duck-shooting during his visit, even though the boy might still be too young to hold a gun.
Jack heard tales of his mother and her brothers, and how they had grown up together as children. Mr Fisher talked at length, too, of music, and the boy - having lost all his shyness - eagerly admitted that he loved singing but was not very good with the harpsichord. Neither was he good with the German flute or the recorder. He would dearly love to learn how to play an instrument, though! He sighed.
‘What would you say to a violin?’ Uncle Fisher enquired, while their horses were trotting along at a slow pace. ‘Certainly one can be found for you. Like a recorder or a flute, it is an instrument that you can take with you on travels, or in your future career, whatever that may be. Maybe Mr Bach will have some advice for us?’
Jack beamed at his uncle and nodded.
‘Well, that’s agreed then! You see that copse of trees over there at the end of the field? Why do we not have our sandwiches there? The water from the brook will be cool and fresh. Whoever is there first…’, and off they set.
The next day, Mr Bach, that most respected musician, as Mrs Fisher continued to call him, had been welcomed after breakfast, he and Mr Fisher disappearing almost at once into the drawing room where the piano forte had already been set up and tuned. The day itself passed in a pleasant haze of excitement. In the evening, Jack and Queenie changed into attire more appropriate for the concert, and the guests started to arrive, the children being introduced to many of them as ‘My nephew John Aubrey - Miss Hester Thrale of Damplow.’
Mr Bach, who was dressed in a simply embroidered blue waistcoat and brown coat and breeches, stood by the piano forte engaged in conversation with Mrs Fisher. Then they bowed to each other and she went to her favourite chair. When everybody had found seats, Mr Fisher welcomed his guests, and bowed to Mr Bach, thanking the musician and composer for the pleasure they would soon derive from hearing him play.
As soon as Mr Bach touched the keys, Jack was lost to the world, concentrating wholly on the music, which seemed to him the best he had ever heard.
Time seemed to fly and sadly, the concert came to an end, much lauded and applauded by the audience. Many of them gathered to shake the musician’s hand. In a soft firm voice, Mr Bach thanked the Fishers for their hospitability and kindness, and his audience for their generous praise. Then he made a point of looking for the small boy whose absorption in the music he had noticed - the only boy in the audience - who had sat on the edge of his seat, his eyes never leaving the keyboard. Mr Bach sat down next to him and smiled. He asked him kindly about the concert and about music in general.
Jack found it a bit difficult at first to understand the musician because of his strange accent, but after a few minutes he got used to it and replied in a lively manner, telling Mr Bach that he loved to sing, but that, alas, his efforts at the harpsichord had been dismal.
‘Never give up, young man, never give up. Music is such a heaven-sent gift, and maybe one day you will find an instrument to your liking. Maybe you will even start composing your own tunes. Would that not be charming?’
Jack listened, his eyes shining bright blue, and he confessed that his uncle Fisher had only yesterday suggested the violin. Mr Bach nodded and then spoke with praise of a young boy from Austria, not much older than Jack was now. They had been introduced many years ago, and had made music together. What music, with that boy sometimes sitting between his knees, and they would play entire sonatas between them! What joy it had been when they met again earlier this year! ‘Will I talk to your uncle about a violin, so?’ Bach smiled once more, the boy bowed, and the musician got up.
* * *
Jack had been called into the study as soon as he had returned to Woolcombe. He had stood in front of General Aubrey, hands behind his back, and had looked straight at his father, who had scrutinized him for a moment.
‘You behaved at your uncle’s, I hope?’ There was no ‘I’m glad to see you again’, no ‘Did you have a pleasant time?’, and neither did the boy expect it.
‘I did, sir. You may ask Queenie.’
The man waved that suggestion aside. ‘Well, let me tell you, I feel you are now old enough to take your place in the world of men. I had first thought of finding you a commission in the Army, but Captain Willis - you remember, he’s the son of one of your grandfather’s friends - has promised to take you on as youngster next year when he is to sail for the West Indies.'
+++++
‘Ding-ding.’
The ship’s bell brought Jack out of his reverie. Oh yes, his first voyage…and to places so far away from home. He did not see his home for a couple of years…until he returned to England aboard Alert
Jack yawned, covering his mouth by habit, and then got up and stretched as much as he could. Reminiscing had made him tired. He would tell Stephen all about meeting London Bach, would play Old Bach’s chaconne for him - how amazed Stephen would be, would describe his months under Captain Willis.
‘How agreeable it will be to have Stephen safely aboard again!’
--------
*excerpts from The Ionian Mission in italics*
I found excerpts from JCB’s Sonata Opus 5 No 1:
Allegretto
Menuet
The commissioned pieces for Jack’s uncle Fisher may have sounded something like that, because they were described as easy for a beginner. Certainly Mr Fisher had wanted to play the pieces himself.
Title: No Chaconne
Author: esteven
Characters: Jack’s Aunt and Uncle Fisher,
Rating: (gen)
Spoilers: none here
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Patrick O’Brian and Real Life in the late 18th century
Length: about 1500
Summary: Aunt and Uncle Fisher talk about their nephew
Author's Note: thanks to feroxargentea for beta and suggestions.
Prequel: Chaconne
A fire burned in the fireplace of the breakfast room.
The lady at the table broke her toast into small pieces, dabbed some butter on them and ate them. She looked at the snow-covered park outside, then at her plate. She took another morsel of toast, spread jam on it, and put it in her mouth.
Her husband watched her over the rim of his coffee cup. There must surely be something serious on her mind. He was used to his whirlwind of a wife being bright and cheerful - most uncommon cheerful - even early in the morning. He was deeply attached to her; still, he was not really worried. She would tell him whenever she was ready.
‘I have been thinking of that charming concert several weeks ago. How dear John was so absorbed in the music, and Mr Bach so kind as to talk to him at such length. To a seven-year-old boy! I was amazed, Fisher, so amazed.’ She gestured for her cup to be filled again.
Mr Fisher was about to go through the mail that had just been brought in, but at this he looked up and nodded. ‘Indeed, Mr Bach was very taken with John’s eagerness and even spoke to him about having met that young Austrian composer, Mozart, years ago. He told me so himself the next day before he had to leave for London, him being so busy in the city, what with the concerts at the assembly hall.’
‘You advised with him about a violin for the boy, did you not?’
‘So I did, and he was so kind as to take my order for a violin up to London to a shop he had recommended. Do you not remember how the instrument arrived just in time, before John and Miss Thrale had to leave?’ Mr Fisher spoke with animation, something his wife was not exactly used to from her usually staid and quiet husband - very staid and very quiet, especially in the mornings, being not generally given to great conversation at the breakfast table. She knew he had enjoyed the time with his nephew more than he was likely to admit. She laid a hand on his arm and smiled.
‘Oh, I vividly remember John’s face when he opened the case, how he took it out at once and astonished me by holding the fiddle and bow just right, and how enthusiastically he thanked you. He would surely have embraced you, had not some of our guests been present. His eyes were so bright, and his lips trembled just a tad; the boy was quite overcome, I feel.’
‘You think so? Yes, you must be right, come to think of it.’ Mr Fisher paused for a moment, sipped at his now-cold coffee. ‘I never thought his visit would be so agreeable. He is a bright boy, eager to please and good-natured. He cannot have a single mean bone in his body.’
He asked Williams for another pot of coffee, and then continued, ‘You know, when John stood there sometimes, cocking his head to one side with that look of concentration on his face, he reminded me much of my dear sister. That was exactly how she looked when she was puzzling over a difficult passage in a book. And when we were out, it was such a pleasure to hear him chatter about the land and the fields. I quite felt as if my own flesh and blood was riding next to me. I quite miss the boy.’
Mr Fisher heard a small intake of breath and looked up guiltily. He reached for his wife and took one of her hands between his. ‘Dearest Amelia, please forgive me. I am surely brought by the lee. I never meant it as a fling against you. Please, do not be so low.’ He raised her hand to his lips and slowly kissed each knuckle before he released it.
She gave him a sweet - if slightly tremulous - smile and reached for the last piece of cold toast on her plate, though only to toy with it. She breathed deeply as if she had come to a decision.
‘I noticed that you and John agreed very well together. He is a cheerful boy, but is much left on his own at Woolcombe. Though Miss Thrale is much attached to him and surely does all she can to give John at least some education, we must not forget that she is only fourteen. Far be it from me to criticise General Aubrey, but I do not feel he attaches a great deal of importance to his son’s knowledge. John would benefit from a more stable home, so…’ here she drew another deep breath, ‘…could you not write to the General and ask whether John might live with us for a longer period of time?’ There, it was out. ‘You know, my dear Fisher, I quite miss John too.’ She patted his arm.
‘That is truly your opinion, dearest? You are not saying it just to please me?’ Mr Fisher was animated, but then he recollected himself and looked gravely at his wife. ‘Your idea has merits, and I will give it further thought. A letter of such import cannot be dashed away in a few moments. It will not do to alienate General Aubrey, lest we never see the boy again, just when we have struck up such a good relationship.’
She nodded, satisfied that she had got her proposal across, and now attacked a fresh piece of toast. Fortunately she was not a woman who had to look after her figure, and could butter her toast with impunity.
Her husband turned his attention to the mail, the top piece of which was a large envelope, tied with string. ‘It is from Burney, and I wonder what he could be sending that is so large? Only a couple of weeks ago I sent him a letter in which I told him all about John and Miss Thrale’s visit, our new piano forte straight from Mr Zumpe’s shop, Mr Bach’s wonderful concert and those charming pieces he had written for us. You recall that I had commissioned them in the galant style.’
‘You have not mentioned it above a dozen times, my dear Fisher.’
Mr Fisher shared his wife’s amusement, reached for a knife and opened the little parcel. There were two folders with sheet music and a note. ‘Ah, Charles is delighted to hear we are so taken with the new instrument. He mentions that it is quite the fashion in London and has enclosed two pieces he himself had composed for piano forte. Well I ever! Two Sonatas for pianoforte, violin and violoncello. John and I could make an attempt at these sonatas. And would you believe it, Charles knows Miss Thrale and her parents. Writes that Johnson called her Queenie. John also called her that, did he not?’
Mrs Fisher inclined her head. Again, she noticed how animated - nay, positively cheerful - her husband was, and it pleased her to see him so.
Mr Fisher continued through the mail. ‘We have only just talked of him, and here is a letter!’
‘Yes, dear?’ Mrs Fisher inquired.
‘Sorry, my heart. I mean, here is a letter from John.'
‘Oh, how lovely of him to think of us. Pray, open it at once and tell me how he is doing.’
Mr Fisher slid a finger under the seal and started to read. He looked graver and sadder the more he continued, and Mrs Fisher patted his arm impatiently. ‘Is anything wrong with the boy? Fisher!’
Her husband looked up. 'Dearest Amelia, I feel we will not be seeing a lot of him over the next few years, if ever again. He wrote this note in Portsmouth.' He held up a hand. 'Do not interrupt, I beg. As I said, this note is from Portsmouth, written the day before he went aboard a ship under a Captain Willis - a friend of General Aubrey - who has taken my nephew on as youngster in his new ship bound for the West Indies. It was supposed to happen next year, but they were ready earlier than expected. John asks to be remembered to you and sends his most affectionate greetings.'
A knife clattered on a plate, a chair was pushed back, and Mr Fisher watched his wife rush from the room, unable to withhold a little sob that pulled at his heart. He scrutinized the paper again, saw where the ink was smudged, where some words were blurred, and put the note carefully down on the table. He shook his head and felt a curious constriction in his throat. His appetite had suddenly left him, and he could finish only his cup.
He left for the library, where everyday business awaited him.