“Good afternoon, Mrs. Withers.” She waved at the presence by her side. “This is Lord Albury. I believe Mr. Protheroe is expecting us.”
Frederick shot her a sidelong glance, but she made no move to meet it. After leaving him yesterday, she’d called on Protheroe to warn him of the importance of putting his and his students’ best feet forward by way of convincing Frederick to participate in her scheme.
“Indeed, my lady.” Mrs. Withers dragged her gaze from Frederick. “The master mentioned it—I’ll just check that he’s ready to receive you.”
Mrs. Withers came out from behind the counter, bustled down the corridor to Stacie’s right, tapped on the first door, then stuck her head inside. Stacie and Frederick were too far away to make out any of the whispered exchange, but Stacie could imagine Protheroe hurriedly tidying away the countless pages of music and correspondence that habitually covered his desk.
After several moments, Mrs. Withers drew back and beamed at Stacie and Frederick. “My lady, my lord. The master will see you now.”
Stacie smiled and glided forward. On reaching the door, she walked into the room and halted before the desk behind which Protheroe—to her eyes, plainly nervous—stood waiting to greet them; she caught his eye and smiled encouragingly. The master was a slightly built man of about thirty-five years—a younger son of the gentry—with a steady gaze, a sure way with his juniors, and a profound understanding of all branches of music. His position as master wasn’t a sinecure but had been granted on the basis of his achievements; he was considered by many to be a gifted teacher and a sound and well-liked administrator.
Frederick followed her into the room and halted beside her. A click sounded as Mrs. Withers closed the door.
“Lady Eustacia.” Protheroe bowed to her, then to Frederick. “Lord Albury.” Straightening, Protheroe fixed his gaze on Frederick’s face. “Might I say, my lord, how very honored the school and, indeed, I myself are to have you visit?”
From the corner of her eye, Stacie saw Frederick blink—and held her breath. His mother and sisters had warned her that he could be diabolically cutting to those he saw as attempting to toady up to him. Would she have to step in and shield Protheroe?
But after a second’s hiatus, Frederick only inclined his head in acknowledgment of the veiled tribute. “Lady Eustacia has piqued my interest with her description of the musicians here, Mr. Protheroe, and through my visit, I hope to see enough of their abilities to judge her devotion justified.”
To Stacie’s relief, Protheroe rose to the occasion. “My lord, I have no hesitation in recommending any of our seniors to your notice. All are of a standard that—given the chance—they could shine. Perhaps I might take you through our regimen of instruction in the senior year so you have an understanding of the various disciplines our students study, and then I can answer any questions you might have.” Protheroe waved to the two chairs angled before the desk. “Please, sit.”
Frederick held her chair for her, then elegantly sat in its mate.
Protheroe subsided into his chair, clasped his hands on the blotter, and launched into a patently rehearsed yet informative description of the teaching practices employed within the school. Frederick heard him out, then posed several questions, to which Protheroe had ready answers; the exchange was too technical for Stacie to follow, but from watching Frederick’s face, she judged that Protheroe hadn’t merely satisfied Frederick but had managed the difficult task of impressing him.
Her heart started to rise in hope.
Eventually, Frederick said, “Your curriculum is plainly sound and, as you say, closely mirrors that taught at the Royal Academy. Ultimately, however, the proof lies in the results.”
“Quite so, my lord. I would be happy to take you on a short tour to meet some of our advanced students—those who have, essentially, completed their studies and are polishing their skills in the hope of finding a position with one of the country’s orchestras or, failing that, in some other ensemble.”
Frederick indicated his agreement with that plan and rose. As Stacie got to her feet, he met her eyes. “Are you coming?”
“I’ve already met all the senior students. I’ll trail behind.”
He tipped his head in acceptance and joined Protheroe, who waved Frederick to precede him out of the door.
Frederick waited in the corridor for Protheroe to join him. He’d noticed the framed certificate on the wall that declared Protheroe a graduate of the Royal Academy. On top of that, he’d been impressed by the breadth of the man’s musical understanding; it remained to be seen if Protheroe’s pupils measured up to the same standard.
The master led him to a small room in which three pupils were practicing a violin concerto. All three lifted their bows at Protheroe and Frederick’s entrance, then lowered their instruments and bowed. To Frederick’s approval, Protheroe introduced him merely as a potential benefactor and indicated that the boys should proceed. Along with Protheroe, Frederick stood by the wall just inside the door and listened.
After a moment, Stacie slipped into the room and joined them, but by then, Frederick had been captured by the music.
He was a longtime member of the Royal Philharmonic Society and had studied, albeit privately, with tutors from the Royal Academy of Music. His connections in the musical sphere ensured he always knew of any major musician who appeared in London or, indeed, anywhere in England. He came up to town whenever any major artist was performing and, through the years, had attended innumerable concerts and recitals.
He’d heard many concert-grade violinists; indeed, during his version of a Grand Tour, one dictated by musical performances, he’d even heard the great Niccolò Paganini play. While none of the three violinists before him were likely to attain Paganini’s virtuosity, to Frederick’s highly educated ears, all three were def
initely up to concert-level performance. As all looked to be in their early twenties and equally transparently were not the sons of gentlemen, that was no mean feat.
Although Frederick had attended several excellent concerts in St Martin-in-the-Fields, he’d never thought to wonder where the performers hailed from; even if he had, he would have assumed they were graduates of the Royal Academy. Similarly, whenever he attended the opera or the theater, the orchestra in the pit was simply there—a fixture.
But such orchestras were composed of individual musicians, all striving to make a living through their art. And realistically, given the relatively low number of Academy graduates per year, less well-heeled schools such as this one had to be the source of many of the professional musicians who entertained the populace throughout the country.
The three violinists performing before him were, in his judgment, worthy of greater recognition than a position in some pit in a provincial theater.
The three reached the end of a movement, and Protheroe spoke up. “Thank you, boys. That was excellent. We’ll leave you now.”
The boys lowered their instruments and bowed again. Frederick inclined his head, then followed Stacie and Protheroe from the room.