Then it swept off into another mode.
Love flowed out into the Albert Hall.
Love floated through the roof and hovered over London.
Then love turned and went ever higher, spinning, sweeping, soaring, into a realm beyond the planets, beyond the Milky Way.
Shards of God’s love floated back from the spheres and drifted down to earth like stardust.
The conductor was leaning forward now, his baton caressing the strings as if he was brushing at something ever so delicate, like a butterfly’s wings. Down in the arena there was a terrible stillness as if the audience were preparing themselves for a journey to Beethoven’s universe of love. Behind them in the box the six empty chairs waited. Angels are coming, thought Powerscourt, angels are coming down to listen to the music. They will sit here patiently, wings furled. Then they will float up and rise above the streets of Kensington to join the anthem of love in the constellations above.
Love suffers long and is kind: love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. One of the angels is reading a lesson, thought Powerscourt, a lesson for Lady Lucy and me, here in our box at the Albert Hall. Love never faileth; but where there be prophecies they shall fail, where there be tongues they shall cease, where there be knowledge, it shall pass away. There abideth three things, faith, hope, love. And the greatest of these is love. The angel sat down again. The music soared on.
Love was now very far away, knocking at the gates of heaven, somewhere far far above the streets of London, sweeping majestically towards the infinite. Beethoven’s love. God’s love.
When the movement ended Powerscourt turned, very quietly, to look at Lady Lucy beside him. She was smiling gently, her eyes filled with tears. Sunt lacrimae rerum. As the fourth movement brought the Albert Hall back to earth, Powerscourt searched through his pockets. You couldn’t speak. Not in here. Not now. Beethoven might get cross. God might send a thunderbolt. Did he have a pen? He must have a pen somewhere. He did. Was there anything to write on? No, only an old copy of a newspaper rolled up in his pocket. He picked it out. He found an empty space inside an advertisement for Colman’s Mustard. He composed his message.
‘Lucy. I love you. Will you marry me? Francis.’
He tapped her lightly on the shoulder and passed her the crumpled paper, pointing shyly to his proposal.
Lady Lucy smiled at him. The tears had gone. She made writing gestures at him. What on earth was she doing, making those signs with her hand? Then he realised. Lady Lucy didn’t have a pen. He gave her his. This is what life is going to be like from now on, he thought. Sharing things, sharing pens, sharing programmes at the Albert Hall, sharing love.
The paper came back. The reply was hidden inside another advertisement, this one for Bird’s Eye Custard. Powerscourt thought he would have preferred the mustard. He’d always hated custard.
‘Francis. Of course I will marry you. Love. Lucy.’
She took the newspaper from him and placed it carefully in her bag. You couldn’t trust men to remember to keep things like that, she thought. Not even Francis. Well, maybe Francis.
Beethoven was now on the final movement of his symphony. The chorus were on their feet. Schiller’s ‘Ode to Joy’ bellowed out across the auditorium. The waltzes and the marches from earlier on returned to take another bow.
‘May he who has had the fortune
To gain a true friend
And he who has won a noble wife
Join in our jubilation!’
Lady Lucy sent out a small hand to hold Powerscourt’s. It was all right in the dark. Nobody could see. Suddenly she didn’t care who saw. She wanted to shout, to sing out her own hymn of love and happiness found with Beethoven and with Schiller. And with Francis. Her own Ode to Joy.
‘Be embraced, Millions
Take this kiss for all the world!
Brothers, surely a loving Father
Dwells above the canopy of stars.
Do you sink before him, Millions?
World, do you sense your Creator?
Seek him then beyond the stars!
He must dwell beyond the stars.’
‘Francis.’ Lady Lucy Hamilton and Lord Francis Powerscourt were returning to Markham Square in a cab, rattling along the Cromwell Road. ‘I don’t need to call you Lord Francis any more, do I? Not now, I mean. And you don’t have to call me Lady Lucy either.’ She was nestling against his shoulder. It was very cold outside.
‘Well, I always think of you as Lady Lucy. In my mind, I mean.’
‘Oh, I shan’t mind at all if you want to go on calling me Lady Lucy. It shows proper respect, don’t you think?’
Powerscourt laughed. ‘What are you going to tell Robert?’
‘Ah, Robert. Robert,’ said Lady Lucy, snuggling ever closer into Powerscourt’s shoulder. ‘Do you know, he asked me the other day if I was going to marry you. Just like that. I think one of the boys’ mothers at the school has just remarried. That must have put it into his head.’
She remembered the conversation, Robert glad to be diverted from Latin nouns, second declension homework, she herself struggling with the latest Henry James.
‘Are you going to marry Lord Powerscourt, Mama?’
Lady Lucy composed herself. What a strange thing for Robert to say. Why, she’d only been thinking about it herself a few minutes ago. It was hard to get into, this Henry James.
‘Well, darling . . .’ She wondered what to tell him. I’d better tell him the truth, she thought, best to start early. ‘I would if he asked me. But he hasn’t asked me yet.’
‘Is he going to ask you?’
‘I expect so. I expect he’ll get round to it one day. Probably.’
‘And then you’ll say yes?’
‘Yes,’ his mother laughed. ‘Yes, I’ll say yes.’
Somehow Robert knew that Lord Powerscourt would ask the question. After all, his mother was so pretty. All the boys at school said so.
‘What will you think about that, Robert? If we do get married.’
‘Well, he’s not very good at knots and things like that for my boat,’ said Robert, practically.
‘I expect he’s thinking about other things. He usually is.’
Lady Lucy told Robert that Powerscourt was an investigator, that he solved mysteries, sometimes murders. Sometimes he did secret work for the Government, like when he went to Venice. The little boy’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.
‘Was he doing secret work when he went to Venice? Was he thinking about the mystery when we were at the Round Pond? Wow! Wow!’ There was a pause while this intelligence sank in. ‘Mama?’
‘Yes, my darling?’
‘Can I tell the boys at school? If you decide to get married. About what he does. Lord Francis, I mean. The Investigator.’
‘Just a little, darling. Just a little.’
The cab was on the final stretch now, progress slow along the King’s Road in Chelsea. There was a full moon, occasionally visible above the roofs of Sloane Square.
‘So, you see, Francis, I don’t think there will be any trouble from Robert.’
‘I see. Will I have to turn up in disguise sometimes? To give a good impression to Robert, I mean. False beard? Dressed as a washerwoman?’
The cab had drawn up at 25 Markham Square.
‘Francis, won’t you come in for a while? Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘That would be delightful, Lady Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, paying off the driver. ‘Quite delightful.’
It was late when he let himself into his sister’s house in St James’s Square. Lady Rosalind was still up.
‘Francis,’ she said, pretending to rearrange the cushions on one of her settees. ‘You’re back very late. How was the Beethoven? How is Lady Lucy? Any news?’
Powerscourt knew as surely as if she had written it on the windows that she suspected he might have proposed to Lady Lucy. She’d been dropping hints for days.