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Music has always been a part of their family.
During the early phases of their courtship—such as it had been— she remembered sitting in her parents’ parlor, hands folded in her lap, answering all those tired questions. Did she play? Were there instruments she preferred?
The piano, yes, befitting a young lady of polite society and equally excellent breeding. Aline provided a flippant answer, meant to disguise the softer underbelly she preferred not to expose. Certainly not to the stranger she intended to marry. She did not compose, but she played and played well. And that was all she said on the matter. To Paris, Aline was a Paintress. Music, she kept for herself.
“And do you play, monsieur?”
She still recalled the gentle flush in his cheeks, the way he’d ducked his head, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, how he’d smiled, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck, looking halfway boyish—a striking contrast to the dark and brooding man she’d expected when entering into this engagement. Her models were beautiful; the Dessendre heir was too seemingly austere for such a descriptor. At that moment, he was achingly lovely.
“I do, yes—though I have less time for it these days.” He cleared his throat. “I preferred the accordion as a boy. Too cumbersome to drag along on the battlefield. But—” he paused, seeming to weigh his answer. “— giving up music entirely was too painful. I took up the guitar.”
“Something pleasant to fill your evenings?”
“As pleasant as war can be, mademoiselle,” he agreed, smile growing strained. “If it brought any degree of comfort to my fellowman, it was a worthwhile endeavor. Though somehow, I expect my amateurish attempts had the opposite effect.”
It’s the honesty and the earnestness that catches her off guard. Aline reached out to take his hand. She had tried, at the very least, brushing her fingers across his until her father cleared his throat insistently.
She jerked her hand back, folding them neatly in her lap and offering him one of the equally polite and tedious responses her parents’ drilled into her head. The words felt empty and clinical in the face of his admission. “Perhaps you will play for me some evening.”
“Of course. Though, if I may make a request?” He’d leaned forward to take her hands, pale eyes glittering. Aline pursed her lips to hide her smile. Across the room, her father stiffened. The newspaper crumpled under the force of his grip. Renoir’s eyes darted to the older man, clearly amused. “It has been some time since I had the satisfaction of a duet. Would you indulge me, Aline?”
“Monsieur Dessendre, a polite distance, if you please.”
She liked the way he said her name—there was a sort of music in it, as well. Aline swiped her thumb over the curve of his wrist before he pulled away. “It would be my pleasure, Renoir.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The chateau’s living area was really too small for her piano. The Dessendre family had offered to replace it with something more suitable. A generous offer, spoken in her father-in-law’s stern, but not strictly unkind, voice. She painted a polite smile across her face, bowing her head. “You are most kind, monsieur.”
Her new life would require sacrifices. And in the end, it was only a piano. But it was hers, and the thought of it collecting dust, untended and silent in her parents’ grand hall, made her heart ache.
Renoir watched her out of the corner of his eye. His right hand settled between her shoulder blades, thumb pressing into the tight muscles. “Send for your piano, ma chérie.”
“Your guests will be clambering over the bench.”
Her husband—and god, the word still tasted strange—chuckled. “Any guests we might entertain would assume we’d slighted them, bringing them here instead of the manor.” Renoir flicked his attention down to her, fingers stroking across the base of her neck. “You are the lady of the house. What is your preference?”
Aline wanted to kiss him. “I still owe you a duet.”
“It’s settled then. Send for your things, Aline.”
Those early evenings in their marriage took on a rosy tint in her memory. There were difficulties, of course; they were both strong-willed, and reshaping one’s world to include another person was no small challenge. But their mornings were filled with painting and their evenings with music. He’d sit beside her on the bench, her grand piano dominating the room, turning the pages for her as she played. Some evenings, the silly fool would lay out blankets in front of the fire and play for her.
And she made good on her debt. They played together.
~~~~~~~~~~
Clea was, in many ways, their crowning achievement.
Of all their children, their eldest most strongly resembled her father in temperament. Aline was unsure how strongly she believed that—the little beast had more than some of her mother’s temper—but there was enough in the stolid, stubborn set of her jaw to remind her implicitly of Renoir. It followed that her tastes would also take after his. Later in her life, she would take up sculpting in addition to painting. The sight of the pair, huddled together, coated in clay and dust, never failed to amuse her.
All this to say, Clea was not subtle in her preferences and had no reservations expressing them. Of all their children, she was the most lively in the womb, a trial by fire, soothed only when Aline painted, or her father was near. The low rumble of his voice lulled her better than any of the adagios or berceuse Aline learned.
Neither of them was a strong singer. Not actively bad, but not talented. The Dessendre family's vocalist would come along later. But some evenings, Aline would return from business in Paris and hear Renoir humming along to whatever composition he'd strung together for their daughter. The look of sheer concentration on Clea's face frightened some. Her pale eyes fixated on his fingers as they moved across the guitar's neck, long-fingered and elegant, flexing and extending across the strings. The movements fascinated her in a way the piano never managed.
“It's a beautiful song,” Aline murmured, scratching her nails through his hair. Renoir turned into the touch. Her lion rumbled in pleasure, twisting to press his lips to her palm.
“It remains in its infancy, much as my muse.” Renoir bowed his head. Clea lapsed into a string of conversational gibberish. It had the cadence of real words, even if it meant nothing at all. “Le Fleur de Paris.”
“A pretty name.”
Renoir smiled. “She may prove less fond of it when she's old enough to understand.”
And Clea would protest, huffing and rolling her eyes. The hint of color in her cheeks meant nothing. She would always settle at her harp, strumming along in accompaniment.
The harp suited her better than anything. Heartbreakingly beautiful, demanding rigorous study and perfection. Aline sketched their eldest at her instrument more frequently than she cared to admit, fascinated by the duality of her posture: severe, stiff-backed, but loosening down through the arms. Her wrists were perfectly lax, turning, shifting like streams of water. Clea never looked at peace; this was as near as she'd come, never quite dreamy—not like Aline, or Verso, or Alicia—but fond.
~~~~~~~~~~
Verso represented the most even marriage of their dispositions.
At a glance, he most strongly resembled his father. It was only when you stopped and stared that you noticed Aline’s contributions. Their son’s features were more delicate, sharper, the curve of his mouth entirely reminiscent of his mother. Verso had all his father’s romanticism and loyalty, all his mother’s dreaminess and melancholy, and both of their stubbornness.
It held, then, that he would pull from both their tastes. Verso learned both the guitar and the piano.
Aline watched him at her piano, little face placid as he thumbed through their collection of music. He looked at peace. It struck her, not for the first time, how different he was from their eldest. He could paint; he certainly did not lack talent, only drive. The instinctual need to create, innate to every member of the Dessendre family, had manifested differently for their boy.
The Canvas did not bring him peace in the same way as their piano. She’d find him scribbling notes to himself, childish compositions, crude but full of potential.
On the eve of his sixteenth birthday, he’d settled beside her on the bench. It was a gray, miserable morning, the sort that always sent her mood into a downward spiral. Caught in the midst of her melancholy, she hadn’t heard her son approach.
“Play that again?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “Play what, mon ange?”
Verso tipped his head to the side, smiling indulgently. “Maman.” He shook his head, fingers breezing over the keys. “Whatever you were just playing. It was good.”
He liked to chide her for her unwillingness to put her work to paper. For Verso (and Alicia), it was therapeutic. For Aline, it represented a fundamental disconnect. That space between her mind and hand seemed interminable, the message lost before she could put it to paper. It was maddening, frustrating, not cathartic as her children liked to preach.
Verso nudged her shoulder, chuckling. “Practice, she says. And here you are, unwilling to practice. Hypocrite.”
He took her melody, finishing and refining it. He composed lullabies for Alicia.
Verso was a musician. Or he should have been. Might have been.
His song ended too soon.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alicia was too opinionated for her own good.
The benefit of being the youngest child, Verso grumbled. Her parents were too busy to spend the same amount of time on discipline. And she was a special gift, a little girl long after Renoir and Aline had given up hopes of welcoming another child. They doted on her.
Aline did not understand her youngest. Or did, and the similarities between their temperaments made coexistence difficult at the best of times, impossible at the worst. Alicia saw no reason to apply herself if the topic was not to her liking. Not to painting; not to music.
The violin was a rare concession, an attempt to appease her parents. No one else in the house played, and so there could be no comparisons, self-inflicted or otherwise. Alicia learned enough to play in front of their company, but beyond that? She stagnated.
“Why does it matter?” Alicia said, crossing her arms across her chest. “We’re not musicians.”
“It is still art, lapin,” Aline chided.
“You all play beautifully. I just—” The girl tossed her hair, flame-red hair fluttering around her face. “I’m in the way more often than not. What’s the point?”
“Alicia.”
“It feels wrong, maman,” her daughter murmured, pale blue eyes huge and desperate for her to understand. Aline swallowed the initial urge to correct her, to point out that it would get easier if she practiced. She was already pulling away. In the evenings, when the family played together, Alicia had taken to retreating to her room.
Sighing, Aline settled beside her youngest. This—she wasn’t good at this. Renoir and Verso were made for these pretty reassurances, offering a port in the storm. Aline struggled. She stroked her little one’s hair.
Alicia looked up at her. Her hands curled in the fabric of Aline’s skirt. “Please understand?”
She didn’t. Aline kissed the crown of her skull. “What exactly feels wrong, lapin?”
Her expression fell. Alicia tried, offering a stilted explanation. There was a disconnect between her mind and her hands, a distance that felt insurmountable. Aline went stiff. The sensation of deja vu left her shifting, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable in a way she loathed. Alicia clung more tightly to keep her from pulling away.
Aline had no suggestions.
Verso did. “Well, my sweet sister has no such disconnect between her brain and her mouth. Why not put your voice to use?”
“Verso.”
But Alicia had colored and laughed, high and bright.
She sang, not with a voice that would ever be operatic, but with sweetness and heart. It was an altogether pleasant voice, tying together the disparate instruments they played.
Life stole her song too soon.
~~~~~~~~~~
She didn’t remember the specifics. It was a summer day. The sun was out. It was warm and perfect. Lessons could wait. Staying in the atelier felt like a grievous sin; it was the sort of day that begged you to rush out and be a part of it. So, they had. They threw a makeshift meal together and headed out to the lawn.
Aline’s head swam pleasantly, sweet wine still lingering on her tongue. Alicia curled against her side, head resting on her shoulder, arguing with Verso—some disagreement about shapes in the clouds. Her son laughed, dodging artfully to the side as Alicia tossed the remainder of her lunch in his direction. The dogs rushed to snatch it up before Verso could stop them.
Clea shook her head, glancing up from her reading. An indulgent smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Verso settled beside her against the base of the willow tree, the two lapsing into their quiet and particular conversation. In another life, Aline thought, they would have been twins. He said something. Clea snorted, swatting him square across the chest with her book.
A moment later, Verso declared, “Papa, if you forget to bring more wine but brought that—”
Aline lifted her head enough to catch sight of Renoir striding across the lawn. The sun caught in his dark hair, now streaked more heavily with gray, and his pale eyes. His shirt hung open at the collar, revealing the skin of his throat and his clavicle, lending him a rakish air. She sat up enough to smile at him, threatening to dislodge her daughter in the process.
Alicia snickered. “You’re hopeless.”
“Hush. Can I not greet your father?”
“Not all dewy-eyed, no.”
She flicked the child.
“Ignore our baby sister—she has no taste for romance,” Verso advised. He pressed another glass of wine into Aline’s hand. “Go on, serenade Madame Dessendre. We’ll make an allowance for it.”
“Only this once,” Clea added.
Renoir settled beside them on the blanket. If he played, and he played so rarely these days, it was typically his guitar. But today felt old. It felt nostalgic. She was unsure she’d ever grow accustomed to the sight of him with an accordion—more than twenty years of marriage still hadn’t done the trick. He ducked his head, looking boyish and lovely again, so much the young man she’d fallen in love with. “You will have to forgive me. I am out of practice.”
He was clumsy at first, yes. Renoir played with increasing ease as he refamiliarized himself with the instrument. Aline chewed the inside of her cheek.
There were good and bad days in every family. That summer afternoon was purely great, saccharinely sweet. She sat up, sipping her wine, watching Verso lead Alicia in an impromptu dance, both laughing. Everything was bright.
~~~~~~~~~~
Verso composed a piece for them.
He played more rarely these days, expression grim. The air in the manor remained tense after his declaration—he was a musician, not a Painter. It still stung.
They’d put the feelings aside for an evening.
It’d been the last time they were all together, a moment of peace before their guests arrived at the manor. Aline, at her piano. Clea, at her harp. Verso played the guitar with the same heartbreaking earnestness he brought to every instrument. Renoir took up his accordion.
Their son held the violin out to his sister, winking. “Your choice. I wrote a vocal accompaniment if you’d prefer that.”
She had. Alicia sang. Her voice carried through the hall beautifully, a perfect complement to the instrumental composition. When the song ended, Aline nearly begged them to begin again. They could live in this moment a little longer. They could stay here.
But songs ended.
Aline should have begged for an encore. Something, anything. Their guests were arriving soon, and it slipped her mind.
~~~~~~~~~~
There were four of them now, all greatly diminished. No Verso to write their songs. His absence was a raw, gaping wound. Alicia lived, but her voice—with time, it might recover, but she would never sing again.
But time passed. Wounds healed.
It’s been a summer afternoon, not unlike the one they’d shared years prior. Today, they’d managed to resist the call of the countryside. Even if their situation was improved, it remained tenuous. Aline and Alicia were most prone to abrupt fits of melancholy, preferring to retreat to the safety of their rooms. Still, the day felt lighter than most. Sunlight beat back the darkness. Both women glanced up when Clea strode across the room, her skirt thrashing around her legs.
She always moved with such fluid grace; today, her eldest was as near to nervous as she’d allow.
“Come. I won’t play alone.” Clea shoved the sheet music into her hands. Aline scanned the notes. The familiar ache settled into the hollow space in her chest.
“Clea—”
“This was Verso’s gift,” her eldest insisted, jaw set, expression severe as she settled at her harp. “You diminish his work by abstaining.”
Aline shook her head. She played. Clea played. Somewhere along the line, Renoir joined them on the guitar, expression strained. Alicia settled beside her on the bench. An airy rasp escaped her, nearly humming, barely audible over the instruments. The sound hurt.
Her youngest smiled at the end, a tentative thing, glancing between her sister and parents. There were so many words they still needed to say. Clea cleared her throat, offering an uncharacteristically gentle, “Again?” Instead.
Alicia leaned against her side. Aline refused to pull away.
Music—Verso’s songs—filled the manor again. They played until their fingers ached.