PianoForte

Henry Fitzwilliam Pembroke was an insubordinate child. Terrific to work with and a pain to maintain the attention of. The little menace was always off with his head in the clouds, chasing butterflies and sniffing flowers. It was not befitting for a child of his status to act as such, nor did it behove him to continue this behaviour. Every tutor he had ever had gave up and packed their things away within months of initiating work. They called him a hopeless case. They were not wrong, as George Stanley, Henry’s newest tutor, had discovered. His spark of hope that came with every new case was dimming beyond revival, seeing absolutely no way that the boy would flourish under his, or anyone else’s, tutelage.

Mr Stanley had believed in Henry’s ability from the first day, like any forward thinking educator, and he had been confident in his cultivation of the boy after the first lesson. It was then apparent that that introduction had been the last time Henry would listen to a word he said. It pained Mr Stanley so that such a bright young figure should be lost in his head day in and out, and that he could never help him. That was not for lack of trying.

He planned lessons in every known area of every subject appropriate for a burgeoning master of an estate; law, economics, arithmetic, literature, philosophy, deportment, even networking as such. Henry hated them all and insisted on retiring to the gardens in the backyard within minutes of a lesson’s beginning. As a lowly tutor Mr Stanley had no say over Henry’s continued attendance, much to his consternation.

On the brink of retiring this case Mr Stanley gave Henry one last go, at music of all things. He procured sheet music of an amateur level and readied the pianoforte in the parlour, arranging the set up to face the wall opposite the tremendous windows viewing the vibrant and rather exotic botanical artwork behind the house. This way, Mr Stanley hypothesised, Henry would not be distracted by the display of nature he seemed so taken with. Mr Stanley’s determination to teach Henry something was burning and irresistible. He had never come across such a stubborn case, and he wanted, needed, something to work. Otherwise he would have failed himself and his honour, negating past successes and triumphs.

Mr Stanley called for Henry to attend and soon enough the small Master Pembroke wandered into the room, looking every bit as lost as though he were in a hedge maze. Although, Mr Stanley considered, Henry would be enamoured with the concept of a hedge maze, and would not be lost at all. The young Master stood by the door and gazed past Mr Stanley to the vista behind him.

“Master Henry, please take a seat.” Mr Stanley commanded, gesturing to the stool in front of the pianoforte. The dull boy sat, but faced the wrong direction, intent on the gardens.

“Facing the instrument please, young sir.” Henry groaned and swivelled, not taking any care to remember the little Mr Stanley had taught him about manners and etiquette. Mr Stanley took the stool beside the child and instructed him to lay his hands gently over the keys, like he were about to tickle them, fingers resting on one key each. Mr Stanley decided to ignore the ivory ones for now, deeming them too complex for a newborn beginner.

From there Mr Stanley took the child through a number of exercises and scalic routines, demonstrating how playing the keys in certain orders produces familiar melodies. Oddly enough, Henry did not seem too disengaged and Mr Stanley’s spark of hope regained some of its fervour. Perhaps, after months of hammering nothing into this boy’s mind, he would learn something. The natural element of simply listening and allowing the hands to work was effective, but the downfall eventually became apparent in the form of reading music.

Mr Stanley helped Henry to memorise the meaning of every black dot within the lines and the instructions in front of every piece. They were still simple, but advanced the concept Mr Stanley was teaching. When asked to recite the order of notes and the definitions of tempo, time signature, key signature, and expressive instructions Henry struggled immensely. That was not the issue. It was rather expected of a beginner player who had spent less than a day of work learning. What bothered Mr Stanley was the frustration that emerged when Henry could not answer him. The boy flushed and tensed his hands, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut. Eventually tears began to gather in irritation. Mr Stanley had not the foggiest of what to do. This reaction was entirely unexpected and out of character.

It took one last question for the boy to snap.

“Come now, child. What note is three tones above G?” It was an easy enough question in Mr Stanley’s mind. It was not so for Henry. His anger overtook him and the young master launched himself off the stool and fled the parlour. Mr Stanley watched despairingly as he disappeared, listening to the fading of pounding footsteps and doors slamming. He bitterly blamed himself, for he could not blame the boy. He was yet young and unknowing, still a bit confused by the world. It was Mr Stanley’s job to reveal to him those secrets we learn as life goes on. His failure stung, especially so, because despite Henry’s uncooperativeness and ditzy nature, he had grown rather fond of the boy. He was a challenge, but not an experiment. Henry was still a person to be loved and cared for, in spite of his difficulties. He could not be punished for them.

For all this, Mr Stanley was crushed. He had begun to believe that music and the pianoforte may have been Henry’s calling. Additionally he knew that his time employed here was coming to a close with his continued non-success at his job. He and the Master of the house, Patrick Fitzwilliam Pembroke of Rosefield, had been discussing a regretful end to employment the night before.

A dash of movement caught Mr Stanley’s eye and he spotted Henry in the gardens, plodding towards a great oak tree at its centre. The child looked utterly pathetic and put down upon. He could not allow any child to ever look that way.

With a new purpose in mind, Mr Stanley took to the garden to join Henry.

Wandering through rows of cultivated nature and artfully cut hedges, Mr Stanley could understand Henry’s enamourment with the grounds of Rosefield.

The great oak blocked the sun as he came under it, circling the trunk in search of the boy.

He found him, curled up beside an emergent root the diameter of the boy himself.

Sitting gently on an adjacent root Mr Stanley said nothing. They did not speak for a while, so much so, that Mr Stanley considered the possibility that Henry might be asleep.

A mumble broke the peace.

“’m sorry, sir.” Henry’s voice was small and heartbreaking.

“Whatever for, my boy?” Mr Stanley asked. Henry scrambled to sit up, refusing to meet Mr Stanley’s gaze.

“I’m no good at anything, sir. You try so hard to get me to learn things, and they just don’t work. All I think about are these plants.” Mr Stanley had a sudden thought.

“They just don’t work. What does that mean?” Small Henry watched a cloud dissipate before answering.

“I really try to do what you say, and listen. None of it sticks. I care, but I also don’t. Like my head is telling me it’s not my job to know those things. All it wants to do is imagine flowers and trees, and other girly things.” The man was developing his idea as Henry spoke. He had never seen this before, but it made sense in accordance with stories from his colleagues.

“Well, trees and plants are not girly. Would you care to hear about some of the flowers before us? They have rather intricate biologies and meanings.” Henry looked hopeful, but squashed it behind an expression of resignation.

“There is no way I would remember it sir. I tried today with the music notes and stuff. I don’t want you to leave, so I did my best, but even then it did not work.” Mr Stanley was warmed by the boy’s affection for him. It spurred him further.

“How about we try it then. One last attempt, one last lesson. Maybe it will work. If there is one thing scientists know it is that there is always a way to get something to work. You just have to keep trying.” Mr Stanley was kicking himself. The one area of study he had never attempted with Henry was the sciences. He had initially deemed them too complex and bothersome for the boy’s lacking mind. Perhaps it was where he would thrive.

Rolling up his sleeves and approaching the garden, he beckoned Henry to follow him. Picking a weed from the edge of the patch he showed the boy.

“Here we see the root system, the stem, and the leaves…”

That final lesson turned into many more, studying plant physiology and processes. Henry remembered every detail he was told and studied further beyond his classes with George Stanley, becoming a foremost mind in botanical science after attending university in Cambridge. Still, he attributed his love of the botanical to Stanley and Master Pembroke’s fantastical garden.