“Did you enjoy our annual party?” Mrs. Ford asked before they began warming up with two-octave scales in various keys and modes at Freddie’s next lesson.
“It was great! I wish we had hotdogs at home.”
Mrs. Ford laughed. “We had shrimp cocktails. There were filets mignons, barbecued chicken and crab legs. The dessert spread included cherries jubilee and Black Forest cake; we had—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Freddie wasn’t impressed. “I can get stuff like that at home. But we never have hotdogs.”
Mrs. Ford shook her head. Boys, she thought. “And how about playing badminton?”
She said it with a grin, and he knew she was teasing him, but he expected no less from her. “Aw, I had a lousy partner. And you cheated! You’re much taller. You should have played on your knees to make up for that.”
“You knew I was tall before the game! Back when you were blowing so much hot air! Being on my knees would hardly have been fair!” Mrs. Ford snorted, trying to sound outraged. “You made a point before the match, telling me how much quicker you were than this feeble old woman, and now you’re saying I should have been almost totally immobile, not only feeble and old, but stationary as well. Your complaints now are inconsistent with your earlier trash talk. Next you’ll be saying I should have had my feet in buckets of wet cement before we started.”
Freddie grinned. “You do have a point.”
It was impossible to argue or trade quips with Freddie, even in play, when he was grinning. It felt more normal to be hugging him than arguing with him. So Mrs. Ford stopped trying and changed the subject.
“And then you played duets with James. What did you think of that?”
Freddie’s grin slowly faded. For a rare moment, he became serious and showed his age. In a slightly awed voice, he said, “That was something else.”
Mrs. Ford could see him remembering. See him actually recalling the feelings he’d had then. See him reliving being part of something with someone else where the two of them were bigger than he’d ever been by himself. That had possibly been the first time in his life he’d felt that.
“He’s very good, isn’t he?” Freddie finally asked, his thoughts about the feelings
he’d had playing with James coloring his voice.
“For his age and experience, he’s one of the best I’ve ever had. Just like you are, Freddie. Both of you are very talented. There is a difference, however.”
“What?”
“James works at it much harder than you do. Because of that, he makes progress faster than you do. You might have noticed, he had very little problem sight-reading those 16th-note passages. Less than you did at least. As well as you play, he’s even better, at least technically. Why? Is it because he has more natural talent than you do? No. Not at all. Absolutely not. Then what is it?”
Freddie didn’t answer.
“It’s because he practices. He spends hours every day practicing. Those passages he played with you? They were mostly just scales and arpeggios. Many of the faster passages, especially in pieces written in the early eighteen hundreds, are like that. More modern music can be more challenging. Otto Nicolai was a German born in eighteen-ten.”
Seeing Freddie was interested in what she was saying and not taking offense at it, perhaps actually listening to the idea about practicing more, she continued. “It was a duet, and you were playing a lot of those fast passages, too. You played them awfully well and should be proud of yourself. You’re great, Freddie. No one doubts that. But it was much harder work for you. I could see it, and you should be able to admit it to yourself. You struggled more with that piece than James did. You both played it remarkably well; it’s a very difficult piece, and you were both sight-reading it. But you struggled more than James did.”
She stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. “But the thing is, I expected James to be able to play it well. You, too, or I wouldn’t have chosen it for you. Remember, I also recommended you play the bottom part. I did that because you do outshine James in some areas, and they’re showcased more in the lower registers. What’s the area where you play better than James? It’s that you have a more mature sound, a fuller, deeper, more resonant one, and you play with a musicality I’m still trying to instill in James. It comes naturally to you. You’re very precocious in that. Most teenagers don’t really feel or even hear the music they’re playing. They lack your sensitivity. They concentrate on playing the notes. They have the idea that if the notes are played correctly, they’ve succeeded. You do something amazingly well for your age: you play musically and with mature passion. And with your wonderful sound, that bottom part of that duet, the response, was made for you.”
Freddie was listening but with half an ear. His mind was elsewhere. “Tell me about him,” Freddie asked. “He doesn’t go to my school, I know that.”
Mrs. Ford told him some of what she knew of James—practical details about his playing and nothing of his personality or dreams or character or background. She didn’t speak of his circumstances, the local public school he attended, how his mother wasn’t responsive to him, how James’ father wasn’t supportive. How he’d had problems with other kids in the school he attended. She did emphasize how important playing the horn was to him.
Mrs. Ford kept her voice very even, though it was a struggle to keep her emotions out of it. She had hoped, after hearing them together, that a spark would ignite a warm relationship between them. She’d felt if somehow she could get them together, some of James’ work ethic might rub off on Freddie, and James might be influenced by some of Freddie’s musicality.
James was fiercely competitive, and hearing Freddie play—the music he made, his pure sound—might well cause James to try to emulate that. And for Freddie, while not being very competitive at all—he was so easy-going and most things came easily to him that serious competition with someone, anyone, wasn’t in his nature—he was a boy, and boys don’t like to be second best at anything; that, too, is the nature of boyhood.
Freddie was the best horn player in his school’s orchestra, and as it was a private school and had mostly kids from affluent families, the orchestra was an excellent one. Freddie had worked hard enough to secure that first-chair position. If he were engaged with James, might that not push him harder than he was now working?
No one, no matter his natural talent, achieved great success with the French horn without putting in the work.
Hard work. When she was the age of her two best students, she’d been gifted, as Freddie was, and worked as hard as James. But she’d also been a girl, and girls tended to be ignored more than boys. While there were amazing women horn players in orchestras all over the world these days, that hadn’t been the case back then.
> > >
Mrs. Ford had led a far from normal life. She’d been born into a wealthy family, a Boston family situated high in the prestigious society of the city. She was an Evanston, and the Evanstons were at the pinnacle of that society. The culture that existed there had well-defined and very restrictive roles for the children. Seen-but-not-heard was part of that, but it went deeper. Girls had a place and an expectation: they did not seek jobs; they married well, increasing the wealth of both families involved and furthering each family’s position in society. They had strict training in etiquette, poise, social graces, and in school they studied literature and current affairs, not science or math. They only did that which was appropriate for women.
Laura, her given name, was shipped off to an upper-class women’s college-cum-finishing school, the main purpose of which was to teach her how to snare an appropriate husband and be able to support him intellectually and socially and to bear his children.
The school was in Connecticut, set in a rural town, and very exclusive. It was also very private, and the students were monitored closely. There would be no moral lapses there, no pregnancies, no scandals, nothing that would cast shade on them or prevent successful marriages. Upholding one’s reputation was paramount.
A boys’ private prep school in the same town was located as distant as possible from the girls’ school. It was just as exclusive as its female counterpart, with just as little freedom for the boys. Yet the two schools did think it wise for there to be some contact between the sexes so each would learn how to behave. Behave socially, that is. There simply would be no scandals.
Several dances were held each school year. The girls and boys were closely watched. They were supposed to mingle, but while touching was expected during the dances, it wasn’t just frowned on when off the dance floor; chaperones were swiftly at the elbow of any boy who made inappropriate contact with any girl, and both kids were immediately removed from the dance and banned from the next one.
There was a large outside veranda where boys and girls could mingle between dances—or during if they weren’t participating in the current dance—but the chances for any intimacy at all were nil.
Laura Evanston had had little to no contact with the male species during her formative years. Attending her first dance was her first foray into the world of interaction with boys. She’d been taught how to behave with the other sex: how to be regal and reserved and distant with the boys she’d meet, but that was all instruction; this was the down-to-earth real thing. And she quickly discovered she had no interest at all in being an ice queen.
She wasn’t the beauty many teen girls were, but she was striking. She had a long, angular face, wore her sandy-blond hair in a cut that outlined and softened it, had sharp, intelligent eyes and a beguiling smile. What she also learned rather quickly was that her openness, her outgoing personality, her realness and vitality set against the make-believe imperiousness and asperity of most of her peers, made her very popular.
At her first school dance, when boys asked her out onto the floor with them, she readily accepted. She danced with several, and when she retired to the veranda, a retinue followed. That drew the attention of chaperones, but as she acquitted herself politely if not as demurely as preferred, and as the boys were mostly as shy as 14- and 15-year-old males tend to be, there was nothing the watchers could condemn.
By her junior year, she was one of the favorites of the boys from the other school, and she had become friends with several. There was one boy in particular, Carl, that she had feelings for, the sort of feelings she’d read about in romance novels. The school still had rules, but she was 17 now and was allowed into town on occasions as long as she was accompanied by another girl. Carl had even fewer restrictions. Laura’s companion was agreeable to being ditched, and so Laura and Carl were able to have some time together free from supervision.
The two had similar personalities, which was why they got along so well. They were both eager and funny, adventurous and daring, inquisitive and rebellious. They despised the strict rules they were supposed to follow. They were also at the age when their thoughts were colored by hormones. They talked about this. They had no leashes; everything was out in the open for discussion for them. Sex education was as dry and pedantic as the teachers could make it. Laura found that talking about sex with a boy, an eager young boy, was nothing like the sere classroom discussion she’d been part of.
This particular afternoon, the discussion moved to talk of virginity. Talking about virginity was just another way to approach talking about sex. They both loved that.
“Are you for or against still being a virgin at 18,” Carl asked. He was taller than she was, which not all boys were as Laura was 5’ 10”, quite tall for a young girl. Carl was six feet even but, as his father was quite tall, he felt it likely he had more growing to do. He had red hair—red, not orange or russet or auburn. It was curly and he hated it but joked about it self-deprecatingly. He was very slender, and while he disparaged his looks, she thought him somewhere between cute and handsome. She liked him for how he was more than how he looked, but he looked fine to her.
“I think putting an age on it is artificial thinking,” Laura replied. “You should be a virgin until the right person comes along, until the situation is right, until you want to have sex and there’s no reason not to. Age really doesn’t come into it at all.”
“Sure it does,” Carl argued. “What if all those conditions were met, but the kids were 13? You wouldn’t want them to lose their, uh, innocence—is that the right word?—that young, would you?”
“I didn’t think we were talking about little children,” Laura scoffed. “If you want to look at it that way, I’d say 15 is about the lower limit. But I can also see 14 being right for some kids if all the circumstances made it right. Some kids at 14 are more mature than some others at 18.”
“So it would be perfectly all right for the two of us to lose our virginities together, then, because we’re both older than that?” Carl then turned to look at the ocean. They were standing on a boardwalk that ran behind a beach that fronted on the Atlantic Ocean. “And we’re certainly very mature young adults.”
Laura heard the humor in his voice in that last remark, but heard the muted challenge, too. Perhaps the longing. Or was she imagining that? She had a response ready, though, no matter what he was feeling; it contained the same note of playfulness. “What makes you think I’m a virgin? I know you are, of course you are, but why me?”
Carl laughed, not the reaction Laura was expecting; she’d thought he’d be defensive. “Of course you are, too,” he said. “We both know that. Now, for me, well, the question about us both losing it together was entirely hypothetical. I’m a man, and you’re a girl. A man of my potential and breeding and such nonsense appreciates the ways of the world. He cannot be expected to be virginal at my great age. He must be ready when the girl of his dreams comes along, practiced in the love-making arts and ready. She will expect him to know what he’s doing and lead her to the magical world of orgasmic delights.”
“Sure,” Laura said sarcastically. “Orgasmic delights! Ha, ha, ha! But don’t expect me to believe you’ve had more experience than I have. That’s crap. I doubt you’ve even kissed a girl, let alone seen one naked, and certainly you’ve yet to do the ultimate deed. You’re as innocent as I am. I’ve never touched a boy down there or seen one naked. I’m sure you’ve never touched a girl down there. And you’d be way too shy to be naked with one. You’d blush and stammer and maybe faint away if you got undressed and she did the same.”
“I would not! You, on the other hand . . . ”
He stopped, and she asked, “What about me?”
“Actually, knowing you,” he said with a grin on his face, “I’ll bet you’d like to do that. Compare naked bodies. But there’s one thing I know, experienced or not. That’s that you’re absolutely beautiful naked.”
More discussion followed—verbal jousting that they both loved—as they continued walking. Eventually they left the boardwalk and walked out onto the sandy beach, and eventually into the dunes. They walked far enough that it was very unlikely they would encounter any other people. Their discussion had become more and more daring, more challenging, tinged with humor but colored by hormones.
The conversation had moved forward to where both were now quite eager to stop talking. They both had agreed they were ready for the next steps in their budding relationship.
So she got the ball rolling. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. Her first kiss. His, too.
It lasted and lasted. They learned about using tongues, about sucking on them and tasting each other’s and nibbling lips and sucking on them, too. They were both panting heavily when they stopped to breathe.
“You’re hard,” Laura said when she could. “I can feel it pushing against me. Let me see it.”
“See it? You want to see it? Uh, I’m not sure . . .”
“Shut up and strip. I want to see it.”
He grinned. He’d objected just because it seemed the right thing to do, to act coy. He wanted her to see it. He wanted to see her, too, and didn’t see how she could complain if he went first. He unbuckled his belt, then stopped and said, “You too. Showing me your breasts is nothing. I’ve seen dozens of them in movies and magazines and on bathroom walls. Showing off my goodies is a whole lot more. You should go first.”
Laura was hot enough she needed no encouragement. In fact, she loved the idea of a boy seeing her topless, and with this boy, the one she had feelings for, well . . .
“Let’s both get completely naked,” she said, and began stripping.
She removed her top. It was a warm spring day, but on the edge of the ocean there was always a breeze, and she quickly was goosebumpy.
“Wow,” Carl said. “You’re nothing like in the movies. You’re . . . I don’t have the right words, but wonderful, gorgeous and sexy all come to mind. But you’re cold. Let me warm you.” He raised his two hands to her chest but looked in her eyes before touching. “Okay?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, instead moving forward into him so his hands made contact. Maybe she was still chilled, but she no longer noticed as he began caressing her.
He gently rubbed her breasts, but then all over her bare skin, chest and back and down to her skirt and back up. The caressing made her even hotter. She moved her hand down below his waist to where she could feel him poking out. The cloth didn’t let her get a very satisfactory feel, and quite soon she pulled away from him.
“Your turn,” she said, and took a step back.
“Both together, then,” he said. His eyes had a look in them she’d never seen before, and she realized he was as excited and aroused as she was. The word for it came to her: lust.
She loosened and dropped her skirt, and then her panties. Standing naked in the fresh air, even the cold breeze felt arousing to her. She took a deep breath, her eyes focused on Carl.
He had matched her, pants for skirt, boxers for panties, and he stood in front of her, rigid and exposed, and in a moment she raised her eyes to his. She thought she saw both pride and a little uncertainty in his face. She remembered how often she’d read that men worry about their size and appearance.
“You’re beautiful, Carl,” she said, and he heard the awe in her voice as much as the words. They stepped together then, hugged tightly, and she moved her hand between them and did more than touch. More than cuddling, too. Fondling, that was the word.
“Ooohh!” he said.
She grinned. “This is what you do in bed, huh?” She was lightly stroking him now.
“Yeah.” More a gasp than a voice. Then, proving to be the gentleman he was, he said, “Hey, show me what you do.”
A little reluctantly, he thought, she took her stroking hand off him, reached out and took his hand. She pressed it against herself, but then pulled it back so there was almost no pressure at all against her. Then she guided one of his fingers to where she wanted it and showed him how little motion and pressure she wanted, and how fast but not faster and how slowly but not too slow he could go.
Then she put her hand back on him.
A couple of minutes later he said with a strangled voice, “Ah, you’d better stop!”
“No, I want to see. Please?”
“Okay, but it’s messy.” His voice was still strangled; he began gasping and what sounded like a gargle.
She grinned and moved just a little away so she could see but never stopped her hand.
Somehow, what they were doing was a defining moment for her. She realized that being a stiff Boston society matron was not for her. There was a whole world outside her knowledge to explore and enjoy. Tonight had been wonderful. What else was there to excite her so much? She was eager to find out.
> > >
Laura’s school had a well-regarded music program. It was there that she discovered she had an aptitude for music. Part of the curriculum was for students to get acquainted with various orchestral instruments, supposedly so the students could speak knowledgeably about them if the subject came up at a social gathering, like the after-party following a performance at Symphony Hall.
There was a more practical reason for the music program at the school as well. Young women of Laura’s class were expected to come out and marry well within their stratum of society. Yet in the world as it was changing, it was becoming more and more frequent for women to marry later. Men were not taking brides as early as they had done before, either. Eighteen- and nineteen- year-old brides were much less common these days. More frequently now, men didn’t want to marry at all, and the ones who did were waiting until they were in their thirties, meaning young women often ended up entering the working world for a short period before their eventual wedding bells would ring.
There were many jobs the young ladies attending the colleges were not expected to take, such as retail clerks, waitresses, anything to do with trades, anything below their station, but teaching was a suitable profession. After all, teachers learned to deal with children, and so it was a job that could bring benefits when the girl married and produced offspring.
The music program at the school was intended to produce music teachers. But it had all the elements of a good musical education, which included private instrumental lessons as well as theory, composition, harmony, pedagogy, conducting and the like. The horn teacher at Laura’s school was very good, a member of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and he visited the school once a week. Laura was a precocious student with a competitive nature and a willingness to go her own way and break conventions. She took to learning the horn with a vengeance, and her teacher told her she was a prodigy.
Because of his endorsement, Laura ended up being accepted at the Boston Conservatory. She became one of its proudest graduates and began a career that included auditioning for and then joining the Cleveland Orchestra and subsequently the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. As both orchestras paid well over $75,000 a year, she became wealthy. Eventually, she did what she’d always wanted to do, which was to establish a career as a soloist. There were very few French horn soloists. She became the most favored of the few there were and traveled the world, performing in the great music halls in Italy, Germany, Japan and Australia among other countries. She soloed with each of the Big Five American orchestras.
She soloed with the New York Philharmonic several times. Because their music director was enamored with Richard Strauss’ music, she played both his horn concertos with them. It was the evening following one of her performances, at the after-party, that she met the man who would become her husband.
At the age of 50, she decided she’d traveled enough. She came back to Boston. Part of the reason for that was that by that time she was married with three children. Her husband, Reginald Lockery, was a partner at a major law firm in Boston. He was very smart and had political aspirations. Laura was tired of traveling, and she found performing less exciting than it had been. Having faced and beaten every challenge the musical world had put before her, she decided she wanted to stay home with her husband, spend what time she could with her children before they grew up and scattered, and compose music for the horn. She also recorded a few CDs and performed recitals just to keep her name before the public.
But soon she found she needed more. After her busy life performing, she did find motherhood rewarding, but it lacked something. She had a well-known husband on the bench, and she had her personal fame. Now back home, she had time on her hands; watching the kids was fine, but not consuming. When she was asked to be on the board of several organizations, including the Boston Symphony Orchestra and the Boston Pops, she quickly agreed.
Both she and her husband were wealthy, so she had no need to teach horn. But she decided she wanted to do that; she wanted to help the upcoming generation of horn players. She was surprised to find just how much she loved her interaction with her teen students. She knew how to help the ones who had the talent and drive to become professional musicians, and she welcomed that new challenge.