by L C Kincaide
He squinted at the photograph and zoomed in on the central players and his kinswoman, who appeared to be in a foul mood. Thanks to his father, it didn’t take long to find who this woman was — he wanted to let Emma know at least the basic information and more later when he had it.
Victoria Ruskin Seabrooke, eldest daughter of Wilfred Ruskin, his great-great-great-grandfather, was a widow with no children from the brief marriage. She died at the age of fifty-two in 1923. It wasn’t a lot, but something to send to Emma, and while he was at it, mention again how much he enjoyed their time together before he called it the end of the day.
THURSDAY
~*~
Across the Atlantic Ocean, Robert Langstone and his fiancée, Chloe were returning home from a rare sunny afternoon which they spent with friends having enjoyed a perfect day.
Robert had no memory of an October that didn’t involve a travelling frenzy to the manor, and he found himself in a particularly light-hearted mood. Until early this year, he hadn’t realized how odd the circumstances of his life and those of his family were. He had resigned himself to the annual Weekends in America, as his folks before him, and the previous generations. George had joked with him at one time or another the curse was nothing more than a soppy story gone too far. When he set out to test it, he died.
Not one of the Weekend participants questioned the tragedy nor suggested it was a coincidence. Since then, Robert had come to despise the manor and loathed having to stay there. Also, he had delayed much of his life, including marriage. What woman would have voluntarily agreed to go along with it unless she had already grown up in those circumstances?
Given such limitations, two options presented themselves, Caroline, a fine girl, but too young, and Emma, who was charming, and though he was fond of her, the notion of spending months at a time each year in the manor by the Hudson River and away from everything familiar was not a lifestyle he had envisioned for himself.
Chloe was aware of his annual visit from the previous fall, but he had not elaborated on the past, believing it was all behind them. In many ways, he felt reborn, and he glanced at his soon-to-be bride and smiled as she chatted about their day.
Following an especially dreary week, the clear and bright sky bolstered their spirits, and they were looking forward to a little rest before changing for dinner at one of their favorite restaurants where they had reservations.
Chloe was just remarking on the wonderful weather when a bank of fog appeared from nowhere and rolled over their Mercedes. Finding himself suddenly driving blind, Robert slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded, the wheels crunching on the soft shoulder.
“Robert! What are you doing?” Chloe screamed, bracing herself against the dashboard. She turned to him with enormous eyes.
His eyes too were wide trying to navigate the vehicle in the milky vapor. Where had it come from? A second ago they were in bright sunshine. The car shot forward as he pumped the brakes which must have seized because it didn’t seem to be reducing speed, but swerving now that it lost proper traction on the asphalt. Somewhere in the haze, a horn blared as they plowed ahead. The car veered to the right and with an ear-splitting shriek, the side panels grated against the guardrail, slowing them. At the end of the guardrail, the vehicle continued lurching down a slope.
At the last second, a tree leapt before them, and Robert cranked the wheel hard to the left. His twin brother, George sprang to mind, his death in a car crash happening only four years ago. It was Robert’s last thought as the vehicle grazed the trunk and canted onto its side. Chloe shrieked from far away, and metal crunched. Eventually, the car came to a stop on its roof, the tires spinning.
~*~
In the heart of London, the lights beyond the curtain blazed and pulsed in time to the frenetic beat. Grace Langstone crushed her cigarette with the eight-inch platform boot. Again, she asked herself what she was doing here working the catwalk when her career path had taken her in front of a camera in often exotic locations. But she owed a favor to a friend, and they were both the same size — tall and skinny.
She craned her neck toward the lights. It could be fun, she tried to convince herself. These shows used to energize her, and it wasn’t so bad to have all those eyes on her every move as she strutted along. Her favorite part, of course, was pausing at the end where she either jutted out her hip in a very provocative fashion or twirled dramatically, depending whether she was wearing enough loose fabric to warrant such a motion. It seemed tonight, she would be limited to the hip thrust. Almost time, she checked herself in the mirror and waited in the wings for her cue.
On long legs made longer by the thigh-high shiny vinyl platforms, Grace strutted to the beat, her platinum spikes changing colors under the garish gels. Yes, this was like old times, she in line with half a dozen girls, strutting the circuit. Nearly at the end, she adjusted her pace to allow the model ahead to do her thing, then extended a slender leg into the spotlight. She stopped and gazed out across the audience that too was awash in sweeping colored lights, and prepared for her thrust. Balanced on the precarious platforms, she placed her hands on her hips, and following sudden a pressure on her back, the stage tipped at a steep angle. Someone screamed as she pitched forward, but she couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t her. It felt as if she had been pushed.
~*~
Carrie had been eagerly anticipating this day since discovering the recital’s venue was none other than New Haven’s historic Shubert Theatre. The “Birthplace of the Nation’s Greatest Hits”, a distinction referring to Broadway productions, there was no reason to think it may not apply to a musician as well. After all, the theatre did boast a state-of-the-art sound system.
Over a hundred years old and with only sixteen hundred seats, the smaller venue offered an intimate atmosphere steeped in history, and was as elegant as any New York playhouse. Not to mention many of the greatest names in theatre got their start right here on the stage upon which she would soon play.
Carrie peeked out from the wings drawing aside the edge of the curtain. The house, including the Mezzanine and Balcony sections was full of expectant friends and family members, and more than one music critic and teacher, and music lovers.
Normally, she wouldn’t be nervous, and it certainly wasn’t her first recital, but what went on with her piano had left her unnerved. She had taken steps to make sure no such accidents happened again, thanks to a roll of duct tape she wrapped around the fallboard and the body of her baby grand. It looked absolutely hideous, a travesty and an inexcusably sacrilegious way to treat a fine instrument such as her Steinway. The lid received similar treatment. Luckily, her folks were away and by their return, the gruesome evidence may be gone, depending on how the instrument behaved. She imagined what Mr. Barrow will say when she asks him to check it for safety the next time he comes to tune it.
She scanned the audience and her gaze found John, her one family member who was able to attend the concert, already fidgeting with his camcorder to record the event for posterity and for their absent parents, who were on an African safari. He glanced down from the first box and catching her eye waved and gave her the thumbs up. She signalled back with an OK gesture.
A magnificent mahogany Steinway Grand took center stage, and Carrie eyed it with appreciation. She wiggled her fingers in anticipation looking forward to the glorious tones it will produce under her touch. She was ready. For once, she did not envy musicians whose choice of instrument was portable, such as a clarinet or violin, nor even a cello. The way her piano had behaved, as if possessed — something she can never speak of to a rational person, she was for once relieved to have no other option but to play another instrument that would prove sound. From the lineup of a dozen pianists, she was fourth, and if any issues arose, by her turn, they should be resolved.
The musicians were assembled backstage, doing their finger exercises on tabletops or jus
t in their minds. Others paced nervously. Carrie took a deep breath and tossed her hair to get the kinks out of her neck, smiling as a cute fellow musician admired her from across the backstage. She ran a hand down the smooth velvet of her little black dress, catching the glint of her rhinestone studded pumps, her only viable option to wear bling. To a round of applause, the first performer walked out onstage. By the time the third pianist was nearing the end of his performance and nothing out of the ordinary happened, she was optimistic the trouble rested solely with her instrument.
Carrie couldn’t decide if her favorite time for applause was when she first walked out onstage to the anticipating audience, or when her performance was completed. Of course, a standing ovation with one or two shouts of Brava! tipped the scales in that direction, and with that lovely thought, she approached the instrument. So far, nothing weird happened with the piano and she felt confident. John was ready, and she winked at him before sitting down on the bench. With a straight back and her hands gracefully arced over the keyboard, concerted focus replaced her earlier smile. Her long fingers alighted on the keys and she began to play.
John set the camcorder on a tripod and enjoyed his sister’s performance. No matter how many times he watched her play onstage, he couldn’t help but find himself awed by her transformation from a demure girl to a confident young woman. Casting his gaze over the audience, he noticed more than one appreciative glance from among the young men. He felt enormously proud of his talented and dedicated little sister. Of all the Ruskins, and his head was full of them these days, he was yet to come across one that held any measure of musical talent apart from young Caroline.
To say she lost herself in the music wasn’t entirely appropriate. She was very much a part of it, aware of every note and the pressure her fingers exerted on any particular key and combinations of them, almost melding with the instrument, relaying by touch what to do next to issue forth the exquisite melody. At such times, she experienced an awareness she could only explain as rapture, not that she expected her family members to understand, but that was all right. She was in the zone and coming to the end of her performance, which had gone superbly well.
She was building up to the crescendo when she felt it, an almost imperceptible vibration, but it was there and her shoulders tensed. With a will of their own, her hands continued to play upon the keys and Carrie glanced up nervously. Yes, there it was again, but she was so close to the end, and if she went on as if nothing was wrong… the first string snapped with a resonant twang.
Carrie yanked her hands back and pushed away from the instrument, nearly knocking the bench over in her haste. A series of gasps arose from the audience and when the second string snapped, startled cries accompanied the gasps. On her feet and wide-eyed with terror, Carrie stepped back from the seemingly possessed piano. Someone appeared on the stage to her left, concerned, but keeping at a safe distance. One after the next, the tempered, high-carbon steel wires broke and twanged in different ranges, high and low-pitched, discordant and in no particular order.
It shouldn’t be possible. Perhaps on a rare occasion a string may come loose, but no more than that. Many people were on their feet whispering among themselves, watching the stage with startled and disbelieving eyes. In rapid succession, all the remaining wires snapped, and the lid crashed down with enough force to snap its supporting rod like a toothpick. Several women screamed, Carrie among them.
John grabbed the tripod and rushed into the hall and backstage.
~*~
Emma hadn’t heard back from John since his last text regarding the mysterious Ruskin female. Unlike hers, his life was busy and productive. When she got herself together, she too would have a productive life and maybe it was already starting. Since her night with John, she had slept better, not as well as that particular occasion, but she hadn’t woken up screaming either.
Rachel still had no luck finding a tape recorder, but even that didn’t seem so terribly important. Maybe the session with Mabel helped alleviate her persisting guilt. She was feeling better than she had in a long time, good enough to spend the afternoon with her mother going over dresses for Robert and Chloe’s wedding. Lady Chloe Langstone — Lady Emma Langstone sounded more dignified, but as the saying goes, that ship has sailed. Rather, floundered and rotted on the bottom of the ocean. Oddly, that wasn’t bothering her as much the past few days either.
“I thought these would be very appropriate for you, elegant without being provocative.” Elinor indicated a selection of gowns that were more suited for her. She could only see herself in those on one of their many Edwardian Weekends. Owing to her good mood, Emma didn’t argue with her mother’s choices, only asked what she was planning to wear. She had already ordered her dress online, a gorgeous, strappy, silk satin with a tight fitting little jacket she would toss before heading for the dance floor.
Ironically, Elinor’s choice of gowns for herself bore a great similarity to the ones she had chosen for her.
“I really like this one. Does it come in any other colors?”
“Perhaps a pale violet. The color scheme for the wedding is blush and champagne with accents of white. I imagine Chloe will hold a rose bouquet.” Her brow wrinkled. “Chloe, what sort of name is that, anyway?”
Emma grinned and shrugged.
“Are you staying for dinner? Good. Esther prepared pot roast with those little potatoes.”
Elinor Stuart’s apartment was so large and the kitchen so far away from them in the opposite direction that no one knew what was on the menu until the meal made its way to the table. Elinor detested the smell of food cooking, especially after the meal.
“Sounds great.”
“Now, who will be your escort?”
Taken by surprise, Emma tried not to gasp like a beached fish.
Esther came to the rescue when she entered the room with the cordless.
“A call for you, ma’am.”
Elinor gave Emma a look letting her know the conversation was not over and took the phone.
Emma tried to ignore what was being said, but turned her head when Elinor gasped.
“Oh dear God! Was he hurt? When did it happen?” She pumped out the questions in rapid-fire succession, leaving herself breathless and pale.
She stared off in the distance as someone answered her questions, her eyes wide and stricken.
“Yes… really? Oh, thank goodness! I’m so glad you called. Yes, do take care of yourself, dear. Give my love to Robert and let me know if there is anything I can do.”
Emma watched her mother. What was this about Robert being hurt? Something must have happened.
“What was that? No, nothing happened here. We’re all right. Yes, of course I will. Goodbye.”
Elinor clicked off and stood still, staring into space.
“Mum?” Emma took the phone from her before she dropped it. “What is it?”
Elinor roused herself from her trance. “Robert was in an automobile accident earlier today… rather last night.”
“Is he hurt?”
“He has a head injury. A concussion. Chloe was unhurt.”
“Oh, my God! Do they know how it happened?”
Elinor shook her head. “Robert isn’t talking much, he’s still groggy, but Chloe said they were on their way home when he started driving erratically, hit a tree and their car rolled over onto the roof.”
“It’s a miracle they weren’t killed.”
“Indeed, it is. I think I’ll have a Sherry, if you’d please.”
Emma poured a glass at the bar and placed it in her mother’s trembling hand.
“I do hope the wedding won’t be postponed.” She said after a sip. “Oh, dear. Such a dreadful thing to have happened. Poor Theo is beside himself. Heavens! Imagine having come close to losing another son in an automobile accident!”
A
chill rolled over Emma and she lowered herself into the chair. George’s car crash had been no accident. This situation was different, yet the thought crossed her mind all the same. Being an Everdon, how could it not? And judging from Elinor’s state of mind, the same conclusion must have occurred to her too, but it was not something she was about to bring up and shine a light on. The crash could very well be a coincidence and nothing more.
~*~
Without further mishap, John parked the car in front of his parent’s Greenwich house. During the ride home, Carrie had not uttered a sound and continued to stare straight ahead.
He found her shivering and frozen to the spot on the stage and helped her on with her coat as everyone backstage watched, some with concern, others with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. Several of her fellow performers had approached her asking if she was all right, but she stared at the piano as if it was possessed by an evil entity. Someone was already performing a cursory inspection on the instrument, albeit with due caution.
He got her out of there and into the car as quickly as he could. She was like a person in a trance.
The closing of the door jolted her out of her state, and she crossed the foyer and turned directly to her conservatory where she practiced.