The Moonlit Garden

by Bomann, Corina

  “I’m really sorry that Horace departed this life so soon,” said Mijnheer Bonstraa, the owner of a sugar plantation to the north of Padang. His father had spoken of him a few times. He had a good head for business—and an incredible way with the ladies. The woman who had been on his arm before he came over to Paul was a native, a good twenty years younger than he was, and stunningly beautiful. Bonstraa himself was very handsome for his age. He must have broken a few female hearts in his day.

  “Many thanks for your condolences, Mijnheer Bonstraa.”

  “He really was a good man. So different from some of the Englishmen I’ve known. Please don’t take me the wrong way, but your fellow countrymen can sometimes be difficult.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of younger people these days with refreshing attitudes and ideas. I assume we’ll be seeing some changes in England over the next few years.”

  Paul had to smile as he spoke. Half Dutch himself, he knew what Bonstraa meant. His mother was full of joie de vivre, a woman who made friends easily and had even accepted Maggie’s rather reserved mother with no preconceptions.

  “You have a very pretty wife, Lord Havenden,” Bonstraa said, trying to find Maggie in the crowd. “That’s her over there, isn’t it?”

  Paul nodded. “We were married a few months ago, only a few weeks before Father died. I’m pleased that he was there, at least, even though his health was already quite bad by then.”

  “Poor Horace. He’s left you with quite a legacy, but I’m sure you’ll be a complete credit to him.” Bonstraa extended his hand and touched Paul’s arm almost paternally. “So, are you going to introduce me to your wife? As your father may have told you, I’m a great admirer of feminine beauty.”

  Paul had no chance to find Maggie and introduce her to his father’s friend, as the sound of a small bell ringing brought the guests to silence.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m delighted to be able to present a very special guest to you,” began van Swieten, who had positioned himself in the middle of the hall. “Some of you may have expected me to invite some Balinese dancers as I did on the last occasion, but it is not my intention to indulge in tedious repetition. As luck would have it, an outstanding daughter of our country is currently spending some time in her homeland, and so I’m able to offer you a very special cultural treat tonight. Miss Rose Gallway is a rising star of the musical firmament, currently enjoying great success with her violin all over the world. I consider it a great honor that she accepted my invitation to play for you tonight.”

  With a sweeping hand gesture he beckoned the violinist in. All the guests craned their necks; Paul could not see her immediately.

  “This girl really is something special,” Bonstraa murmured as he applauded. “Have you heard of her?”

  Paul shook his head. He had not had much time for the arts—since his father had been unwell, he’d had to take care of the property and the estates. Every now and then he had to be seen at social occasions, but that was not enough for him to know which musicians were causing a sensation. The crowd parted and, with the proud bearing of a queen, a young woman with a cascade of black hair entered the room. She wore a ruched blouse and full black skirt, its gathered train bobbing delightfully at every step. In her left hand she held a distinctive red-grained violin, the bow in her right. She took up her position next to a black piano, looked around at her audience with a smile, and tucked the violin under her chin.

  For a moment the room was so still that the proverbial pin could have been heard to drop. Then the first note rang out, clear as crystal, and Paul could do nothing else but gaze at this woman, who seemed to melt into the music and forget about the world around her.

  As ever when a concert was going well, Rose felt as if her bow had developed a remarkable life of its own and was guiding her hand, instead of being moved by her. The notes were clear and precise, the tempo perfect, and when Rose closed her eyes, she could see malevolently sparkling icicles and wide fields covered by a delicate-looking but thick blanket of snow. A shudder ran through her body as though she were actually standing in the winter wind and watching the sun disappear behind a fir-lined horizon, the darkness following as swiftly as if the sun were sweeping a cloak behind it.

  Before she went to England, she’d had no idea of what a European winter would be like—what frost would feel like, or the sensation of snowflakes being blown into her face. Winter on Sumatra was the season of rains. She remembered all too clearly the huge puddles she’d had to circumnavigate on her way to school while trying to shelter from the rain beneath a hat made of palm leaves. But despite the heavy downpours, it was warm and the air as humid as the cloud of steam above a pan of soup.

  She had soon learned that it rained a lot in England, too—but this rain was not warm like the Sumatran rain that left the mountains steaming in its wake. The London rain was icy cold and the fog impenetrable, hostile. Until she became acclimatized, even in summer, Rose often shivered in her room, her hands wrapped around her arms for warmth. When winter came, a very harsh winter even for the English climate, she had discovered a wonder—frozen water. Although the cold affected her more than the other girls at the conservatory, she had spent hours admiring the glinting of sunlight on ice or allowing snow to melt in her hand until her skin was red and numb.

  She could see the white crystals in her mind’s eye now, and she felt the cold on her fingertips and the icy breath of the wind on her face. All these sensations carried her along as she played, and she regretted the performance coming to its end.

  Only then did she become aware of her heavy breathing, the thumping of her heart, and the pressure of the violin beneath her chin. It was as if she had left her body while playing and was now slowly returning to it.

  She looked around, a little dazed, and her lips formed a smile of satisfaction as she saw the audience staring at her, speechless. Had she awoken in them all the emotions she herself had felt? She would never know, and there may well have been people there who were not affected by the music, but that moment of pure silence before the applause broke out was immensely satisfying.

  The applause—shot through with cries of “Bravo!”—was a little more delayed than usual, but these people had probably not been prepared for her playing.

  Rose curtsied, as was expected from a grateful artist, before straightening up again. In that moment her eyes met those of a young man whom she had not noticed before. His hair was a golden color, and his eyes were as blue as the sea when it reflected a clear summer sky.

  She had seen many fair-skinned, blond people in her life—her teacher had been a flaxen blonde, which had fascinated her as a little girl. But she had never seen anyone who radiated as much sunshine as he did.

  As the calls for an encore grew, she came back to herself and turned her gaze away. She acknowledged her audience’s request with a nod, and a little later Spring was resonating through the ballroom.

  After the piece came to an end, a stocky man approached her and shook her hand somewhat roughly. From the description she’d heard of his behavior and a few remarks Mai had let drop in the dressing room, Rose concluded that this must be van Swieten. Heavens, this man really was one of those who would pinch a girl’s backside—Carmichael had not been exaggerating there.

  Practiced at maintaining polite reserve, Rose allowed his enthusiasm and his compliments to wash over her with lowered eyes and, as Mrs. Faraday had drummed into her, thanked him with a few calm, select words, although everything in her was crying out to run from the room, rejoicing in the simple delight of knowing she had played like never before in her life. No one needed to tell her that; she simply knew it.

  The attention of the governor drew other men toward them. They approached, smiling broadly or looking her over like they would a horse at a market, while their wives hung back at a distance with sour expressions. Rose was used to this exchange, but it was never pleasant. This time, though, there was one of them she would have liked to get to know a little bette
r.

  Rose searched in vain for the sunshine man. Had he not liked her recital? Was he one of those unfeeling ones, as she thought of them? Or was he too reserved to throng around her shamelessly like the others?

  In the face of the increasing number of admirers crowding around her, Rose’s only way out was to flee. Under the pretext of needing to retire to her dressing room because she was feeling a little unwell, she made her excuses, although she had no intention of returning to Mai, and quite possibly Carmichael, in that room.

  Her dressing room had given her a good view of the garden, and she wondered now if it would be the best place to go and cool down, to reflect on her performance. She hurried past the guests, ignoring the sharp looks she got from some of the older women, and finally reached the door. There she met a serving girl carrying a bowl of fruit.

  “Excuse me, how can I get out to the garden?” she asked in Malay, causing the girl to stare at her wide eyed. Rose knew that her origins on her mother’s side were scarcely visible—with her pale skin she looked like a European to the local people. The girl was even more surprised when she heard her speaking her native language fluently.

  “I mean, how can I get out without having to face the crowds again?” Rose added with a conspiratorial smile that the girl found no less bewildering than her knowledge of the language. But she showed her the way willingly, sending her down the corridor toward the kitchen. The warm smell of cooking that met her made her stomach rumble. When another serving girl approached, carrying a tray of pastries, she quickly grabbed one and disappeared through a small back door, through which she had glimpsed treetops in the moonlight.

  The warm wind that enfolded her outdoors drew a sigh of pleasure from her. The humid air was filled with the familiar smell of frangipani, orchids, and jasmine. Between the towering palms that grew on the estate was a deep yellow, waxing crescent moon. The light that spilled from the windows of the house illuminated the occasional branch of gleaming flowers against the darkness.

  After devouring the pastry, Rose walked on and allowed the impressions of the garden, its sweet scents and its night-muted colors, to gradually penetrate her senses.

  The farther she went from the house, the clearer she could hear the sounds of the natural world all around her. Rustling could be heard in the bushes, and every now and again a nocturnal bird flew up with a rapid beating of wings. In the distance, monkeys were calling into the night. The warm wind blew through the trees, the melody of her homeland that she had not heard for so long.

  As the gravel crunched beneath her feet, she wondered if it were possible to capture all these impressions in a piece of music. Vivaldi had succeeded in portraying spring birdsong, summer drowsiness, the whirling of autumn leaves, and the crackling ice of winter in sound, so why shouldn’t she create something similar? All she needed was time and a place in which to sink into the notes in her head, undisturbed by people.

  She finally stopped on a small terrace that offered a view toward the sea and the city of Padang. The water was a narrow, dark strip, the moonlight not yet bright enough to sprinkle the waves with silver.

  Beacons shone out to guide ships on their way, and light could be seen from scattered houses, looking from a distance like glowworms that had alighted in the bushes.

  Rose had never seen her own country from such a perspective. Only once during her childhood had she left Padang, to visit her grandmother who lived far inland. Rose only had hazy memories of the visit—her grandmother’s wrinkled face and the magnificent garden that had seemed like the stuff of fairy tales. Apart from these few snapshots, everything else had faded into oblivion.

  She still recalled, however, that the garden had been terraced and that when she had stood on the top level, she could look out over the whole village.

  “You look as though you’re enjoying the view.”

  Rose whirled round. At first she couldn’t make out the man approaching her along the narrow path. But as he came nearer, moonlight fell on his face, and she could see now that it was the Englishman she had seen on the edge of the crowd—the sunshine man. Without her knowing why, her heart began to thump wildly.

  “Yes, it’s wonderful. It reminds me . . . ” Rose stopped. No, she didn’t want to tell him that. The memory of her grandmother’s garden, which she had only seen once as a child and then embellished over the years in her imagination, belonged to her and no one else.

  Anyway, what was he doing here?

  “What does it remind you of?” he asked, apparently undeterred. He came to a stop, almost as if he thought her an apparition that might vanish if he came too close.

  “Of a place I knew as a child. It’s not important now. What brings you out into the garden?”

  “I was looking for you.”

  “Looking for me?”

  “I didn’t have an opportunity to speak to you earlier—and I also got the impression you didn’t feel comfortable among your circle of admirers.”

  Rose felt blood rush to her cheeks and was glad that this man probably couldn’t see it in the moonlight. “I’m a musician, not an actress. They may feel comfortable as objects of admiration, but I feel at my best when I’m immersed in my music.”

  “That was obvious from watching you play. Vivaldi is one of my mother’s favorite composers. And who doesn’t know The Four Seasons?”

  “They’re my favorite pieces, Winter and Spring. But aren’t you going to tell me who it is I’m talking to?”

  “Oh, forgive me, I didn’t mean to be impolite.” The Englishman looked a little embarrassed as he gave a brief bow. “I’m Paul Havenden. Lord Paul Havenden, to be precise, but I still haven’t really got used to my title.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Rose extended her hand, which he took gently in his and kissed lightly.

  “Now that the formalities are over, we can continue to talk about music. You said you like Vivaldi?”

  “Actually, I like any well-composed music that I can play on my violin,” Rose said with a smile. “After Vivaldi, Tchaikovsky is my favorite composer. And we mustn’t forget Mozart. Which composers do you admire?”

  Havenden smiled a little awkwardly. “I’m afraid you will think me a philistine. I love music, but I don’t have much idea about it. Vivaldi I know. Mozart, too, but that’s probably it. I had to take charge of our estate in England at an early age, which didn’t leave much time for my cultural development. But I can take pleasure in some things that the common man doesn’t have the privilege of experiencing—like hearing you play.”

  “If the common man has enough money to pay for a ticket, he can go to a music hall and listen to me play. The arts are no longer reserved exclusively for the upper classes.”

  The Englishman gave her a wide smile. “I admit defeat. And I promise from the bottom of my heart that I’ll pay more attention to the arts.”

  Rose knew he wouldn’t. As soon as he was back in England, he would once again be bound by his obligations and soon forget this concert. “So what brings you here, Lord Havenden?”

  “Business,” he replied steadily. “Mijnheer van Swieten would like to offer me a share in a sugarcane plantation to the north of the city. It’s run by an acquaintance of his who would have nothing against an Englishman getting involved. He’s an old friend of my late father’s. And you? Are you on tour here?”

  Rose nodded. “My agent has gotten it into his head that, before we break into the New World, I should spend some time entertaining the crowned heads of Asia—and of course the whites who live here. I’ve already been to Siam, Burma, China, and Japan, and now I’m here.”

  “You’ve probably seen more than I have in my whole life.” Havenden laughed harshly. “Up to now I’ve had to live off my father’s stories.”

  “You’ve never left England before this?” she asked.

  Rose couldn’t imagine it. Apart from the occasional winter snows, what was so attractive about England? When her tour was over, she intended to settle in Paris—unless she ha
d been invited to America by then.

  “Yes, of course I have,” Havenden replied. “I’ve traveled through Europe, to Germany, Italy, France, and Spain. But this is my first visit to a country outside Europe.”

  “And how do you like it?”

  “It’s marvelous! What else would I be likely to say to a daughter of this country?” He looked deep into her eyes, almost too deep for Rose’s liking. Perplexed, she took a step back.

  “The truth,” she replied, more brusquely than she had intended.

  “The truth is that I really do think this country is wonderful. My father had a number of friends here and used to go into raptures about the green jungles and the exotic flowers. And the beauty of the women, although you can imagine that didn’t go down too well with my mother.” After a short laugh at his own joke, he continued. “When I arrived, my expectations were very high, of course, but I wasn’t disappointed. And if all goes well, I’ll soon have a share in a sugar plantation. I’m hoping that will mean I can visit this country more often.”

  They looked at one another for a moment; then they heard a voice calling, “Paul?”

  Havenden started, as if he had been torn abruptly from a dream. Rose looked at him with raised eyebrows.

  “My . . . fiancée,” he said quickly, and bent to kiss her hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gallway.”

  “The pleasure was all mine,” she replied and watched as he turned and walked toward the voice of the woman who had called for him again.

  Without knowing why, Rose was somehow sad to see him go. He may not have had much of an idea about music, but there was something about him she found really interesting. When she turned back to look at the view, the crescent moon had detached itself from the palm trees and was now making its way toward the darkly forested mountain.

  “The young man was clearly taken by you.”