Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  I knew that was what he was thinking and suddenly—maybe it’s the stress, or delayed shock or something—I start to lose my cool. I don’t see why I should take that sort of shit, even if he is a bit upset and his penis—I mean, car—has got bent.

  “Yes, it’s mine. And it’s in better shape than yours looks to be just at this moment, you maniac!”

  Ignoring my comment, he launches into another attack. His brief flirtation with good manners at an end, he marches over to Miranda and kicks her back wheel, scuffing his lovely shoe. “What the fucking hell were you doing dumping that pile of shite in front of my gate? In fact, what the hell are you doing up here anyway, Miss…Byrne?”

  “I told you already, Mr…?” As he’s not offering to introduce himself properly, I think it best to remind him of my predicament. “I’m looking for Black Combe…”

  “Well, you’ve found it all right. What I want to know is why you were barricading my gate?”

  “It was a dead end, or so I thought, so I stopped to work out what to do next, and suddenly you came tearing up the road and crashed right into Miranda. You should have been looking where you were going, you moron. And you were driving too fast in this rain. Have you read the Highway Code recently? Have you heard of stopping distances? You could have killed me…”

  As that possibility sinks in I suddenly start to feel a bit weak at the knees. It had been a narrow escape. What if I’d been standing behind Miranda instead of to the side? I would have been splattered all over the front of that bloody racing car. I think I’m going to be sick. Correction, I know I am. Very soon.

  His car is nearest to me and I lean against it, taking deep breaths and bending at the waist as I feel my stomach starting to heave. Mr. Beautiful-When-He’s-Angry is suddenly alongside me. My eyes fixed on the ground, I can see his shiny shoes, one of them scuffed from his unprovoked attack on Miranda, and all I can think of is how mortifying it will be to splatter them with the contents of my stomach. God, this is all I need to top off the journey from hell—throwing up all over a perfect stranger.

  Then it’s all out of my hands—or more accurately out of my stomach—as I heave up my guts down the prick-mobile’s driver’s door.

  “Jesus.” I can hear his muttered curse, but the next thing I know he has produced a clean handkerchief—the proper fabric sort that you have to wash and iron—and he hands it to me. “Here, wipe your mouth.” Then he snaps the top off a small bottle of water and hands that to me too. “Rinse.”

  I am happy to oblige, starting to feel a bit steadier, but as my mind once again takes over control of my bodily functions, the depth of my humiliation starts to sink in. The only saving grace is that the rain is washing my vomit from the car door, and it is trickling away down the lane.

  ‘My gate.’ He said ‘my gate’.

  Somehow through all the nausea, throwing up, and Biblical rain I have registered that this seems to be Black Combe—sorry satnav, I should have had more faith—and that it is his property. I know there must be other instances of people having been fired before they even start work, but do they usually wreck their employer’s car, then throw up on it? This must be some sort of record.

  Suddenly the rain stops, and I realise Mr. Beautiful has produced a large golf umbrella from somewhere—I assume his car boot—and he is holding it over both of us. He looks down at me in distaste and in fairness I can’t really blame him. I offer him his hanky back, and his raised palm and quick headshake make it clear he’d rather I kept it to myself.

  “Again, what the hell are you doing here?” He’s moderated his voice to aggrieved exasperation now, but he clearly wants an answer.

  “I’m the new music teacher.”

  “What?”

  “The new music teacher. From Little Maestros.”

  “Little…?”

  “I teach violin. You want a violin tutor. You said they had to send someone by tomorrow. So here I am. Today.”

  “You’re Rosie’s new violin tutor? What’s wrong with turning up in broad daylight, for God’s sake? Do you know what time it is?”

  “I’ve come a long way. I didn’t want to be late.”

  “You call this not being late? It’s one in the morning. Bloody fucking hell!” Incredulous, and looking me up and down with a mixture of distaste and disbelief, I can tell he is starting to itemize all the potentially disastrous implications of letting some little scruff come into his no doubt pristine and perfect home, masquerading as a music teacher. “Are you even qualified?”

  Now this I had been expecting, and I’m ready. Pushing past him to reach into Miranda’s back seat, I pull out my holdall—which contains mainly the few clothes I threw together what seems like a lifetime ago, back in my room in my mother’s house in London, when everything was sane and normal and dry—and start rummaging around. Grabbing the bunch of documents I shoved in there, I start to rifle through a file of soggy paperwork. Finding my BMus certificate, I thrust it under his nose, hoping he won’t want to examine it too closely because if he does, he is sure to query the date. I attempt to divert his attention with more paperwork. “There, that proves it. Do you want proof of ID, just in case it’s a fake?” I haven’t forgotten Natasha’s doubts, so I shove another crumpled piece of wet paper at him, my birth certificate this time, verifying my advanced age of twenty-two. “And I’ve got a violin in there too.” I jerk my thumb back toward Miranda. ”Want a demonstration?”

  “Too right I want a bloody demonstration, but not out here. I’m already piss-wet through.”

  Tell me about it. I know it’s bloody raining. Does he think I’m totally blind? On reflection, better not to mention that I managed to drive straight into his not exactly invisible gate just before he came hurtling up the lane.

  “Come on, let’s take this inside.”

  Deliberately ignoring my outstretched hand as I wait for him to return my certificates, he tucks my precious papers into the inside pocket of his jacket and picks up my holdall. Still grasping the brolly, he gestures for me to follow him. Stretching once more across Miranda’s back seat, I grab my battered violin case, then trot to catch him up as he strides off into the darkness. We crunch across the gravel together, me following him and trying to keep up with the umbrella. His sharp tone suggests his temper hasn’t cooled much, but I note that, somehow, he smells wonderful. And he seems inclined to offer me shelter, at least temporarily.

  He obviously knows where he is headed, and I have to break into a trot every few yards to keep up with his long strides. About thirty seconds later the house comes into view. I can’t see much detail through the rain, but it is obviously big, solidly built of dark Yorkshire stone, and old. Three large, wide stone slabs make up the entrance steps, topped by a dark wooden door with iron studs sticking out of its surface.

  Pulling a key from his trouser pocket, he opens the door before stepping back and gesturing me past him. I slip inside gratefully to find myself dripping onto the tiled floor of a brightly lit entrance hallway. Facing me is a wide wooden staircase with a beautifully carved banister whose shine rivals my companion’s Italian shoes. I glance furtively down at those, checking for any lingering signs of my vomit in the light. No, still clean and shiny. Relief!

  I deposit my violin case on the floor by my feet and look around me as my companion closes the door, then shucks out of his soaked leather jacket. He gives it a shake and droplets of water scatter around the hallway, and I hear him muttering something along the lines of “…bloody fucking ruined…” as he dumps it over the banister at the bottom of the stairs. I start to wonder if I can sneak my certificates back out of his pocket while he’s not looking, but even as I turn that possibility over in my mind he retrieves them himself. He looks properly at them now, in the light. Thankfully, he is more interested in my birth certificate than the degree.

  “Evangelica—now that’s a name to grow into…” He looks at me, his eyes raking up and down my admittedly small frame, his gaze distinctly derisive.


  “Yes. I was named after my grandmother.” Why tell him that? He’s not interested in my family history. Stop babbling, fool.

  “What’s she like?”

  “Who?”

  “Evangelica the First, your grandmother. Do you take after her?”

  “I don’t know. She died before I was born. And my dad died when I was seven, so he didn’t tell me that much about her either. I don’t think my mother knew her that well. She played the piano…” I trail off, realizing he probably didn’t mean for me to provide my entire life story. “Anyway, it’s Eva. Or Miss Byrne when I’m teaching.”

  He grins sardonically, obviously less than impressed at my attempt to establish some degree of authority and seriousness despite my unpromising first impression. Sarcastic bastard!

  He goes on, still clearly intent on putting me down at any and every opportunity. I feel myself start to bristle. Who the hell does he think he is? He’s your new employer, and you need this job, so keep it civil.

  “So that’s where your alleged musical talent came from then, I daresay. I’m looking forward to seeing whether the lovely Evangelica the First had her name wasted on you.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to reply, probably fortunate for me, as I suspect my response would not have been calculated to endear me to my new boss. He shoves my precious papers back into his jacket pocket before yelling down the corridor leading away from the front door, toward the rear of the house. “Grace, are you still up? It’s me.”

  There is a staircase right in front of us, and on either side are closed doors, painted a smart, bright white, obviously leading to the front reception rooms. I hear a door open and shut somewhere at the back of the house, behind the staircase, then pandemonium breaks loose as what appears to be a small pony hurtles down the corridor and launches itself at my companion. Raising one magic, powerful, authoritative finger, my new employer stops the headlong dash and the pony drops into a sit at his feet.

  Now I see that the huge black and brown blur is in fact the largest and woolliest dog I think I’ve ever seen, and the huge tail thumping the floor suggests it is very pleased to see my companion. It ignores me totally, its adoring eyes riveted on its master.

  By way of acknowledgment, he makes a clicking noise with his tongue and reaches down to tug the dog’s ears. “Hello, Barney. How goes it, mate? Pleased to see me?”

  By way of answer, the dog thumps its tail faster, harder as it shuffles closer to my companion and rubs its massive head against his thigh.

  I am shocked to find myself harboring the unfamiliar notion that snuggling up to this man could be an interesting idea. Christ, where did that come from? I’ve never had the least inclination to snuggle up to any man in my life. Never! And just because this one might be the most attractive example I’ve ever come across as far as I can recall—and I do have perfect recall—that doesn’t change the fact that he’s also grumpy, sneering and plain unpleasant. I don’t even like him, so I can’t possibly be attracted to him.

  As I am trying to sort this tangle out in my head and failing to make sense of any of it, another whirlwind comes rushing in from the back of the house, this time in the form of a small, blonde-haired woman, aged—I’d guess—around fifty-five. Her bow wave of questions arrives momentarily before she does.

  “Mr. Darke, is that you? I didn’t expect to see you tonight. I thought you were in Leeds until Friday. How’ve you got here? And what are you doing coming in the front? I didn’t hear your car. Lord, you’re soaking…”

  Suddenly, as she spots me dripping all over her floor as well, her face lights up in the warmest smile I’ve seen in rather a long time.

  Dropping all interest in my surly host and turning her attention to me, she rushes on. “Ah, luvvie, you must be Miss Byrne. I was getting that worried about you—I was expecting you ages ago and I thought you must have got lost in all this rain, and it’s awful out there tonight.” She stops briefly to catch a breath, then launches back into her flow before either of us can offer any sort of response. “What a good thing you found her, Mr. Darke. She might have been wandering about out there all night. Oh, bless you, love, you’re drenched! You’ll be catching your death. Here, give me your top and I’ll stick it on the radiator. Mr. Darke, have we got any dry clothes for the poor child?”

  She holds her hand outstretched, waiting for my hoodie, and it never occurs to me to argue. I unzip it, push the hood back off my face and shrug out of the sopping fleece without a word, handing it over for whatever remedial treatment this latest force of nature can apply. Released from the confines of the hood my unruly hair, made even wilder by the dampness it has encountered over the last few minutes, bursts out in all its carroty glory, a mass of spiraling tendrils around my face and dripping down my back. I try ineffectually to push it back behind my ears but, as ever, it has a life of its own and other plans. Realizing I still have my glasses perched on my nose, I reach for the pocket of my hoodie before it is borne away by the whirlwind, grabbing my glasses case and shoving my specs in before jamming it into the pocket of my jeans.

  I can feel ‘Mr. Darke’ looking at me and realise—again to my surprise, because these things don’t normally bother me at all—that I am cringing, embarrassed to my core, acutely aware of my unprepossessing appearance under this mop of ginger chaos, and the pathetically soggy picture I must be presenting. First impressions, Christ! Can this get any worse?

  Previously hidden under my hoodie, my outfit is less than impressive. I am wearing a plain black, short-sleeved T-shirt, modestly round-necked and just about long enough to reach the waistband of my jeans as long as I don’t try to reach up for anything. I didn’t bother with a bra when I threw my clothes on after Natasha’s call a lifetime ago, so my miniscule breasts are just sitting there looking ridiculous, especially as my nipples are standing to attention from the rain and wind-chill. I realise I am shivering, mostly from cold but probably not entirely.

  He stares at me, looking me up and down, and despite—or maybe because of—his particular interest in my protruding nipples, he obviously finds me wanting. I raise my chin, defiant and not about to apologize for myself again, but at the same time wishing I could have managed to impress him. Just a little bit. Suddenly, his good opinion matters to me…

  “Lord, she’s shivering. Come on through, love, and let’s get you warmed up. Pretty hair, by the way…” My hoodie and the whirlwind start off back along the corridor heading toward the bowels of the house. I start after them.

  “Seems you are expected after all. And aren’t you forgetting something?” I turn to see him nod toward my violin case, still on the floor by the door. “You’ll be needing that.”

  After picking the case up by the handle, I step past him to follow my hoodie along the corridor and into a huge kitchen at the back of the house, one very grumpy Mr. Darke and one big, very delighted black dog trooping along behind me.

  The kitchen is a lovely, homey mix of old and new, traditional and ultra-modern. The floor is gorgeous, flagged with Yorkshire stone, the whole room dominated by a huge oak table, around which six solid-looking oak chairs are scattered. A large Aga sits in the fireplace, a bright red kettle hissing gently on top of it alongside some sort of lidded casserole dish, and a fluffy blanket on the floor next to it indicates where Barney likes to spend his downtime. He pads in after me and flops down in his bed.

  Two walls are lined with modern, fitted units and I notice a large window over the sink, roller blind pulled down now against the drizzling night sky. A huge, American-style double-door refrigerator occupies another wall, opposite the Aga, and Mr. Darke strolls over to it. Opening one of the doors, he reaches in for a large carton of fresh orange juice and drinks straight from the neck. He then replaces the carton and leans back against the closed fridge door to regard me coldly.

  Before he can speak again, the whirlwind takes charge. “I’m Grace—Mrs. Richardson,” she begins. “I generally look after things here. Cooking, seeing to the housek
eeping, looking after little Rosie—whatever needs doing, really.”

  “Hello, I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Richardson.” Still clutching my violin case with my left hand, I hold out the right one, pleased to be able to demonstrate some semblance of social grace. She shakes it warmly.

  Encouraged, I try again with him. “And you too, Mr. Darke. We couldn’t really introduce ourselves properly outside.” I offer him my hand to shake again, and he takes it, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Now’s my chance to tell my side of it, explain what the hell I’m doing showing up at this time of night, and I’m not letting anyone stop me.

  “I’m Eva Byrne. My agency, Little Maestros, contacted me to ask if I could take over as music tutor here, do Rosie’s violin lessons whilst your normal teacher is laid up. It was very short notice, I’m afraid. I only got the phone call late this afternoon and I got here as soon as I could, but with the weather… And it’s a long way up here from London, so I’m afraid it’s very late. I really am sorry to have inconvenienced you like this…”

  “You drove all the way here from London, in that leaking, clapped out old rot-bucket you dumped down by my gate?” Ah, clearly Miranda’s charms are lost on this Philistine… “You’re lucky to have got this far in one piece.”

  “Is there a problem down by the gate?” Mrs. Richardson is looking puzzled and slightly concerned.

  “Don’t ask,” he says curtly, and turns to me. “Let’s see if you really can play that thing.”

  “Yes, of course…” I place the violin case on the floor and start to unzip it.

  “Oh, a tune will be lovely, but not until she’s had a bite to eat and got warmed up.” Mrs. Richardson is determined to nourish and nurture me, it seems. I am incredibly grateful, actually, because the truth is I am chilled to the bone and famished. “I hope you like lamb hotpot—I saved you some and it’s been keeping nice and hot here.” She lifts the lid on the casserole and gives it a stir with a large spoon. “Should warm you up a treat. Oh, you’re not a vegetarian, are you?” She glances at me, as if worried I might have some more funny habits, on top of arriving in perfect stranger’s kitchen at one in the morning.