Dark Melodies (The Black Combe Doms Book 1)

by Ashe Barker

  “Amazing, Miss Byrne. You certainly give us our money’s worth, don’t you?” he says softly, his eyes warm. Ah, not bored apparently…

  They are all looking at me expectantly, waiting for my next party piece. Mrs. Richardson and Barney complete my audience, as before.

  Again, standing in the middle of the kitchen, I shuffle into a comfortable, grounded stance and position the violin under my chin. Closing my eyes, I take a couple of deep breaths—in, out, in, out—and give myself over to the music.

  This time I have chosen ‘Romanza’, a modern piece by Donald Martino, composed specifically as a violin solo. My audience is silent, listening, appreciating, and once more I am in my element, in control, gliding through the haunting melody, sometimes coaxing, sometimes forcing the music out.

  I finish and remain standing as the piece fades into the air. After a few moments’ silence, they all three stand, clapping.

  Mr. Darke walks toward me. Stopping right in front of me, he gently takes my violin and bow and places them on the table. “God, you’re good, Miss Byrne,” he whispers as he lowers his head to kiss my cheek.

  Stunned at the intimacy—although perhaps I should be getting used to his possessive ways by now—I freeze in place and forget to shrug him off as he turns and easily puts his arm over my shoulder to face the rest of his household. No one but me seems at all surprised by this familiarity—and it feels strangely good.

  Suddenly he changes the mood. “It’s not raining for a change. And it’s a clear night. Who fancies a moonlight walk down to the tarn?”

  * * * *

  We have a wonderful time out in the moonlight, all four of us joining hands to walk along the silent, deserted lane, Barney plodding alongside, quiet for once. Rosie’s between me and her father, and we swing her into the air, making her shriek with laughter, the sound echoing around the empty moorland landscape.

  Mr. Darke wouldn’t let us take a torch, insisting that the moonlight would be enough to see by. And it is. We let our eyes adjust, open large and wide to let in what light there is, and find we can see pretty well. We see things we would never notice otherwise—the rustling movements of mice and other little night creatures in the hedgerows, the frantic flap of a bat’s wings as it circles us before heading back toward the barn-cum-garage. And the night sounds are all around us, quiet and constant, a backdrop to our raucousness as Rosie calls out, “Again, Daddy, Miss Byrne—swing me high again!”

  We do, until eventually Mr. Darke makes us all stand still and silent and listen to the night. We tune in to the rustling of leaves, the sound of the rushing beck streaming down the hillside, still full to overflowing, and just once the soft and barely audible whoosh of an owl, which we feel more than hear as he glides close by on silent wings, looking for his supper.

  And standing there, in the middle of the lane, our hands joined, we drop our heads back and gaze up into the night sky. Apart from a few wispy streaks of cloud high up, the sky’s clear and full of the tiny pinpricks of light that I always find so fascinating. The wonders of particle physics aside, I defy anyone not to start to imagine a greater power and presence at work when confronted by the diamond-studded vastness of infinite space. Still, the scientist in me is difficult to suppress, and soon I find myself explaining and pointing out the sights to Rosie, who is rapt with attention.

  “Why are there so many stars?” she breathes, turning in a circle, her little mouth slack with wonder. “And which of those stars is my mummy?”

  No scientific answer to that one, and I find myself stammering, startled, desperately casting around for the right response. Mercifully, Nathan steps in.

  “I think it’s that one up there, sweetheart,” he said, pointing at Venus, the brightest light in the sky. “Must be—that’s the most beautiful one.” Beautiful? Clearly, he still misses Rosie’s mother, and I now assume she’s dead rather than simply absent. I find myself wondering what happened to her. She must have died very young. And does he still love her?

  Apparently satisfied that she now knows her mummy’s whereabouts, Rosie goes back to asking questions about the names of other heavenly bodies, how big they are, how far away. “Are they even bigger than chairs?” she asks, obviously not buying that without some sort of proof. “What about cars? Bet they’re not bigger than our house!”

  “They are all huge, gigantic,” I assure her. “But they aren’t all stars.” Moving to crouch behind her, my hands on her shoulders, both of us looking up into the sky, I start to explain. “There are quite a few planets up there too.” I point out Mars, moving eastwards across the sky toward Saturn, then turn her attention nearer home, to the Moon’s craters, clearly visible from where we crouch, gazing up. I point out the Tycho crater in the Southern Lunar Highlands toward the bottom of the Moon.

  “Why does it have a name when no one ever goes there?” she asks.

  “People have been to the Moon, but not for quite a while,” I explain, and unable to stop myself, I rattle on, telling her that Tycho is fairly new, maybe a little over a hundred million years old, and was probably caused by a bit of an asteroid that maybe broke off and smashed into the Moon. “Even though we haven’t been there for many years, we know every inch of the Moon’s surface, and it is all mapped, every detail. Lots of places on the Moon have names, just like on Earth. There are the Apennine Mountains and the Alpine Valley. And the Sea of Tranquility, though that’s more of a flat plain than a sea as it has no water in it…”

  I stop, realizing—belatedly—that they are all staring at me. Self-conscious, I stand, starting to turn away, apologizing. “I’m sorry, I do tend to get a bit carried away. I’m interested in astrophysics, but obviously I forget not everyone’s as passionate as I am. Ignore me, I didn’t mean to spoil the walk…”

  Suddenly desperately embarrassed, I’m gripped by an overwhelming urge to escape, to change the subject, anything. Although it’s mild in comparison to the blind panic I felt as I ran from my office in Oxford, my heart rate is spiking, and I need to get away. Turning, I start off fast down the lane, almost breaking into a run but I manage to stop myself—that would just be too obvious. I rush off toward the lake, leaving them behind, standing there in the road. I can feel three pairs of bemused eyes burning a hole in my retreating back. Mortified, I try not to cry. And don’t succeed.

  The pounding of running footsteps behind me, coming up fast, startles me out of my self-pitying reverie an instant before I feel strong hands grab me around my waist from behind, and sweep me off my feet. “Where are you off to, Lucy Skywalker?” He holds me in his arms, spins me around then, standing still, he blows a raspberry into my neck.

  To say I’m stunned doesn’t even touch the sides! A raspberry! Christ! Startled, I clutch his shoulders, scared he might drop me. “What are you—?”

  “So, you’re a star-gazing nerd as well as a beautiful musician? You take things too seriously, Miss Byrne. You take yourself too seriously. Lighten up—you’re among friends here.”

  “I… But… You’re my employer, and I…”

  “Well, strictly speaking I’m a client of Little Maestros rather than your employer.” I start to protest at his splitting hairs that are already quite narrow enough, but he isn’t to be put off. “And I like you. You’re staying in my home, with my family. You’re pretty, and clever, a brilliant musician as far as I can tell, and a good teacher. And you know all about the Moon as well, so that’s a bonus. Rosie likes you. Grace likes you. That makes you my friend, at least. What’s not to like?” He lets my feet down and turns me to face him, his hands loosely clasped together behind my back, and looks down at me, waiting.

  Well, I suppose he must be looking down at me. I’m staring at my own feet, my head a chaotic tangle of emotions crashing into one another. I’m confused, exhilarated, delighted and terrified, paralyzed by my own intense desire for at least some of this to be true—could it be possible that this beautiful, sophisticated, gorgeous man, and his amazing family, might see something i
n me that is attractive? Likeable? That he—they—could see past the bookish, short-sighted, flat-chested, plain little swot with hair like a bunch of electrified carrots to find something nice? Something interesting? Something to admire?

  After a few moments of silence, he tips my chin up with a gentle finger. His eyes on mine are warm, soft and dark. “Are you crying, Miss Byrne?” he asks softly, gently, and I realise I am. With his thumb he wipes away the single tear that has started to roll down my cheek, and bringing his other hand up to my jaw, he frames my face with his hands. “Are you unhappy here?” he whispers.

  “No.” I mouth my reply, not wanting to break the spell.

  “Ah, something else then. May I…?” His face lowers slowly toward mine, and I know he intends to kiss me, properly this time. He mumbles, “Holy fuck, Eva,” before he brushes his lips over my jawline, then settles them on my mouth. Despite the tingle that shudders through me, shooting straight to my toes as his mouth softly explores mine and his breath mingles with my own, the kiss is quick—quite chaste, I suppose you’d say. After all, we do have an audience.

  “Daddy and Miss Byrne, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” A delighted Rosie has caught us up and is singing, dancing round us in a circle. “Daddy, is Miss Byrne your girlfriend? If she’s your girlfriend, can she still be my teacher? And do I still have to call her Miss Byrne?” All good questions.

  Mrs. Richardson comes bustling up to us, marginally more discreet than Rosie but not even trying to hide her interest in this new shift of events. We all three look to him for answers, for some announcement as to how things now stand. Only Barney seems not to care.

  “Not yet. Yes. And yes,” he answers firmly, taking my hand. “Now, shall we get on? There’s stone skimming to be done at the tarn.”

  * * * *

  The following morning, Saturday, I wake up late. It’s the weekend and we did have a late night yesterday. I lie there, my stomach fluttering oddly as I remember every detail of Mr. Darke’s kiss from last night, out under the stars. And I realise I’m happy—actually, consciously happy for once, as I admire my pretty blue and yellow curtains and the delightful way the sunlight is spearing through a crack, throwing a beam across the room.

  Getting dressed, I start to make plans for my day. I have decided not to go back to London for more of my gear. It’s too much trouble, and frankly I don’t want any of my old stuff anymore. Instead, I have decided on a buying spree. Following last night’s highly charged revelations about how others might see me, I am starting to feel just a little bit differently about myself. Nothing spectacular—I’m not about to reinvent myself, whatever that might mean. But I am going to get myself a new—well, updated—image, which will include some grown-up, sophisticated clothes. Maybe even get my hair styled. So I’m going out. And for this, I need Miranda.

  Entering the kitchen, I find Mr. Darke and Mrs. Richardson already there. He’s eating an omelet and she has a cup of tea and some toast in front of her.

  “Morning, love. What do you fancy for breakfast?” Mrs. Richardson is starting to get up, so I wave her back into her seat.

  “Just coffee for now. I’ll get it,” I say, helping myself from the percolator. I feel much more at home here now, and I am used to fending for myself.

  Turning to Mr. Darke—I wonder if maybe we might be on first name terms now?—I decide to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak. “I need my car back, please. Do you know when I can collect it?”

  He shrugs. “Jack’ll phone when it’s ready. If you need a car in the meantime, you can borrow one of mine. The Discovery might suit you.”

  Not the answer I was hoping for. I want to go shopping. I want my car—I want Miranda. I decide to press the issue. “I’m not really used to driving anything that big. I’d prefer Miranda, really, and I’m sure there wasn’t that much damage done. Maybe I can go and see this Jack, find out how long he’ll be…”

  Putting down his fork, he looks up at me sharply. “That bloody car wasn’t roadworthy even before you decided to use it as a roadblock, so don’t go getting your hopes up.” Does he mean Miranda is a write-off? Please, no!

  At my stricken look, Mrs. Richardson takes pity. Patting my hand, she is quick to reassure me about my precious Miranda’s well-being. “Don’t worry, dear, Jack can work wonders. We’ll soon have your little car back.”

  A snort from Mr. Definitely-Not-on-First-Name-Terms-This-Morning Darke indicates his general contempt for the notion of giving Miranda houseroom again any time soon.

  “And if you want, you can borrow my Clio to run about in,” continues Mrs. Richardson, judiciously ignoring our mutual employer. “So, where are you thinking of going?”

  “I need to go shopping. For some more clothes. I can’t carry on with just two outfits. And I need…” Glancing at him and hoping he isn’t listening too carefully, I continue, “I need some…underwear, and things to sleep in. And I want to get my hair cut.”

  At that he shoots bolt upright—so much for not listening.

  “Where should I go, do you think? Are there nice shops in Bradford? Or Keighley? Do you know of a good hairdresser round here?”

  “Ah, lass, you need to go to Leeds for all that sort of thing, or even maybe Manchester,” offers Mrs. Richardson, shaking her head—I presume in resigned acceptance of the general shortcomings of the more local retail amenities.

  Leeds sounds good to me. “Okay, so how far is Leeds from here?”

  She glances at Mr. Darke, questioning. “At least an hour’s drive, probably more. Depends on the traffic. And you’d need to get parked as well. Or you can get there on the train from Keighley.”

  “Train’s probably best. Could I borrow your car to get to the station? Unless you need it today, obviously…?”

  “I’ll take you.” Mr. Grumpy Darke is quick to offer. He’s finished his omelet and is looking at me intently, his dark chocolate gaze holding mine and effectively shutting out his housekeeper. It’s now between him and me, it seems. “To Leeds. I’ll drive you there.”

  “Really, there’s no need. I don’t want to put you to all that trouble.” An hour or more, alone with him, in a car. And all the way back. I’ll be a bag of nerves.

  “No trouble. Not today, though—next week.”

  At my puzzled look, he reaches up his hand and gently places the fingertips between my eyebrows, the warning look in his eyes telling me in no uncertain terms to be still, not to move, not to pull away from his touch. He gently smooths my ‘frown’ away. “There, that’s better. Please try not to frown at me every time I talk to you. I’ve told you before, I don’t like it.” His tone is quiet, but commanding. Under his words is the unspoken instruction—he means me to obey him.

  “I’ve something to ask you.” He stands and strolls over for a coffee refill, then glances back at me, his head tilted in a question as he silently lifts the jug, offering me one too. I shake my head, my nervousness growing at where he might be headed now. “Next Thursday I’m going to an awards do in Leeds. I’m up for a couple of awards for designs my firm did. It’s prestigious, a black tie affair. I want you to come with me.”

  Again, I am speechless. Can he be serious? He wants to take me—me—to a posh dinner where he needs to impress business colleagues? What is the barmy sod thinking of? I’ll probably throw up on the red carpet or trip up a waiter carrying a tureen of soup. And I can’t dance to save my life.

  My tongue bursts into life first, marginally before my thinking apparatus, which is usually a lot more on the ball than of late. “You must be joking! Me? At an awards dinner?”

  Actually, I have been to black tie affairs before, mainly academic functions, but the principles are the same. Men in penguin suits, women mincing about in glittery black dresses on spiky high heels. Lots of back-patting and false compliments, envious congratulations and insincere praise for the achievements of others and resentment about their undeserved rewards.

  And the one overarching reason I know why I can’t go to
this illustrious event with Mr. Darke is that I have nothing suitable to wear. And no idea at all how to put an outfit together. When faced with this sort of challenge in the past, I’ve usually gone to a dress hire place I know in London and just got suitably kitted out for the occasion. I tell them what I want, what the do is—they usually keep lists of these functions and they know the score. I wear whatever they suggest, right down to shoes and bag. That works. It’s an excellent system. They even keep a note of what I’ve worn to where, to make sure I don’t appear twice in the same dress. Perish the thought! In fact, their meticulous record-keeping regarding my formal evening wear history doesn’t require a lot of ink.

  Anyway, last time I looked out of the window there was no posh frock hire place in sight. Ergo, no awards dinner for me next week.

  He clearly has other ideas, however. “No, I’m not joking. I want you to come with me. You’ll enjoy it. And I know I will if you come…” Innuendo again, wet panties again, getting to be a bad habit.

  “I don’t have any ‘black tie’ clothes.”

  “You’re planning to go shopping. Buy what you need. I’ll pay.”

  “I have my own cash, thanks.” I can’t let him buy my clothes—that’s just too personal.

  I can afford to buy what I need. And I was planning on a few nice tops, pants, maybe a nice skirt or two, not a posh frock and all the trimmings. Shit, I don’t even know what trimmings to get. This madness needs scotching. Now.

  “Sorry, thanks for asking, really. It’s a kind thought, but it’s not my sort of thing. I’m sure you’ll find someone else.” There, that’s me being polite. My mum would be so proud.