Adeena and her gleaming Duncan cello were on a stone floor, playing as if she had been here all along. She sat on a wooden stool, performing with a small group of musicians.
Directly beside her, a man wearing tartan and lace, was playing a violin, in much the same style as Maria, with similar passion. Off to the side, a tall man played on a small boxy-looking piano, while a young lady wearing a collar of white ribbons ruffled together like flower petals, played a pear-shaped instrument Adeena recognized as an English guitar, or as it was more properly called, 'a cittern'. Finally, a young man played on a viola directly beside Adeena.
It all felt so real, and yet so impossible. Her dreams were usually just emotions, vague images. But now her senses were alive with all the textures of this real world. The glowing heat of a nearby hearth felt warm against her face.
Where am I?
Though she was disoriented, she continued to play, taking in the details of the spacious cavern around her. The stone walls stretched high above her head, framed with ornate wooden inlaid corners and rails. A series of framed portraits formed a noble backdrop for the performance. Regal ladies and gentlemen, painted with the same dark oils she recognized from the National Gallery, looked down at the proceedings in solemn countenance. This was some kind of reception, she thought, as she continued playing the lost score that she had rehearsed all week for Friedrich Lang.
Her mind was racing. Is this all real? Did somebody slip something into her smoothie this morning?
A group of about twenty-five men and women, watched her and the other musicians. The men were dressed in jackets and kilts, as if they were part of the Highland Games she had seen down in Maxville south of Ottawa. The women wore wide bell-shaped satin and damask skirts, stretched over stiff petticoats. Each woman seemed more striking than the next, wearing an array of white, mauve, and wine coloured skirts, trimmed with linen and lace at the bodice. Adeena noticed many wore a white rose.
She absorbed every detail. She was in a trance of some sort, aware of who she was, but at the same time, playing the part of someone else who belonged in this strange world.
The music came to a transition in the piece where the cello was picked up by another instrument. The man on the viola took up the cello lines and Adeena found herself setting the Duncan Cello aside. She stood up and began to sing the words she had worked on for the last week and could no longer contain.
Gone is my heart without you,
Now I am lost once again.
Praying for life that grows within,
All I can ask is when?
When will the sword meet the sky?
To show where I belong?
Forever, I will wait for you
Even after I’m gone.
As Adeena continued singing, her haunting voice filled the space with an outpouring of longing and promise and mostly, of hope. The small audience listened transfixed. She finished again on the cello with a solo that echoed her voice.
And then she was done.
She breathed heavily, still disoriented at what was happening to her. But glowing with satisfaction.
Boisterous applause and cheering erupted. A tall young man with long hair, dressed in a dark waistcoat, approached her and lifted her from her chair.
“Rise, Lady Katharine,” he said as he pulled her up and embraced her warmly. Then holding her hand and raising it with his over both of their heads, he turned to the cheering group.
“My sister, Katharine Carnegie,” he proclaimed. “She gives new meaning to our cause. We have found our voice!”
The reaction was deafening and Adeena was overwhelmed with confusion. What was happening? Where was she? What happened to the conductor and the audition?
An older woman approached them and the man was quick to introduce her. “Katharine, this is Lady Jean Drummond, one of the matriarchs of our struggle,” he said deferring to the older woman who carried herself with a regal air. “Her sons carry on the work their father began in the preservation of the Kingdom.”
Lady Jean seemed flushed from Adeena’s performance. “Young lady, you have a gift more powerful than all the swords and all the sterling being collected here tonight,” Lady Jean started, her gaze intense, unwavering. “My son James has a noble title, but you dear Katharine, have reduced to him to a mumbling fool!”
There was a man standing behind Lady Jean. He was tall and fair, with blue eyes staring intently at Adeena. He was dressed differently than the others, in a flowing blue tartan cape, an officer of some sort, perhaps? Though his features were soft, almost child-like, he carried himself with a commanding air.
He moved towards Adeena and bowed his head respectfully.
“Lady Katharine, you have indeed inspired me,” he said, bowing again. “James Drummond, at your service, my Lady.”
Adeena wasn’t sure how to respond. Was this a dream? Was she this lady, Katharine Carnegie? It felt so real, every tiny detail, astoundingly vivid. She could smell the wood fire of the hearth in the distance. She looked around and heard conversations, aware that most of the room was still focused on her. Many seemed as if they waited to greet her.
This man addressing her, James was about her age probably. Who did he think she was?
“Thank you,” she whispered. None of this made sense, but words came out of her mouth anyway, almost like someone else was speaking for her.
The young man who had introduced her, apparently her brother, stood beside Adeena and was breathless to join the conversation. She heard someone address him as George. His features seemed familiar.
“Katharine, you know that James, the Duke of Perth, is here at Kinnaird with purpose. His father died fighting, as did our uncle, the Earl Carnegie, to return the King to his rightful place as our true sovereign,” George summarized with deadly earnest. “They pledged on the day Union was declared with England, that Drummond and Carnegie would be united forever against it.”
Lady Jean took hold of Adeena’s arm firmly.
“My son rallies men to ride with Bonnie Prince Charles, who has returned to lead us against our captors,” she said. “But your brother, the Captain with the Union, is a traitor to our cause.”
Adeena was beyond confusion now. She stared blankly at the group before her.
“And what o’clock will the Captain arrive?” James interrupted.
“He lands at Montrose this very eve,” George replied. “He was summoned to return from Flanders. Seems we’re more important than fighting the French.”
“What business does he have here at Kinnaird?” James asked.
“He is heir to the estate, and covets to recover it from attainment, even though Lady Margaret contests him,” George responded. “But his main purpose, I am sure, will be to convince me to renounce my support for the Jacobite King.
George paused and looked directly at Adeena. “Our brother no doubt, wants us to join him in preserving the Union.”
Adeena knew that none of this was real, but she couldn’t explain it. For now, should could only play a part over which she seemed to have no control. This man, George, looked to her for some kind of reaction. All she could manage was confusion.
But George was certainly fired up. “He and I have sworn allegiance to opposing Kings, but we agreed to meet here, at Kinnaird – the home of our dear uncle, a great ally of your father, James.”
Lady Jean sighed at the mention of her husband. “Will you stand against your own brother, George Carnegie?” she asked in a tone that sounded more like a command. “And will you follow Prince Charles to wrest our kingdom from the crown in London?”
She stared at George with a fire in her eyes so intense Adeena could almost feel the heat from her inquisition. “Or will you join your brother, and fight against us? Against your fellow Scots?” she challenged him angrily.
“Never!”
Adeena was lost, swimming in a sea of confusion. She noticed for the first time that she was dressed in white ribbons and silks herself and that she wore a hea
vy necklace. She touched the jewel hanging from her neck, and then looked up as she felt all eyes turned toward her.
“And you, Lady Katharine?”
It was the young tartan-clad officer, James, asking her. Maybe this was all a set-up, a National Arts Centre theatre production that she had wandered into by mistake. Was it possible? Maybe it was being staged in conjunction with the new exhibit at the Gallery she had been researching, The Art of Rebellion.
“I’m just trying to get a part with the orchestra,” she replied finally. “Sorry, I am not an actress, I don’t know the lines for this scene.” She paused for a second then added, “I’m just a musician and . . .” Adeena paused, unable to finish her thought.
Lady Jean and her George looked at her oddly. James however still seemed enraptured. “And your music powers our imagination of what can be. Your passion leaves us breathless, my lady.”
Adeena studied the tall man bestowing this flattery towards her. James, was it?
“Thank-you,” she whispered trying to get the words out even as she felt her voice fade. Her head suddenly exploded with pain and she was overcome by darkness.
FRIEDRICH LANG STARED at Adeena who lay motionless in her chair.
They had just experienced a remarkable session of musical union. She had even sung to him, like some kind of creature possessed, with words from another realm. The cello solo that followed her singing had filled him with ideas for a sweeping arrangement with various sections of the orchestra. This was the work he had been searching to create, unable to bring to life through his own powers of composition.
“Adeena?” he called out to her.
He stepped from behind his piano and walked towards her. He glanced over at the cello and caught site of the plastic bag in the open case. The brown parchment and faded lettering could mean only one thing – the original copy of this miraculous work.
There was a knock on the door.
“Friedrich?”
It was Walter Leo, his principal cellist, who had arranged this session.
“Just a minute,” Friedrich responded.
ADEENA TRIED TO focus. The world was fuzzy. Distorted. Sounds were muffled.
“Ade-e-e-e-e-e-e-n-a,” The words swirled surreal around her, trying to connect.
Her head felt tight, like she was being constrained in a vise.
“Adeena?”
She suddenly opened her eyes and saw a familiar face staring at her.
“Walter?” she said, confused and staring through a haze.
“You okay? What happened?” Walter asked. She could see the conductor behind him in the distance and Maria standing nearby.
“You passed out Adeena,” Lang said softly. “Does that happen often?”
Adeena was finally able to focus clearly. She sat upright. “No, not really,” she replied. “Was I out long?”
“Just a few moments,” Lang said from his position behind Walter and Maria. He moved forward. “I thought maybe you were overcome with the music.”
He paused a moment before continuing. “Ms. Stuart you are a gifted musician. I would very much like to offer you a position playing here with us, as a member of the National Arts Centre Orchestra.”
She froze, looking at Walter, who was beaming at her.
“You would? Oh my God! Thank you Sir!”
8
PHILIPPE FILLED A flute of champagne for Adeena as they sat at her dining room table, gazing over the sparkling lights of the Ottawa skyline.
He had prepared his signature filet mignon dish, flambéing lobster tails with cognac as a finishing touch. “To you, my dear. You did it!” he said, handing Adeena her the bubbling glass.
“Thanks to my grandmother,” she replied, feeling her eyes well up. She raised her flute and nodded to Philippe through impending tears.
“To your grandmother then,” he offered quietly.
Adeena took a long sip, thinking back on all that had happened in Friedrich Lange’s practice studio this afternoon.
“You know, I passed out during the audition,” she said, treading slowly, to gauge the resistance ahead. “It was really weird. As soon as I began playing, I went into some kind of a dream. But, it was soooo real. Completely real. It was like…” she paused, trying to explain to Philippe, and to herself, what had happened. “It was like a daydream. And I went into some kind of other world. I’ve never felt anything like that before.” She hesitated a moment. “I think somehow, maybe, it was real.”
Philippe eyed her, one brow raised.
Putting down his empty flute slowly, he finally responded. “You’ve had an awfully stressful time lately, getting ready for that audition. Probably even dreaming about it. Then, your grandmother dies, and you get that lost music from Scotland,” he continued, sequencing the events. “Finally, you get to play alone with the conductor of the NAC himself, on a five-million-dollar cello no less.” His face lightened and his tone warmed. “I am sure you felt like you dreamed and went into another world!”
Adeena knew he didn’t believe her. How could he? She didn’t believe it herself. She felt a lingering ache from the experience, but aside from that, wondered if she hadn’t created the whole thing in her mind, maybe some kind of migraine that had built up over the last few weeks?
But every second of it, the sights, sounds, people - even the odours of the wood-burning hearth, the perfumed ladies - all lingered vividly.
“Tara knows you took the Duncan Cello, right?” Philippe asked, changing the subject.
She paused a second at his inquiry. Philippe and Tara were both such sticklers. “Yes,” she answered, stretching the truth like a tight wire over the Grand Canyon. She took another sip of champagne. “Tara was told that the cello needs to be played every day. And well, I am a cellist.”
Philippe smiled, but Adeena knew the wheels were turning in his head. She called him a human polygraph. He laughed at that label, but they both knew he could detect bullshit in any form. It was a job requirement he said, for reporters on Parliament Hill.
Hopefully his sensors were turned off now. Tara had stressed to Adeena that she could not play the Duncan Cello until she got a security upgrade. Paperwork, paperwork. Tara lived for it. The gallery had hired a fellow from a company that sold and repaired musical instruments and had the proper security clearance.
But the man was a simple technician, not a real musician.
This morning Adeena had asked him if he could do the tuning in her office, so she could take some pictures for her exhibit research. As he completed his work, which required him to play a short piece of music, she was struck once again at the haunting tone of the Duncan. Her audition was coming up in just over two hours.
“Can you give me a few minutes to take some more pictures?” she asked the man as he got ready to pack the cello back in its case. Adeena noticed the remnants of leftover sleep in his eyes. He had yawned throughout the tuning procedure. “I’ve got a meal card for the cafeteria if you’d like to get yourself a coffee or something,” she offered, flashing a huge smile as she extended the charge card to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “I was up all night with the new baby. I’ll go get a coffee from the cafeteria and maybe soak my head in it for a while. Take your time. Just pack it up when you’re done and I’ll come back and pick it up later.”
Adeena felt guilty about what she was going to do, but it was a risk she felt compelled to take. As soon as the man left, she took her cello, with its endpin removed, and packed it into the hard-shelled case used to carry the precious artifact.
Then she took the Duncan Cello, carefully placed into her own cello case and left for her audition.
PHILIPPE WAS DOUBTFUL about the whole thing. He tried to ignore his instincts that Adeena took the Duncan cello without permission.
It wasn’t that important. The moment had come that would change both their lives.
His career was taking off. He had done more TV and radio interviews than he could count since his exposé was publ
ished. He had been invited to become a regular political commentator on CBC radio. His editor was talking about new opportunities and hinting at becoming a national political columnist for Post Media. He had even gotten a call from CNN in Atlanta. He knew that at last, he could be a good provider.
And today Adeena had proved to all the world she was a musician. And a damn good one!
Philippe placed the ring case he had been carrying for so long onto the glass dining room table.
Adeena froze, looking up at him with wide searching eyes.
He studied her face. Those green eyes seemed to see right inside of him. Her smouldering looks – full lips, delicate nose, high cheekbones – all were imprinted deeply inside him. Adeena’s face was the last thing he saw when he closed his eyes at night.
He reached for her hand. “Adeena Stuart. Will you marry me?”
She carefully lifted the velvet case and examined the diamond ring, its reflected light dancing in all directions around her. He waited silent, nervous - like a teenager asking a girl out for the first time.
She began to cry and put the case back on the table.
He took the ring from the case, lifted her left hand and placed it on her ring finger.
“Will you?” he whispered, still holding her hand. “Will you be my wife?”
Adeena drew back her hand. She was still crying. He waited. Had he overwhelmed her? Each moment of silence heightened his feeling of dread.
Finally, she spoke. “No, I can’t Philippe.”
His heart jumped into his mouth.
“I’m not sure I can be your wife. Or anyone’s wife.”
He sat stunned, searching for words. “Adeena. I love you, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I’m not perfect, I know that. But I will put you first, every single day. I want to spend my life loving you, loving…” he hesitated, “…our family.”
Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I Page 8