“You’ll never catch him,” George sneered. “The Duke rides a beast that the devil himself has no dominion over.”
“If you support Perth, you are a traitor too!” the Captain said, spitting in disgust. Then he turned towards Adeena.
“I may not be my brother’s keeper, but I do control you,” he warned. “I forbid you from having any society with that Drummond scourge who will soon hang from the highest gallows in Edinburgh.”
“You’re not my keeper either,” Adeena shot back. “You don’t control me.”
“Do not test me Katharine,” the Captain threatened. “You will lose.”
“Chill,” she retorted, suddenly feeling dizzy, bending over in pain, and lowering her tone. “Oh God! I think I need to sit down.”
Adeena felt the world growing darker as she stood upright. Her head tilted back and she felt herself grow weak. George rushed closer.
“Katharine, what is it?” he asked.
Adeena could not speak as all the light disappeared from her world and she fell into George’s waiting arms.
12
IT WAS JUST like Adeena, Walter mused as he hurried toward the cello maker’s shop in Gatineau, just across the river from Ottawa. She always took everything to the extreme. It had been like this since he had watched her first perform as a little girl – her tiny hands barely able to grasp the bow and hold the fingerboard.
Even back then, Walter thought she had a musical gift. He warned her father that true artists usually suffer. But as he and William watched young Adeena play on her child-sized cello, they both knew nothing would stop her.
Walter parked his black Camaro on a side street near Thomas Peeters’ shop, leaving lots of space between it and the mud-caked van in front of him, glad there was no other vehicle behind. He hurried over to see what in the world was happening this time. The call from Thomas this morning had been troubling.
“Thank God you’re here,” Thomas exclaimed as Walter opened the front door.
Adeena sat hunched over in a wooden chair. She seemed to be asleep, head down, body sagging.
“Adeena?” Walter called out to her. He touched her shoulder lightly. “Adeena?”
“She played the most amazing piece I’ve ever heard. Ever-” Thomas exclaimed as Walter studied her. “She brought me the Duncan Cello, and she even sang, I almost cried listening to her, and then…”
Thomas paused and Walter looked over puzzled. “And, then… what?”
“She seemed to go into a trance and then she just kind of passed out,” Thomas replied. “Does she have narcolepsy or whatever you call it when someone just falls asleep?”
Before Walter could reply, Adeena took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She stared at them, disoriented.
“You okay, Adeena?” Walter asked, lightly touching the back of her head.
“Ohhhhhh…” she moaned. “Ohhh my . . .”
Adeena looked at Thomas and then over at the Duncan Cello, which he had laid carefully on his workbench. Suddenly she cried out in pain.
“Jesus!” she cried. “My head feels like it’s going to explode!”
She tried to stand and Walter helped lift her from her chair. She stood, wobbly and took a deep breath. Thomas appeared with some water and Adeena took a sip.
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly. Then she turned to Walter. “I don’t know why this keeps happening.”
Walter studied her. Her parents were still in Scotland and while he wasn’t any kind of relation, he felt a sense of duty. And rehearsals had now been moved up a day for some reason. He needed to get Adeena to a doctor.
Today.
WILLIAM AND JACKIE had spent almost two solid days cleaning out the little cottage Margaret Rose had called home for the past eight years.
Husband and wife differed greatly in their approach to the task. Jackie, although sensitive to William’s passion for history and old documents, valued task completion over sentimentality. She had grown up in a family with five siblings, where turmoil was the natural order. It actually felt strange to her as a kid when things were quiet. It always felt like the calm before the storm and meant chaos in waiting.
Her French father and her English mother had a tenuous hold on order in their home at the best of times, but more often, a hurricane raged inside their suburban Montréal split-level. Maybe because she was the oldest, and constantly struggled to keep her brothers and sisters from killing each other, that she now valued order.
“Look at this!” William called out from inside Margaret Rose’s bedroom. Her husband was obsessed with the ‘treasures’ he had found in his mother’s closet. Boxes of old letters, journals, and documents. He was like a little kid.
“Really?” Jackie called out. “We’ve got to get rid of stuff. You know Murdo’s coming over with his truck at noon, right?”
William popped his head out the door. He held a stack of old envelopes long faded to a musty brown.
“You can’t keep everything, Will,” she responded, dragging the heavy plastic bag she had filled up with old newspapers and magazines.
“No, this is important, Jaq, letters from my grandmother, Faith. I didn’t know she went to University.”
“Yeah, okay. So?”
“She sent these letters to Mum. I think she needed to get the old stories down – she may have dictated them to someone. This stuff is incredible!” William whistled as he shuffled through the letters. “They’re even typed up.”
Jackie knew she wouldn’t be adding anything to her garbage bag from the pile of envelopes in her husband’s grasp. “Okay, lay it on me,” she said with resignation.
William looked up with a smile. She knew he would be happy to stay here for months and read every word on every piece of paper, from every drawer and cabinet in the cottage. Jackie on the other hand, needed to get back to work and besides – something wasn’t right with Adeena. She didn’t like being so far away from her.
“Well, most of it is Faith telling Mum about the history of our family. I don’t think anything ever went right for anyone on her side for the last three hundred years, if you believe all this,” he said, shaking his head.
“Well, they certainly had a flair for drama,” Jackie agreed. “And you believe everything in those letters?”
William took the envelopes and sat down on the sofa. He had opened one and was still absorbed in reading it. After a long silence he put the letter down and rubbed his eyes. He bit his lip and looked like he was processing what he just read. “Remember the lady that Mum always said she saw in her dreams?” William asked looking up at Jackie. “The one who wrote the score that we sent to Adeena?”
“Yes, wasn’t it Katharine, the one in the diary your Mum ‘borrowed’?”
“Yeah, Katharine Carnegie, wrote a piece of music that my grandmother says was very popular in its day, but she says it was also the beginning of the troubles for her family.”
Damn! Why did she let William suck her in? “Troubles? What kind of troubles?”
“Katharine got pregnant and had a ‘bastard’ son. Apparently, they were on the wrong side of the ‘risings’ and lost everything, living in shame and poverty until Katharine died, leaving the child an orphan when he was still a boy,” William said, still holding the letter in his hand.
Jackie looked at her husband. The story echoed his own childhood. She studied his face. He looked out the window towards the sea and a blackening sky.
“So if Katharine was an ancestor on your mother’s side, I guess that would make the boy your great, great . . . well, uber great, grandfather?” she mused.
“Yes it would indeed,” he replied and walked back into the bedroom lost in thought.
ADEENA STOOD ON the stage of Southam Hall, very unsure of herself.
She had arrived early for her first rehearsal as a cellist with the National Arts Centre Symphony Orchestra. She liked the sound of that, but it would take some time before it sounded real.
The other musicians were unpacking the
ir instruments. She hoped Walter and Maria would show up soon. Adeena wasn’t sure of the protocol for rehearsals, or which side of the stage the conductor positioned the cello section. Likely the opposite of what she would expect.
It had been a difficult forty-eight hours. She had managed to get the Duncan Cello back to the Gallery thanks to the help of Michael in security. She handed it off just before Tara came to see her about completing the research for the exhibit. She asked meekly if she still had a job after their blowout the other day. She did. After a lengthy scolding, Tara told Adeena to finish up her research. The exhibit was opening next week.
Adeena had also gone to see her family doctor, who squeezed her into his evening clinic. He was an older doctor but didn’t provide much insight into passing out and migraines. He wrote a referral to a neurologist at the Ottawa Hospital. Adeena mused she could have gotten that from her mother. Hmmm, what she would say about all this? Mom was the medical type – black-and-white-reasoning. She would want to find a logical explanation, or worse, tell Adeena she was imagining the whole thing.
“Adeena! How you feeling?” It was Walter at last, and Maria not far behind. The two walked onto the stage carrying their instruments.
“Much better, now. Thank-you for your help,” she replied. Maria stepped forward and offered her hand.
“Congratulations Adeena,” Maria said. “Welcome to the orchestra. I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Thank you. And thanks so much for rehearsing with me. It really made a difference,” Adeena said.
“It was an honour. That music of yours is still in my head. I’d love to play it again.”
Adeena looked up as Friedrich Lang, the NAC’s music director and the orchestra’s conductor, walked on stage with his usual stern expression, holding an open cardboard box.
“That would be great, Maria. I would really like that,” Adeena replied, watching Lang walk to the front of the stage. She turned to Walter. “Where are the cellos?” Before he could respond, a young woman in a long black skirt, with a dark jacket and high heels, strode on stage carrying a narrow case. The woman approached the music director and his face lit up.
“Adeena, we’re over here. Lang likes us close, to his right,” Walter replied. She followed him and found her chair, near the back, just in front of the bass players.
The woman with Lang opened the zipper for the case and pulled out a rectangular object about four feet wide. She set it down and pulled up a cloth banner rolled inside. Using a pole she snapped together, she stretched the banner to its full six-foot height.
Adeena watched the scene from the corner of her eye as she unpacked her cello. The tall banner was turned towards Lang who studied it, nodding his head in approval. He pointed to the corner of the stage, indicating where he wanted it placed.
“What’s he up to?” Walter whispered to Adeena as the two took their seats, waiting for words from the conductor, and curious about the banner that was being set up. Finally, the woman, the orchestra’s publicist no doubt, stepped away and the banner was visible to everyone in the room.
It featured a stylized silhouette of a classic sailing ship, set on what appeared to be the fabric of a sail. Adeena read the wording:
Voyage of Destiny
A new work by
Friedrich Lang
A black and white photo of Lang lost in thought was inset dramatically behind the wording.
“He finally finished it,” Walter said. Adeena was excited to see what the music director had created. She had a deep affection for composition and composers. She knew the blood and tears required to create anything with emotional resonance.
Friedrich Lang picked up a stack of papers from the box beside his desk and began handing out a booklet to each musician. Adeena waited breathlessly for her copy. The conductor seemed to wait until just about everyone had one before he moved to the cello section.
Lang handed a copy to Adeena and looked at her for a moment, before turning away without a word. She thought he might have offered some form of welcome, but apparently not. He gave a copy to Walter and the other cellists and then strode away quickly to the front of the room.
Adeena studied the cover page with its huge letters: Voyage of Destiny, by Friedrich Lang. There was a note about copyright and some legal warnings in a small font near the bottom of the page. She set the cover aside and arranged the first two pages of the music on her music stand. She studied the opening notes, and the arrangement of the instruments.
“Oh my God!” she whispered to herself, as she continued to read the music. She picked up the rest of the papers and started looking through it – quickly, furiously – shaking her head the whole time and muttering: “No! No! No!”
She looked up, holding her hand to her mouth in shock, and turned her head towards Walter. He too looked perplexed, biting his lip and looking back at her in anger.
The music the conductor had just distributed to the orchestra was the lost music that her grandmother had sent to her.
It was note-for-note, bar-for-bar, an exact copy of the score.
FRIEDRICH LANGE’S PRIVATE study was a place accustomed to drama.
He had fought here many times with the NACO brass – dim-witted bureaucrats always complaining about funding, low revenues, high costs, audience expectations, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . .
Who gave a fuck? Why should he be distracted by their issues? His only focus was music.
Eternal. Passionate. Timeless.
Now finally, he would join the ranks of the legendary German composers, as he brought this lost music into the world, under his careful guidance. He already had a sense of the power of the music, but it was nothing without him. While technically he had not written it, he had discovered it and would bring it to life in the 21st Century.
Just need to deal with these two first, he thought, staring over at Walter Leo and young Adeena Stuart. He thought he should have a word with them before the rehearsal. Should have known they would make trouble.
“This is NOT your music!” Walter started. “How can you dare make such a claim?” The anger on his face was clear. Lang had never seen him this agitated.
“I know the origin of this piece,” Adeena added. “It was written by Katharine Carnegie in the 18th Century. You can’t just steal it like this and claim that YOU wrote it!”
Lang said nothing. He was used to negotiating. He had realized early on it was always simply a question of leverage - measuring your assets against your opponent’s, calculating your liabilities against theirs.
What did they have to offer? Nothing. What did they have against him? Nothing. What did he have on them? Everything!
“It was lost, and I found it,” Friedrich retorted. “I will bring it to life for the whole world, crafting it into a piece that will stand the test of time.” He spoke coolly because he knew his emotions could work against him.
“You didn’t find it! You stole it!” Adeena half-shouted, her voice rising. “You stole it from me when I passed out – in this very room!”
“I seem to remember it a little differently,” he smiled. “Didn’t you steal something yourself, from the National Gallery of Canada?”
Adeena’s shoulders sagged.
“Friedrich please,” Walter began. “I rehearsed that score with Adeena for nearly a week. You’ve copied it, note-for-note. How can you even think about telling the world that you composed it?”
Friedrich looked at his principal cellist. He was a good musician, reliable and talented, if not innovative. Alas, he was a family man first and foremost, with a loving wife he adored.
“Walter, you and I can speak privately if you want. I’m not sure Ms. Stuart here would like to hear about London?” Friedrich purred “London, England?” He waited to see the reaction on Walter’s face.
There was nothing but a stoic look, a clenched lip. Silence fell over the room, save for a few deep breaths from the two cellists lost in their own thoughts.
“Mr. Lang, plea
se,” Adeena started. She looked like she was going to try a new tact. “I know this music, it’s deeper inside of me than. . .” she hesitated. “Deeper than I can explain. I am glad you want to bring it to the world, but you can’t take credit for composing it. It has its own history.”
“I can do what I please, Ms. Stuart,” Friedrich responded. “You have joined the National Arts Centre Orchestra solely at my discretion. It was my decision alone to hire you. And I can dismiss you, just as easily.”
She winced at the threat. But he could tell this one was a fighter, not easily dissuaded.
“My grandmother and my father found that score in Scotland. They sent it to me, and I have the …” her words trailed off.
“The originals?” he smiled. “No my dear, I have the original, unsigned score. I have it stored away, quite safe.”
Adeena’s face hardened as both she and Walter glared at the music conductor. They could still make trouble for him. He had used the stick perfectly.
Now did he need a carrot?
Or a bigger stick?
AS ADEENA PUNCHED the button for the fourteenth floor of her condo, she let out a loud sigh. She wanted to kick something. Or someone. She had gone from hot rage to quiet simmer over the last two hours.
What a day! She had not had the chance to reflect on her latest adventure as Katharine Carnegie, because she had focused completely on her first rehearsal as a member of the NAC Orchestra. She only had so much space in her brain to deal with issues. As the elevator started to ascend, she mused that a glass of wine and a hot bath might be about the only thing she could handle tonight, even though she was as hungry as a horse.
A picture of James Drummond and his head-strong stallion, Balgair, flashed through her mind. She wondered what they were doing right now as she reflected wistfully on the image of horse and rider and the promise she made to James to play at the ‘ball’ he had referred to at Drummond Castle.
Song for a Lost Kingdom, Book I Page 13