Accidental Engagement

by Green, Cally

  Nevertheless, she could not ignore Mr Leverington as he came out into the garden, and neither could Mark.

  ‘Now then, you young lovebirds, it’s no use hiding away,’ said Mr Leverington indulgently as he came towards them, with Serena on his arm. ‘Anna. We have come to ask you to play.’

  Play. She took a minute to compose her thoughts.

  Yes. She would like to play. The piano was familiar, and something she understood. It had always been there for her, and although for some reason the music in her holdall frightened her, playing the piano did not. In fact, she knew instinctively that she had turned to the piano in other troubled times, to calm her nerves and soothe her spirits when the world had seemed a hostile place.

  ‘Yes, Anna, do come and give us a tune,’ said Serena mockingly.

  And Mark, still angry with her for reasons she was unable to fathom, added his voice to Serena’s. It was as though somehow he expected her to make a fool of herself. And worse, that he wanted her to fall flat on her face.

  But if he thought she was going to crumple then he was very much mistaken. ‘I’d love to,’ she said, turning to Mr Leverington. Already she could feel her fingers flexing. How long was it since she had played?

  ‘And whilst you’re here, perhaps you could let me know what you think of the piano,' said Mr Leverington diffidently as they went inside. ‘It seems a bit showy to have a grand, but Serena always has to have the best.’

  ‘But of course,’ said Serena smugly. She was hanging on to Mark’s arm as if he was another example of “the best”, only this time, to Anna’s disgust, Mark was showing no sign of resenting it.

  ‘Although it seems a bit ostentatious when no-one in the house plays,’ apologised Mr Leverington.

  ‘I play,’ remarked Serena; a fact her father did not choose to comment on.

  ‘I know nothing about pianos.’ He stood aside so that Anna could precede him into the music room, a large, spacious room with ceiling-height windows that allowed in floods of light. ‘But I believe this one is remarkably fine.’

  ‘A Yamaha,’ breathed Anna as she went over to the instrument. ‘A Yamaha grand.’ She couldn’t contain herself any longer. Reaching out one hand, she lovingly touched the keys. The tone was exquisite.

  ‘But of course, in your career, you must play on good pianos all the time.’

  Anna paused. It was true. She must. A concert pianist would play on only the finest instruments. But having the opportunity to play on such a good piano seemed like a treat to be savoured, not like something she did every day.

  ‘Well,’ asked Serena tauntingly. ‘Is that all we’re getting?’

  Mark, his anger visibly cooling, looked as though he wished Anna had not exposed herself to Serena’s jibes.

  But Anna rose above the taunt, saying confidently, ‘Oh, no. Far from it.’ Her fingers were itching to begin. Sweeping the skirt of the beautiful primrose silk beneath her she sat down on the piano stool. What to play? The choice was mouth-watering. Some Chopin? No. Debussy. The toccata. The toccata from Pour le piano. That should make them all sit up!

  As she placed her hands in readiness over the keys she had a flash of memory. “Ach! The toccata! Fingers with the speed of pistons, ja?’ boomed a heavily-accented German voice in her mind, before dropping to a whisper as it murmured, ‘and the touch! Like a butterfly!”

  She smiled at the memory, and the first notes rang out into the summer air. The toccata was dazzling, the rising and falling melodies set above a rushing cascade of notes. The effect was magical. As she played, Anna found that snippets of memory came back to her, of music lessons and happy times, so that when the piece was at last finished she felt rejuvenated.

  She looked round - and had to blink. She had almost expected to see a small, cluttered room, with old Mrs Voronowski sitting in the corner saying, “Again, child! Again!” Instead of which she saw the Leverington’s elegant music room, and a sea of newly-familiar faces, all mesmerised by her playing. And then the silence broke, and there was a spontaneous burst of applause. She blushed, unused to such flattering attention, and slid from the stool.

  She caught sight of Serena’s malevolent expression, quickly hidden, but was too exhilarated from the music to care. Claire was right. It was she to whom Mark had proposed. Serena’s hostility couldn’t hurt her. It was nothing more than petty jealousy.

  From out of the crowd, Mark came forward to claim her.

  ‘Where did you learn to play like that?’ he asked, impressed.

  She smiled. ‘At Mrs Voronowski’s. She was my teacher. She lived in the attic flat.’

  ‘Convenient that you remember,’ he said, his voice laden with irony. It was as though he hadn’t realised that it was the music itself that had opened the door of her memory, and that had provided her with a glimpse of what her past had been.

  ‘My dear, that was magnificent,’ said Mr Leverington. ‘I never imagined - but of course I should have known. Any time you want to borrow the piano you must come over here - don’t wait to be asked. Just whenever the fancy takes you.’

  ‘You’re very kind, but I won’t be here much longer,’ she said.

  ‘No?’ He sounded disappointed.

  ‘I have commitments,’ she explained.

  ‘I understand. Well now, I mustn’t monopolise you. There will be plenty of other people who want to talk to you.’ He turned to Mark. ‘But look after her, Mark. Make sure she doesn’t get too tired.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

  It was early evening when they finally returned to Little Brook. The rest of the afternoon had passed off enjoyably. Or at least, it would have done if Mark had not been so moody. But although Anna had been disturbed by this, she had nevertheless made the most of the opportunity to get to know some of his friends. And when they finally returned to Little Brook she had plenty to tell Emmy, who was eager to hear all about it.

  ‘And Claire will want to know, too, but she isn’t as shameless as me about asking!’

  Anna laughed. She was pleased to find that Emmy, although spending the evening quietly in her own room, looked much better. The worst of her headache had passed off, leaving her in a mood for a little light diversion.

  ‘So, my dear,' said Emmy with a twinkle. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Better than I expected,’ Anna smiled.

  She entertained Emmy for the next half hour with an account of the afternoon. Emmy was delighted to hear all about it, and to learn that Anna and Mark had been invited to a charity ball at the start of the following week.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’ll still be here, it would have been an awful shame to miss it,’ said Emmy. ‘The Kettering’s charity balls are renowned. I used to go to them myself when I was younger. I find them too tiring now. But you’ll have a wonderful time, my dear.’

  Anna returned to her room in happy mood. Happy enough, and confident enough, to do what she knew she must do next: try and recover some more of her memories.

  The afternoon had already produced some new images, the music unlocking a few previously hidden details, and she wanted to try and concentrate on those images, hoping they would expand into something even more revealing.

  She went over to the bag of music which lurked behind the curtains. It had frightened her when she had looked at it before, but she felt strong enough to look at it again. She was no longer feeling weak from the accident, and more importantly she felt more certain about Mark. Their argument over the ring still troubled her, but not sufficiently to make her feel afraid. She felt at home here, and she felt strong. Whatever memories the music brought to the surface, she felt she could cope.

  She pulled out the bag.

  Mrs Voronowski, she thought, as she opened it. She was my music teacher. She lived in the attic flat, and we had the one on the first floor.

  But who were we?

  She sat back on her heels and thought. She focused her mind, picturing the shabby flat she had lived in as a child - and as a woman. A battered o
ld sofa covered in crushed velvet had been pushed against one wall. A small table had been pushed into the bay window. They used to eat there, her and her father . . . Her father! Yes, she remembered him. A grey-haired man with kindly eyes. But the memory was a sad one, because she remembered that her father was dead. But there was something else, something that had come after his death, something she could catch glimpses of just at the edge of her memory . . . What was it? And why did it make her afraid?

  She looked around the beautifully-furnished bedroom to give herself courage. Here there was no need to be frightened. Whatever there was in her past that had alarmed her, it could not reach her here.

  She looked down at the bag of music and, taking a deep breath, she opened it. The Chopin, the Debussy . . . She flicked through the music. Für Elise. There it was again, that frisson of panic. Für Elise. What was it about that piece of music that worried her so? She had an instinctive desire to push it away from her, but she fought it. That piece of music somehow held the key to her past.

  There came a knock at the door. Anna, startled, put the music back in her bag and pushed it to the side of the room. But not hidden away this time. The answer was there, she was sure of it. She just had to be patient, and it would come to her. But she had the disturbing feeling that she did not really want to know. Because when she did it would change things. And she did not want them to change.

  ‘Who is it?’ she called.

  ‘Mark. Can I come in?’

  She went over to the door and opened it. He was looking very handsome.

  His hair was rumpled, as though he had been running his hands through it, and his eyes looked softer than usual - it must be the evening light.

  ‘I’ve come to apologise.’ He was looking genuinely repentant for his earlier ill humour, and took her hand as if he could say what he was feeling so much better without the use of words.

  Anna felt a pulse of energy ripple over her at his touch, making her skin tingle.

  There was a moment when he seemed to wrestle with himself, as if trying to come to terms with some inner problem, and then he said, ‘This is a night for lovers. Come and look at the stars.’

  She smiled, her tension relaxing as she realised that, whatever his problem, he had resolved it, at least for now. He was being charming again. Charming and sexy and desirable. And as they went out onto the terrace she felt confident that, whatever the darkness of her past, her future with Mark was bright.

  They evening air was cool and caressing. The sky above was a velvety black, punctuated with brilliant points of light.

  ‘What do you want to apologise for?’ she asked as they walked together, holding hands. It felt comfortable and companionable. It felt right.

  ‘For the argument. And for the lack of a ring. I should never have left you open to Serena’s jibes. There’s a jeweller’s I know of, it’s out of the way but well worth going to. They have a lot of unusual rings there, more creative than the sort found in town.’ His eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Somehow a gold band with a jewel in the middle of it seems too ordinary for someone whose fingers can create paradise on earth.’

  ‘You enjoyed the music?’ she asked, pleased.

  ‘It was exquisite.’ He turned to face her and his smile faded, his mood becoming more intense. He cupped her face in his hands and for one exhilarating moment she thought he was going to kiss her. ‘Like you.’ He seemed to wrestle with himself for one last time, as though he felt he ought not to be saying these things, but the moon was full and the stars were out, and she knew that his feelings would not be denied. ‘I see you in emeralds,’ he said softly, his hands dropping to hold her own, ‘but the choice is up to you.’

  Questions about his earlier angry words seemed meaningless now. What did it matter that he had accused her of pretending? That he had said she knew as well as he did that there was no ring? They had obviously had an argument centred around the ring in the past but the white band on her finger showed that at some time there had been one, and whether he had taken it back, or whether she had flung it back at him, seemed suddenly unimportant. Right now she wanted no more than she had. A moonlit night, Mark’s arms around her . . . Well, perhaps one thing more . . . She turned her face up to his.

  He raised his hand and gently pushed her hair back from her face. ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ he asked.

  ‘Positive,’ she breathed.

  He put his finger under her chin. Bending his head to hers, he touched her lips.

  His kiss was slow and sensuous and she felt herself melting into it, the combination of strength and tenderness leaving her weak at the knees. She clung to Mark more tightly, her arms winding themselves around his neck and her hands pressing his head forwards so that his mouth moved even more closely over her own. It was blissful and arousing all at the same time. And when the soft warmth of his tongue began to part her lips she felt a surge of energy that threatened to rob her of every restraint.

  How far had their relationship gone? she wondered, before all rational though was banished as his hand trailed down to her breast. She gasped at the intensity of the sensation, feeling its effects throughout every inch of her body . . .

  . . and her gasp seemed to change something in him, as though it had awakened him to the fact of what he was about to do.

  She felt a feeling of loss as he pulled away from her, her whole body aching for him. She wanted him to go on kissing and caressing her, and looking into his eyes she could tell he wanted it too.

  ‘You’re still sore from your injuries,’ he said, his eyes never once leaving her own.

  But regardless of her injuries, and regardless of the moods that seemed to overtake him from time to time, she knew that it would not be long before he made love to her . . . and that it would be worth the wait.

  Chapter Five

  ‘It seems you have an admirer.’ Serena’s father spoke indulgently.

  Serena, glancing out of the window, pulled a scornful face as she saw Geoffrey Watson getting out of his Jaguar.

  ‘Now don’t be like that,’ said her father mildly. ‘Geoffrey Watson’s a harmless young man.’

  Serena, about to declare that Geoffrey Watson was as boring as he was poor, bit back the words just in time. The Watsons were old friends of her father’s, and she knew it would only make him angry if she gave way to her true feelings. Composing herself, she received Geoffrey with a good grace, whilst her father received him with genuine warmth.

  ‘And did you enjoy our party?’ Mr Leverington asked, listening patiently to Geoffrey’s effusive reply. ‘Good, good. Well, I’ll leave you two young people together. I have to see Potter about the roses. He wants me to have climbers, but I’d rather have ramblers.’ He gave an attractive smile. ‘At the moment, I don’t know which of us is going to get our own way.’

  Mr Leverington left the room and Serena allowed her mask of civility to drop, openly examining her nail polish whilst Geoffrey stammered out a few polite sentences about the party and about how charming she had looked.

  Serena didn’t listen. She would have to entertain Geoffrey for a reasonable length of time, or her father would ask her why he had left so soon, but she did not feel herself to be under any obligation to entertain him. He had paid the call. He could be the one to use up his energies on entertaining her.

  ‘ . . . wondered if you could tell me what I ought to do.’

  Serena, lost in a daydream in which Anna’s accident had been fatal, became aware that Geoffrey had stopped speaking. Unfortunately, as she had not been listening to a word he had been saying she had no idea how to reply. She covered it up, however, by turning the tables on him and saying, ‘What do you feel you should do?’

  ‘Well. Part of me thinks it’s none of my business -’

  ‘Then stay out of it,’ said Serena, returning her attention to her nails.

  Geoffrey did not reply. She was forced to look at him again. ‘Well?’ she asked.

  He looked embarrassed. ‘It�
��s just that . . . I thought that . . . . with him being your friend . . . well, that you’d want him to know.’

  Serena studied him for a minute. With him being your friend. Who could Geoffrey be talking about?

  ‘I think you ought to start again. At the beginning.’

  ‘But I’ve already told you . . . ’ Geoffrey protested.

  ‘Again,’ said Serena, uncurling herself and leaning towards him.

  He sighed. ‘ . . . and so when I saw her with Mark, well, naturally, it came as a bit of a shock.’

  Serena’s eyes hardened. ‘Anna? When you saw Anna with Mark?’

  Geoffrey nodded.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I wondered, then and there. Ought I to tell him?’

  ‘Tell him what? I just want to make sure I’ve got it clear.’ Serena was suddenly paying close attention, and Geoffrey was flattered.

  ‘Well, that Anna isn’t a concert pianist,’ he said expansively. ‘His fiancée’s a fraud.’

  ‘A ring?’ Mr Harvey, a small, dapper man, bowed from the waist. ‘But of course.’ He turned to look at Anna. ‘I’m sure we will find something that is to your taste. But if not, we can always make one. We have a fine selection of stones, and we can design a band to your own specifications, or supply you with a choice from our best designers.’

  Anna looked at the trays and trays of rings that had been brought out for her inspection. There was nothing mass produced here, like the rings she had seen on jeweller’s pads in shop windows, and like . . . the memory eluded her, and she did not chase it. There was too much to look at, and too much to think about. Her memories would have to wait.

  The trays were laid out on a large table. So far there were about a dozen. Each one held six rows of three rings, all embedded in velvet. As he spoke, Mr Harvey displayed yet another tray. 'Perhaps these will do to be going on with. Emeralds, I think you said?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mark’s reply was brief.

  Anna was relieved that he had suggested emeralds. Somehow, the thought of a diamond had given her a chill. But emeralds . . . warm, green emeralds . . . yes, she would enjoy wearing a ring like that.