Dahlia's Music

by Caitlyn Quirk

  Dahlia’s Music

  by Caitlyn Quirk

  Copyright ©2011 Caitlyn Quirk. All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Art:

  Images of Original Paintings Courtesy of

  Anna Razumovskaya

  ANNA ART Publishing, Inc.

  information@anna-art.com

  www.anna-art.com

  Dedicated to:

  George, the dearest friend one could hope to find;

  Sharon Walker, a beautiful soul who delighted our world and now graces heaven;

  Peter, a true horseman; and

  my family.

  Prologue

  Cirencester, England – 1865

  The little girl was in the library, crouched on the floor underneath the grand piano with sheets of music strewn all around her. She was happy, smiling broadly as she played her game. She would spread out the music in a random pattern around her, then spin around on the heels of her boots catching glimpses of each page.

  One of her brothers was curled up in a leather wingback with a book, as was his habit. He looked up and saw his sister spinning under the piano. Every now and again she would giggle. Michael smiled, too. She was the oddest creature. When he asked her about this strange behavior, she replied quite succinctly that she was mixing the music together. She claimed that everything had music – every person she knew, the big hill behind their house they called a mountain, the trees, and the many animals that lived on the Talbot estate or trespassed through it. She said she heard it all, couldn’t he? He didn’t, of course, but Michael supposed that if he and his brothers could pretend to be pirates or travel to the Earth’s core like in the books he read, then she could pretend to see and hear music in objects both animate and inanimate. He went back to his book and left his sister to her own devices.

  The little girl didn’t just pretend to hear and see music in all things, however. As she spun around and around, arranging and rearranging the sheets of music for different effects, every bar of music she caught sight of sounded loud and clear in her mind in all the glory its composer intended. A full orchestra accompanied the girl wherever she went. When she looked at the music sheets, she could choose which instruments or combination thereof would come alive to satisfy the notes she saw. This was part of the fun, and why she never tired of her game. She also loved to turn some of the music upside down and hear the new auditory creations. With each spin, she saw different parts of the composition, and therefore heard different snippets of music.

  She spun once too many times and fell over amidst a cloud of Beethoven.

  “Dahlia!” Her mother exclaimed, coming into the room and seeing her daughter lying under the piano on top of the papers. The girl sat up immediately, smiling like an imp.

  “Yes, mamma?”

  Despite her chagrin at seeing her only daughter in her best dress on the floor, Penelope Talbot’s heart swelled. She had chosen her daughter’s name well, for a little flower she was. It was rare her face ever showed anything but happiness and always brought to mind the joy of a fully-opened flower ready to drink in sunshine. The girl’s unusually-shaped eyes were the color of new grass in springtime.

  “Come, child. We’re going to visit Doña Serena.” She watched Dahlia scramble up from under the polished instrument and skip towards her. As she approached her mother, Penelope reached out to straighten a bow that had become cockeyed. Once it was righted, she smoothed her hand over the reddish ringlets.

  “Turn around,” she instructed, observing the state of the child’s dress. Not too bad considering she had been sweeping the floor with it. Penelope mentally praised her housekeeper, Glenda, for maintaining the extreme cleanliness of the house so she would not have to waste time changing her daughter’s dress.

  “Good,” she proclaimed, “we won’t be late.”

  “But the Roma don’t keep clocks,” the girl countered.

  “It doesn’t mean they don’t keep time,” Penelope corrected. The travelling tinkers could tell time by the brass sun dials they used as accurately as the expensive clock that graced the mantel of the library.

  She took the little girl’s hand and hurried towards the door. “We’ll be back by supper time, darling,” she called over her shoulder to her son.

  “Yes, mamma,” he replied automatically without lifting his eyes from his book.

  Dahlia was excited as she skipped next to her mother towards the semicircle of colorful wagons. They came to a stop beside one of them, painted a deep, majestic purple.

  “Doña Serena?” called Dahlia’s mother. The silky material covering the opening at the back of the wagon parted with a clinking of bangles adorning the bronzed arm of a woman. Her face followed through the opening. She nodded at Penelope, then her gaze descended on the little girl.

  The woman’s dark eyes scrutinized the girl, taking in every inch of her aspect. The girl did not flinch under this examination. In fact, the child seemed to be doing her own study of the woman. Before the woman could say anything, the girl smiled and said, “I like your music! It is full of strings and little metal clapping sounds. May I come in?”

  Doña Serena arched a brow, looking from the child to her mother, then back again. “You will leave her with me for a time.” It was a command, as this woman was used to commanding among her people. A voice from inside the wagon snapped one Spanish word and Doña Serena added with a slight inclination of her head, “If you please.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Penelope politely. This was the second year the Roma had encamped on their estate. She was still a bit uneasy with their presence, but her husband was doing business with the Roma chief and she did not want to jeopardize his dealings. Besides, she was intrigued with this apparent matriarch and what she had been told when the woman read her palm. She had recounted the majority of her life events to date as if she had known her since birth. She also said that one of her children was ‘special.’ Penelope knew immediately she referred to Dahlia, and the woman had asked to see the child.

  Penelope helped the child in question up the stairs of the wagon. She was heartened to see that Doña Serena’s stern face softened as she looked again at Dahlia. The gypsy cupped Dahlia’s chin and looked into the unique eyes gazing back at her. “You are special,” she whispered, nodding. She nodded once at Penelope, then turned and followed the child into the wagon. The curtain fell back in place, separating Penelope from her daughter.

  Dahlia gazed around the wagon in wonder. From inside, it looked like a rich tent and she instantly felt transformed to a scene from A Thousand and One Nights in Arabia that her brothers read to her. Beautiful, satiny fabrics were hung everywhere – on the walls and the ceiling. The lantern’s light made them shimmer, creating many different hues of the same color. She heard a sound behind her and she whirled around. Doña Serena had something in her hand and when she closed her fingers on her palm, Dahlia heard the metal clinking sound she first heard when looking at this fiercely pretty woman.

  “This is what you heard?” asked Doña Serena.

  “Yes! What is it?”

  “These are metal castanets. Many are also made of wood, but I prefer these.” She clicked them again and Dahlia smiled. The woman put them down and showed Dahlia to a large round cushion on the floor.

  “Sit.” Dahlia sat with her legs crossed under her as Doña Serena sat facing her. Behind Doña Serena was another woman, a younger, softer version of her. Doña Serena saw her and said, “She is my granddaughter, Isabel.”

  Isabel smiled warmly at Dahlia, and brought her a cup of tea. Then, with a few words to her grandmother in Spanish, she left the wagon and Dahlia was alone with Doña Serena.

  “Do you know why you are here?”

  “Mother said you were going to read my palm, but I haven�
��t anything written on it.” She held up her hand to prove her point.

  Doña Serena laughed. “You have your whole life written on it.” Dahlia frowned and looked at her hand. “How old are you child?”

  “Four.”

  “Do you write yet?”

  “Just a little.”

  “With which hand?”

  Dahlia shot out her right hand. Doña Serena took the little hand in hers. It was so small and pale compared to her own. She rubbed the hand gently until the girl relaxed her arm and the fingers became supple.

  “You hear music in your head when you look at people?”

  Dahlia nodded. “And animals, too.”

  “Their music is different?” Dahlia nodded again, expecting the woman to laugh like other people did when she talked about her music. She did not laugh. She nodded very seriously, looking directly into Dahlia’s eyes. “Do you always like the music?”

  Dahlia shook her head slowly.

  “And what does that mean to you?”

  “I usually don’t like that person or animal,” she said solemnly.

  “You have met my granddaughter’s husband Don Alvaro?” The girl nodded. “Did you like his music?”

  “Oh yes! It has the rhythm of galloping horses!”

  Doña Serena laughed. “And this is a pleasing sound to you?”

  The child beamed, nodding emphatically. “Papa says I will have my own pony this year!”

  “Let’s see, shall we?” Serena looked down at the small hand she had turned over, palm up, in her own.

  “So you shall get a pony soon.”

  The child’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

  Serena nodded, looking again at the girl’s palm. She could tell nothing of the sort from the palm, but she knew this for a certainty because she had overheard her grandson-in-law telling Isabel of his business with the child’s father earlier that day.

  As she studied the palm in earnest, however, Serena traced the heart line, the head line, and the life line. This child was strong – in mind, body and soul. The Uranus line indicated a strong perception and subconscious, supported by a strong Mount of Moon.

  “You must always listen to your inner music. It is tied to your instincts and they will serve you well.”

  Dahlia wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but she nodded. The woman used a finger to trace the lines on her hand and follow the contours of her palm. The Upper Mars mount was prominent for such a young person.

  “You are very brave. Determined.” Dahlia liked that. She wanted her brothers to include her in their activities, and they didn’t like “sniveling scared-y cats.”

  “You are well loved, and you know only how to love with your whole heart. When you fall in love, you will not fall out of love.” Dahlia frowned slightly, concentrating on this riddle.

  “You find and appreciate the beauty in all things.” Dahlia knew that was true, and her gaze drifted again to the shimmering fabrics around her.

  Serena gasped, bringing Dahlia’s attention back to her hostess. The older woman bent closer over the little hand, turning it towards the lantern to see it more closely.

  “Is something bad going to happen?” Dahlia asked in a little voice.

  There was no reply for what seemed like a long time. Then, Serena straightened up and released her hand. “You are a very gifted child. The stars in your hand are as numerous as in the night sky. This means you will have many good and fortunate things occur in your life.”

  Dahlia smiled tentatively. The words sounded good, but Doña Serena’s smile had lost its warmth.

  Moments later she was outside the wagon, surprised that the sun was still hanging over the horizon. She squinted at its brightness after the dimness of the wagon’s interior. She would have thought she had been inside much longer. Her mother was beside her and Doña Serena was repeating much of what she had said to Dahlia.

  “And I’m going to get my pony!”

  Penelope smiled down at her daughter, thanked Serena and Isabel, and set off back to the house.

  Isabel approached her grandmother. “Why do you look so sad?”

  Serena stared after the mother and daughter. “Tres puntos graves. Y cruces. Muchas cruces.”

  Isabel looked at the retreating backs of the pair. ‘Three definitive dots and many crosses,’ her grandmother had said. Three life-altering emotional or physical setbacks, and many struggles.

  “So many?” Isabel feared to see even a single dot on a patron’s hand. “Poor thing. Will she get past them?”

  “Not the mother,” sighed Serena. Isabel looked at her sharply. She had assumed her grandmother had referred to the little girl’s reading alone. “The mother’s dot coincides with one of her daughter’s, and lies at the end of her life line.”

  Isabel cringed at the thought. She liked the British woman who, like her, had borne six children. They seemed to have much in common, and she felt a friendship blossoming with her.

  “And the child…the child will lose her gift, her music, and it will take all the courage God gave her to find it again.”

  Then, she went back into the wagon.

  Chapter 1

  London – 1874

  James Kent reluctantly walked into the music hall with his uncle, Ian Kent, the esteemed Lord Telford, who had an ounce of distain for every pound sterling he had in the bank – and this was a considerable amount. His Lordship was tasked with fostering his eighteen-year old nephew – of transforming him from a boisterous adolescent to an eligible bachelor of society. This job fell to him since his brother had died and left his wife and five children with a paltry annual sum that scarcely covered the expenses of food and clothing.

  A program was presented to James as he walked into the hallway. He tucked it into his pocket without looking at it. The Christmas show had been much talked of among his Lordship’s circle of friends – an exclusive society of nobility and others whose extraordinary wealth or position was considered compensation for the lack of titles. None of this was of much consequence to James – yet. The benefits associated with having a rich uncle were measured to him in terms of a comfortable, warm home; a full stomach three times a day; tailored clothes instead of mended seconds; and the privileges of entrance just about anywhere in London that he pleased. He had already experienced the delights of the town’s less reputable houses of pleasure and gaming, and he was quickly becoming known as the most desirable addition to the circle of young gentlemen bent on experiencing all that life had to offer before bending under the pressures their rank demanded. To great extent, the excesses they achieved were overlooked by their families as the normal course of boys entering manhood. Better they get it out of their system now so in a few years they could settle down to the business of marrying well and continuing to expand their holdings and careers.

  While James and his cohorts indulged and gained their experience, their sisters were scrutinized and restricted in directly inverse proportions to the lack of oversight afforded the boys. Society could overlook a good deal in the missteps of a young man, but a single misstep in a female could be grounds for ruining her ability to marry. This disparity between the sexes was recognized and accepted in general. Despite this, young men trying out and honing their skills of attracting and conquering the fairer sex considered all young women outside their immediate family fair game as targets.

  So it was that James strode into the long, rectangular music hall and started to scan the room for suitable prey. If he could spot a young woman with whom he could distract himself during the concert – making eye contact during the recitals and flirting with her during the intermission – perhaps the evening would not be lost to interminable boredom. It was not that James did not appreciate good music – when he was dancing with a pretty girl or three, or carousing with his friends amidst lively accompaniment. It was his experience, however, that concerts such as this one were stiff affairs, spent in stiff chairs. The lead vocalist would be a fat woman – for the most exalted Wagnerian si
ngers always were as if it were a prerequisite for the powerful voices hidden within the protection of the folds of chins and pudgy necks. Many of James’s friends liked big, buxom girls but he did not. Perhaps because most of the girls he grew up with in Scotland were slender – downright thin in some cases from undernourishment. But they had the most beautiful alabaster skin that, coupled with their slight frames, always made him think of the fairies and pixies of the stories on which he was raised. That ideal of beauty had stuck with him when he was sent to England to “better himself and his situation” with his uncle. Here, it seemed that heaviness was a desirable attribute as it was a physical portrayal of one’s wealth and ability to indulge in good food and drink. Lord Telford poked James’s blue velvet coat to indicate they should take their seats. James dutifully followed, noting the portliness of his uncle – a very wealthy man indeed.

  James sighed and took his seat on the aisle, still glancing around the room for some distraction. He spotted a number of young girls but they all looked haughty and unapproachable. This normally did not deter him as these young ladies presented a challenge – if the appearance was true at all. That look was taught at a young age in this society. It was a façade. It was part of the game – they must look uninterested while the boys must work to break the mask and find the real person behind it. Sometimes what was revealed was fun and exciting; other times it merely revealed a copy of the mask – dull and one dimensional.

  As the chorus and players filed into place at one end of the circular hall, Lord Telford leaned forward to greet an acquaintance. James heard the words ‘young prodigy’ and ‘extraordinary talent’ but didn’t catch enough to put them into context. He looked past Lord Telford’s crony but didn’t see any of the musicians or choral singers who appeared very young at all. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye and redirected his gaze. A young blond woman was looking right at him. As soon as she saw him flash his most engaging smile at her, she blushed and looked away before stealing another glance at him. At last! A distraction to an evening of dullness that had scarcely begun.