Dahlia's Music

by Caitlyn Quirk

  The musicians began and James recognized the opening number as ‘O Come All Ye Faithful.’ The chorus joined in and reminded him of church. He was actually beginning to hope the fat operatic singer would enter to break the sameness of the chorus. A stray thread on his thigh drew his attention and he picked it up and flicked it away. Odd how he had taken to self-examination to ensure the perfection of his attire. He had never cared about the state of his clothing in Scotland, much to the dismay of his mother. James wasn’t sure whether the reason for this was that his clothes his uncle had made for him were so fine as to deserve such attention, or that he cared how others viewed him now. He mused how the past year had gone by so quickly, yet he fancied he had grown quite a lot. He had left his home and family a mischievous boy eager to see the world. Now, because he had some little experience with bedding women, he considered himself a man. He had seen more of the world and his quick mind – always applauded in school – was absorbing everything he was taught here. His uncle had heard rumors of his quick learning – academic and otherwise. At first, these rumors had amused him, but their increasing frequency was now bordering on irritating with the distinct possibility of becoming embarrassing. In the past month, James had been reprimanded several times for his disheveled state of appearance on returning home and of his behavior. He threatened James with writing to his mother which caused him to pause. He sincerely did not want her to hear bad reports of him. He knew very well that his ability to succeed under his uncle’s tutelage would secure him as his uncle’s heir, and that would secure his ability to provide for his family back in Scotland. Lord Telford would not directly support his mother and his brothers and sisters. He disapproved, along with James’ grandparents, of his parents’ marriage. Lord Telford had grudgingly explained that he would consider making James his heir out of the love he had once had for his brother, but that was all. In the meantime, James was beholden to his uncle, his rules, and his demands.

  James’s head was still bowed in thought as the first verse of the chorus finished. Then, the second verse began with a note so pure it sounded like the chime of expensive lead crystal. No crystal toast, however, was so prolonged, so strong.

  His head snapped up to find its source but he saw only the chorus and musicians. The note became words and the voices of the chorus were reduced to mere accompaniment supporting this beautiful voice. Everyone in the audience craned their necks to see the vocalist. From behind the chorus came the voice, and the semicircle of singers parted slightly as a young girl walked slowly through the opening and closed again behind her. The singers now framed this slight youth in a dark green satin dress. Her titian hair formed tight ringlets around her head and framed her face. In that face of ivory skin, just above the slightest hint of pink on her cheekbones, were the most extraordinary green eyes James had ever seen. They were large and almost cat-shaped, upturned slightly at the corners. Her lips, though unadorned with tint, were reddish and framed the vocal perfection that penetrated his mind as he drank in the girl’s appearance. Hers was not just the voice of an accomplished young lady. Its strength, power, and tone belied significantly more physical maturity. As James gazed at her, he noted she had not lost all her girlishness, nor yet achieved any womanly features. She was betwixt and between – not a girl and not yet adolescent. He therefore could not discern why he felt such an immediate attraction to her. Nor could he identify what sort of attraction it was, since there was nothing to sexually attract him in her appearance, and his tastes certainly did not tend towards children as he had heard of some men. Yet there he was, enthralled with her.

  The girl continued to sing and, as the music and chorus got stronger, he thought they might at last overpower her voice. It only grew stronger, though, keeping up with the company as if her voice floated on top of the accompaniment. When their voices went higher, her voice went higher still. She did not look as if this were taxing. Her arms were relaxed by her sides and she swayed ever so slightly with the tune. She might have been singing in a meadow instead of a concert hall filled with people. As the song drew to a close, her voice went higher and higher. Instead of reaching the heights of the scales with a mere whisper, she addressed the final bars with surprising strength and maintained the final note far beyond what James would have thought possible. He longed for it to continue, but it ended as perfectly as her performance had begun. She smiled as the crowd applauded, her eyes sparkling. James clapped and gave a laugh out loud. His delight was as much a surprise to him as this girl-child.

  The applause had barely ended when the musicians started the next song. James ripped the program out of his pocket and scanned it for the information he sought. There it was, in big letters, on the cover:

  The London Arts Society is pleased to present Miss Dahlia Talbot

  Thirteen-Year Old Prodigy from Cirencester, England

  Thirteen! James looked from the program to Miss Talbot. She had begun ‘What Child is This’ with a harpist and a violinist. This was a somber song, and her face mirrored the emotions of the lyrics. The expressions were not child-like, but filled with longing – a longing no girl of thirteen could have experienced. How does one infuse a song with so much feeling? James listened to the words of the song he had heard so many times as if for the first time. This wasn’t just a singer – she was a bard of old sharing a story with her listeners and keeping them rapt with her voice. At the end of the last verse, her features were wiped of the longing and replaced with an expression of ecstasy – not the ecstasy James had seen on the faces of the women he had lain with, but the ecstasy of which he had heard the ecclesiastics speak. At that moment, he knew her to be an angel. She had the voice of an angel, and her appearance all but glowed with her joy. James wanted to possess her – not in the way he was want to possess most women, but in the sense of desiring a prized jewel that he could take out of a velvet case and hold to the light for the sheer beauty and uniqueness of the gem.

  Time was lost to James as he listened to the astonishing creature before him. She wove her ribbons of tone above and below the melody until the fabric of the song became as pure as silk and washed over him like a gentle caress. During ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ he, like the entire audience, waited for the magnificence of the high E note. They waited and waited, knowing the song was building to it. James held his breath, wondering if after so many songs she would have it in her to deliver. When she at last delivered that glorious note, it was without hesitation – no great intake of breath to get her through it. She found it easily and produced it effortlessly. James thought the power behind the note would shatter the glass dome of the conservatory and his soul in the bargain. When she finished it with a mere wave of her small hand, the room was momentarily devoid of any sound before the crowd erupted in applause and got to their feet. James joined them, clapping as hard as he could.

  Dahlia gave a small curtsy, followed by a bow of her head. She then departed the arena. James thought the performance was over, but the chorus started the next number and the audience sat back down. James kept looking at the right side of the hall where she had left – hoping for her reappearance. The music from the choral singers was just background noise to him as he waited. She did not reappear. He convinced himself she would appear for the next number, but the chorus went on without her. James started to get irritated. Surely the organizers could not have thought the audience would settle for just the chorus after hearing a voice like hers?

  Two more numbers followed, so utterly devoid of noteworthiness that James felt very much like when he was a boy in church – impatient to be out and doing anything more exciting than sitting on uncomfortable wooden pews. He fidgeted in his chair. The harpist started the Ave Maria. From behind him, James heard what he thought he would have to wait an eternity to experience again. The clear voice of his angel pressed into the room, subtle but strong. Every head in the room turned to focus on its source. Walking towards the front as she sang, Dahlia held the audience like a puppeteer. She was now dressed in
a white dress with a midnight blue velvet cape with the hood drawn up. As she walked, every head followed her until she glided past them. As she reached the front of the room, she turned to face them. James gazed at her lovely face, framed by the hood. Her eyes looked a darker shade of green now. He felt lost looking into those eyes and entranced by the voice that lifted and lowered, weaving in and out of the base melody of the harp until the song became a cloth that wrapped itself around its listeners.

  The song ended too soon, like all the others she sang. The performers started ‘Holy Night’ and he guessed this would be the last song of the night, as was customary. As he listened, he tried to hang onto each note, regretting that every exquisite note only led him to the last. The joy of each word Dahlia sang was edged with heartbreak for James as the last verse began. He could not focus on the end, however, as the exaltation of the final verse washed over him. It built to a crescendo and he knew he was riding the crest of a wave that would eventually crash him onto the shore. He didn’t just hear the song, he felt it. She didn’t just sing the song, she transmitted the reverberations of sound into his soul and played him like the harpist stroked the strings. It was an experience that left him breathless as the final note evaporated like a mist when the sun breaks through it.

  The reaction of the audience was thunderous in its applause, with shouts of ‘Bravo!’ to which James added his own voice. Lord Telford looked at his nephew’s face, infused with such happy enthusiasm, and mistook it for the dawning of an appreciation of fine music. He clapped James on the back and said, “Finally! I see you are open to the more noble arts as a form of entertainment. About time.”

  He made a motion for James to move into the aisle as he could not maneuver his bulk around his nephew in the narrow row of seats. James stepped aside, disregarding his uncle and looking towards the company of singers. Only the tallest were not obscured by the throng of admirers; the little Miss Talbot could not be seen. He turned back towards his uncle to ask if they could stay to meet her, but the man was halfway down the hall towards the exit in an unspoken command that they leave. With a longing look back towards the crowd around the singers, James made the decision as easily as he had done countless times in the past year. He strode in the opposite direction of his uncle, ignoring his desires for him to accompany him home.

  James approached the human fence that surrounded the prodigious little Miss Talbot. He craned his neck and caught glimpses of her copper curls, but getting closer than that seemed impossible. He circled around for several minutes, hoping to find a sliver of space between the tightly-knit bodies. It was not to be found. He stepped back, considered, then smiled. In a loud, authoritative voice that mimicked that of his uncle, he said, “Come, Dahlia. Time to go!”

  The couple directly in front of him turned to look at who would be so familiar with the little diva. James simply nodded at them and walked through the first ring of the barrier. “Excuse me, please. Must get Miss Dahlia home, now.” The second ring of people broke as they turned to look at him. Through this gap James walked straight up to Dalia and gently took her elbow. She raised her head to look at him. He barely glanced at her as he directed his attention to the remaining people. “Thank you all for coming. We’re glad you enjoyed the repertoire!” The people looked disappointed, but no one contradicted him, least of all Miss Talbot. She let him lead her away from the crowd and towards the door he had seen her go through earlier.

  Once through the door, James found himself in a smaller corridor with various rooms leading off of it. He let go of the slight arm and turned to face Dahlia. She looked him straight in the eye but said nothing.

  “Forgive me, Miss Talbot, but I thought perhaps you could use some assistance in disentangling yourself from so many adoring fans. I am James Kent, at your service.” He gave the formal bow of greeting. Dahlia responded with a curtsy.

  “Because at my tender age I could not be capable of doing so myself?” she asked, one eyebrow arched in question.

  He chuckled. “Miss Talbot, I am quite twice your size and could not get into the circle of admirers. I did fear your delicate construction would not allow you to get out.” He smiled his most charming smile and waited for the reaction – the inevitable softening of the features and posture that always came over a woman when he applied this smile. The reaction did not come, however. The young singer continued as she had been, staring him straight in the eyes.

  “A spider web has a delicate construction, does it not? Yet it endures considerable tension under the pressure of a struggling insect and does not waver in its intended purpose.”

  “Do you identify yourself thus – as a spider web?” He teased.

  “No, a metaphor appropriate to my identifying you akin to a spider, Mr. Kent,” she smiled. James returned the smile. So, she was not so young or inexperienced as to not know how to play. This amused him, and pleased him. Verbal sparring was well within the realm of flirting. Under the intensity of her gaze, with those superbly-shaped emerald eyes focusing his attention away from all other attributes of her appearance that would remind him she was, in fact, still a child, James took a step towards her.

  “On the contrary, Miss Talbot, it is you who has ensnared me in the web of your music. I do apologize if my intervention was unwelcome, but it does afford me this unique opportunity for your newest and most enthusiastic fan to thank you for an unforgettable evening.” He took her hand and bent over it, still holding her gaze. “I do hope it shall be the first of many evenings we spend together.” He kissed her hand and she giggled. He looked back into her face, smiling. She had an amused look on her face. Instead of straightening from his bow, he took advantage of the fact that their faces were but inches apart, and he leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was not a brotherly peck, but a deliberate, slow pressing of his lips to her skin.

  Thwack! James straightened quickly, surprised. She had slapped him! The realization came with the sting of the skin of his cheek. Dahlia brought the offending hand to her mouth as if she had surprised herself along with him. Her green eyes paled and widened. Slight and young though she was, she had meant that slap. It was not the slap of a girl feigning indignation – he knew what that felt like. He knew those slaps were merely an invitation to proceed. Just as this girl gave power to her voice from deep within her diaphragm, the power of that slap came from her gut and was executed with her whole arm. A new sort of respect filled James. Dahlia Talbot didn’t do anything half-hearted. This young woman was filled with passion.

  “You,” she started. “I…” she stammered. She took a breath. “I’ve made a handprint on your face.” She looked troubled for the first time, unsure as to what to say or do to alleviate the situation. Her eyes darted from the red handprint to his eyes.

  “Not as permanently as the memory of your singing and our meeting is now imprinted upon my mind, Miss Talbot,” James said, sincerely meaning it. He smiled now, not with the intent of disarming the young lady before him, but out of a genuine desire to put her at ease. “Please forgive my forwardness. I meant no offense. I have no flowers as would be appropriate to give a lady after such a performance. I thought perhaps the gift of a kiss would be a pleasant memory for a child on her way to becoming a woman.”

  At that, Dahlia lowered her eyes. James knew he had gracefully shamed her into thinking she had overreacted. She looked at him again, contrite. “I will undoubtedly carry the memory of that kiss with me forever, Mr. Kent.” The corner of her mouth twitched as if she held back a smile. “I’m much obliged. Good night, sir.”

  She curtsied quickly and turned. James bowed and when he straightened, she was gone.

  Chapter 2

  “Ah, Dahlia. Another fine performance!” her father said as she entered the room. There were a dozen people taking refreshments and talking in small groups in this private room off the concert hall. Tonight, it was a dozen too many for Dahlia. It was the usual practice of having guests specially invited to the events at which Dahlia sang to be offered a pr
ivate audience with her afterwards. Usually, Dahlia did not mind. Tonight, however, she did not feel the customary exhilaration of the performance and the attention that followed. She had five elder brothers, the only daughter of a widowed country squire, and was often overlooked as different from the rest of the male pack. Without the consideration of a mother, Dahlia had been raised, educated, and treated by her father like all of her brothers. Her aunts and female neighbors interjected as best they could to ensure she had clothing and manners appropriate to a female child in the ranks of minor nobility, but this was sporadic at best. The result was that this female oversight generally took the form of criticism – in the vein of trying to correct deficiencies after the fact – except when she sang. Then, she was given what she considered beautiful dresses, shoes, gloves, and even little pieces of jewelry. She was pampered, had her hair done fashionably, and was gently prodded into the light of someone special.

  Her entire short life, Dahlia had always worked hard to keep up with her brothers – in sports, chores, and education. She succeeded well enough for them to accept her into most of their activities as an equal, but her voice was the one thing that set her apart. It was all female and everyone knew that it would not change as she grew. When they were younger, her brothers closest to her in age would sing with her, and Dahlia, Tom, and Michael would give performances together in church and society gatherings. The boys’ young falsetto voices meshed with Dahlia’s admirably. As time went by, however, the threesome became a duet as Michael’s voice faltered and changed. Then, Tom’s voice dropped as nature intended, and it was left to Dahlia to carry on the alto soprano components of song. They still joined in on occasion with rich tenor tones to complement her clear, strong voice, but she alone now stood out as the vocal star of the family. She was also the only one of the six children to continue her musical education with passion, learning instrument after instrument and excelling at each one in turn.