Dahlia's Music

by Caitlyn Quirk

  Some tunes personified people, too. Her father’s was a steady trombone, with occasional wisps of flute that reminded her of his twinkling eyes. Lady Sweet’s was a delicate, charming melody filled with the tinkling notes of the spinet, with violins and harpsichord. Each of her brothers had tunes as different as their personalities, but all had a comforting, relaxing sound. Even Vicar Jacobs had a tune – a plodding bass drum with bassoon accompaniment. She supposed the tunes were her interpretation of the personality set to music. Certainly in the case of the vicar she could directly associate his tune with his heavy footsteps and monotonous voice which, when viewed simultaneously with the music in her head gave him a comical aspect that always made her laugh – and him scowl at her.

  Not everyone had a tune. She realized that the first time she came to London when she was eight years old. She had been wide-eyed at the sheer number of people. Instead of individuals with tunes, the multitude itself had a wild orchestra sound bordering on cacophony. Strangers didn’t elicit much of a musical response, unless they caused a particular emotion in her – like fear, surprise, delight or disgust. Then, the tune of the emotion took over.

  She mused over what it was about certain sounds that caused people to feel emotion, to remember an event, to conjure images of different places or people.

  Dahlia sat on the little velvet stool in front of the dressing table and leaned over to button her boots. Her father wouldn’t let her play the violin much in his hearing. He said it was her mother’s favorite instrument. She knew he associated the sound of the violin with the pain of losing his wife. Still bent over, she rested her chin between her knees. How odd that her mother’s song didn’t have any violins in her head. She was four when her mother passed away, but she remembered enough of her to knew the song that belonged to her. It was a harp played so tenderly that individual notes could not be distinguished, just a gentle, lovely wave of sound that soothed the soul. It played in her mind as she thought of the beautiful lady captured in a portrait in her room, and she missed her. A sound interrupted the song – the sound of her name.

  “Dahlia?” It was Lady Sweet calling her name. “Are you almost ready?” She took one look at Dahlia as she straightened up in the chair. “Your hair isn’t done! Where is that dressing maid?” As Dahlia was the only other person in the room, Sharon picked up the boar bristle brush with the silver handle and began brushing Dahlia’s hair herself. Two minutes later, Dahlia’s wild curls had been tamed into a bow at the nape of her neck that matched her saffron-colored dress.

  “Lady Sweet?” Dahlia asked, looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t you think I’m old enough to stop having my hair done like a little girl?”

  “Perhaps, when you return home. Here in London society girls only put their hair up when they want to indicate they are eligible for marriage. Our country society is not quite so rigid. But do your father and me the favor of being the child prodigy one last time. Next year when we return to London, you will be a young virtuoso! But in the meantime, neither your father nor I wish to be reminded of how old you are.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it forces us to recognize just how old we are!” she said with a laugh.

  “Sometimes I can’t wait to be older,” said Dahlia.

  “That is the way of life, child. We spend the first part of our life wishing we were older, the middle part too busy to remember we are still aging, and the last part wishing we were younger. I beg you not to force me out of the middle part where my age seems to stand still and send me into the last part where it speeds up again!”

  “Lady Sweet, you are still very beautiful! You will never be old!”

  She wished to make her friend smile, but the minute she said the words, Dahlia heard the breaking of an instrument string and the wretched twang that accompanies such a snap. It was a discordant sound, out of context. It made Dahlia’s brow furrow, trying to determine why such a sound should erupt in her mind.

  “Come, now. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry!” Sharon took Dahlia’s hand and led her out of the room, so she couldn’t think on it further.

  Chapter 6

  Downstairs they met up with her father and Sir Randal and headed to the cathedral. Dahlia loved singing in the grand cathedral. The acoustics carried her voice and held it in the air like incense. Then there were the windows – the gorgeous, translucent colored panes sifted the light like shaped rainbows. Dahlia always tried very hard to pay attention to the sermons in church, but they did tend to go on and on. Vicar Jacobs’ monotonous voice did not help this back home at St. John Baptist, but both in that magnificent fifteenth century building and the London cathedral, Dahlia was never at a loss for things to hold her attention. The stone masonry, the iron scrollwork, the art works and tapestries were a feast for the eyes, and she never tired of looking at them. Once, she was so engrossed in counting statues that she nearly missed her performance. Luckily, she was singing with the choir and they all stood up, blocking her view and interrupting her counting. She had quickly jumped up and started on cue. Today, as she entered the choir pews, she made a mental note not to start counting things.

  While Dahlia mused about the inside of the cathedral, James was approaching it with his uncle and considering the exterior. With a year of architectural and engineering studies under his belt, he had a distinctly new perspective on the church and, indeed, every building he entered. Where he used to simply pass under an archway, he now considered the Roman weight-bearing mechanism that had transformed large constructions. Columns were not just obstacles to walk around, but supports to be identified as Ionic, Doric, or Corinthian. Flying buttresses were no longer a school-boy joke but a marvel of engineering.

  Today, James was more than willing to accompany his uncle to the service. Due to some very late Saturday night activities, James didn’t always make it up in time for church. Since this was more often than not yet another point of contention with his uncle, he surprised him today by waiting for his uncle by the door. His uncle had raised an eyebrow at this, and said, “You waiting for me on a Sunday morning? Singular…” as he passed him on the way out the door. James just smiled at him and followed.

  The church was more crowded than usual. James wondered if it was because the general populace in the vicinity knew that Dahlia was singing. This certainly had prompted him to make the effort.

  As they walked down the aisle looking to situate themselves, James scanned the choir pews looking for Dahlia. He found her quickly as the choir was seated and she was the shortest of the members – all the others being adults. She was looking up at the stained glass windows. He continued to stare at her as he took his seat beside his uncle. Slowly, her head turned and she looked directly at him as if she had known exactly where to find him in the crowded sanctuary. He smiled broadly and gave her a nod. She smiled back.

  During the service, James was content just to look at her. He picked up the hymn or prayer books automatically without much attention. Only with a jab to the ribs from his uncle’s elbow prompted him to actually read the prayers and responses. During the songs, however, he was silent, rapt with the sound of her voice filling the massive church. Her voice was distinct, undeniable amidst the voices of the large choir. Hers was not just a beautiful voice, the tone of it was unique, and he was convinced he would know that voice anywhere.

  James’ attentions towards the choir did not go unnoticed by his uncle, who wondered at his nephew’s interest in a mere child. Pretty though she may be, and talented, but she was a country nobody. Even if her father was a squire, his fame as a horse breeder and trader ranked him as a mere merchant. He had even heard that Dahlia was making her own dowry through ticket sales to the singing performances she gave. If that weren’t bad enough, she was a child. Lord Telford wondered if his nephew had perverse tastes in addition to bad judgment. Of course, age had not been a factor in his making inquiries regarding the potential for a marriage to his friend
and peer’s niece, Lady Ledford’s daughter Teresa. Her dowry, like wine, could only improve with the time for her to reach marriageable age.

  For once in his life, James wished the church service would go longer than it did. As it concluded, he saw the choir file out. Dahlia gave a quick look over her shoulder at him and smiled.

  Chapter 7

  Dahlia watched the countryside as a blur of browns and greens on the train back from London. She could not focus on the untamed beauty of the country any more than she could focus on the book in her lap. She had pretended interest in the book once boarded so she would not be engaged in conversation with her party. She knew this ploy had worked on her father and Sir Sweet who were now dosing, her father’s head lolling slightly with the gentle rocking of the railcar. She knew Lady Sweet, though engaged in a cross-stitch pattern, was glancing at her periodically but Dahlia did not let her catch her gaze. As close as they were, Lady Sweet would have noted her silence and agitation during the luncheon following the church service. She also knew that Dahlia needed to work out her thoughts and feelings, and would come to her when she was ready to voice them.

  Dahlia still hadn’t worked anything out by the time they reached Swindon which, although not strictly halfway, was the major station between London and Cirencester at which she always felt she was nearing home.

  She had been so pleased to see James in the cathedral, and, although she always performed her best, felt she been singing just for him and had sung better because of it. She was quite convinced that she had felt him enter the church, knew exactly where he was, and felt his presence – and his gaze on her – during the entire service.

  However, the thrill of that connection, real or imagined, had been very abruptly severed as soon as she had exited the church. There was no James waiting for her, despite her looking everywhere in the courtyard. The disappointment had been overwhelming, and manifested itself in her mind as a slow pull of violin bow back and forth in a keening sound. She tried to vary the sound by adding other instruments and notes as she often did when a base tune formed itself in her mind, but nothing really went with the blasé whine and she gave up trying to improve it. It was no song, nor would it become one. It was, she finally thought, a reflection of her mood that also could not be altered or shaken.

  “You are depressed since James did not come to see you today?” Sharon asked quietly. Dahlia looked at her and smiled wanly.

  “They sometimes joke that I am a witch because of my enchanting voice. It is you who has the magic, Lady Sweet, to read people’s minds.” She wasn’t angry, though. She was finally glad to speak to her about how she felt since she had failed to evaluate her emotions by herself.

  “He was there, with his uncle.” This did surprise Sharon, as she had not seen the young man in the congregation. She could not, from the front pew, however, do much searching as this would have drawn attention to her. Dahlia, in the choir pews, would have been able to scan the crowd during the entire service.

  “Oh,” Sharon sighed. “But you did not get to talk with him afterwards.”

  “No, he did not stay to say good-bye.”

  “He must have had a compelling reason, my dear. After all, he has certainly made an effort to see you each of these past three days. Perhaps he was obliged to accompany his uncle to a previous engagement. His uncle is very wealthy, you know, and the wealth of one family member always trumps the priorities of others.”

  “Why is that, exactly? It is almost as if for every pound one obtains, one must give up an ounce of decency.”

  Sharon smiled at Dahlia’s logic. “Wealth is power, Dahlia, when measured in great quantities. While you do not live in a grand palace, you have never gone hungry or cold. You and I live in a world of balance where the lack of money does not force us to do things our morals and ethics would otherwise prevent us from doing, nor where the abundance of such money enables us to ignore common decency or buy the blind eye of others when we transgress.”

  Dahlia thought about this, and looked at Lady Sweet. “I think you are very wise, Lady Sweet, and I am still very ignorant despite all of Father’s tutors.”

  “The more we learn, the more aware we become of how little we know,” acknowledged Sharon. “But your mind is open to all the possibilities of the unknown – that is a great gift I think you will always have.” She let this sink in, then came back to the situation at hand.

  “Knowledge is one thing, experience is another. I think this trip you have gained some experience in the ways of the heart.” Dahlia did not answer, hoping Lady Sweet would continue and tell her exactly what experience that was and why she felt the way she did, since she could not make it out.

  “Mr. Kent made a definite impression on you, didn’t he.”

  Dahlia just nodded.

  “Naturally. He is a charming young man who paid you special attention, not to mention he is wickedly good looking. And now you are going your separate ways and may never see each other again. You must be feeling a little depressed about that.”

  Depressed. Yes! That was it – that was the dreary sound of the violin droning on in Dahlia’s mind. She had been disappointed before, by many things, but this went a level deeper. “That’s it, Lady Sweet! I don’t know that I’ve ever really been introduced to anyone whose company I enjoyed so much without any assurance I would see them again.” The puzzle pieces finally fit into place. She felt much better for having the unknown feelings and their cause identified. Now she could find a solution to the predicament.

  “So how do I arrange to see him again?” She asked hopefully.

  Sharon sighed. “Dahlia, this is not a relative or a female companion with whom you can correspond. It would not be fitting for you to write to Mr. Kent even if you did know his address.”

  “Why not?” Dahlia’s eyes had lost that spark of hope and she appeared downcast again.

  “It is simply not proper for a young lady to write to a young man that is not a relation of hers.”

  “What if he were to write to me? He knows I am from Cirencester. Could he not write to me?”

  “He could…but don’t get your hopes up, Dahlia. Infatuations are common amongst the young. No doubt you will both forget about one another in far shorter time than you can think possible at present.” What she didn’t say was that, at his age, Mr. Kent could not have formed any serious attachment on a thirteen year old girl, and he would likely have replaced the object of his attention by week’s end.

  Dahlia looked out the window. She did not think she would forget Mr. Kent – ever. So, this was an infatuation – a grown up term for a crush. If Lady Sweet was right, as she so often was, about the fact infatuations were common at her age, then at least she knew the symptoms: fascination, irritation, pleasure, anxiety, and depression. She did not think she wanted these emotions and their wild musical contrasts flying around her head, and hoped fervently she would not be a normal adolescent in this respect.

  Chapter 8

  The Christmas season was one of Dahlia’s favorites. There were parties and balls and visiting and gift giving. What was not to enjoy? With the horse training suspended during the winter months when the ground was too hard for regular exercising, and most tutors gone home to be with family so studying was done on their own, Dahlia and her brothers were free to indulge in the pleasures of the season.

  The Talbots were on every guest list for a multitude of reasons. They were well-liked, of course, but the quantity of boys in the family increased the dance partner pool considerably in one invitation and Dahlia would always oblige the hosts with her music. Before this year, she would be happy to dance with each of her brothers, then sit contently at the piano to share her variations on traditional tunes and to debut her own compositions. Based on careful guidance from Lady Sweet, she was careful to do this while the majority of the company ate and talked so as not to monopolize the time available to the other young ladies at the event. However, this often set her apart from the small groups of girls who wou
ld congregate during the repasts and whisper and giggle. She had frequently thought of these cliques as “gaggles of girls” since their high-pitched, incessant chattering formed compositions in her mind that she compared quite similarly to those that formed when looking at geese that gathered around the pond in the Spring. As quite the neighborhood tomboy and accepted by most of the boys because of her brothers and her participation in the local riding events, she had been much more at ease taking part in their conversations.

  This year, however, she was determined to join in with the “Gaggle” a bit more. She now knew she needed to become better informed about dowries, infatuations, and how to accept compliments without slapping those offering them to her. At first, approaching the Gaggle was not as easy as she thought it would be. The girls were indeed like the geese at the pond – territorial and snappy! Twice she was dismissed from joining the girls. On both occasions, she simply went back to where her brothers were engaged in conversations with the boys. But some of the girls noted her acceptance into the male circles and, just like the geese when one finds food and the others immediately gather around in a feeding frenzy, began in earnest to solicit her company. Dahlia was the bridge between the distinct groupings of males and females at the parties. To have her within their ranks was to have a perfectly acceptable means of introduction to at least five young men immediately! Dahlia recognized the Gaggle’s strategy immediately, but she didn’t care how they were trying to use her as long as she was accepted into the fold. She even found it amusing to hear her new friends’ thoughts on her brothers. To her, of course, they were simply the boys she grew up with, the boys who teased her and irked her and tried to best her in their family games. As she answered the girls’ questions about them and other boys whom she considered friends, and heard their comments about them, she saw each of them in a new light.