Dahlia's Music

by Caitlyn Quirk

  “The twins? Steven?” Dahlia didn’t want the news, but she didn’t want to wait with the uncertainty either.

  “Lady Sweet.”

  “Lady Sweet?” This took Dahlia completely by surprise. Relief flooded her that her brother and his family were fine. Then she focused on what he had said. “What’s wrong with Lady Sweet?”

  “She’s had an accident on the way to her aunt’s.” He paused, and Dahlia’s palms began to sweat. “Her coach overturned.” He gripped the message in his hands, then his eyes met his daughter’s. “She was killed.”

  Chapter 51

  Dahlia stared at her father without seeing him. She was only focused on the awful discordant twang of instrument strings breaking and she cringed at the sound. It immediately brought to mind the first time she had heard it, when talking with Lady Sweet about getting old. ‘You’ll never be old, Lady Sweet,’ she had said last year, looking at the lovely woman, not able to imagine her beauty ever fading. Now, she knew Lady Sweet would never look old, would never lose her fair looks – in reality or in Dahlia’s mind. She would forever stay as perfect as she was that day because she would not have the opportunity to grow old.

  Dahlia gripped the table behind her, gasping for breath. She could not speak, or she would have yelled ‘No!’ No, she did not accept that she would never see her friend again. No, she could not fathom never hearing Lady Sweet’s laugh, her counsel, her jokes ever again. How was it possible to live in a world without her dear friend? The injustice of losing her, of the world losing such a kind and giving soul, was unbearable.

  Dahlia sank to her knees, lightheaded from the inability to draw in breath. It was as if her body was rejecting the needed oxygen as her mind was rejecting comprehension of this news. She was vaguely aware of people around her, trying to comfort her. Her mouth was working like a fish out of water, opening and closing without air or words. The last thing she remembered was her father’s strong arms around her.

  When Dahlia came to in her bedroom, it was dark outside. There was a single candle lit by her bedside, and Matty sat in a chair across the room, dozing. Dahlia had a brief moment of confusion about why she was in the bed with her clothes on with Matty watching over her. Then, remembrance washed over her like a pitcher of cold water and she felt a chill run down her spine. She felt empty inside, drained of happiness and hope. She remembered Lady Sweet’s voice, her laugh, her warm embrace that had, for so many years, been the embrace of a mother for a daughter. Dahlia felt like she had now lost two mothers, and the sense of loss was overwhelming. She grasped her pillow tightly and buried her face in it, afraid she would scream from anger and helplessness to do anything about the reality of what had happened. Memories – so many memories – flashed through her mind of times she had spent with Lady Sweet. Memories of things she had said, things they had done together. She tried to crowd them out with anything that would stop the pain of those memories, but they invaded her mind to the point she could not even hear Lady Sweet’s melody, and she fought the fear that the melody would never come back to her and she would be left without even that.

  The days that followed were the hardest of her life. Dahlia was so young when her own mother died that she could not remember the confusion of Talbot Hall or the constant questioning of her mother’s sudden absence. She silently thanked God that little Randy was even younger than she had been, and he would not remember crying for his mother. Dahlia’s father had gone to the Sweets the day the news arrived by messenger and brought the young boy back to Talbot Hall along with his nurse maid to allow Sir Randal needed private time to grieve Sharon. Peter, of all people, would know that Randal would be devastated by the news of his wife’s passing and would not be in any condition to look after his own son. Dahlia had a new respect for her father’s situation after Penelope’s death. Due to the size of his family, he had not been afforded the luxury of sending his six children elsewhere so he could “get it out of his system properly,” as he put it. Dahlia wondered if that is why her father seemed to hide all of his emotions – if that had been the impetus of his steady demeanor that was as reliable as the sun rising and setting.

  The sun continued to rise and set over Talbot Hall, although to Dahlia it seemed unjust that the world continue to function as it had before the news of her dear friend’s death. The only change she could discern was the interminable amount of time it seemed to take for the sun’s cycles to complete. Every moment she was awake seemed to last a lifetime, and in each moment she seemed to recall a thousand memories of times she had spent with Lady Sweet or conjure a hundred regrets of future moments she would never share with her. Every moment she spent with little Randy brought her on the verge of tears, but she fought them back for the sake of the child. When she was alone, though, the tears would not abate. Nighttime was the worst, when she would lie in bed and there was no one to see her, no one for whom she had to be brave and hold back the tide of grief and anger and loneliness. It was only her despair and exhaustion from crying that would allow her to finally drift into sleep, a sleep that was interrupted too soon by the sun streaming into her room several hours later. The beauty of the rays that normally energized her for the lovely day dawning only angered her in their incongruity to her loss. Cloudy, stormy weather would have suited her mood much better. She wanted the world outside to rain the endless tears that were inside her and flooded her moments alone.

  The tears fell on the letters she wrote to convey the news to James and Miss McElroy, smudging the ink. She did not bother to conceal her correspondence to James in the letter to her friend. For such a purpose as conveying the news she was forced to share, her direct address to him could not be construed as improper. In her present state of mind, she would not have cared if it was.

  Miss McElroy’s response was immediate and brief: Dearest Dahlia, will be by your side tomorrow.

  As good as her word, the unmistakable presence and energy of the woman invaded Talbot Hall the very day after her letter. Dahlia had thought that Miss McElroy’s boisterous nature was the last thing she wanted – that her vitality would rankle her as the bright rays of the sun that fought with her gloomy mood every morning. She underestimated her friend. There was no forced laughter or jokes to prompt a smile. Josephine enveloped Dahlia in a hug so strong that she felt there was finally someone else to take charge of the world. Dahlia relinquished her fortitude and started to shake with the sheer relief. Josephine walked her upstairs and, with Matty’s help, got her undressed and into bed. Dahlia fell asleep hearing the surprisingly comforting sound of Miss McElroy giving orders to everyone in her hearing.

  When she woke at dinner time, Dahlia was calmer. She felt a change in the household itself. She realized that everyone had been trying to keep their sadness at bay, to go about their activities struggling not to acknowledge the great sorrow they shared. With Miss McElroy’s arrival, they had someone who could take over, see to things without the extreme burden of pain the Talbots felt. With someone seeing to the necessities, each was able to take the time they needed to grieve. Peter and his sons also felt the relief of knowing that Dahlia had Miss McElroy to confide in. They had all been walking on eggshells around Dahlia since the news of Lady Sweet’s passing, knowing the special relationship the two had shared.

  After dinner, Miss McElroy went upstairs with Dahlia to ‘have it out,’ as she said. Having it out took several hours, but Dahlia felt the better for it. For the first time since she learned of her friend’s death, she fell asleep with dry eyes.

  -----

  The moon was brighter than usual, and was encircled with a red halo. Three aligned stars pulsed strongly, each one intermittently getting brighter and bigger as the other two diminished. As she gazed at them, Doña Isabel was startled by the screech of an owl. She looked backward and heard, rather than saw, the flapping of the expansive wings of the night hunter. She stepped forward towards the clearing where she could get a better look at the sky, her footsteps creating an eerie rustling of the leaves
under her feet. She looked down, curious. There should be no leaves at this stage of summer. She caught the pulsing of the three stars again in her peripheral vision. At the edge of the wood, the moon lit the clearing like daylight and Isabel saw Dahlia standing alone in the clearing. Dahlia stared at her without salutation. She only pointed up to the sky. Isabel’s eyes followed the young woman’s indication. The star on the far left expanded, then winked out completely. The second of the three stars grew to nearly thrice its original size, then exploded, sending glittering sparks towards earth. Isabel watched them descend until they hovered around Dahlia like fireflies before disappearing.

  A cold wind blew a chill into Isabel and she tugged her shawl close about her as she gazed at the young woman in the glen. A tear appeared on Dahlia’s cheek. It reflected the light of the moon like a sparkle, then turned the deep crimson of the moon’s halo and transformed into a drop of blood. Isabel stepped backwards, slowly, then more quickly. She wanted to be away from the despair of the young woman before her, to disappear into the comforting darkness of the woods. She turned and ran towards the trees, but they eluded her – sinking further and further into the distance the faster she ran. Panting, with her legs burning from the effort, Isabel cried with the desperation of futility. She could not reach the trees no matter the effort of her body or the desire of her heart.

  Isabel awoke with a start, covered in sweat and out of breath. “We can none of us escape our destiny,” she gasped, remembering the dream. She looked over at the sleeping body of her husband and quietly crept out of the wagon. The still world at that moment between night and dawn greeted her. She started the campfire, knowing they would receive dire news from Talbot Hall that day. The second terrible event to affect Dahlia’s life had occurred.

  Chapter 52

  James darted around his room, grabbing articles of clothing and throwing them into a satchel. Dahlia’s letter lay open on his desk. He had read it several times, not believing the communication that lay therein. He supposed he should have had some inkling that the letter would not have good tidings when it arrived. Dahlia’s letters were always delivered in person by Miss McElroy. He should have known that something was amiss when his uncle roared at him from the study upon his return that evening, barraging him with questions about why any decent young lady would be writing to him directly. His surprise at her sending a letter to him equaled his uncle’s ire. James had not even waited to read the letter alone in his room, but had broken the seal and scanned the letter, sure that it would contain a formal invitation of some sort to justify the open communication. There was no enjoyment, however, in his response to his uncle.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle,” he began slowly. “Miss Talbot has merely conveyed to me that her closest friend and an acquaintance of ours, Lady Sweet, has been killed in a carriage accident.”

  His uncle’s face lost all its tension. He, too, had not been expecting such dreadful news and seemed incapable of any further comment.

  “I shall take the morning train and hope to be at the funeral on time,” James said quietly, turning to go upstairs. He uncle, for once, did not argue with him.

  He sat on his bed, holding the letter without looking at it for some time. He guessed Lady Sweet to be younger than his own mother, and now she was gone. At an age when death seemed an impossibility, being confronted by it halted the senses. Lady Sweet was a beautiful woman – and from the few interactions with her, he knew her to be kind and generous. He knew from their first meeting that she had Dahlia’s best interests at heart, and still had accepted him – albeit cautiously at first – as Dahlia’s ‘particular friend.’ Although not as actively as Miss McElroy, he had known she would be instrumental in supporting their relationship and would have been an ally in furthering their romance – perhaps, and most especially, with his uncle given her rank.

  All these good opinions were based on his limited exposure to Lady Sweet. As the immediate shock of her passing eased, his thoughts turned to Dahlia, and what she must be going through. It was hard enough for him to comprehend God’s will in allowing a woman such as her to depart the world, he could not even imagine the distress and pain that Dahlia was feeling. These musing had prompted him to take action; to jump off the bed and begin to pack.

  He was oblivious to what he picked up and tossed in the direction of the satchel. He was similarly insensitive to the careless manner in which he shoved the items into the bag. All he could think of was getting to Dahlia.

  With the bag bulging, but closed and waiting by the door of his bedroom, James went again to his desk and picked up Dahlia’s letter. News of Lady Sweet’s death slowly took a foothold on the edges of his comprehension, and he noted the physical aspects of the letter for the first time. The handwriting was not the elegant lettering he had come to know as Dahlia’s. There was a word crossed out and several small blotches of ink that were wholly uncharacteristic of her usual, clean correspondence. In two places, he guessed the blemishes to be caused by tears falling onto the paper.

  The thought of Dahlia crying distressed him more than he could have imagined. Since he had met her, she had always appeared so happy, so full of life…just like Lady Sweet. His thoughts played leapfrog, one over the other, and the thought of losing Dahlia with the unexpected suddenness of Lady Sweet’s death nearly paralyzed him. He would not have thought of such a possibility, any more than he could have anticipated the loss of Lady Sweet. James knew panic in that moment. He knew the certainty of death and the precious value of life – of every moment. He experienced in that moment a resolve to live and act in a very decisive manner.

  Luckily, that resolve continued into the next morning as he left for the train station and his uncle began to question his ‘running off to Cirencester again.’

  “What bothers you most, Uncle? The fact that I have the decency to attend the funeral of a great lady, or that I would go to comfort a friend and her family during this trying time? I imagine both would be motives to trouble you since the one person you would mourn is the only one who would bother to come to your side to comfort you in such an event: Lord Stanmer. You should therefore hope you pass away before him to avoid such a conundrum.”

  With that, he turned and left the house.

  Chapter 53

  Dahlia stood at the front of the cathedral and tried to focus on her performance of Panis Angelicus, which had always been one of her friend’s favorites. Given her close relationship with Lady Sweet, she had not been expected to sing today; she had wanted to, though. This song was her last gift and tribute to the life of a woman she loved so dearly. In reviews, her voice had been likened to that of an angel, and she would not have Lady Sweet’s soul go to heaven without an angelic accompaniment. She kept telling herself to look at the top of the entrance door so she could focus on the words and the performance itself instead of the reason her family and friends were gathered. She did not know how to sing without emotion, however, and the pain and love and loss she felt were hard to contain.

  She started the song without her habitual confidence that it would be clear and strong. All her life, singing had been as easy as breathing – something she did not have to think about. Today, she had to consciously take in breath and measure it out with each note. She imagined herself in London, performing for strangers, and the song became easier in the second verse. Instinctively, she started to engage the crowd, to look at individuals and make them feel part of the performance. This was not a crowd of strangers, though. Her eyes landed on her father first, and Dahlia thought of how he must be remembering the pain of losing his own wife, her mother. Next to her father was Sir Randal, looking lost, uncomprehending the events unfolding around him.

  Look at the door! Dahlia told herself, but her eyes travelled down the pew to little Randy. Images of Lady Sweet with her son flashed through her mind, the happiness and pride in her eyes as she looked at him. Dahlia tore her eyes away, forcing herself to look at the lintel over the entrance and not at all the people
who loved her friend and shared her grief. She had precious few moments before the third verse began and Dahlia struggled not to cry. Her breathing became strained and her whole chest felt tight. She tried to take a deep breath and it stuck in her throat.

  Don’t you dare fail her! Dahlia’s mind screamed, but her heart contested the logic. It was said that at the moment of one’s impending death, one’s life flashed through the mind. The death had already occurred and it was not hers, but her lifetime of moments shared with Lady Sweet swept through her consciousness. As she battled the pain of her loss, it was replaced as quickly by anger that welled up at the injustice of the world losing the goodness, kindness, and beauty of her friend. The anger forced out the notes of the third verse with a power that surprised her. Dahlia focused on that power and used her anger to form it into words and flow it from note to note. By the end of the third verse, her rage exhausted itself, channeled into a powerful message to God and the universe. As she waited for the fourth and final verse to begin, she felt an eerie calm, as if she knew the universe had heard and understood her ire. The last verse was as clear as any vocal performance Dahlia had ever given, and was imbued with a heart-wrenching sincerity and earnestness that brought tears to many of the mourners’ eyes.

  Dahlia closed her eyes, feeling the action cause the tears welled there to overflow in shiny streams down her face. She prayed her tribute was worthy, that the angels acknowledged the love that accompanied the sounds of her voice projected heavenward, and that Lady Sweet was ensconced in their midst.

  Dahlia could not have said what transpired during the remainder of the service. She was lost in her own thoughts and feelings. Lady Sweet’s sistergave the eulogy. Dahlia did not listen. She did not need to hear the exalted words about her friend from a woman who had not seen her in so long. Her own memories were just days old, and part of her still expected to wake up from this nightmare and greet her friend upon her return to the county.