A Portrait of Dawn

by Samantha St. Claire

  Ely Beckert asked, “You mean mouse, ja? The cat who swallowed the mouse.”

  “No, I mean rat, Ely. That smile you’re wearing is far too wide for a mouse. What are you not saying?”

  Just above his whiskered jaw, Dawn detected the rise of color to the older man’s cheeks. He set his violin case on Lena’s hall table and gave the woman a distinctly Cheshire-like smile.

  “Ely? Are you going to make me guess?”

  “I will tell you later, dear lady, later.” He snapped open the case and pulled out a polished violin. “You have guests.” His gaze drifted from Lena to Dawn.

  Dawn quickly explained her reason for standing there eavesdropping on their conversation. “Jessie asked me to bring out these currant tarts, but I wasn’t sure where you’d like me to put them.”

  Lena passed Ely a meaningful look before taking the tray from Dawn’s hands. “Thank you. I’ll take them to the porch. Why don’t we see what ventures the gentlemen are stirring with their talk of hunting?”

  Looking back over her shoulder, Dawn saw Ely with the violin tucked under his chin, tuning the strings. He looked up, caught her eye, and grinned. After only just meeting him, she already liked the man.

  When Dawn joined the guests on the wide porch, she found the conversation had turned to the subject of the Hartmann’s business venture. She stepped behind her father’s chair to listen as Evan explained.

  “I’ll be leading some hunting trips for our guests, but under one stipulation. They’ll help dress the animals they shoot and be expected to eat it as well. I’m not much inclined to the trophy hunting some prefer.” Evan dismissively waved a hand as Edward offered him a cigar. “No, thank you.”

  Luke asked, “Then, these other ventures will sustain the guest ranch?”

  “We’re hoping they will. Bart and I have been looking into buying a band of sheep. We’ll keep the cattle for the sake of respectability.” He said the last with a sardonic smile.

  Only Dr. Reynolds and his wife, Maddie, laughed with him. Seeing the others’ blank expressions, Evan explained. “Many old timers don’t look favorably on sheep ranching. But cattle—let’s just say that folks understand a man’s need for beef.”

  “Ah! I understand, now.” Edward chuckled. “Very good. Yes, respectability.”

  “Bart’s been talking with a man down Hailey way who’s been sheep ranching for a few years. With free range from here to the Canadian border, those sheep have plenty of room to grow fat. They’ll spend their summer grazing up in the high country. All we have to do is see to controlling what the wolves and coyotes take for taxes.”

  Edward said, “I suppose that’s a prudent way to hedge your bets, so to speak. I’ve had some friends lose a fortune recently on cattle investments. Bad winters. Bad range management. Could be a wise move for you. Does Bart have experience with sheep?”

  Evan’s chest rose and fell, as he expelled a long breath. He grinned before answering. “Not much more than knowing you don’t kill the sheep to get the fleece off their backs. Wasn’t much experience under my belt when I started cattle either, but I learned from a few who did. One thing’s certain sure, sheep aren’t cows. They might be a mite smaller, but they make up for it with big attitudes.”

  Dr. Reynolds asked, “So, how do you get the experience?”

  “We’re looking for a shepherd. Know a man in Boise basin who hired one from Scotland. Came with his own dog, too.”

  Lena stepped up beside her husband, “Look who came late to our party.”

  “Ely! Wasn’t sure we’d be seeing you tonight. Is Mrs. Sawyer with you?” Evan waved the older man over and reached out to shake his hand.

  “Mrs. Sawyer is otherwise engaged this evening in celebration preparations. She regrets that she cannot join us,” Ely said, his manner of speech sounding distinctly formal in comparison to Evan’s.

  Lena set the tray on a side table, then lay her hand on the man’s shoulder. “This is our good friend, Ely Beckert. You might not know it by looking at this dapper gentleman before you, but he can play anything from a concerto to a jig on this beautiful instrument. He may appear to you as an accountant, which he is—” She smiled. “But he has the soul of a poet.”

  Ely gave a short bow. “Mrs. Hartmann is generous in her praise. How can one live up to such an introduction, my friend?”

  Jessie burst through the door, her cheeks flaming red from the kitchen, and threw her arms around the older gentleman’s neck. “Ely! You slipped in without me seeing you.” With that enthusiastic embrace, he stumbled to the side.

  Regaining his balance, he asked, “Is it too late to see the kinder?”

  “Bart is putting them to bed now. I don’t dare interrupt or they might be up for hours.”

  “You are a wise mama. Then I will play for them, now. Remember this?” He lifted the violin and drew a few notes from the strings.

  “Schubert!”

  “Yes, Mama Jessie, The Cradle Song by our old friend, Franz Schubert. Now sit for a while, and relax while I play for you. Perhaps the music will work its magic on your kinder and Bart can join us soon.”

  As he raised the violin again and began to play, his small audience quietly took their seats about him.

  Although attendance at symphonic performances had been a part of her life for as long as she could recall, Dawn had never known such a concert hall where stars provided sparkling spotlights and crickets played the accompaniment to the violin master’s melody. As the music lifted to the second floor where the children slept, the word that best described her feelings was enchantment.

  She sat with rapt attention as he transitioned smoothly, from Mozart to Tchaikovsky.

  Dawn glanced over at her father. His eyes were closed. Her memories drifted to one holiday when she was very young. They’d attended a Christmas party, where a string quartet had played late into the night. Even though she’d fallen asleep curled up on his lap, the music had slipped into her dreams. As though by some magic, the melodies had woven a tapestry of memories that warmed her still.

  Moving quietly, Dawn reseated herself closer to her father’s side. He opened his eyes upon hearing her approach and gave her an uncertain smile. She wrapped her arm through his and took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

  Bart made his appearance passing through the house doors, looking bedraggled. He brightened upon seeing his wife. Ely winked at Jessie as he lowered his violin and said, “Now that the kinder are sleeping, shall we change the tempo?”

  Jessie gave a delighted squeal, clapped, and grabbed Bart’s hands.

  No longer bearing the look of a college professor, Ely drew his bow in one smooth stroke across the strings while his finger slid along the neck of the violin. The effect on the couple was electrifying. Bart lifted Jessie from the ground and swung her in a full circle. The music that followed was as different as spring from fall.

  Evan jumped to his feet and led Lena off the porch. They were followed shortly by Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds. With quick, sure steps they found the rhythm of Ely’s jig. The three couples swirled around each other, skirts flying, boots stomping until dust rose in clouds about their feet. Dawn glanced at her father, seeing her own amazement mirrored in his face. It was impossible to repress the laughter drawn by the sight of the reserved Lena dancing with such abandon. Under the light of a million stars and a mesmerizing moon, the dancers moved as though calling down the silvered magic of the night.

  Though Dawn knew her feet would never allow her to express her joy in such a way, nevertheless, her heart responded. She clapped her hands, taking pleasure from the happiness of others.

  Nate suddenly appeared before her, offering his hand. She shook her head, but gifted him with a smile. He nodded. A look of sympathy drifted across his handsome face. He cocked a shoulder, grinned and jumped from the porch into the midst of the dancers. Evan released his hold on Lena’s waist, spinning her into the arms of Nate. Instead of retiring from the dance, Evan continued to execute his own ara
besque, circling the couples, arms flapping.

  The jig ended, leaving the dancers panting and Lena pleading for Ely to slow his pace. With the next tune, she watched as Luke moved from the shadowed corner of the porch to join them. This time Bart relinquished his partner, leaving Evan and Bart to match steps around one another.

  Dawn felt the comforting pressure of her father’s hand. She turned to him as he asked, “Should we make our excuses and retire for the evening? I confess, I’m fighting sleep. I walked a long way up the stream into the canyon, chasing some cagey trout.” He gave her hand a light shake. “You must be tired, too.”

  She leaned in, whispering, “I’m fine, Father.”

  He responded to her statement with a skeptical expression.

  “Really, I am. I’ve been sitting out dances all my life. You know that.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You could have so much more from life.”

  “I have no complaints. I’ve lacked for nothing. You go on. I’ll be along shortly.” She kissed his cheek. “Get some rest.”

  When he turned back at the door, she gave him an encouraging smile, and a wave.

  “He’s talented enough to play for the Philharmonic, don’t you agree?”

  She started and looked up into Luke’s blue eyes. He stood a few feet behind her chair. She answered with her own observation. “He must be classically trained.”

  “May I?” Luke gestured to the chair her father had vacated.

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  Ely’s repertoire altered the musical tenor yet again, and the couples slowed their steps.

  Dawn said, “Nothing here has met my expectations, not the town, the modern conveniences, the landscape, the people. Every day surprises me with some new discovery. It’s a frontier of a different sort than I’d imagined.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way. Maybe we’ve all been misled by exaggerated articles. Makes me wonder if those writers have even traveled west of Independence. Could be like the paintings we’ve seen of the African exotic animals.”

  “That’s your dream, isn’t it? Painting wildlife?”

  He gave a doubtful smile. “Not sure I should answer that. I don’t think I’ve recovered from your last acerbic lecture.”

  She saw no rancor in his face, no recrimination for her honesty. Nothing had altered her perception that he, alone, stood in the way of his dreams. Like a boulder fallen on the trail, he didn’t realize he had to first navigate his way around his own mountain of self-doubts.

  “I think I owe you an apology.”

  Puzzled, she asked, “For what?”

  “Today, when Mrs. Reynolds showed me the books—I should have been more courteous.” He hesitated, and his face became unreadable but his words were forthright. “I won’t make excuses for my poor behavior. I’ll only ask your forgiveness.”

  “I was perplexed, but I wasn’t offended. Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds—”

  “I already made my apology to her earlier this evening.”

  As much as she’d have liked to press him for an explanation, she resolved to put aside her questions—for now. They lapsed into silence, listening with rapt attention to Ely’s interpretation of a Tchaikovsky concerto with its evocative highs and pensive lows. The beads of sweat on the violinist’s furrowed brow bore evidence to his concentration to perform the intricacies of a joyous passage following to the next agony of heartbreak. The music left his audience silent and spellbound.

  Dr. and Mrs. Reynolds said their goodnights, excusing themselves to make the drive back to town while the moon would guide their pony’s way. Nate disappeared shortly after, leaving Dawn to speculate about his reason for not joining them.

  At Lena’s urging, Ely agreed to stay the night so that he could play a while longer.

  “Any requests?”

  Luke leaned forward and asked quietly. “Do you play any of Paganini’s solos for violin?”

  Ely looked up, a pleased smile creasing his face. “I do, sir. They are not commonly requested, therefore I may be a little, as you say, rusty. His compositions test my old fingers, but I shall do my best.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dawn studied the artist beside her, curiosity about the man piqued even more. Under what circumstances had he learned to appreciate or even been exposed to the music of classical composers? That knowledge elevated her opinion of him. Thinking his world encompassed more than his occupation, made him even more of an enigma. In the next moment, she felt a flash of shame for judging him based on his cultural exposure.

  He must have felt her gaze upon him, because he turned with a rueful smile. “Did you expect me to request an Irish drinking song?”

  Heat rushed up her neck. “I didn’t think that at all.” She couldn’t conceal her anger and, more to her mortification, the truth of his statement. “Are you always so defensive?”

  Before he could answer, Ely drew his bow and began. Dawn scarcely comprehended the piece, disturbed as she was by Luke’s uncharitable assumption of her.

  Enthusiastic applause followed Ely’s performance. Lena stood and embraced him. Jessie kissed the violinist’s cheek. For a time, the five friends spoke quietly together, apart from Dawn and Luke. Dawn rose to her feet, about to excuse herself. Luke stood beside her and brushed her arm with his fingertips.

  She turned stiffly to him.

  His lips were parted, eyes veiled. “I don’t know why I continue to—I can’t seem to keep from . . .”

  “Annoying me? Insulting me? Intentionally misunderstanding me?”

  He shook his head and dropped his gaze.

  “You confuse me, Mr. Brennan. At one moment you are charming and disturbingly transparent. The next you’re moody and discourteous. I don’t know who you are. I wonder if perhaps, you don’t know yourself.” Her pulse pounded, hammering against her restrictive collar. This was unlike her, the diplomat’s daughter, not given to so freely expressing her opinion, to a stranger, no less.

  A single muscle twitched rhythmically at the corner of his eye. His chest expanded with a long intake of breath. He let it out, closing his eyes as he did. When he opened them again, he leveled his gaze at her. “You’re correct, Miss Fairburn. Just put me in the box with all the hot-headed Irishmen of your acquaintance.” He tipped his head. “Or do you have any in your society circle?”

  “How dare you speak to me, implying bigotry. It seems to me you’re the one being judgmental and too proud to accept help when it’s graciously offered. Do you have such contempt for everyone or just those who have larger purses than your own? Don’t you realize that Madison Reynolds has contacts in the publishing world. She’s written articles for Harper. She simply tried to introduce you to other possibilities for your talent.”

  “She’s free to offer her opinions. I’m free to hold my own.”

  “You were rude!” She took a step back and caught her foot on the leg of the chair. Her arms flung wide for support that wasn’t there. Luke reached out, grabbing her arm. Tears welled in her eyes, and she tried to pull away. “Let me go. Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  She tugged her arm, in a useless effort to free herself from his grip. “Luke, please, let me go.”

  “I don’t know how to apologize. Won’t you please sit down. Please, let me try.”

  She was trembling so violently that she was uncertain she could walk the distance to her room. She allowed him to hold out the chair for her. Only when she was seated did he release her arm.

  He collapsed in the chair next to her and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, a picture of contrition.

  Ely’s violin softly sang a Brahms lullaby, effectively slowing Dawn’s racing heart. What had she just done? This man, little more than a stranger, she’d tried to destroy him with sharp words. What did it matter to her that he was rude or too prideful? She knew enough of those types in New York, but none had provoked such a reaction and outburst.

  He shook his head and sat b
ack. “I should go.”

  “I thought you wanted me to stay so you could explain yourself.”

  “Anything I say will only sound to you like an excuse.”

  He heaved a heavy sigh and slowly shook his head. The notes of the lullaby filled the silence between them, forcing them both to hold their tongues.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be invisible?” he asked at last.

  Dawn held his gaze. His voice was so soft she found it necessary to lean in to hear them. “Invisible?”

  “You don’t know what that’s like, do you?” he repeated.

  Dawn stiffened, digging her hands into the folds of her skirt. Did she not? Had she not known as a young girl what it was like to be passed over for games? Had she not known how polite children had been taught to look away from her? How those feeling awkward in her presence excused themselves as soon as they could politely do so? Although she did not answer his question, she didn’t disregard it.

  “From the beginning, Mrs. Anderson treated me like no one else of her position—not as a dirty Irishman, or an ignorant immigrant, but as a person. She saw me.” His hands had rolled into fists, braced like pillars on his thighs. “The last concert I attended as her escort was the first time I heard Paganini. Each concerto rose like a wave from the orchestra. I’d never heard anything that came as close to expressing my emotions upon learning that day that she was dying.

  “Those years with her, the museums, the concerts, the art training, the world she opened to me—sometimes I wish I’d never seen any of it. She died a month after the concert.” He drew his hands together into a tight knot, resting his elbows on his knees once again. “His music takes me back.”

  “She believed in you,” Dawn said.

  “And I’ve let her down. She wanted me to become a studio artist.”

  “It’s not as if your life is over. You still have time. Why would you say you let her down? Look how far you’ve come?”

  “You mean, how far I’ve crawled out of the streets of poverty?” Instantly, remorse furrowed his brow. He grabbed for her arm again. “Please, I’m sorry. Don’t go. That was stupid of me to say.”