Miriam’s brow rose in question. “Why is he coming today?” A plethora of possible reasons, all of them terrible, marched through her mind. “I’m feeling much better than I did even yesterday.” She’d been a bit feverish over the weekend, and Dr. Swenson had been to visit a few times in the last week—something she never would have been able to afford in her past life and which she was grateful she could afford now, thanks to Norman. Though anything good coming from her agreement with that man was certainly tainted.
“No need to worry,” Evie said with a smile. She’d been heading toward the door but turned and came back to the bedside. “I thought you’d like to attend a concert this week, but you’ve been unwell. Then, seeing as how it’s been so cold and how the flu has been spreading in town, I wanted Dr. Swenson to come. Let him decide whether going would be wise.”
A flutter of excitement went through Miriam, something all too rare of late. “Oh, I’d love to go to a concert. Though, is it snowy out?” Belvedere Street was terribly steep, and pushing Miriam in her wheeled chair down it—and then back up afterward—was hard enough for Evie in warm weather. Add snow or ice, and the trip could be downright treacherous.
“Assuming Dr. Swenson approves the outing, I’ll check the roads before the concert or hire a buggy—and yes, one that can hold your chair.”
“You really do think of everything, don’t you?” Miriam said. “Thank you, Evie.”
The latter pointed to the newspaper tucked into one edge of the tray, under a plate. “You’ll find a piece about the concert in there. I circled it for you.”
“You’re a dear,” Miriam said.
Evie slipped out of the room with a smile. When the door latched, Miriam ignored her food for the moment and pulled out the newspaper. There, as Evie had promised, was a small advertisement circled in ink about a concert to take place in Bath every night for a week. That night was the last performance. So good of Evie to try to find a way for Miriam to attend. She’d likely circled the advertisement days before but hadn’t mentioned the concert until Miriam’s health had improved.
But Miriam would get to the concert that night, even if it meant lying to Dr. Swenson about how she had yet to regain her full strength after her recent illness.
She read over the advertisement and learned that the concert had a small orchestra and several renowned singers, but the star of the show, whose name appeared in large print at the top of the piece, was a tenor soloist by the name of Davis Jacobson. The idea that she might be able to attend, and perhaps wear one of her pretty gowns, thrilled her in a way nothing had for months, for reasons she could not quite explain, even to herself. Perhaps it was simply that she and Evie had been stuck indoors for several weeks straight. Perhaps the young girl from the countryside, the one who’d grown up with her Sunday best as the nicest of her woolen dresses, anticipated dressing up.
Evie would likely spend more time than usual on Miriam’s hair. Perhaps they could try one of the stylish decorative braids and curls about the face, which Miriam had always admired. Her eyes drifted upward from the newspaper toward her wardrobe, and for the first time in months, she thought of the gown she’d had made for herself last December, the one that she was supposed to wear to the wedding that never took place.
It wasn’t her newest or finest dress, but the green velvet, the square neckline, and the flowing skirt had combined her favorite fashion ideas into one dress. Perhaps she could wear it tonight, if Dr. Swenson allowed her to go. Yes, she should wear it. Having been confined to a bed or a chair for months, she’d shrunk a bit, no longer having the muscle she once did, so the dress might be a bit large. No matter. She’d selected that color of green and that style because she loved them and because the green velvet brought out the same color in her eyes, which typically looked muddy brown.
Wearing her prettiest—if not her fanciest or most expensive—dress would make her feel pretty for the first time in, well, a year. Yes, she would wear that dress tonight, and perhaps, just perhaps, she’d once more feel a part of the land of the living.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jacob hadn’t been back to Audbury, but it was time, despite Richard’s protestations that the wintry country roads might make getting to that night’s concert impossible. But he simply could not be so close to Audbury and not pay his respects to the graves of Miriam and Matthew Brown. He’d already performed in Bath several times, and tonight was to be the final concert before he and Richard returned to London for the Christmas holiday. Assuming, of course, that the more frequented roads would be passable.
“I haven’t missed a single performance in a year,” he’d told Richard after informing him of his intended day trip to Audbury.
“Yes, yes, I know, but—”
“I’ve been at your beck and call for months, living out of a trunk, moving from one place to another. I’m asking for just one day, and I’ll be back in plenty of time.”
Richard crossed his legs and sighed as if annoyed. “Listening to you, one could think that you hadn’t been made into the most sought-after singer in England, that you hadn’t sung before the wealthy or before royalty, that you hadn’t performed in the Royal Pavilion in Brighton, the best theaters in London—”
“And Oxford, and a dozen others, I know.” How could he explain? “This is simply something I must do. For Miriam.”
Whether because Jacob’s tone had shifted or his words had finally sunk in, Richard’s demeanor changed. “Very well. But please be back at least two hours before the concert is to begin.”
Jacob grinned. “I’ll make it three.” He stepped toward the door and put on his hat, then turned to look at Richard before stepping through. “Thank you. Truly. I’ll see you tonight.”
Rather than risk a carriage wheel getting stuck in mud, Jacob opted to hire a horse for the day. He hadn’t been riding in months, of course, but he was certain that he’d have no trouble managing one. He might have an extremely tender backside come morning, but that potentiality was more than worth the sacrifice.
He rode for two hours until he reached Audbury proper, though it was even emptier of residents than it had been a year ago, as more and more failing sheep farmers moved away, off to cities where they could make a living. He’d been riding at a decent clip, not galloping but trotting most of the way, but when he came upon the Browns’ cottage, now lying empty, weeds growing unchecked, chickens and a few unfamiliar cats seeming to have taken ownership of the place, he slowed. Seeing the house in disrepair made his heart ache. The more he looked, the more he found: broken windows, missing shingles on the roof that Miriam had hoped to repair, the front door hanging askew.
He looked away and rode on, wanting to remember the cottage as it had been in happier days: glowing golden orange from the lamp inside, flowers lining the walk, Miriam and her father inside, welcoming him. Things that would never again be.
At last he found himself at the graveyard adjacent to the small Audbury church. He tied the horse’s lead around a tree branch and stepped onto the hallowed ground, unsure where to look for the headstone that Norman had sworn he’d paid for and had put in place to mark the Browns’ final resting place. He found the grave in a shady corner. Lichen had already taken hold in spots, though the engraving was still as clear as it must have been when it was made.
Here lie Matthew and Miriam Brown, father and daughter who perished in an accident December 1823.
Jacob removed his hat and bowed his head, once more wishing he’d been able to say farewell to them or at least be present when they were buried here. He said a quiet prayer, then opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how he felt, but whatever he’d expected hadn’t come. He’d hoped for peace, for this moment to be when he would be able to say the unspoken farewell, give Miriam to Mother Earth, and find some semblance of healing within his own soul. But none of those things happened. The soul wasn’t so easily healed, then.
He bent down and used his gloved hand to brush away dirt and some of the lichen, making the st
one as tidy as he could for the moment. “I’ll be back,” he whispered as much to himself as to Miriam.
Somehow, he’d need to return to find a way past this hurdle, this wall that kept him miserable. He’d spent the year in a darkness he wouldn’t wish on anyone, and no amount of monetary or career success could shine a light into that darkness. Yet Miriam wouldn’t want him to be like this, sorrowful and grieving, for the rest of his life. While he doubted he’d ever love another woman as he’d loved Miriam, he did want to honor her life by finding some measure of peace and healing.
Clearly, this was not to be that day. He brushed off the headstone a bit more, glad that Norman had kept his word on that point, at least; it was a beautiful marker made of limestone with streaks of varying colors that ranged from white to butter yellow, as if a speck of the sun were trying to shine upward from the columnar shape and light the world. The limestone looked very much like the entire city he’d been staying in for the last week; all of Bath was built from limestone from the same quarry. Though chimney smoke, street lamps, and dirty rainwater stained many, if not most, of the buildings to some degree, the underlying color still felt cheerful and affirming.
Norman had mentioned that the marker was of limestone, but until Jacob saw it with his own eyes, he couldn’t have known how fittingly beautiful it was as a memorial to Miriam.
Jacob straightened and headed back to the horse, pausing to look about the village as best he could from that vantage. He could just make out the top of Stonecroft Cottage. It would never be Stonecroft Hall to him. He checked his pocket watch for the time, glad that he had an extra two hours more than he’d promised Richard to return. He mounted the horse and turned her around, heading back the way they’d come. Richard would be relieved to see Jacob return early.
As he left Audbury behind, Jacob didn’t dread the night’s concert as he had been. After nearly a week of performances, he’d grown weary of the town, of the sameness of the buildings and the sameness of the concert life. He wanted to plan something new to perform. He wanted a break from constant travel and stage appearances. He wanted sleep and rest and the opportunity to maybe enjoy some of the money he’d earned, provided such a time of relaxation didn’t mean he’d find himself falling into despair again. Staying busy did have that rather helpful effect: when a man was too busy keeping track of concerts and schedules and rehearsals, he had little time for dark and dreary thoughts to slip in.
But now, he’d view tonight’s concert as a way of saying goodbye to Miriam. Bath itself, with all of its limestone, now reminded him of Miriam. He’d dedicate the concert to her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Jacob had predicted, his early return to Bath was a relief to Richard. After returning the horse to the stables he’d let it from and then going to the hotel they were staying at, he found Richard pacing the halls.
“There you are!”
“And I’m two hours early,” Jacob pointed out.
“Yes, but tonight is your final performance, and we have much to discuss, practice to do . . .”
“Richard, I know precisely what to do tonight. Whoever you think may be in attendance, I will do my utmost to impress them.” He always did his utmost; Richard should know that by now. “But if an additional rehearsal will put you at ease, I’m happy to do one.”
“Good, good,” Richard said, dabbing a handkerchief on his forehead. “Because there’s a rumor that a duke is visiting Bath. That he was at the baths earlier today and dined in the Pump Room!”
A rumor. Those were dangerous, for when they referred to nobility especially, they were as likely to be true as false.
Jacob did his best to calm his manager, then found some supper with Richard in the hotel dining area before they headed to the theater for the concert: his last of the season, last of the year. He could hardly wait.
Backstage, he heard the crowd growing in size, the rumbling sound of voices and footsteps increasing as their numbers did. As always, butterflies came to life in his middle, something that used to make him terribly nervous but that he’d managed to view, in recent months, as a sign of energy and excitement.
The concert itself was magnificent. The orchestra not only hit every note perfectly but played with such emotion and clarity that the accompaniment alone would have been enough to bring forth tears—and did, in some cases, before he sang. He looked out over the span of people gathered before him and wondered where they hailed from. How many were in Bath for the holidays? How many called this city home? How many, such as the duke and duchess—if the story was true—had come for a visit in hopes of benefiting from the restorative powers of the Roman baths?
The concert went extraordinarily well. As always, Jacob sang, the orchestra played some pieces alone, and a few smaller ensembles made up of orchestra members played as well. Sometimes Jacob told a story to lead into a particular song. When the concert was nearly over and he had one song left to sing, he addressed the audience directly.
“As I look out and see your smiling faces, I am grateful and humbled that you would spend your evening with me. This is my last concert of the year—”
The crowd moaned slightly at that, but he raised a hand and went on. “I am not retiring. I’m sure I’ll return to Bath. But seeing as this is my last performance of this year, I wish to dedicate it to a very special young woman.” He paused, feeling his eyes prick. He fought back tears; he couldn’t very well honor Miriam’s memory properly if he began crying. His singing would come out no better than a warble. He swallowed and continued. “As many of you know, I end each of my concerts with the same song, but I’ve never explained why.”
Movement from the corner of his eye grabbed his attention, and he glanced into the stage wing. Richard was shaking his head and making an X motion with his arms. Richard always wanted to protect Jacob, had withheld as much personal information as he could from the public, including the newspapers, which was why Jacob had transposed his name to create his professional stage name: Jacob Davies had become Davis Jacobson.
He smiled at Richard in an effort to calm him. It wasn’t as if Jacob was going to reveal personal information like Miriam’s name, that they’d grown up in Audbury, or—especially—anything about the accident.
“I will end tonight’s performance with the same song I have for a year, one which I created the music for and borrowed the lyrics from Lord Byron. This time, however, I am publicly dedicating this song to the woman who inspired it. A young woman who . . . who is no longer with us.” His throat threatening to choke up, he let his gaze scan the audience from left to right, pausing for a moment to gather his composure. Then, there on the right, for a heart-stopping moment, he saw a woman who he could have sworn was Miriam—sitting not in a regular padded chair but in a wheeled one. He stared for the briefest of moments, but she quickly lowered her face, and he looked away, heart pounding uneasily.
His visit to Audbury and its graveyard must have awakened more in him than he’d realized. He cleared his throat in an attempt to loosen it. He looked at his boots for a moment, then lifted his face to the audience once more, but this time, he looked straight down the middle of the auditorium, barely over the attendees’ heads.
“As I was saying, I dedicate this, my final performance of the year, to her. My love, who passed away one year ago.” He gave a slight nod to the conductor—his cue to begin the music, a plaintive, melancholy, and utterly beautiful score that fit the melody he’d invented while lying in bed for those long days at Branbourne Manor.
“And thou art dead, as young and fair,” he began, “As aught of mortal birth.”
The audience hushed in a now-familiar way, silence rippling across the room until only the instruments and Jacob’s voice could be heard. He kept his eyes straight forward, where shadows loomed, so he wouldn’t look about the room. The limelights of the stage lit him so he was easier seen than he could see out, yet he had to fight the pull to look at the woman in the wheeled chair. His mind was so caught up in his v
isit to Audbury and the memories of that horrible day when he’d gone to the chapel, only to learn that his love had died, that afterward he had no memory of singing the next few lines. He must have, however, because the orchestra picked up after the verse, playing the interlude.
Jacob continued to sing. Every person’s attention was locked on him. He felt that this was, quite likely, the best performance he’d ever given of this or any song. When at last he reached the final verse, he had to close his eyes to keep from looking at the woman who bore such a striking resemblance to his beloved Miriam. The emotion of the lyrics poured from him.
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o’er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
The orchestra concluded the song with half a minute of a reprise, during which Jacob’s self-restraint exhausted itself. He opened his eyes and could not help looking at the woman sitting near the aisle in her wheeled chair. Surely he’d imagined the resemblance, or so he’d assured himself until he looked on her again. If anything, she appeared more like Miriam than before—and she had tears streaming down her cheeks.
When she realized he was looking at her, she startled, then turned to her lady companion. After a quick, whispered interchange, the companion hurriedly stood and got behind the chair, and next thing he knew, the woman—a twin to his Miriam—was being wheeled away.
They stopped briefly for the friend—servant?—to place a wrap about the shoulders of her charge. A wrap of deep browns with swirls of blue and burgundy. He’d seen a wrap exactly like that before. He’d given its twin to Miriam on the night of their engagement.
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