The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3

by Kathryn Guare

  “Stop it, you know I don’t think that. You’re going to be amazing. It’s just that it’s so many people, and … God, what happens if you do break a string?” Kate hadn’t even considered that terrifying possibility.

  Conor grinned. “I’ll compensate. It’s not as disastrous as it sounds.”

  “So many people,” Kate repeated, now in a low voice.

  “Yes, it’s completely sold out, I’m told. Mostly a local audience. The symposium participants are merely a ragged remnant scattered among this crowd.” Frank gave her a droll, sidelong glance. “They were meant to congregate in a pre-performance function, but the organizers have quite gone off the idea of receptions.”

  She laughed. “Who can blame them? Do you feel nervous for Eckhard on a night like this, Frank—when he’s conducting such an important concert?”

  “Good God, no. In the first place he’s quite at home on the stage—hadn’t you noticed? And in the second place I’ve rather had my fill of feeling nervous for Eckhard this week, although I believe we’ll both be happy when he’s safely back in Windsor having a good rest.”

  “Amen to that,” Kate said, wistfully.

  Smiling in sympathy, Frank slipped an arm around her waist and they walked to the staircase that would take them up to the Dvořák Hall. “I’m sorry to delay your own return home. Conor did explain about the meetings we’ll need him for in London? It shouldn’t be more than a few days, and I hope our ebullient hospitality will soften the blow?”

  “He did explain, and it’s fine. We’re both looking forward to spending a little more time with you.”

  “Did he actually say as much? How extraordinary.”

  Conor had said as much and more, once reassured she wasn’t bothered about the unexpected detour on their route back to Vermont. “Sure we’ve spent nearly a week with people who hated each other, in a place that felt like the inner circle of Hell. A lit match was the best thing that could have happened to that house and fair play to Sonia if she’s the one who threw it, but I can still feel the film of it sticking to me. It’s like that ‘greaves’ spread yer man gave us back at the Ram Gorse pub—an unmeltable residue you can’t feckin’ get rid of, no matter how hot. I’m thinking it’ll be good for us to spend a few days in a house with a clean spirit and a couple of people who love each other.”

  Kate couldn’t have put it better herself.

  Once settled in the stately grandeur of Dvořák Hall her nerves began to settle, and when Eckhard appeared, his familiar face and joyous energy made her forget everything else. The first half of the program opened with a short piece by Dvořák, and culminated in the String Quartet No. 1, by Leoš Janáček. The Czech composer had subtitled his work the Kreutzer Sonata, and it was presented as a companion piece to Conor’s performance of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9, also known as the Kreutzer Sonata.

  “Eckhard is exploring what connects these two compositions,” Conor had explained, when reviewing the program with her earlier that day. “Both in terms of what you hear and what you feel. Tolstoy’s novella took its name and some of its inspiration from the original sonata Beethoven wrote, and Janáček took his inspiration from the novella. You won’t be hearing anything that reminds you of a peaceful afternoon in the country from either of them. The Janáček is dark and surreal, and if I play it right the presto movement of the Beethoven might be the most hair-raising fifteen minutes you’re likely to hear in the classical repertoire.” He’d tossed the program onto the bed with a sigh. “If you put the two together, it just about adds up to an orchestration of what we’ve lived through here—our own little novella of twisted relationships and bloody mayhem.”

  He was right about the Janáček. From the ominous edge of the cello’s solo opening to the last poignant notes, Kate found it easy to conjure the torment and foreshadowed doom of Tolstoy’s female protagonist and relate it to their own experience. It made her eager to hear what Conor would do with the Beethoven following the intermission.

  When he walked onto the stage in his white tie and tails, pristine again after their third dry cleaning in a week, Kate’s pulse raced. She’d never known anyone who seemed as comfortable in a tuxedo as he was in a pair of jeans covered with barn grime. His easy, athletic grace made whatever he was wearing look sexy.

  “Oh my,” a voice murmured appreciatively next to her, reminding Kate this was also the first time Frank was seeing Conor perform at this level.

  They were seated ten rows up on the left side of the concert hall. Conor had warned her not to be disappointed if he couldn’t see her, but when he turned from shaking hands with the concertmaster, his eyes went straight to her. Although he was already sinking into the fugue state that would shut everything else out, he lingered on her face for a few seconds and gave her the smallest hint of a smile.

  The sonata began with a series of slow, awkward chords that Conor had described earlier as a violinist’s nightmare. They were painfully emotional, a groaning wail that went unanswered, and held the audience in rapt silence. From that point forward, and for most of the remaining fifteen minutes, Beethoven let all hell break loose in his presto movement. The pace was explosive, the solo violin a virtuosic tornado powering the music forward and pushing the orchestra to its breathless limit. By the fourth minute, Conor and the Pressenda had fused into a single, electrifying presence.

  He played without any exaggerated gestures, moving very little and never straying more than a few inches at a time on the stage, but this control of motion only heightened an air of blistering energy. Even during the brief episodes of calm it sizzled below the surface, barely contained. To Kate it seemed as if Conor was vibrating in place while a passionate, wild chaos poured out of him.

  As he’d promised, it was fifteen minutes of relentless intensity. After the first movement, the sonata progressed into a series of variations on a more placid theme, but then another long, breathtaking presto brought the entire piece to a fiery conclusion. When it was over Kate could see that he actually was vibrating—or rather, trembling—as she and the audience members surged up from their seats in thunderous applause. After four curtain calls it seemed clear an encore was expected. He returned and delivered a short solo piece with a playful, swaying melody. It helped resolve the pressurized atmosphere and had the audience clapping along, and after one last curtain call with Eckhard, they finally allowed Conor to go.

  “Well, yes,” Frank said, turning to her with a satisfied smile. “I’d say that was rather a strong debut, wouldn’t you?”

  Exiting the concert hall, they followed an usher’s directions down the hall to a room where the orchestra members had congregated. At the end of it, Eckhard waved a hand towel, beckoning them forward. He looked like a boxing coach who had just seen his champion through ten rounds. Conor, his face running with perspiration, looked every bit the part. He stood several feet away with his back against the wall and his eyes closed, draining a bottle of water.

  “He’s a bit shell-shocked, I think.” Eckhard handed Kate another bottle of water with a smile. “Take him out for some air. Walk him around and make him drink more water. When he is fit for conversation, please bring him down to the Grosseto. It’s the riverboat restaurant just next to the bridge. There are a number of prospective donors I would like him to charm.”

  Kate stepped over to him and when she took Conor’s hand his eyes slowly opened. “You’re right,” she said. “The first movement sounded exactly like the week we just had. It’s amazing how you packed it all into a fifteen-minute nutshell.”

  He smiled and pushed himself away from the wall. “I guess insanity sometimes comes in small packages.”

  “I guess so.” Kate tapped his chest with the water bottle. “Let’s get out of here. Fresh air, hydration, exercise. Maestro’s orders.”

  They left the Rudolfinum through a side door and crossed the lawn next to it, then took a walk along the riverbank while Conor dutifully drank the second bottle of water. After stopping to watch a fle
et of glass-topped touring boats depart for a moonlight cruise down the Vltava, they returned along the same path and sat down on a bench by the river’s edge. Conor put an arm around Kate’s shoulders.

  “We’ve one day left before we leave. Is there anything you’d like to see before we go?”

  “I’d love to spend some time at the National Museum, if it wouldn’t bore you too much.”

  Conor looked at her, mildly hurt. “Why would you think I’d be bored? I may not know a lot about art, but I’m teachable.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Are you really interested in learning about it?”

  “Only if you’re doing the teaching.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “I suppose it’s really just an excuse to learn more about you.”

  Kate took a breath and held it, surprised by the strength of her emotion. Such a simple observation, and he’d offered it so casually, with no premeditation or intention to impress. Just a sincere statement of fact, and it was probably the most romantic compliment she’d ever received. Shifting away from his side she turned to face him, trembling with a different kind of nervousness now.

  “I learned something about you tonight, or maybe it was more about me. Can I tell you about it?”

  Puzzled and curious, he nodded. “Of course. What is it?”

  “It’s something I suddenly realized from watching you play in a different way than I’d ever seen. I feel a little embarrassed for not figuring it out sooner. I’ve had this notion—a pretty conceited one really—that I was the most important thing in your life, but now I understand that I’m not.”

  Conor narrowed his eyes warily. “Have we not done this part already? Did I go mumbling someone’s name in my sleep again?”

  Kate smiled. “No. This isn’t about that.”

  “Good. So then, tell me what, in the name of all that’s holy, have you decided is more important in my life than you?”

  “Maybe not more important, but it’s at least got equal billing.” Lifting the neck of the violin case he’d leaned against the bench she gave it a little wiggle.

  Conor’s eyebrows shot up in sardonic disbelief. “You’re jealous of the Pressenda?”

  “Just the opposite. I’m grateful for her.” Kate rested the case against the bench and bowed her head. “I love you more than you can imagine, Conor, but some things can’t be fixed with love, and there are places inside you I won’t ever be able to reach. I was afraid you didn’t realize it, and that you thought I had some kind of magic that would make everything whole for you again. It scared me. I felt as though you’d put me on a pedestal, and I was worried that I’d fall off sooner or later and disappoint you.”

  “I put you on a pedestal.” Conor raised his hands and let them fall to his knees in sad frustration. “Kate, I haven’t a clue what that even means. I’ve put you nowhere. Why would I? You’re fine where you are.”

  “I know that now.” She took his hand and held it in both of her own. “I’m not all that holds you up and you never expected me to be. The relationship you have with this violin—what it gives you, what it brings out of you—is something vital. I don’t think you could exist without it, but it’s completely separate from what you and I share.”

  “I suppose it is, yeah,” Conor said. “Sure it would need to be … wouldn’t it?”

  Kate saw she was scaring him. For him, the idea that the darkest corners of his soul could only be accessed with a violin was so natural he didn’t need to think about it. Her epiphany confused him, and because he didn’t understand it he was clearly anxious about what it meant.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry. You don’t get what I’m trying to say, do you? I’m telling you I’m not scared anymore. As much as I have, I’ll give to you, and I know it will be enough.” Kate leaned over to kiss him softly on the lips, and then moved to whisper in his ear. “You promised to ask again when I was ready.”

  It was such a rare treat to be a step ahead of him, to see all his extraordinary intuitions stymied while the light of understanding crept slowly over his face. For a minute he seemed unable to process it, unable to make any words come out of his mouth, until he managed to breathe one that escaped his lips in a whisper.

  “Kate?”

  “Properly now,” she said, gently. “I know you can do it.”

  “I can, of course,” he stuttered, “but I haven’t the—I mean, I wasn’t ready for—”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Right so.” Conor took a shaky breath and slipped from the bench onto the ground as though plunging into the deepest part of a lake. Down on one knee at her feet, he took her hand, and his eyes grew anxious, seeing hers fill with tears. “Ah, Kate. You’ll have me destroyed with this.”

  “Never mind.” She sniffed and laughed. “Keep going.”

  He took her hand, and ran his thumb over the back of it. “My heart, my brightest treasure, my best friend.” Conor’s voice caught and he lowered his head, falling silent for a moment. “My only share of the world. Please, will you marry me?”

  “Yes. I do. I will. Yes. Yes.”

  He was on his feet by the time she’d uttered the final “yes,” pulling her up with him into a kiss that steadily grew more passionate. When they finally came up for air Kate saw they’d traveled all the way to the railing along the riverbank. She pulled back to smile at him.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  Conor turned her face up to his, softly laughing and crying at the same time. “Jaysus, are you joking? I was never so scared in all my life.”

  Resting his back against the wrought-iron railing, he drew her to him, and Kate relaxed into his embrace. Safe. Content. Whole.

  32

  Sitting the Prague Airport’s VIP departure lounge, Conor was dressed for business. The previous afternoon, after their visit to the National Museum, he’d realized that as soon as he arrived in London he’d be going straight from Heathrow to a ministerial briefing on the Ghorbani fiasco and he didn’t have a thing to wear. His tuxedo was hardly appropriate, and the jacket of the only other suit he’d brought had been rendered nearly sleeveless on one side. While the idea depressed him, the prospect of a shopping trip had raised a gleam of anticipation in Kate’s blue eyes.

  “Indulge me,” she’d said.

  The result of this indulgence was a charcoal-shaded ensemble by an Italian designer he’d never heard of, secured for an appalling price. Although he wouldn’t confess it to her, it was probably the most comfortable suit he’d ever worn.

  By contrast, Kate was dressed casually, in the black leggings he’d bought for her in Hřensko and a soft cashmere tunic of pale lavender. Having declined Frank’s offer to include her in the briefing, she was anticipating a relaxing afternoon at the house in Windsor.

  “Do I have time for a trip to the duty-free shop? I’d like to pick up a bottle of something to bring Frank and Eckhard. And maybe a few other little things.”

  Conor smiled at her. Still riding on a cloud of heady exhilaration after gaining the one thing he’d wanted most and feared he would never get, he felt ready to agree to any suggestion Kate might make.

  “So long as it isn’t Becherovka.” He couldn’t even look at the stuff without flashing back to the shots he’d thrown down in Martin Labut’s study when he’d been trying to avoid the minister’s coy invitation to carnal adventure. Conor looked at his watch. “I’d say you’ve about twenty minutes before I’ll be telling them to shout for you on the PA. Remember what your name is, in case I do.”

  “How could I forget?” Kate wrinkled her nose. “Edwin and Dorothea Buckingham. I think the Prague Fermature is playing games with us.”

  “Well, she’s no problem passing for a woman of eighty years of age. Maybe she thinks it’s a skill we should develop.”

  After she left, he poured himself a club soda from the self-service bar and returned to his leather sofa and his perusal of the Wall Street Journal, the only English-language newspaper he could find. It was the first t
ime he’d ever been allowed inside a VIP lounge (Eckhard had arranged the access), and he had to admit the experience was growing on him.

  After a few minutes he glanced up to see a striking, long-legged woman in a short-skirted business suit making her way to the chair across from him. She was juggling a briefcase and purse while trying to maneuver a Louis Vuitton roller bag around his violin case, all without taking her eyes from her smartphone. Conor rose quickly from the sofa.

  “Sorry, let me get that out of your way.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, still focused on the phone. “I appreciate that.”

  American, he thought, noting the accent. She took the chair across from him, giving him a cursory glance, and then she did a double take. Suddenly she was more interested in having a conversation with him. A few minutes into it, Conor realized she’d pegged him as a millionaire, and the idea so amused him that he allowed her to continue under this delusion. He figured it was good practice for honing a covert identity.

  When Kate returned, the woman looked her over and arranged her face into a mask of polite interest, but not quickly enough to hide a disdainful frown. Kate dropped onto the sofa next to him and Conor arched an eyebrow at the three bags of duty-free loot piled around her feet.

  “I got a little carried away,” she admitted with a mischievous smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

  “No, you’re all right. This is Veronica Templeton.”

  The woman gave a slight start. “How did you know my name?”

  “It’s on your luggage.” Conor smiled. “I’m Edwin Buckingham, and this is Dorothea, my—”

  “Fiancé.” Kate gave the woman an adorable, loopy grin. “I’m his fiancé.”

  “That’s right, you are, aren’t you?” he said, softly.

  “Is New York home for you, Veronica?” At the poor woman’s freshly startled expression Kate pointed at the paperwork on the coffee table. “Your boarding pass.”