Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  Still, it had been interesting. Very interesting. A tall, dark, handsome foreigner was something to look forward to. Unless the cards were telling her about the voice man, the dream violinist. If it was him the fear she’d also mentioned would be all too real. Nina shivered.

  The spare room door was still firmly closed when she got home. Nina went straight past into the laundry to dump her umbrella and wet shoes. She sat on the couch watching the TV news to eat dinner but Serena’s words kept revolving in her head. “You are very creative. You’ve been stifling your talent” or words to that effect.

  Was that what this was about. Her stifled creative side bursting for release?

  ****

  For the first time he appeared to her in her dream. And he was handsome. Far more handsome than she’d imagined in her wildest fantasies, with finely chiselled features and a full, sensitive mouth. Thick dark hair curled over his collar, though not as black as her own, and his eyes were deep brown and fired with an intense passion just as she’d envisaged.

  A soft white linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat and with loosely rolled sleeves was tucked into slim-fitting black pants. He held his violin in slender artistic hands, held it lovingly as a living thing. Nina yearned for him to touch her with those long, elegant fingers and to feel his embrace. She wanted to hear him speak to her with the passion he reserved for the woman Mira, wanted him with all her heart and soul.

  He said, “I am Piers. I am the one you must heed. For Mira. Everything is for Mira.”

  “Who is Mira? Why should I?” she demanded, sick with jealousy.

  “My love, my life. Listen to me. Do this for me.”

  Nina ached to help him. His voice swamped her senses, overpowered her so that she could think of nothing but wanting to please him. “I will, I will do anything.”

  “You are the one, the only one. It is you I want.”

  Her heart expanded with love and desire as he gazed into her eyes and spoke the last words. Then he raised his violin and the music swelled up and around her and she drifted back into deeper sleep.

  The scent of roses wafted on warm, summer air. She was in a garden. A beautiful, formal garden, at night. Voices babbled in the distance through the trees. A party, sounds of laughter coming from a brightly lit house. They mustn’t see her here. She’d snuck away, waiting for him in her prettiest gown.

  She was kissing Piers. His arms were around her and his tongue was hard and forceful in her mouth. She could feel his body against hers, chest broad, thigh muscles firm and exciting. He drew back and his dark, penetrating eyes burned into hers. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and breathed his name. “Piers, kiss me again. I love you.”

  He bent his head to hers and once more invaded her mouth with passion. He stopped and whispered hoarsely, “You’re mine. Mine alone. Always.”

  “Yours,” she cried. “Yes, Piers.”

  Nina woke heavy headed and lethargic still in the dark of night, aware she’d dreamed, aware he’d appeared to her for the first time but with one certainty pounding in her head. His name was Piers, her phantom lover. She hadn’t known that before. The name suited him, exotic but somehow aristocratic at the same time.

  Not everything Piers had said remained in her memory but something had changed this time. There’d been a shift in the basic order of things. It was almost as if he were transferring his love to her. Although the thought was suffocatingly exciting, thrilling to the core, she wondered why. Why would he do that when he was so devoted to his love, to Mira? Nina would never replace her, she knew that. It was an impossible idea but still the thread remained.

  Was he trying to resurrect Mira’s soul in her body? Succeeding? Nineteenth-century Piers must have dabbled in the occult. But he wasn’t a lunatic; he was strong and passionate and sensitive and a wonderful violinist. The melody swirled in her head constantly.

  A flash from the dream appeared before her eyes. His face, so handsome and intense, his eyes looking deeply into hers, his voice saying, “I love you. Only you.” His hand reaching out to her, touching. So real. So exciting. She wanted to sleep, to meet him again.

  They were in a glade of oaks. Hot, still sunlight filtered through the thick canopy of leaves. She lay on the grass and watched Piers above her, his face suffused with passion and love. He moved inside her hard and strong and urgent and she went with him, her whole body crying out to be closer, to enclose him and draw him into her, hold him and make him part of her. He kissed her driving his tongue deep and possessively even as he drove into her body striving for that ultimate release, that ultimate expression of his love.

  Then she was lifted on her own wave of desire and she called out his name. The light faded and it was night again. The scent of roses was heavy in the air. Piers approached silently, his body a darker bulk against the moonlit leaves of the shrubs and bushes of the garden. His arms encircled her and she rested her head against his chest. Forever.

  Chapter Three

  Cutting Marsh, England, July 1892

  Her head throbbed unbearably, every joint ached, even her skin hurt. In her lucid moments Miranda heard voices murmuring, soothing, felt water trickle down her throat and cool dampness pressed against her forehead and neck. But those moments were rare and for most of the time she inhabited a world of reeling visions, strange impressions, harsh light and unbearable noise.

  She was on a small boat which pitched and tossed on the waves, smacking into the water with a crash, sending salty spray flying onto her face and dress. But looking down she saw with horror the clothing she wore was odd—loose and with sleeves which left her arms bare. And her legs, shockingly exposed in short pantaloons of a strange stiff blue fabric. Her feet were bare too, save for flimsy sandals. In public. She gripped the railings to maintain balance but the little boat suddenly ground to a screeching halt against a wooden pier and she leapt ashore and ran.

  She’d never run so fast. Panting and desperate, she fled along a street suddenly unbearably hot with a searing sun burning down onto her head. Buildings crowded the roadside, unfamiliar houses with small fenced yards and pointed roofs. Strange trees lined the street. All the doors were closed, the road was deserted, she was alone. Searching.

  She had to find…what? She didn’t know…

  “Where are you? she screamed. “Where?”

  “Miranda, drink this, my dear.” Her father’s voice, calm, quiet and achingly familiar.

  An arm supported her head to raise her, a glass was pressed to her lips. Something sweet and cold slid down her throat.

  “Papa,” she murmured.

  “Sleep, my dear. You have a fever.” His fingers touched her cheek lightly. She sighed and slipped into a fitful doze.

  Someone called her name. She stood in a garden heavy with the perfume of roses.

  “Ethan?”

  He called again but the voice was different, deeper more commanding.

  “Where are you?” she called.

  But there was no reply.

  Then she was running, searching for him but all the paths looked the same and the perfume of roses was overpowering, suffocating. Hot, unbearably hot. She flung her arms wide to push aside the crowding rose bushes which towered over the path and clutched at her with thorny branches.

  He was gone. She knew with a certainty that filled her body with despair, heavy and immovable.

  She woke with a start. Her pillow was wet and the sheet twisted uncomfortably under her body. The room was dark, the curtains drawn against the light but no sunlight showed round the edges so it must be night.

  Her mother sat opposite. She was beautiful, more beautiful than Miranda could ever have imagined. She smiled and her dark eyes twinkled with kindness. She reached out a small hand and stroked Miranda’s cheek.

  “My beautiful child,” she said.

  “Mama.”

  Mama wore a beautifully embroidered silk robe with a high collar and wide sleeves. Gold on red in a Chinese design of dragons and flowers. Her thick
black hair was smoothed from her round face into a roll and held in place with lacquered pins.

  Light streaked across the floor through a crack in the curtains but this time Miranda’s eyes didn’t scream with pain. She turned her head as the door opened.

  Mrs. Bowden came in with a wash bowl and towels. Her face lit with delight when she saw Miranda watching her.

  “Thank the Lord,” she cried and retreated through the door. “Doctor, come quickly. She’s awake and back with us,” she called then reappeared. “My goodness, you gave us all a fright, my dear.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember…”

  “You wouldn’t. The fever had you in its grip and if it hadn’t been for the expert care of your good father we would have lost you, for sure.” Mrs. Bowden placed the fresh towel and wash basin on the night stand and began straightening the bedclothes.

  “Nonsense, Mrs. Bowden. She was in no real danger but you were very ill, Miranda.” Her father strode to the bed and smiled down at her, his grey eyes showing the relief he couldn’t truly express. He laid his palm against her forehead. “Much better. How do you feel?”

  “A little hungry.”

  “Excellent. Some weak chicken broth, Mrs. Bowden, please.ˮ

  “Certainly. And I expect you’d like a nice, hot bath and clean clothes.”

  “Perhaps just a wash, Mrs. Bowden. I don’t think I’m strong enough to bathe quite yet.”

  “Of course. I’ll see to the broth.”

  “How long have I been ill, Papa?”

  Her father pulled up a chair and sat down. “Three days. Young Ethan has enquired every day. He’ll be very happy to hear the news.”

  Miranda pictured the sandy-haired, square-jawed face of her oldest, dearest friend and smiled. But he wasn’t the one, wasn’t the voice in her dream. He wasn’t the one she was searching for.

  “I had strange dreams,” she said.

  “The fever does that. It makes you imagine things, unreal, fanciful things.”

  “I saw Mama. She spoke to me. She was beautiful.”

  Sadness flitted like a passing shadow across his face. “She was but you never saw her. It is my most bitter regret I have no portrait or photographic image of her. Only in my memory does she live on.”

  “I know it was her. She had on a red and gold gown with big sleeves and her hair was pulled back away from her face and held with long lacquered pins.”

  Her father straightened with a puzzled frown. “She wore a red and gold gown the day we married. It was a traditional Chinese dress but she didn’t wear Eastern dress at all after the wedding. It was her mother’s. I must have mentioned it to you,” he said flatly.

  Miranda nodded. Perhaps he had. But she didn’t remember. He didn’t talk about her much at all. Too stricken with grief, Mrs. Bowden surmised when once Miranda had asked her why. Not that Mrs. Bowden would know. They’d moved to the village when Miranda was five and Tyler eight and their mother had died bringing her into the world.

  But Papa was talking about her mother now and she had questions.

  “Mama wasn’t completely Chinese, was she?”

  “No, her father was English. He met her mother in Australia on the goldfields.”

  “In Australia. The other side of the world.” An image of hot brassy sky, strange trees…She frowned and the picture slipped from her mind’s feeble grasp.

  “Rest now, my dear.” He stood up.

  ****

  Ethan and his mother called a few days later, pleased with the news of Miranda’s recovery. Mrs. Bowden ushered them in to the sitting room where she lay reclining against a pile of cushions on the settee.

  “I’m so pleased to see you recovered, Miranda,” Mrs. Broome said. “We were terribly worried. Especially Ethan.”

  She cast a smiling glance at her son who stood grinning down at Miranda and clutching a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. “I brought you these,” he said.

  Mrs. Bowden stepped forward. “I’ll put them in water for her, sir. Please sit down. Tea will be ready shortly.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Bowden,” said Miranda.

  Her visitors obeyed the command, Ethan in the chair closest to Miranda. He leaned forward.

  “How are you feeling? You’re very pale.”

  “She’s not recovered properly yet, Ethan. She was extremely ill. Of course she’s pale and she won’t have been eating.”

  Miranda and Ethan exchanged a smile. Mrs. Broome was renowned for her desire to ensure everyone ate sufficiently, an attitude which endeared her to the village as a whole.

  “I’ll be better in time for the Summer Ball,” she said. “I’m looking forward to dancing.”

  “So am I.” Ethan nodded. “Father has engaged an orchestra from London. They’re supposed to be the toast of the town.”

  “How exciting.”

  “You must be sure to rest properly, Miranda. Especially as it’s so hot this summer. Very enervating, this weather, and everything’s as parched as a bone.” Mrs. Broome fanned herself with a small ivory and silk fan she produced from her bag.

  “Maybe that’s why I dreamed of the hot sun,” Miranda said. “I had strange dreams while I was ill. I imagined I was in a foreign country. And on a boat. I’ve never been on a boat and yet I knew exactly how it felt.”

  “This heat is enough to make anyone have strange dreams,” said Mrs. Broome.

  Mrs. Bowden brought tea and the conversation meandered on until Miranda began to droop. Mrs. Broome rose to her feet, announced they’d worn her out, and bustled Ethan out the door.

  Miranda went to her bedroom and lay down. Ethan planned in his stolid, unromantic way to marry her one day. There was a long-standing understanding dating from their childhood but no actual engagement as yet. She could easily picture herself as Lady of the Manor at Broome Hall.

  When they married she would leave the doctor’s small house and move into the east wing with Ethan. Mrs. Broome was almost like a mother and they would get on well together under the same roof. She would teach Miranda everything she needed to know about running a large household and how to entertain the local gentry. Her future was assured and secure.

  She slept naturally, peacefully and deeply.

  ****

  Sydney, 1998

  Slowly Nina began to resent the time spent in practice, the consuming of her life. It wasn’t leading anywhere. She still couldn’t play the difficult bits the way Piers demonstrated each night, for she was now positive that’s what he was doing, and she felt the way she had as a child, forced into going over and over a piece by a stern disciplinarian. But she couldn’t stop. And she didn’t know how to stop dreaming.

  How could she stop the sexual thrill he produced just by looking at her with those dark passionate eyes? She wanted him to ravage her with that strong, masculine body, she wanted to feel him deep inside her and lose herself in his love, go with him to oblivion. But she always woke up, spent, exhausted, and alone.

  It had become an addiction, an obsessive behaviour way out of her control. She could control the actual length of practice and what she did within that time frame but she could not put the music away, still less destroy it, and she could not go for more than a day without the overwhelming desire to play it again. Just like a true addict, she needed her fix even though she hated what it did to her.

  She tried to destroy the page but again that curious reluctance stole over her as her hand reached out. It knew her intentions. Her hand dropped harmlessly and she said, “It’s only a piece of paper, for goodness’ sake.”

  One lunch time, browsing in a bookshop, she remembered her father’s words concerning the quote from King Lear. “Look it up,” he’d said as he always did to queries of that sort. She’d forgotten about it after he’d told her the source, concentrating exclusively on playing the music. Rather than read the whole play, a Dictionary of Quotations would be the go.

  In the References section she found the book and scanned the index for phrases starting with “th
is.” No luck. How about madness? Yes! There it was! “Madness lies, that way” p 241:29 It was “that” not “this.” She flipped back to the right page and found reference 29.

  “O, that way madness lies: let me shun that.” King Lear

  Nina stared at the entry, mouthing the chilling words. For chilling they were. She hadn’t known the rest of the quote, hadn’t even got the first bit right. Neither had the writer for that matter but that was small consolation. It was a warning there was absolutely no doubt about it now. And Serena had told her to take care. Take care not to follow the path to madness? Had she seen what was on the path? Was that what she was holding back?

  ****

  The following week her older sister Lucy phoned. Nina had just cleared her messages after returning from work. There weren’t many. Her parents had rung to leave a cheery update on their progress and a real estate agent left a message asking if she was interested in selling her house as there were apparently queues of people waiting to snap up property in the area. Gordon had rung once, leaving a brusque, “Turn on your mobile. Call me” which she hadn’t returned. She hadn’t bothered charging her mobile for weeks. She left the machine on almost all the time now, having no interest in talking to anyone. She had to play the music. She lived to hear his voice.

  Lucy was lucky to catch her before she turned the answering function back on.

  “Nina! Thank goodness. What’s wrong with your mobile? That bloody machine’s been on permanently and I refuse to talk to it. How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine. Have you been sick? You haven’t called Jason. We’re both supposed to keep an eye on him, not just me, you know.”

  Her brother? That’s right. Her parents asked her to check in on him while they were away. She’d told them he was an adult and could look after himself.

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Well what’s your problem?”

  “Nina! What’s going on? Are you on drugs or something?”

  “No, of course not. None of your business anyway what I do,” Nina snapped, ready to hang up.