Shadow Music

by Elisabeth Rose

  She craned her neck searching for him amongst the crowd but realised this made her look quite frantic and worried as opposed to sophisticated or demure. A middle aged rather plump gentleman approached with a smile on his round face.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Templeton?”

  Miranda hesitated just a second but Ethan wasn’t to be seen, this gentleman was and the first dance was half over.

  “Thank you. Yes, you may.”

  He held out his arm and she placed her hand on it. “George Sutherland,” he said. “Doctor Templeton’s daughter, I believe.”

  “Yes, that is correct.” She wanted to ask how he knew her father but they’d reached the dance floor and conversation was impossible. Couples whirled by. Miranda’s partner was competent and solid, leading her with earnest precision around the room. Lucinda danced by, smiling up into Cecil’s placid face. One or two other familiar faces swirled past. Then Ethan waltzed alongside with a dark-haired young woman in a sumptuous dark blue gown. Diamonds sparkled at her throat and dripped from her ears.

  His eyes locked with Miranda’s and for a moment she glimpsed embarrassment but then another couple intervened and Ethan and his partner were gone.

  “Who is the lady dancing with Ethan?” Miranda asked. She already knew the answer, thanks to the Redpath girls.

  “Oh, she’s the American, Miss Valerie McCusker. She’s an awfully nice young lady. Much nicer than one would expect from an American.”

  “She’s very beautiful.” She was. And with her beauty went money and with the money went confidence.

  “You are very beautiful too. If you don’t mind my saying.”

  Miranda glanced into his face in surprise. “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” His grip on her waist tightened slightly, uncomfortably. Fortunately the music ceased and Miranda was able to step back and follow him to the side of the room.

  “Thank you, Miss Templeton.”

  Miranda smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Sutherland.” He bowed and withdrew.

  Tyler wandered by and stopped when he spied her standing alone.

  “How are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Very well. I’ve just danced the first dance. Tyler, do you know many of these people?”

  “Some. One or two chaps from Oxford are here. Will and Jane Drury. You know them. And I know the Redpaths, of course. So do you.”

  “Harriet told me many people have come down from town.”

  “Yes. Excuse me, I must claim my next partner.”

  The orchestra began a lively polka which considerably thinned the ranks of older dancers. Miranda went searching and found Will Drury, a friend of Tyler’s who had recently married Jane French a Plymouth girl whom Miranda knew.

  “We have exciting news, Miranda,” said Jane almost immediately. “We are expecting our first child in the New Year.”

  “How wonderful. Congratulations.” Miranda kissed Jane’s flushed cheek.

  “Jane tells everyone we meet,” said Will but he smiled fondly down at his wife’s pink-cheeked excitement.

  “So she should. It’s news worth sharing.”

  Miranda considered the couple. Like Ethan, William was heir to an estate a few miles distant which had been in his family for generations. Jane’s father was a lawyer with a legal practice in Plymouth. No one had objected to the marriage as far as Miranda knew. Was that because Jane’s family was English through and through and she was the epitome of a fair-haired, creamy skinned, pink and white English girl? Would the Redpaths think differently if Miranda’s mother had not been of Chinese descent?

  “What a strenuous dance,” said Jane as couples bounced past. “I find I tire easily these days.”

  “You must be very careful, my dear.”

  “My father recommends plenty of exercise for patients in a similar condition to yours,” said Miranda. “Perhaps walking rather than vigorous dancing. Especially the polka.”

  Jane smiled. “I shall make a point of taking a sedate walk every day.”

  The polka wound to a halt. Panting couples made for the refreshment room as the Master of Ceremonies announced an old-style country dance.

  Ethan suddenly appeared before them, flushed and slightly breathless having clearly just been dancing. Greetings exchanged, he said to Miranda, “I’m so sorry. I was supposed to dance the first dance with you. Please forgive me.”

  Miranda, under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes, summoned a smile. “I am sure you have a good reason, Ethan. I danced with Mr. Sutherland instead.”

  “Please dance with me now?” He extended his hand and Miranda took it.

  The dance was an old country one involving eight pairs of dancers moving in intricate steps, changing partners and circling. Not much opportunity to speak. Miranda couldn’t fail to notice Miss McCusker farther down the row in their group and couldn’t fail to notice how her eyes met Ethan’s more than by chance when the dance brought them together.

  Harriet was absolutely correct in her observation. Miss McCusker had her mind if not her heart set on Ethan which begged the question burning in Miranda’s mind. How did Ethan feel?

  When the dance ended Miranda grasped Ethan firmly by the arm and pulled him in the opposite direction to the American.

  “I need some refreshment, Ethan.”

  “Very well. There is cordial and tea served in the side room.”

  He fetched her a glass and they stood in a quieter corner.

  “I’ve never seen so many people in one place before.”

  “You missed the last Summer Ball, if I remember.”

  “Yes I’d twisted my ankle. I was so disappointed, but this year makes up for it.”

  Ethan drew a deep breath. “Miranda, I have something I must say to you.” He glanced at the nearest people less than two yards away. “Will you come onto the terrace for some air?”

  “Very well.” She left her glass on a table and followed him out through tall French doors into the thick night air, heart skipping and bouncing like the feet of the polka dancers. Was this the moment she’d been waiting for?

  “It’s still very warm.” He tugged at his coat sleeves and smoothed a hand over his chin, gestures she knew signified nerves. She knew him so well. He was working up to something momentous. Harriet and Lucinda must be wrong, he was going to propose. What else could it be to make him so nervous? Had he spoken to her father already? Was that why her father had been so cheerful when they arrived?

  The heavy scent of roses wafted up from the garden. Mrs. Broome’s pride and joy.

  Ethan gazed into her face, light from the open doors and windows falling on his beloved features. “Miranda, I don’t know how to say this…I know you and I have always thought…at least I have…and I think you felt the same way…that we would be wed one day.”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “We do feel the same way.” A smile trembled on her lips.

  “The thing is, Miranda…even though I do love you and always will, I can’t marry you.”

  “What?” Had she heard correctly? Can’t marry? “Why not?”

  He licked his lips and rubbed his chin again. Understanding fell like a hammer blow. The Redpaths were right.

  “Miss McCusker?”

  He nodded. “I barely know her but…”

  “She’s a good match and I’m not,” she said through the bitter tears choking in her throat.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry, my darling Miranda.” He took her hands in his but she pulled them away.

  “Is it because of my mother?”

  “Your mother? No.” But he lied. She always knew when Ethan lied he was so bad at it. She swallowed the tears and forced her voice to behave. The thudding pulse in her ears slowed. She dragged in a deep breath. She would not grovel and plead.

  “I hope you’ll be very happy with her.” Chin up she stepped back into the room leaving Ethan in the dark.

  As luck would have it Harriet Redpath stood just inside the door. Had she overhea
rd any of the exchange? Perhaps not but the gloating little twist to her lips indicated otherwise.

  “My condolences, Miranda.”

  “Has someone died?” Miranda retorted with a tight smile.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear but I was about to step outside for some air and there you two were.”

  “You already knew, didn’t you? So it would come as no surprise.”

  Harriet replied through a smile but her words were pure acid. “I’m sure you’ll make a fine wife for someone but a country doctor’s daughter with foreign blood can’t compete with a lady from the same social class as an Earl.” A little titter of laughter indicated her amusement at the idea. “You and Ethan may have been playmates for a long time but childhood friendship holds no weight when marriages are arranged.”

  “Love might. Love should.”

  “Miranda, you have no idea how these things work, how high society works. You lead a sheltered life here in this village. You have never even travelled to London, have you?”

  “No.”

  “And you can’t ever overlook the details of your birth. That your mother was…foreign.” The rouged lip curled.

  “Is not Miss McCusker foreign?” asked Miranda, a spark of anger igniting at the slur on her beautiful Mama.

  “Miss McCusker is of a very good family from Boston. Their roots are Scottish nobility.”

  There was no comeback to that except graceful withdrawal.

  “Excuse me, Harriet.”

  Miranda turned and pushed her way through the throng. The music had begun and couples were waltzing in the centre of the floor. Tyler had a dark-haired young woman in his arms. His sweetheart Laura Jenkins wouldn’t be invited here. A farmer’s daughter in this company? The doctor must be about the lowest acceptable on the social ladder, only received because of his professional standing in the community. A special case.

  Furious tears forced their way to her lids but she sniffed and blinked until they’d subsided. She had Harriet to thank in an odd way for preparing her just a little for the blow Ethan had delivered. She breathed deeply, determined not to show the slightest evidence of weakness or disappointment in this company. She wasn’t ashamed of her parents and she wasn’t going to be looked down on by these people. People who were more than ready to call her father out in the middle of the night to take advantage of his skills. No. She wasn’t going home to cry herself to sleep, she would stay and she would dance with men such as Mr. Sutherland who thought her beautiful and she would enjoy herself.

  ****

  Sydney, 1998

  Piers spoke directly to her. He said, “This is the man. You must use him. He is right, he is the one. Listen to him but remember I am the one you must heed.”

  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. You are mine.” Her heart swelled with love and desire as he gazed into her eyes and spoke the last words. Then he raised his violin and the music rose up and around her blotting out everything.

  Uneasiness hovered about the room when Nina woke next morning. She couldn’t quite remember everything Piers had said but he said something…something to do with Martin…some purpose as yet unclear. Perhaps when they heard the cello part as well…

  She crawled out of bed early, yawning. Hot again with the threat of a storm later—better take her umbrella. She transferred the essentials from her usual purse to a larger straw bag.

  Martin’s door was still closed when she left for the ferry. When would he wake today? Jet lag was something she hadn’t had to deal with. How long did it last? She exchanged “good mornings” with the usual passengers waiting on the wharf and chatted about the weather and the chances of a storm which they all agreed was likely and would be welcome.

  “It’s too early to be having these temperatures,” complained her companion of the birthday party weekend. “Summer is going to be murder. Sure to be bushfires.”

  In the shop, business was slow. Nina fidgeted about willing the time to pass faster. Yesterday she thought Martin would either have left or had been a figment of her imagination. The only thing making her believe he was real was the fact that Rolly had met him and had asked her first thing what had happened. She hadn’t told him Martin was staying with her. Even Rolly would think that too odd and she would never be able to explain how she instinctively trusted a total stranger. Or why.

  When she’d told Rolly she’d been waiting for Martin, it was true. She hadn’t known it, of course, the words had simply popped out of her mouth—but they were true. He fitted Serena’s prediction perfectly as soon as he spoke in that English accent. But Piers fitted Serena’s prediction too—tall, dark, indescribably handsome and unutterably sexy, oozing charisma.

  Martin was tall, dark, and handsome in a way that could grow on her, he was certainly attractive, and he had the added bonus of being real. He was thoughtful and helpful at home, knew how to wash dishes and make a cup of tea, left the toilet seat down and didn’t make a mess in the bathroom. He’d brought her flowers, something Gordon had never done, he was a musician and a good one, he knew about Shakespeare and probably lots more besides…

  “Wake up, Nina.” Tien’s voice cut into her thoughts. He had the phone in his hand and glared from the office door.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “The customer wants to know do we have a recording of Pavarotti singing La Bohème in stock. Look it up for me, please.”

  “I don’t need to. We do.” She rattled off three different versions.

  She loved Italian opera. Did Martin? They could go to the opera together. They wouldn’t get to see Pavarotti but the home-grown singers were very good. Piers couldn’t take her to the opera.

  “Replace these, will you, please, and then you can go to lunch?” Tien indicated a pile of CDs on the counter. Nina glanced at the clock. An hour too early for Martin.

  “Someone’s coming in to meet me for lunch at about one, Tien. Okay if I go then?”

  His perpetually serious face creased in a series of furrows. “I’d rather you went now but all right.”

  Nina went to the bins with the CDs. Tien hated his routine to be threatened by insubordinate staff. Too bad. She’d take the later lunch break and Rolly could go now. Rolly didn’t care and went off down the stairs without a backward glance.

  The hour passed slowly, not aided by looking at the clock every five minutes. At twelve-thirty Tien took himself off for lunch as well, unnecessarily telling her not to go until Rolly returned, which he did just ahead of an almost unrecognisable Martin.

  He looked older, more aloof and more of a stranger than when he’d appeared the day before yesterday, when he actually was a complete stranger. He’d been to a barber and the very short cut emphasised the gauntness of his face but suited him much better. He carried two plastic shopping bags and was wearing a new pair of sandals and lightweight linen slacks.

  “I like it,” she said.

  His smile was reassuringly the same. “Are you ready to go?”

  Rolly studied Martin, brow creased.

  “Rolly, this is Martin. You met him the other day.”

  “Hello.”

  “Thought you looked familiar. The whistling man. Did you figure out what that tune was? It’s been stuck in my head for two days.”

  Nina caught Martin’s glance. “Has it?” she said. “It’s a chamber music work but we don’t know who wrote it. Martin’s trying to track down a recording of it.”

  “How do you know it?” asked Rolly.

  “Don’t know, heard it somewhere, I suppose.” Nina slung her tote bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go Martin.”

  In the street, the heat and glare of the midday sun pummelled the senses. Nina jammed her sunglasses on. Martin did the same.

  “You’ll have to be careful of the sun.” His skin had the Northern European’s
winter pallor.

  “I wasn’t prepared for an Aussie summer. I’m not used to my shoes sticking to the road in November.”

  “It’s a bit unusual. January and February are worse but there’s supposed to be a storm this afternoon. Where shall we go first? Lunch or the library?”

  “I’m starving,” Martin said. “Let me buy you lunch.”

  “Thank you. I usually have a sandwich and some fruit outside somewhere. Too hot today, probably.”

  They found a café with a spare table and ate salad rolls and drank ice-cold juice, chatting politely of this and that, the differences between England and Australia, Nina’s desire to travel one day, the weather. Was Martin as conscious of the sudden and awkward switch to a social setting? He chatted casually, unconcerned by or unaware of her nervous glances at his newly trimmed hair, her trite responses to his questions, the self-conscious pinkness of her cheeks when he smiled, the way the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a seriously attractive manner she hadn’t noticed before. Like being on a first date except for one obvious difference.

  “Let’s split up,” suggested Martin as they entered the cool dimness of the public library. “I’m better with paper and books and you can’t tell how accurate internet info is so it’ll be good to cross reference.”

  “I’ll do a search and you try the encyclopaedias.”

  Fifteen minutes later he rejoined Nina, engrossed in her computer search, staring at the screen, jotting things down on a piece of paper.

  “What did you find?”

  “Lots. What about you?”

  He pulled another chair across and peered at the screen where the words, “The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn” were displayed.

  “That’s what I found too. Have you read about them?”

  “I’m in the process. They sound pretty weird, don’t they? Some sort of secret society thing, like the masons only with magic.”

  “Yes but they were connected to the Rosicrucians.”

  “I don’t know anything about them. What do they do?”

  “They date from the Middle Ages and had all sorts of beliefs but amongst other things they seemed to be seeking an elixir of eternal life.”