She met his gaze. “No. I’d love to go with you but I don’t know whether I can. I don’t have a passport, for a start. How much would it cost? Plus there’s my job. How long would we be away?”
“None of those things are insurmountable obstacles except maybe money.”
“I’ve saved quite a bit. I’ve always wanted to travel.” It was possible, depending exactly how much it would cost. There was no reason why she couldn’t go with him. She could take leave from the shop. She could get a passport.
“I think we’re both crazy.”
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
She threw her arms wide. “Why not? I’ve known you all of two days, some people I’ve known for years and I wouldn’t share a taxi with them, but why not go round the world with you—a virtual stranger.” Nina shook her head in amazement.
“Do I seem like a stranger to you?” Disappointment flooded his voice.
“No, you don’t.” She gazed into his face. Hazel eyes stared back at her with complete openness and she had the same instinctive trust in him that she’d had when they sat on the bench that first strange, hot night, gazing out over the brightly shining lights of Sydney Harbour. She gripped his fingers tightly. “You don’t,” she repeated hoarsely because her throat had gone dry all of a sudden.
“I won’t let you down, I promise,” he whispered.
“I know you won’t,” she whispered back. But she couldn’t tell him how Piers spoke to her in her dreams and how she wanted him to love her the way he loved the woman Mira. She couldn’t tell him of the uneasy feeling she had sometimes that Piers was manipulating him through his affection for her and that in some undefinable way, in the future, she might let Martin down.
****
Piers stood by her bed. Was she dreaming? She must be. But when she opened and closed her eyes several times and sat up, he was still there, looking down at her with an expression of such love, she held out her arms to him. He disappeared. She lay back shocked and suddenly frightened. Had that been real? It couldn’t have been him.
****
Cutting Marsh, Summer Ball, 1892
Love at first staggering sight. Such a thunderclap went off in her head, such a shock of recognition as his smouldering dark eyes met hers she faltered in the dance and looked around blankly to see if anyone else had heard the noise. But the other guests whirled on unaffected.
He was playing the violin. She was dancing with a tall gangly friend of Tyler’s who had trouble with the steps of the waltz. She hadn’t noticed the musicians before, hadn’t been close enough to see them through the crowds. But this man was extraordinary, tall, browned by the sun, dashing, mysterious. Out of place on the small stage with the other musicians, larger than life.
His gaze bored into her as she stumbled through the dance steps and the temptation to keep staring at him became irresistible. Did she know him? No. Impossible to forget that face.
“Who is that violin player?ˮ she asked.
“De Crespigny. He is supposed to be a brilliant musician, making a name for himself in London. Squire Broome thought it quite a coup to engage him for the dance, Ethan said. Can’t say as I understand why. He seems barely adequate to me.”
When the orchestra took a break she made some excuse to her partner who seemed inclined to linger, and slipped between chattering guests and out through the side doors, conscious of those dark eyes following her every move. Moments after, he came upon her waiting, excited and breathless with anticipation in the rose garden.
Light from the brightly glowing windows of the Hall fell across his face as he approached, shoes crunching softly on the gravel path. The scent of the roses hung heavy in the hot night air. Miranda gazed, enthralled by the strong, clean-shaven features, unusual in these days of flourishing mustachios, his full, sensuous lips and thick dark hair. Elegant in evening dress he had an air of caged strength and danger, like a leopard or a black panther. She had seen pictures of these animals and they made her shiver with the same sense of excitement and fascinated apprehension.
“What is your name, most beautiful one?” He took her hand in his and her fingers folded naturally into their embrace. The brush of his lips on her palm pulsed through her body so she could barely draw breath.
“Miranda Templeton. You are Mr. de Crespigny?”
“Yes, Piers de Crespigny, late of Jamaica. Musician extraordinaire at your service.” He let go her hands and executed a courtly bow which made her laugh and released some of the tension held so tightly in her chest. “You are very forward for a young lady, Miss Templeton. Inviting me with your glance to a tryst in the garden at night.” The dark eyes regarded her accompanied by a stern frown.
Miranda lifted her chin and said primly, “Sir, I could not know I would come across you in the garden.”
“Even worse. Shame on you. Is young Mr. Broome your intended?”
She couldn’t tell this man the truth. “We have an understanding. He is very nice and I love him,” she retorted even as her insides melted away under the heat of his slow gathering smile. He leaned closer, lowered his voice to a purring, intoxicating whisper, and his body arched over her in the darkness.
“Apple pie is nice. Dogs are nice. Do you want a nice husband or a man who will transport you with desire, who will overwhelm your senses, who will love you as you have never been loved nor will ever be loved again? Will love you through time itself.”
Miranda swallowed, shocked from her exciting little fantasy play by the sudden intensity of his tone, the change from light-hearted flirting. The reality of her situation crashed in. Alone in the dark with a stranger, an employee, a man she had encouraged and who radiated such strength and determination she would be powerless against him if he chose to take advantage. If he chose to press his lips elsewhere than her hand, if he recognised the hot turmoil in her body and knew the cause.
She raised her chin, glad the darkness hid her trembling, and forced a coolness to her voice completely at odds with the storm of conflicting desire and apprehension. “Are you saying you would be that man?”
Piers pulled her closer until she felt the hard warmth of his body through the silk of her dress. He bent his head and murmured, “Yes,” just before his lips closed over hers.
The heavy perfume of roses overwhelmed her. All sound ceased. Time passed her by. She had always been in his arms, would always be in his arms. She knew him. She’d never seen him before. Had she?
“Who are you?” she whispered, hypnotised, shaken to her core, when he freed her mouth from his.
“I am your destiny. You are mine. I have searched for you and now we are found,” he said. “We will be together again. You must come away with me.”
The roar of voices and laughter from the hall became suddenly loud again. Miranda pulled away abruptly. “I can’t do that!”
This was madness. She glanced around with quick frantic movements, but their position was obscured by leafy lilacs and a climbing yellow rose on a trellis over the path. The murmuring voices and light footsteps sounded of other couples strolling in the night air but no one came their way. His fingers grasped her shoulders with firm, possessive strength. She didn’t want to break free. Couldn’t.
“Meet me tomorrow,” he said.
“Why don’t you come to call?” Would she lose him if she proved difficult? Something told her no. Something in the way he spoke, the way he looked at her, as if he’d found what he’d been seeking.
“No. It wouldn’t be prudent. You are almost an engaged woman, remember?” He chuckled softly and kissed her again. Sealing his ownership. He knew she wouldn’t argue. Miranda shivered under the touch of his lips. Ethan’s kiss was that of a bumbling boy compared to this man’s.
The crunch of footsteps sounded on the gravel. Ethan’s voice called softly, “Miranda? Are you there? Miranda.”
Piers touched her cheek gently and disappeared silently into the blackness. Miranda held shaking hands to her scorching face. The ground seemed
to heave beneath her feet. She opened her eyes wide in alarm and flung out an arm. Ethan caught her as she stumbled, head whirling. Cloying rose perfume clung in her nostrils.
“Miranda, what’s the matter? Are you faint? Perhaps you’re still weak from your illness.”
She clutched his solid arm gratefully as the world regained its equilibrium.
“It’s so hot, Ethan. I came out for some air…maybe I am still recovering…”
The orchestra began, Piers’ violin climbing over the other instruments with its strong, vibrant tone speaking directly to her, the violin his voice, reminding her…
Ethan’s arm encircled her shoulders, heavy with sympathy. “Your father should examine you. The fever you had was very dangerous. We were terrified we would lose you.”
Miranda forced a smile. His was the wrong arm, his was the wrong scent, he was the wrong man. There was no other man and never would be. “No, no. I’m perfectly well now. I’m ready to dance again. You should rejoin Miss McCusker.”
She drew away, moving toward the house and the light. Strangely, the thought of Ethan with Miss McCusker didn’t bother her at all anymore.
Ethan caught up and tucked her arm in his. “Miranda, I saw you leave the ballroom and came to find you because I thought you’d be upset and I wanted to say how sorry I am and how…” He paused, preventing her from walking on.
She tore her attention away from Piers’ violin. Thank goodness he hadn’t come upon her a few moments earlier. What was he trying to say beyond an apology? “Ethan, I know your position. Harriet was kind enough to inform me.”
“Harriet? What did she tell you?”
“That someone in your situation in society couldn’t possibly marry someone in mine.”
“Harriet is spiteful.”
He didn’t deny the truth of her remark. Miranda refrained from comment. It was all irrelevant now. She truly didn’t care.
Another couple rounded the corner in the path giving her an excuse to resume walking. Ethan went with her but she barely noticed because her heart flew, soul soared to combine with the music. With Piers.
She had no further opportunity to speak to him and when her father found her and announced he was tired and ready to leave she had no choice but to obey even though the Ball was far from over.
****
As far as anyone knew Piers left Cutting Marsh with the other musicians and had not returned. With a sagging heart Miranda thought the same so her astonishment was acute when a note addressed in elegant sloping script arrived for her the next day. She’d spent the intervening hours wondering if the whole encounter had been a dream or a hallucination brought about by the extreme temperatures and the aftermath of her illness.
Piers wrote for her to meet him in the grove of oaks off the Plymouth road. She was to make sure she was unobserved. He would wait each afternoon for the next three days from two in the afternoon onward.
What girl could resist? A smile crept to her lips.
****
Sydney, 1998
Nina went to Tai Chi the next morning while Martin stayed home and cleaned up the leaves and branches strewn about the garden. He did some washing for them both and when Nina returned she found lunch prepared and the outdoor table set for three while a Mozart piano concerto played softly on the stereo. Over breakfast Martin had suggested they should give themselves a break from the music and Piers and the whole unwieldy, mind shattering problem until Jason had played the cello part for them.
“Let’s be normal for a day. Show me the sights of Sydney.”
Nina had nodded in relieved agreement. Strangely, Piers had left her alone the previous night and she’d slept deeply and soundly, undisturbed by visions or dreams. Maybe he was satisfied with them because they’d decided to continue the search for the missing parts and had taken steps to play the cello part.
“Who’s coming to lunch?” Three place settings? Who did Martin know in Sydney apart from her? “You haven’t conjured up Piers, have you?” she said with a snort of laughter.
Martin burst out laughing. “No, I only know you here. Florence. Is that all right?” He added a grimace of belated concern.
“Of course. How did you meet her?”
“I was out the front sweeping and she came out. What a character! She started giving me the third degree but she was putty in my hands when she found out I play the flute.”
“You seem to have a way with the older ladies, don’t you?” Nina grinned. “Celia, Jessica, and now Florence.”
“Florence would give those other two a heart attack. They’re both very proper English gentlewomen.”
“Like you.”
“I’m not a proper English gentlewoman! Not old either.”
“No, you’re a proper English gentleman.” Nina stretched up on tip toes and kissed him on the cheek. “It makes a lovely change. Like to go to the beach later? After Florence goes?”
“Love to. Can we go to Bondi?”
Nina sighed. “All right, Mr. Tourist. Or we could get the ferry across to Manly. That’s a good beach. You can watch beach volleyball there, too.”
“No, I must see the famous Bondi Beach.”
Florence burst in with typical panache wearing a large floaty leopard print shirt and white slacks and regaled them with stories of her life in London. She’d sung at all the top nightclubs and plenty of the others. Martin was able to field most of her questions regarding musicians and venues still operating.
“I lived in Chelsea in a house like the one in Mary Poppins or was it Henry Higgins’ house in My Fair Lady? Anyway I had a house and a maid. I had to have a maid—there was absolutely no way I could fend for myself in those days. My life was completely crazy, upside down, a whirlwind. If she hadn’t fed me properly I would have lived on champagne and chocolates, smoked salmon and caviar. That’s what my admirers expected me to eat all the time. That’s what they brought and what they ordered when we went out after the show. None of them realised they all did the same thing. None of them realised there were others.”
She laughed uproariously and winked at Martin. “You men are very easy to fool when you’re in love. Too gullible.” She looked shrewdly from Martin to Nina but to Nina’s relief said nothing more.
Martin poured her more wine then took their empty plates inside, shaking his head at Nina as she attempted to help.
“Where did you find that gorgeous, gorgeous man, my darling?” asked Florence in a stage whisper, grasping Nina by the arm. “When you’ve finished with him, toss him over the fence. I don’t mind leftovers.”
“Florence, you’re a shocker! I met him at the shop.”
“And he swept you off your feet as you sold him a CD. How wonderfully romantic.”
“Something like that.” He’d certainly stunned her. “He needed a place to stay and he seemed nice.” That sounded awful put into bald, plain words, as if she’d picked him up off the street and brought him home on a sudden mutual sexual attraction. Women were raped and murdered by men that way. No one could ever understand what was really happening, why she trusted him so much. “Florence, do you really like him? I mean not just…you know, you’re not just saying that?”
“Darling.” Florence became serious briefly. “I’ve met a lot of people and I mean a lot, and I’ve known a lot of men and I mean a lot, and I’m a pretty shrewd judge of character. He’s all right, this one. He adores you, I can tell you that straight off but I don’t know whether that’s what you want to hear, is it?”
“Not really. I sort of knew that. I don’t know how I feel yet. He’s attractive…”
“He certainly is. I’ve always had a soft spot for that very “proper” English sort of accent and that reserve usually goes with hidden depths of passion, if you can unearth it through the good manners.” She chuckled lasciviously, then patted Nina’s arm fondly. “And he can be trusted. He’ll do his best for you. I’ll lay my reputation as an expert on that.”
“An expert on what?” Martin reappear
ed with a bowl of grapes, cherries, and sliced mango and pineapple.
“What do you think? Men, of course.” Florence cackled as Martin looked uncertainly from one to the other.
“You could at least discuss me so that I can listen in,” he said in disgust.
“Where’s the fun in that?” asked Nina. “Anyway what makes you think we were discussing you?”
“They all think that, darling.” Florence neatly speared a juicy slice of mango with her fork.
“Weren’t you?” Martin looked at Nina, eyebrow lifted. Florence was right about the accent. What about the hidden passion? Come to think of it he did kiss well—perhaps she should give him another go?
“Yes,” she admitted. Could he read her mind? Hot cheeks would be a giveaway. He seemed to be on her wave length on lots of things.
“Good report I hope, Florence.”
“Listen to him, would you?” Florence filled her mouth with fresh, juicy fruit and wiped her chin with a paper napkin. “I was just telling Nina when she gets tired of you to wash you off and send you over to me.”
Martin gave an audible gasp of surprise and Nina and Florence nearly fell off their chairs laughing.
“My heavens, Florence.” Martin laughed incredulously. “You must have been something else in your day.”
“My day isn’t over yet, young Martin. Come up and see me sometime,” she said in a passable imitation of Mae West, complete with sexy wink from heavily made up eye lashes.
“I think I’ll organise coffee.” He leapt to his feet and retreated to the accompaniment of their laughter.
****
Later, as they strolled barefoot in shorts along Bondi Beach just at the water’s edge, dodging swimmers and children playing in the shallows, carrying their sandals and letting the incoming waves wash around their ankles, Nina said, “Were you serious about going to America? Wanting me to come?” She’d thought about it a lot the night before, in bed and the more she thought the more exciting and possible it became.
“I thought we weren’t going to talk about any of that today?” said Martin casually. “This is the most relaxed I’ve been since I found that blasted music. Eight months, it’s been.”
Shadow Music Page 13