“An older one called Jenny and you two sound just like us when we get together.” Martin gave Jason a sympathetic grin.
“I’ve got two. Have you met Lucy yet?”
“No.” Martin hadn’t heard about her either. He was just as interested as Nina seemed to be in his family but he caught a warning look on Nina’s face and said hurriedly, “I’m ready when you are.”
“Don’t I get to practise it?” asked Jason.
“You don’t need to, you’re too good,” Nina said.
Jason rolled his eyes and nodded at Martin. “Okay. Go. Give me a bar in. I’ll count the rests out, right?”
Nina nodded and counted him in. Despite Jason’s being out of practice he hadn’t lost the rich vibrant sound and musicianship which Nina had first mentioned. Martin agreed with her. He could have been very good if he’d stuck at it.
Jason worked his way through the bass line, concentrating hard on his bowing and fingering, phrasing the notes perfectly even though he’d never heard the melody which went on top. Was that a faint voice with a lilting Irish accent accompanying him as he played? When he reached the second section he stopped, lowered his bow and shook his head, blinking as though he’d just emerged from under water.
“That was weird,” he murmured. Martin stopped recording.
“What was?” asked Nina in an unnaturally calm voice.
“I thought…I thought I heard a voice when I played. Did you?” He looked from one to the other in bewilderment.
“Someone went past outside. Down the lane,” improvised Nina. Martin didn’t even know there was a laneway next to the house but there must have been because Jason didn’t comment.
“It didn’t sound like that. I want to play it again.” Still vaguely perturbed. He frowned at them with the beginnings of annoyance on his initially cheerful face. The signs were all there. The someone-in-the-lane explanation hadn’t convinced him, and he thought they were hiding something about the music. He was no dope and he’d start asking questions soon.
“Do the second part for us first, so that we get it continuously right through,” suggested Martin quickly. “Nina? Are you ready to conduct him.”
“Yep. Okay, Jase?” She smiled. He nodded, the fascination on his face unpleasantly familiar as he turned to the music.
Nina gave him clear downbeats and held her hand steady when he should pause. Piers’ violin raced through the intricate runs and cadenza-like improvisations. Both violin and flute sounded strong and clear to Martin. Nina heard them too, because she followed the ebb and flow of the music as she indicated to Jason where he should speed up and slow down, linger or play steadily. Did he hear the other instruments? It was hard to believe he didn’t, they were so loud.
Nina cut the last note off and exhaled a deep rush of air. His gaze locked with hers. It was done. Jason had played perfectly. One take was enough; they couldn’t, wouldn’t risk more.
Martin clicked Off with a shaky finger.
“Well done, Jason.” Would Jason notice the tremor in his voice? He cleared his throat and pretended to check the tape player while he regrouped.
He’d had to struggle not to succumb to the voices clamouring to be heard over the music. It was like having the whole group in the room with them. Nina was still immersed, she stood blank-faced, hands hanging by her sides. Jason must have heard the voice again, perhaps more than one—how could he not? Although maybe not. He’d only heard the one part and the least melodic at that. He’d never heard the violin. He knew nothing about the Shadow Music.
“Thanks for doing that,” he said.
“I want to play it again.” Jason raised his bow and stared intently at the first page.
“No, you don’t need to, that was perfect.” Martin whipped the music from the stand and slipped it safely back into the envelope.
“It might not have recorded.” Jason’s voice had gained an edge. An angry edge.
“Better check,” said Nina quietly, alert now. She caught Martin’s eye. “We don’t want to have to come back and do it again.”
Martin pressed play. Jason’s cello poured into the room. He hit stop.
“See, it’s fine.”
“Sounds good.” Jason smirked. The anger melted from his face replaced by the cheeky boyish grin.
“You should practise more,” said Nina.
“That’s what Mum says. I don’t get much time, you know. I work pretty hard at Uni.” He laid his cello carefully on the floor and stood up. “What is that piece anyway?”
“We don’t know,” said Nina. “Thanks for playing, Jason.” She stepped across and gave him a hug and kiss which he received with an embarrassed laugh.
“Calm down. You owe me one, just remember that.”
“If I can help any time, I will.”
“Come over and help me clean the house before Mum and Dad get back.”
Nina glanced at Martin. “I might not be around. I’m thinking about going to New Orleans with Martin.”
“When?” The surprise turned to suspicion. “How long have you two known each other?”
Nina sidestepped the question. “We’re not sure. It won’t be for at least a few weeks. I haven’t got a passport or anything yet. Maybe after Christmas.”
“Great stuff! Fantastic. Can I come?”
Nina burst out laughing. She’d been sure he was about to start in on all the questions she’d be asking him if the situation were reversed.
“I’d love you to,” she said. “But you’ve got no money and I can’t see the parents funding you.”
“I’ve got a job this summer, so I can’t go anywhere, anyway.”
“Where?”
“Local bottle shop.”
“Oh, perfect.”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I do afternoon shifts and sometimes night.”
“Well, we should go. Thanks. I’ll let you know our plans when we’ve got them.”
He saw them to the door and stood on the front step as they walked down the path between Dad’s roses just coming into bloom. Nina turned and waved and he waved back then went inside.
She took Martin’s hand as they hurried toward the train station but he gradually slowed his pace so that the rush became a leisurely stroll. Suburban Chatswood’s streets were leafy and green with older redbrick Sydney houses nestled into gardens filled with trees and shrubs and colourful displays of flowering plants surrounding well tended lawns.
“Come on.” She tugged at his hand to keep him moving.
“No rush, is there?” He stopped to smell a flowering vine trailing over the fence.
“Don’t you want to get home and try it out?” What was he doing, dawdling along like this? The whole point was to have the three parts. Now they did.
“I’m not sure I do.”
“You heard Michael, didn’t you? All three of them? Even Jason heard him. That was freaky.” She added, “How can you not want to try it? Now, when we’ve finally got the parts together.”
Martin stopped in the shade of a large plane tree overhanging the footpath. He looked around vaguely, then studied the ground at his feet before meeting her intent gaze.
“Do you want to know the truth? I’m frightened. Ever since Piers appeared to me. It’s scary. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.”
“But we have to. We can’t not, can we? We’ve decided it’s not going to go away, ever, unless we do something about it. The compulsion is still there. Jason felt it, I feel it, and I’m going to play my part with the tape as soon as we get home.” Nina set off walking again and Martin had no choice but to follow. She was right. They had to end it somehow.
Chapter Eight
Cutting Marsh, England, August 1892
Miranda pushed annoyingly wayward strands of hair into place and secured them with a determined shove of the pin. She studied her reflection for a critical moment then pressed a damp cloth against her cheeks and neck, hoping to reduce the flush. This heat was unusually excessive. Despite the drawn curtains h
er bedroom was hotter than she could ever remember.
But more than the temperature of the day warmed her skin—excitement, anticipation sent surges of hot blood coursing through her veins. Hopeless to try cooling such passion. Smiling, she exchanged the now warm cloth for her hairbrush and gently coaxed the curls on her neck to sit in obedient order.
Piers loved her hair. He loved to pull it free of the restraining pins and combs and see it tumble around her face. “A silken waterfall,” he said once, his rich deep voice gentle in admiration.
He would run his hands gently around her neck, lifting the hair from her shoulders and letting it slip through his fingers, cascading in a curtain of black strands. She watched his eyes as he did this, those dark fiery eyes burning with such passion and intensity she was sometimes afraid of the fierceness of his love. But his lips would close on hers, erasing doubt, erasing fear, erasing everything except her insides melting like liquid fire, her breasts straining for his touch, breath coming in short, hot gasps, wanting him…
Shameless. She giggled to herself. Mrs. Bowden would be scandalised, so would Annie the kitchen maid despite her having a suitor of her own, so would everyone else in the village. And her father and brother. They’d have Piers before the magistrate if they knew of the liaison. Tyler may even shoot him.
Her mother would have understood, though. If she had lived through childbirth. Miranda sighed, the smile faded. Her mother would have forgiven all manner of things which made her father and Tyler furious, she was positive of it. Mama wouldn’t have minded Miranda climbing trees when she was ten with a group of small boys from the village. Nor would she have minded her stripping off her shoes and stockings and splashing in the river when she was eleven. Or, for a dare, riding bareback and astride on the horses in the field behind the orchard. Her mother was different. She wasn’t from the village. She was foreign and in Miranda’s eyes that made her special and wonderfully exotic. Piers had taught her that.
She put the brush down, cocked her head from side to side to view the effect and then, satisfied, stood up and smoothed her summer dress over her hips and narrow waist. He hadn’t seen this new outfit in the modern style, the two-piece hem line higher at the front and back and the overlaid skirt dropped at the sides. It flattered her figure. Three-quarter length sleeves were so much cooler and the pattern of tiny blue flowers sprinkled over the white cotton made the whole ensemble fresh and appealing. And her new straw hat with the trailing blue ribbons she had attached herself.
Meeting Piers was far more exciting than climbing trees.
Miranda opened her door a crack and peered down the passage toward her father’s study. All quiet. He was almost certainly dozing in his favourite armchair, the heat of the day and the Sunday roast Mrs. Bowden had prepared for them combining happily with the fact he’d been called out last night to attend a child with fever.
No sign of Tyler either. Probably calling on dainty Laura Jenkins at the farm.
She slipped down the passage, passed the closed study door, passed the front room reserved for visitors and entertaining, stealthily opened the front door and breathed a sigh of relief as she closed it with a soft click. The heat hit like an open furnace, the street deserted. Too hot for most people, sensible people. The sun hammered on her head from a brassy blue sky, mocking the lightness of her new dress and the meagre shade afforded by the brim of her hat.
Dust sprang up with every footfall. The grass verges had withered to brown, trees hung their leaves, listless and still. They’d had no rain for weeks. Just this scorching heat. “The hottest weather for years,” people kept saying as they chatted over garden fences and after church, or when they passed the time of day in the street. “It can’t last,” they said.
“Not a patch on the weather in India. Drove people stark raving mad,” rumbled old Major Forbes who’d served bringing proper British civilisation and order to the distant land. Piers said it was nothing compared to the heat in Jamaica where he had spent the best part of his youth.
Piers! Miranda hurried her step at the thought of him waiting impatiently for her in their secret spot. Their love nest in the cool grove of trees a scarce half mile from her home. He insisted on their meeting away from prying eyes and it had been easy so far for her to sneak away unnoticed.
Two weeks. Fourteen days since she saw him at the Summer Ball at the Hall. How could such passion come so quickly?
She reached the cluster of ancient oaks and birches growing thick and secretive in a grove a few hundred yards across the fields from the road leading to Plymouth. A quick glance around ensured no eyes observed her save for a group of cows grazing heedlessly in the far corner by the hedgerow. She entered the cool greenness and threaded her way deeper into the copse to the small grassed clearing Piers had discovered. The hot sun was completely stifled by the canopy of thickly leafed branches, the outside world ceased to exist. He was there, leaning against a tree, his jacket thrown carelessly on the thick soft grass at his feet, his grey horse tethered a short distance away. She ran into his arms.
His lips were hot, his passion irresistible. Even as his mouth devoured hers he was pulling her down to lie on the grass, his fingers teasing her breasts so they ached to be free of the restraining cotton and laces of her garments. Her own hands roamed, feeling his hardness and drawing a groan of desire as she pressed her body into his. How did he make her feel so wild and abandoned so easily? She’d surrendered her virginity to him with nary a thought, would follow him to the city if he asked, follow him anywhere…he made her crazy with desire. And she did the same to him.
“You’re a wanton,” he murmured in her ear as he nibbled and kissed her neck.
“Only with you.” She arched her back as he undid the buttons of her dress to reveal her breasts, the nipples hard with longing. He ran his thumb over the tender tips and she sucked in air as sensation rocketed to her groin in swelling moist heat.
“Piers,” she gasped.
Later, sated, drowsy, her head resting on his chest, his arm holding her close Miranda said, “Tell me about yourself. I want to know about you.”
“You know all about me.” His finger traced a soft pattern on her cheek. “You know me most intimately, in the only way that matters. You have always known me just as I have always known you.”
She slapped his arm softly. “No. Tell me about your parents, your family, your brothers and sisters. How you came to be here in England. Jamaica is such an exotic place.”
“My family owns a coffee plantation. I have one brother—Ambrose. My parents both died of typhoid fever ten years ago and I inherited the business, but my brother is running it because he loves it. I only want to be a musician. To compose.” He paused and she raised her head to look at him. He was staring up into the canopy of branches, lost in thoughts she couldn’t begin to guess at. Such a deep thinking man, her Piers. What did he find attractive about her, a simple country girl?
“Go on,” she prompted.
“That’s all.”
“No. You were going to say something else.”
“You’ll think I’m touched in the head.”
Miranda had never heard him sound doubtful. She sat up and held his face between her hands.
“No. Nothing you could do would ever make me think that, Piers. I love you. You are my life.”
Piers regarded for several long moments then said, “When I arrived in England last year, I had a few names to contact, friends of my parents, distant relatives and they invited me to dine with them several times. At one gathering I met a woman who was a member of a group called the Golden Dawn. What she told me was absolutely fascinating.” He eased Miranda away from his body and sat up, lost in the memory. “That was my first initiation into the mysteries of the mind, the tentative reaching toward the very soul of a man. They were investigating the possibilities of contacting the spirit world, foreseeing the future and even travelling outside one’s own body.”
“You mean ghosts and such? Like the ghost
at the Hall?”
“Is there one?”
“So they say. And then there’s Maggie Blackstone who can mix potions for various things. They say she’s a witch but a good one. A lot of people still visit her rather than my father for their medicine. Even my father calls upon her for assistance at some births.”
Piers said, “In Jamaica the occult is an accepted part of life and I see here in the countryside it is too, but in London and in more highly educated society they are saying it is all nonsense.” He added as an afterthought. “Have you heard of Dr Freud?”
Miranda shook her head. “Father may know of him. Tell me about your music.”
Piers leaned forward eagerly. “I want to write music that is connected to the essence of life. I think, from my association with the Golden Dawn that there is a common thread running through all beings and that this is somehow attuned to the cosmic spheres, our spirituality. I want to tap into this cosmic life force with music. I feel there is a key of life, if you like—a cosmic vibration which is tuned to our souls—and that perhaps if I can get it right it will be the path to eternal life. You and I could be together for eternity.”
“And have you begun to write this music?” The concept was beyond her imagination but Piers was so intense, so serious she believed him.
“Yes, I have, but it is very difficult. I think we need to use some other medium to gain strength and power to achieve the goal. Maybe meditation. Maybe opiates. It’s fascinating and I’m sure at some time it will be possible. The mind of man is extraordinarily powerful. I have read of amazing things from the East. From China and India.”
Miranda smiled and touched his cheek gently. He turned his head and captured her fingers with his lips.
“My mother’s mother was from China,” she whispered. “Some people think that is…to be ashamed of.”
“I know,” he said. “But I don’t. You are perfect, almost too unbearably perfect. Every moment apart from you hurts me physically, causes a deep ache in my soul.”
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