by Cate Morgan
CHAPTER TWO
"Ah, Miss Hayes. So good of you to come on such short notice.”
“Of course, Director.” Tamsin didn’t fool herself. She knew very well a request to attend Director Samuels in his private office was purely at his convenience, not hers.
Said office was formal, but without unnecessary accoutrement—like the director himself, it spoke of simple elegance. The only pictures on the walls were the occasional, discreet black and white performance still. His desk was neat, its few items precisely aligned. The half-open blinds revealed a gloomy day outside, promising rain.
“I will be brief. I wanted to advise you in person that I’ve decided the Scheherazade solo will go to Miss Singh.”
Tamsin sat back, heart hammering. “Yes, of course. I understand. She’s the better player.”
“As a matter of fact, I happen to disagree.” He smiled at her stunned expression. “It’s admirable that you don’t wish to trade on your mother’s name. But I will tell you once, and only once, you are every bit as talented was she was. However, you are not the same player, if you take my meaning. I do not believe you have yet found your voice."
Charlie had said as much, that day on the train. “My voice?”
“Indeed.” He opened her file, his square-rimmed specs perched upon his stern nose. “You come to us from private tuition, I believe?”
Tamsin clenched and unclenched her hands. “Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I worked in a music shop—selling instruments, giving lessons. The owner couldn’t afford to pay me much so he trained me.”
“And wrote to Vivien Hammond at the appropriate juncture.”
“Yes. He said he had nothing left to teach me.”
“Why not train at an academy? Your mother’s name should have opened many doors for you.”
Tamsin smiled, without humor. “Expensive doors.”
“Ah.” He consulted her file further. “Your brother is quite ill, I take it?”
This interview was beginning to crawl up and down her nerve endings. Suspicion dawned. She dreaded being proved right—she wanted no one’s pity. “My brother is dying, Director. Muscular Dystrophy is even more expensive than those doors of yours.”
“No need to be so defensive, Miss Hayes. You wouldn’t be here if there were not financial constraints to be considered.” He shut her file with a snap. “That being said, improvement must be had.”
“What do you suggest?” She wasn’t being cheeky. She honestly, desperately, wanted to know.
He rewarded her with an approving smile. “Technically, your audition of the solo was perfect. I would go so far to say, exquisitely so.”
“But?”
“But, I would much rather give the solo to a player with imperfect technique who can compel emotion, than one who plays without emotion at all.”
Tamsin’s heart finished dropping. She actually felt herself go pale. “You’re revoking my grant.”
“Not today, Miss Hayes.” He folded his hands on his desk, and leaned forward with a kindly smile. “I’m giving you a month. Find your voice.” He flipped a page or two in his diary. “Come see me again in…two weeks’ time. And good luck.”
Her director’s words echoed over and over in Tamsin’s mind as she pedaled home, as she divested herself of coat and boots inside the door, as made her tea and sat down to practice, all in a haze of deep thought.
The way she saw it, she had two choices: One, she could retain firm control of her emotions and lose her grant. Two, she could unleash years of pent up feelings and come apart at the seams. Either way, she could lose everything.
Thing was, she already felt as though she were coming apart at the seams, one sprung thread at a time. Her nerveless fingers curled over her bow, its weight balanced between her thumb and fingertips, but she had no control of its cant over the strings. Instead she was a clumsy child again, fumbling, while her mother adjusted her grip with a patient smile.
“Well, she hasn’t Charlie’s knack. Or yours,” Aunt Mary had observed. “Just as well—she’s got the wrong hands for strings. She’d do much better with a woodwind.”
Tamsin shook herself free of memory, and tried again.
She had no gauge of pressure. When she nearly snapped a string halfway through a basic scale, she put the instrument aside, disgusted with herself. She knew she was overcompensating. Knew it. But this was the first time she’d ever been forced to cut short her practice owing to being unable to pull herself together. She may not play with heart, or soul, but she had always played with discipline.
Until now.
She reached for her phone. The moment Charlie sang a greeting at her she felt better. Not by much, but his Sinatra impersonation was so unbelievably bad it made her smile. “I can’t play,” she said, interrupting him mid-croon.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can play.”
The noose around her throat loosened a little, allowing her to breathe. “I’m about to be sent down. They say I have no voice.”
“That’s because you keep trying to use Mum’s.”
She shoved her shaking fingers through her hair. “You think so?
“I know so. When you fail to capture it you focus on technique as if that were the only thing there is. Why do you think I’m thrilled you got out of here? The whole point of you being gone is now you get to find your voice.”
Precisely what her director had told her. “So what do I do?”
“Shake things up. Get out of your comfy box. Improvise.”
“Improvise?”
“Improvise.” He warmed to his subject. “Tommy, there’s a reason violin solos were never written down back in the day. A great violinist would be commissioned to play on the spot, letting pure emotion and inspiration reign. Hell, it was said Paganini sold his soul to the devil for his greatness.”
“Improvise,” Tamsin exhaled. “Bloody hell.”
“You did what?”
Robert thundered to his feet, his roar filling the conservatory. Julien, at least, had the grace to look uncomfortable. Vivien, damn her, appeared utterly unfazed.
“Do keep your voice down, Robert,” she said, arching a reproving eyebrow. “We all know that unless you’re given a firm deadline, you’ll never finish this piece. So the concert hall is thrilled to host your comeback event.” She patted her hair. “For charity, of course.”
“What charity?” he demanded, calming down enough to express bafflement.
“Any charity you care to name. Pick one.” She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “It will be a bit impromptu, I admit, but I’ll pack them in nonetheless, just as I always do. Julien has agreed to perform his new piece. The least you can do is the same.”
Robert turned his attention to his furiously blushing friend. “The duet? You found a violinist?”
Julien grinned. “Even better—a cellist. I’m rearranging the entire bloody thing.”
Robert rolled his eyes. “I appreciate the thought, Vivien, but I can’t do it.
“You can, and you will. I’ll not leave you tinkering around here for another five years, alone. It’s time this piece was done, so you can get on with your life.”
Robert sank back into the sofa with a groan. “How long do I have?”
“A month,” she said, gracious in her triumph. “The invitations go out this week.”
He groaned again, head sinking into his hands. He was a dead man.
By the time his friends had left him to his work, desperation had set in, despite Vivien’s convictions that a deadline was just what he needed to make progress. In fact, the music was going worse than ever as the sun sank below the horizon to leave him with only the fire to compose by. With the threat of his first public performance in five years hanging over his head like a certain proverbial sword, the music was as elusive as ever. He couldn’t hear it, let alone feel it.
There was nothing else for it. He needed another musician. Not Julien. One who didn’t know him. One who wouldn�
��t ask questions.
Robert leaned away from the keys, fingers sliding across the cool, synthetic ivory. What was he thinking? There was a violinist on the premises—a perfect stranger, in fact.
He didn’t bother with a coat. Instead he strode through the garden and across the lawn at a near-run with a soft drizzle settling over him like a veil. When he reached the cottage door he hammered on it, bracing a hand on either side of the door frame to catch his breath. After a few moments he hammered again, hoping she was home. No violin music came from inside, so at least he wasn’t interrupting her practice.
He was just preparing to make a third and final attempt when the door opened at last, sticking a little in the damp. A moment later a small, pale face surmounted by auburn hair pulled back in a slightly haphazard bun looked up at him. Her eyes were an unusual shade of clear gray, lined with dark lashes. “Yes?”
“I need your help,” he said, so taken aback by those eyes and the way they seemed to look right through him that he jumped right past the most basic of introductions.
She blinked up at him. “I’m sorry?” Long Irish vowels, brow puckered in confusion, lips curled ever so slightly in a polite but distracted smile.
“No, I’m sorry.” Robert stabbed one hand through his hair in agitation. “I’m Robert—I’m staying in the main house.”
“The composer? Vivien said a friend of hers would living there for a time, but that I needn’t worry about being disturbed.” She visibly relaxed as understanding cleared the confusion from her expression.
“Bloody hell. I really am sorry.” He felt like a fool for stampeding to her front door without so much as a greeting or any idea of what he might say. Of course she would require privacy as much as he. He started to turn away. “I’ll go.”
“No, it’s all right. You just surprised me, is all.” She stepped outside, easing the door shut behind her until only a thin crack of an opening remained. “I’m Tamsin.”
“Tamsin.” He offered her an ill-fitting smile. “I’m not a crazed axe-murderer, I swear.”
She smiled back, pink-lipped and a perfect foil for those eyes. “Is there such thing as a sane axe-murderer?”
“Probably not.” His shoulders settled as tension seeped from him in small but telling stages. There was no doubt she held herself carefully away from him, hand still on the knob behind her in case she needed to whip it open and dash back inside. But her head was also cocked at him like a fascinated bird. “I’m working on a duet for piano and violin, and it’s…Well it’s horrid, to be perfectly frank.”
“I’m not sure how much help I can be,” she said. “I’ve been struggling with something myself, and my head isn’t exactly in the right place at the moment.”
“The Scheherazade?” he guessed.
She didn’t look away, but he could see her interest had been piqued. She blinked again, a mere fluttering of lashes, and her head straightened. He found himself inexplicably unsettled. “How did you know?” she asked.
“I heard you, that first night you started work on it.” He took a chance and told her the truth, hoping he wouldn’t overstep the ground he’d won with her thus far. “I was half way across the lawn before I realized where I was.”
“Really?” she asked softly, her bemused smile growing in evident pleasure. He suspected he'd surprised her again, though he couldn't say why.
“Really.” Robert felt himself grow warm, as though the sun had made a sudden, brilliant appearance from behind the clouds. He took another tentative step toward establishing friendly inter-estate relations, deciding diplomacy could be a lovely thing indeed. “I take it the solo fell through?”
She nodded, leaning against the door with a sigh. “I apparently lost whatever it was you heard.” She gave a little shrug, though it was easy to discern she was upset. “It wasn’t the first time. Nor will it be the last.”
“The good news is, I don’t need you to play,” Robert assured her. “Just listen. Would that be all right? It could be a chance to clear your head.” He held his breath, watching her consider the idea. He didn’t know what he would do should she turn him down. “Perhaps it might even help, in some way.”
She looked at him for a seeming eternity, with a gaze so direct and assessing he found it a little off-putting. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” she decided.
The remaining tension bled from him, making his fingers tingle like blood returning to a starving limb. “Thank you.”
She shut the door properly. “Lead the way.”
Tamsin hesitated in the doorway of the conservatory, looking around curiously.
Robert turned, noticed her hesitation. “Can I get you a drink?”
"I don't really drink, other than a little wine now and again. But thank you anyway." She grinned at his raised eyebrows. "Terribly un-Irish of me, I know."
He offered her a seat and poured himself a drink from the sideboard. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m afraid I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It’s all right. It’s just…” She folded her hands before her, facing him from a few feet away. “It's been a difficult day all round, I think."
He sat across from her, crossing one leg over another. “May I ask what happened with the solo?"
Tamsin realized, quite abruptly, that he seemed to like looking at her. His gaze was intent on her face, the marble-sculpted planes of his face softening as he awaited her response. Despite his ink black hair, his prickling of a beard—hardly there at all—was a shade lighter. “Sometimes I have a difficult time compartmentalizing.”
“Because of your family?” He seemed to realize he was being unforgivably rude. “Again, my apologies. Vivien told me why you moved in. I’ve only just settled in myself.”
“Oh?” The pang Tamsin felt at mention of her family, at the surprise that he knew at least a little of her history, dissolved at his explanation. Of course that didn’t mean she was inclined to discuss her history with someone she’d only just met, however kind. Life with Aunt Mary had made her adept in changing an uncomfortable subject, if nothing else. “You don’t usually live here, then?”
“No.” He had a pleasant voice, deep and warm, and his blue eyes radiated a quiet sort of humor echoed in the slight curling of his thin-lipped mouth. He draped an arm negligently over the back of his chair as he regarded her. “This is Viv’s country home. She was kind enough to lend it to me while I finish the piece I’m currently making a complete mess of.” His smile broadened. “It seems I have a difficult time compartmentalizing, as well.”
She let a weary sigh ease the tension in her lungs. "It could be I just need a rest."
"Then rest...and listen, if you will." Robert stood with a quick grace, an unfurling of long limbs that was startling. "If you're up to it."
"Yes, of course.” She sat back and let her eyes drift shut, resting her mind. It was a relief, simply to be.
The music swirled around her like water. There were unexpected ripples, like raindrops hitting a pond. They pulled her out of the main theme, buffeting her first one way and then the other. Her brows knit in a distracted frown.
“Wait,” she said, hand out to stop him. “I can’t hear it.”
Robert exhaled his frustration. “I told you it was a mess.”
“It’s…tangled. Unclear.” Her eyes opened, and started when his intense blue gaze caught her up short. She felt her cheeks warm when she realized that only did he like looking at her, but that she liked it, as well.
“Mostly because I can’t find it.” He gathered the pages in a disordered pile.
“May I?” She held out her hands for the pages. “It helps if I can see it.”
He handed her the offending pages. She got to her feet as she took them, moving to smooth them over the lid of the Steinway. She traced her fingers over the lines of music, mind pulling groupings of notes and chords and imagining them for violin, how the fingering might feel beneath her fingertips, how her her bow might slid
e over the strings.
She could almost see it. Here. And here. “Do you have a pencil?” She took it from him, and shoved away the sudden rush of blood in her veins when his fingers brushed against hers. She started again at the beginning of the music. The fingers of her left hand drummed on the gleaming ebony piano lid as, with her right, she struck notes, smoothed tempo, added a note or rest for punctuation. Before she knew it she was humming under her breath, air circulating deep in her throat. Charlie had been right—getting out of her comfort zone was giving her fresh perspective.
When she was finished, she handed the pages back. “Try this.” She stuck the pencil through her hair, bound in the hurried knot at the back of her head.
Robert browsed the pages, brow clearing. Then he arranged them on the stand before him and started playing. Tamsin pressed her palms on the piano lid, eyes closed once more. She felt the vibrations of the keys striking the strings, thrumming through her hands. Music blossomed within her, and she felt it. Her fingers twitched, longing for her violin.
Robert stopped, and her eyes snapped open. “This is much better. You were right—I was quite tangled up before.” He sagged a little—in relief, she imagined. His eyes flickered up to hers as he smiled. “Thank you.”
Pleasure trickled through her, his tone as he thanked her. “I’m glad I could help.” She looked away, pleased and awkward all at once, and stopped as she caught sight of a glass display case on the opposite wall. “Is that—?”
He turned to puzzle out what had affected her so. His face brightened, making him look ten years younger. “Ah, the Lady Tennant. Stradivarius, circa 1699, made during his ‘golden period.’” Robert vacated his bench and went to the locked case, inviting her to join him. "I don't have the key, but you can come have a look anyway."
Tamsin approached with all the due reverence of a die-hard Catholic in procession to meet the Pope. Her hand lifted to the pulse beating in her throat. “Named for Lady Marguerite Miles Tennant. Her husband acquired it for her.”
Robert nodded. “She was an amateur, and late in training, but by all accounts she was extraordinary.”
She looked up at him in wonder. “But how did you come by it?”
“It’s not mine—it’s Vivien's. She belongs to a London foundation that acquires fine instruments and pairs them with a suitable musician.”
Tamsin exhaled, staring at the violin again. For such a treasure, it looked entirely unprepossessing. Plain, in its staid walnut case and satinwood finish, its only decoration brass fittings. “She’s very generous, isn’t she?”
“Very much so.” He turned, crossing his arms as he looked down at her. “Will you come again tomorrow?”
She dragged her eyes away from the Strad. She'd never seen one up close and personal before. “All right. But why?”
He ushered her to the door, clearly eager to be back at work. “I’m not out of the woods yet. Could you bring your violin? Perhaps I can help you with Scheherazade. It was—is—a favorite of mine.”
“Mine, too. I saw the ballet as a little girl and it’s always stuck with me.” Tamsin offered him a tentative smile. “If you really want me to, then yes. I’ll come back.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
Tamsin hurried back to the cottage, slipping a little on the wet grass. She slammed the door behind her, leaning on it as she caught her breath, her mind buzzing with the percussive vibrations she could still feel in the palms of her hands. The sudden charge of energy left her feeling dizzy.
Despite the overwhelming urge to play, she didn’t immediately reach for her instrument. Instead she reached for her phone.
“Charlie,” she breathed, interrupting him mid-Danke Schoen. “I need your help.”
“Tell me,” he said, abruptly all business.
“I need an arrangement. For Scheherazade. Something…well, me, I suppose.”
“Sleep tight tonight, sis. I’m on the case.” He hung up.
But Tamsin knew she wouldn’t get much sleep that night.
No. She was going to play.
Robert paged through his modified sheet music, over and over, making an inspired adjustment here and there. It was nowhere near perfect, but it was ten times better. A hundred. He could see the way through, at last.
Extraordinary. Twenty minutes and a few pencil strokes, and Tamsin had him sorted. Of course, she’d also run off with his pencil, but that was beside the point.
Now he faced another problem—potentially a bigger one. He could see the way through to the end of the piece—an ending he wasn’t sure he could face. It was full of grief, and pain, and guilt.
He knew composing his tribute to Jess wouldn’t be easy. In fact it scared him to death, the idea of facing her all over again, reliving it shard by broken shard. He had wanted to end on a note of hope, but he had no idea where it would come from. He had a sneaking suspicion it had to come from him.
His head lifted as music drifted from across the lawn. He left his sheet music and went to the door, opening it.
He had expected to hear more ferocious scales and exercises. Instead it was simply music, pure and free, an unfettered fit of sheer celebration. What Tamsin thought she’d lost that day, for whatever reason, it seemed she’d found it again.
CHAPTER THREE
