The Lady Tennant

by Cate Morgan

Tamsin struggled to open the door of her tiny ice box. When it finally peeled open, unsticking like a popped cork, she pulled open the bag of ice inside and shoved her left hand into its contents with an audible sigh of relief.

  She couldn’t recall the last time she’d played until her fingers literally bled, and only realized she was bleeding after the fact. She was soggy with exhaustion, her left hand throbbed like a beating heart, and she couldn’t pinpoint when, precisely, she’d last had a full meal or an entire night’s rest.

  Strangely, she’d never been happier. Charlie’s arrangement had finally arrived and she’d known almost immediately that it was absolutely perfect for her. She did worry it might be too bold for the conservative sensibilities of the board, but it was difficult to lend her doubts credence as she played through the arrangement, again and again. It had been easy to make the piece as much hers as it was Charlie’s. The flutter in her heart whenever she played it only solidified what she suspected—that she was going to win her way through.

  She couldn’t wait for Robert to hear it.

  After awhile she gathered ice into a bowl and put her back into shutting the ice box once more—once unstuck, it didn’t like to be shut again. Only then did she sit at the kitchen table, stuff her hand back in the ice, and slowly lean forward until her head lay buried in the crook of her right arm.

  Right on cue, her phone rang.

  She reached for the trilling little gadget from hell without lifting her head. Having located it on the second or third attempt, she turned her head to answer it, all without shifting her slowly numbing hand or opening her eyes. “Hello?”

  “Just what do you think you’re playing at, young miss?”

  She almost groaned again. “What is it, Aunt Mary?”

  Aunt Mary, for once, ignored her exasperated tone—sure sign she was downright furious. Tamsin wondered that she could even form words. “What are you about, making your brother put arrangements together for you? He’s ill!”

  “Charlie is dying,” Tamsin corrected. “Which is not, as you suppose, synonymous with being helpless. And he wants to surround himself with music. If Charlie didn’t want to help me, no power on Earth could force him to.”

  “You shouldn’t have asked him to begin with. And what is this about losing your grant?”

  Tamsin lifted her head, dragging herself upright. “I haven’t lost it.” Not yet.

  “But you might be sent down?”

  “Charlie’s arrangement is helping.” She’d known it the moment she saw the blood caked beneath the fingernails of her string hand.

  Mary’s voice turned flat with repressed fury. “You’re being selfish and irresponsible, considering everything we’ve sacrificed so you could run off to Cambridge. And for what? So you could fail within a month?”

  Tamsin fought temptation to retaliate in anger, hastily reigning it in. Or forced to fight back of wave of soul-crushing guilt. Instead she felt only tired, and eerily calm. In that moment, she knew something had changed, some previously unnoticed shift in balance.

  “Aunt Mary, when was the last time you played?”

  “What? What kind of question is that?”

  “That piano is your most prized possession, but you only touch it these days to dust it. You gave it up professionally to marry Uncle Jack, and when he died you stopped playing even for pleasure.” Tamsin took a deep breath. “You can’t protect us by controlling us.”

  Mary sputtered on the other end of the line.

  “Let Charlie make all the music he wants. Let me make all the mistakes I need. Let Da grieve. Let Aunt Jane have her damn smokes. I can’t be Mum for you. Neither can Charlie. She’s gone, Charlie’s dying of a horrible, insidious disease, and it’s time you got on with your life.” Her hearted pounded against her chest as she realized what she was saying. “And don’t call me again unless it’s important—to someone besides yourself, if you please.”

  Her aunt found her voice again, but Tamsin didn’t wait to hear what she had to say. Instead she pressed “END”, and set the phone quietly down on the table, staring at it without really seeing. What had she done?

  She was still sitting there, stunned, when the phone rang again. This time, it was her brother. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I think I’ve just had a stroke. No, come to think on it, I think Aunt Mary had a stroke. What did you say to her?” He sounded awed. “She’s…she’s…quiet.”

  Giddiness bubbled up in her chest. “What do you mean?”

  “She stormed around a bit, crashing the kettle and so forth. But then she sat to her tea and hasn’t spoken a word since. I suppose she could be playing possum…” He burst out laughing. “Tommy, you’re my hero.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, sheepish. “I only told her not to call me anymore unless it’s important. And to live her life and let people get on living theirs.”

  Charlie gave this due consideration. “No, you’re definitely my hero. How do you like your arrangement?”

  “It’s perfect, thank you.”

  “Really?”

  “My fingers were bleeding, if that’s any indication.”

  There was no higher compliment for Charlie, and she knew it. “Are you going to play it for your composer?”

  Tamsin blushed, an instantaneous and total flooding of heat in her face—the curse of an Irish complexion. “He’s not my composer. But I did consider it. Why?”

  “I’d be interested in hearing what he had to say.”

  Tamsin had never heard her brother come over all bashful. Today was a day for firsts, it seemed. “All right,” she agreed, shaking her head. “I’ll play it for him.” She clenched her sore hand. “Tomorrow.”

  She could sense her brother’s grin. “Smashing!”

  This time when she hung up the phone, she took a moment to let it all sink in. A strange feeling anchored itself in her chest, spreading throughout her body in a rush of pins and needles. She stood on shaky feet, palm pressed flat against the table for balance. Her left hand, curled into an aching claw, huddled to her heart.

  It took her a moment to realize what was happening to her. Air, rushing in and out of her lungs, rushing through her body in a torrent of energy. She could actually feel herself breathe. The pressure she’d always felt had lifted. She was no longer pulled in two directions like a soggy bit of taffy.

  She was free.

  “Robert, are you listening?”

  Robert turned his attention from the window, curtain slipping from his fingers. “Of course.” In truth, he’d been waiting for Tamsin to return home, impatient for their now daily workshop of two. He looked forward to playing a new section of the duet for her, but couldn’t until his weekly tea with Vivien and Julien ended. Unfortunately, his friends seemed inclined to linger.

  Vivien was not fooled. “You’ve been spending a great deal of time with your neighbor,” she observed. “How’s the duet coming?”

  “Well, actually. I finished a new section last night.” He sipped his tea. “I’m going to ask Tamsin to play it with me at your event.”

  “Your event.” Vivien eyed him shrewdly. “I’m pleased to hear you’ve resigned yourself to the inevitable. I knew once you had a solid deadline you’d be forced to focus.”

  Robert cleared his throat. “So it seems.”

  “Can we hear what you’ve got so far?” Julien asked, all eagerness.

  “Not yet. It’s not ready.” He resisted the temptation to look out the window again.

  Julien grinned. “Now we know you’re making progress. Are you going to ask her out?”

  Robert nearly dropped his teacup. “What?”

  “Invigorating as all this is,” Vivien interjected, “I would caution you against occupying too much of Miss Hayes’ time, Robert. I’m sorry to say she’s not living up to expectations. She is in danger of losing her grant.” Her eyebrows lifted at his expression. “She didn’t tell you?”

  “I knew she lost a solo. I didn’t
realize matters were quite so grim.” He gave in to worry and temptation and flicked the curtain aside again, wondering if she was home yet from rehearsal. As soon as Vivien and Julien left he would leave the door to the conservatory open for her visit. He thought he might order in curry for dinner from a little place he favored, if she liked curry.

  “Grim enough,” Vivien said, interrupting his musings. “I’m glad she was able to help you past your block, but now she needs to focus on keeping her place. I’m afraid to say I’m seriously reconsidering loaning her the Lady Tennant.” She paused to pour more tea. “There are other violinists. I could speak to Director Samuels, if you like.”

  “I want Tamsin.” A chord struck within him, resonating throughout his body. There was another, deeper meaning in his words he hadn’t intended. He needed to be alone, as soon as possible, so he could sort through his feelings.

  “Very well.” Vivien expressed her displeasure by putting aside her fresh tea. “Have you given any consideration as to what cause our event will benefit?”

  Robert cupped his tea between his hands, flooding them with warmth. His eyes skated impatiently toward the piano and back. “It hardly matters. Pick one.”

  She sighed. “Really, Robert. I wish you would take more of an interest.”

  “Let me think on it, then.”

  “You’ve been thinking on it for a week.” Her voice raised just a fraction.

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Vivien closed her folio and capped her silver Tiffany pencil. “I can see we’ll get no work done today.”

  Julien’s warm brown eyes snapped with mirth. “You are going to ask her out.”

  Vivien huffed. “Come along, Julien. We have work to be getting on with, as do Robert and his violinist.”

  When they were gone, Robert opened the back door before sitting at the piano to play through the new section. No violin music yet, but it would only be a matter of time. She’d been working on a new arrangement for Scheherazade. It was interesting, with a contemporary vibe. Bold. Risky. He wondered who’d done the composition.

  He hadn’t asked her about it, though, because she hadn’t mentioned it herself. Today he would remedy that.

  He stopped playing when a shadow blocked the light from the door. The anticipation of waiting for her seeped from him, to be replaced by deep pleasure. “You’re early today.”

  Tamsin smiled as she shut the door behind her. “I came to apologize--I won’t be much use today.” She twiddled the fingers of her her string hand with a wince.

  He left the piano and strode over to her. “What happened?”

  “It’s nothing,” she assured him as he took her hand to examine it. She held it stiffly, her gaze lowered.

  He felt like he’d picked up another cup of tea, only with his whole body. He’d forgotten what it was like, the flooding of warmth that had nothing to do with outward temperature. Her hand was small for a violinist’s; she must have to stretch terribly. The calluses at the crests of her nails were cracked and pink, with evidence of recent bleeding. His fingers brushed lightly over hers in sympathy.

  “I can get you some ice, if you like,” he offered as he allowed her hand to slip through his fingers. He’d only just realized he’d been holding her hand slightly too long to be considered anything other than friendly. But the fact of the matter was, he’d liked holding it, touching her. He wanted to do it again.

  She shook her head with a smile. “I’ve already iced. I just need to give it a day of rest—practiced a little too hard.”

  “A little? Those look like you battled the devil and won. The Scheherazade you’ve been working on?” He invited her to sit, as he always did, and took his customary place across from her. Where it was safe.

  She brightened. “Do you like it?”

  “I do. Who did the arrangement? I’ve never heard it before.”

  Despite her enthusiasm, she hesitated before answering. “My brother.”

  Robert sat forward with interest. “He’s a composer?”

  She twisted her hands in her lap. “My brother was a child prodigy, you could say. A violinist. May I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like to play his Scheherazade for you. Full out.”

  She scooted to the edge of the chair in her anxiousness to explain, now that she’d started. It was endearing. Robert fought back the urge to reach out to her. “Not just so I can have your opinion of my playing it—I’ll be performing it for Director Samuels next week. It would mean so much to Charlie.” Her gray eyes were alight with excitement, putting a slight flush in her cheeks that made him want to do whatever he could to keep it there.

  To keep her happiness so alive and untouched…he knew in that moment he wanted nothing more. It was something of a revelation.“I’d be delighted. From what I’ve heard so far, I wouldn’t mind seeing the arrangement for myself.”

  Her smile turned crooked. “I’m afraid you wouldn’t understand it. It’s not like that,” she hastened to add at the surprise on his face. “It’s just…Charlie’s shorthand. Few can interpret it—myself, a few friends he does them for.”

  “I’d be happen to listen, whenever you’re ready. By why shorthand?” As a composer, few things pleased him more than the neat arrangement of musical notation on clean lines, to see how other composers worked. He was fascinated by the inner workings of the creative process of his colleagues, especially those of the younger generation.

  For a moment he wasn’t certain she’d respond. The subject of her brother’s eccentricities clearly made her uncomfortable. “My brother can no longer write. He has Muscular Dystrophy.”

  Robert sat back, understanding sinking in like a lead weight. No wonder she held herself a step away from him—she probably did it with everyone. “He’s paralyzed.”

  “Almost completely from the shoulders down. He uses voice dictation software and his personal shorthand to work on his music.”

  Robert’s mind began to tick over. “He has a lot of these arrangements?”

  “Dozens. Tens of dozens.” She cocked her head at him curiously. “Why?”

  “Anything original?”

  “Loads.”

  Robert knew he’d found his cause. “How would Charlie like to come to Cambridge to hear his music played?”

  Her eyes widened, silver gray with impossibly long lashes. Her sore hand touched the pulse in the hollow of her throat. She looked as she did when she’d first seen the Lady Tennant, in the presence of something much grander than herself. Robert realized, in that moment, that he’d somehow managed to reach her. It was like the sun breaking through the clouds.

  “That would be,” she said, a brilliant smile spreading across her face, “miraculous.”

  Robert’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair, as a rush of emotion pulsed through him. Longing for his own happiness—for her—infused him.

  Thunder rolled and crashed overhead, startling them both.

  “Oh, bugger,” she muttered, startling him a second time as she bolted from her seat. “I left the parlour windows open. I only meant to come over for a moment.”

  “Come on, then,” he said, following her out the door and into the rain.

  They were soaked in moments as they pelted across the lawn. Fortunately, she’d left the door unlocked as well. They hurtled through and raced around, slamming windows shut. When the last one was closed, they stared at one another, breathing hard with hair plastered against their faces.

  Tamsin leaned on her window, catching her breath. Suddenly she grinned again, adorable beyond words with strands of auburn hair curling at her temples as she began to laugh.

  Robert couldn’t take it anymore. He strode across the room. Her eyes widened as she flattened herself against the window. He captured her face in his hands and kissed her as though she was precious oxygen, and he a drowning man.