“I see.” My father slowly turns to Miss Stranje. “You have done well by her. Thank you. Will you send me regular reports?”
“You may count on it. Will you join us for nuncheon?”
His marching music returns. “No, thank you, though.” He puts on his hat with a brusque tap. “My lady wife awaits in the carriage.”
I rush to catch him before he can leave and throw my arms around him. I do not care if he is unprepared for such an unseemly show of affection.
“No matter where you are,” he whispers in my ear and pats my shoulder. “Keep singing, daughter, and I will hear you.”
He will?
Can it be?
He leaves, and I stand in my father’s wake, astonished. Those were the same words my grandmother said when I left India.
* * *
After our nuncheon, Lord Kinsworth offers to take me for a stroll along the embankment. Arm in arm, we walk out on one of the small piers, and back again atop the seawall. Waves lap up on empty beaches. Bathing wagons sit unrented, tucked up against the embankment, even their purveyors are nowhere to be seen.
Kinsworth whistles softly through his teeth. “Everyone knows about the Prince, don’t they?”
“So, it would seem.” His cuts are healing quickly, and I cannot help but wonder how long it will be before he rushes off to join the others in fighting Napoleon. “Do you think the war will get worse?”
I glance up at him, waiting for the answer. Half angel, half rogue, I cannot determine which he is. I only know I adore the way his blue eyes match the sky, and how the golden sun dances across his brown curls. Most of all, I relish the inviting notes of his violoncello. It plays so mellow and deep that I could fall into his arms this very minute.
“I expect it will,” he says. Although, he does not sound as eager for adventure as he once did. Perhaps the reality of battle changed him a bit. He smooths his hand over mine as it rests on his arm. “I will have to serve. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Of course, I knew.
He needn’t have said it aloud. I wish he hadn’t.
“But not today!” I say firmly, refusing to let the future darken today’s happiness. “Today we have the beach all to ourselves.”
I let go of his arm and scamper down the embankment steps. He follows, and we make our way toward the water, laughing as we try to keep our balance walking across piles and piles of sea-polished stones exposed by low tide. Finally, we cross over all the rocks and come to a broad stretch of sand where we can stand comfortably and stare out at the ocean lapping so tamely on the shore. Except now, I know better. The sea is not tame. She is both dangerous and amazing, a vast nursery swarming with life and an equally unfathomable crypt.
One that nearly claimed our lives.
He bumps his arm against me, rousing me from my morbid thoughts. “Shall I hire a bathing wagon for the afternoon?” He sweeps his arm out. “We have our pick today. I’m sure you agree, I need to learn how to swim more proficiently.”
“Most assuredly.” Hands on my hips, I struggle to maintain a stern expression. “Except the surgeon ordered you to keep the dressing dry, and Miss Stranje will lop off my head if you come back with a wet bandage. Aside from that, we ought to start back if we are to return to the inn before she does.”
“Not just yet. You worry too much. They’ll be shopping for hours.” There is mischief brewing in his eyes and impish bassoons playing hide and seek. “We’re alone, Maya. I don’t hear a single soul on this entire stretch of beach. Do you?”
I fail to answer. He stands so close I can smell the sun warming his skin.
The corner of his mouth curves up waywardly, and he lowers voice till I must lean in to catch his next words. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
My breath catches, and I cannot keep from smiling.
He means kissing.
Kinsworth draws back as if I have shocked him. “Why, Miss Barrington, I am surprised at you for thinking such a thing.”
I did not say it aloud.
At least, I don’t think I did.
I cross my arms and frown. “I was not thinking anything amiss.”
“You were.” He picks up a stick of driftwood. “And here I was exulting in the fact that we have the perfect opportunity to practice our sword fighting. That is the only thing I had in mind.”
“It is not.” I fume.
“It most certainly was. Sword fighting, I said to myself. A good joust will be just the thing. Besides, you know how Miss Stranje feels about our kissing.” He tosses me the smooth stick and steps back to pick up another one. A much longer one.
Ben pulls his arm out of the sling and poses in the quarte stance. “En Garde.”
“You are forgetting about your stitches.” I sulk and tap his nonsensical sword out of the way. “Aside from that, you have the longer branch. It isn’t fair.”
“Fair? Why, of course, it is. I’m taller and bigger. It’s only natural that I should require the larger sword.”
“Wretch.”
“Names will get you nowhere. This is a game of skill and wits.” He steps forward challenging me again.
“And, apparently, bigger swords.” I strike his ridiculous piece of driftwood, and he parries. Tap, tap, we drum back and forth in a satisfying tempo. Our swordplay almost becomes a dance, until he breaks rhythm and tags my shoulder.
“Ha! Wounded you.” How is it Kinsworth can seem so charming, while at the same time behaving like a remorseless rogue?
“The long sword gives you the advantage.”
But does it?
Madame Cho’s training rushes back to me. How silly I’m being. She taught us how to put long swords at a disadvantage. So, I whirl toward him, too close for him to strike, and with my mythical short sword, I chop off his arm. “You just lost your arm.”
“Hmph. So, I see.” He pauses to scowl at his make-believe wound.
“Do you yield?”
“Never!” He rebounds in a flash, his inner music racing happily. “Don’t worry. I can fight one-handed. Watch this.” His eyes flash impishly, and he lunges forward with a stab that would’ve ended the game had I not reflexively dodged.
That lunge will leave him exposed, so I spin in close and tap his heart. “I just ran you through, my love.”
Instead of pretending to be mortally wounded, he tosses his sword away, and reaches for my waist, pulling me closer. “I yield,” he says huskily.
Does he mean to yield kissing? Because if he does not, there may be dire consequences.
“Do you?” I ask in a breathy whisper.
“Don’t you know, Maya?” He laughs, and the cello inside him plays chords that ease all the sore knotted places in my soul.
The make-believe sword slips from my fingers and falls in the sand. And the nightingale wings freely. The lioness rests quietly within me, waiting until the next time she must rise and protect those she loves. The storm has gone, disappeared over the mountains. In his arms, I feel raw and warm and sheltered.
He brushes a lock of hair from my cheek and murmurs in my ear, “My heart belonged to you since the first moment I heard you sing.”
He yields then, covering my lips with a symphony of kisses.
* * *
* * *
Sera will reveal her story
when the Stranje House saga
continues
in
Sanctuary for Seers
Afterword
Dear Reader,
Thank you for experiencing Maya’s story with me. Learning to hear the world, as Maya does, rather than perceive it primarily through sight, was illuminating. And challenging. It stretched my writing skills, and the deeper I got into her story, the more the world of sound intrigued me. That is probably why it took me so long to write it. I still feel I have not fully captured the concept of sound vibrating from our emotions.
If you have thoughts on this, I would love to hear them. My email is:
[email protected]
Readers often ask whether Maya’s gift of manipulating her voice, is real.
Short answer, yes. All of my characters are amalgams (blends) of people I have known, and Maya is, too. Her gift is based on a real person. I mentioned the inception story of Maya’s voice on my blog, but I will share it again here with you.
My neighbor is from India, and one day I intruded on a breakfast she was preparing for friends. With typical Indian graciousness, Rashmi invited me to join them. Every time her friend spoke, I found myself mesmerized. Her voice was enthralling, almost magical. She relaxed us as we listened, and yet all of us were riveted to her words. She conveyed emotion with a simple shift of tone and cadence, and something about the musical quality of her voice made everything she spoke about come alive. We could see her stories.
Since then, I have met others with this fascinating gift. A young lady at our local high school, who helps me get some of my facts right about India, assures me that her mother shares Maya’s gift. Apparently, her mother can be extraordinarily persuasive.
Another question readers ask is, “Can the gift of voice be learned?”
Yes, with practice, I believe we can all learn to use our vocal cords more effectively. Speech-givers and politicians study cadence and tone, as do hypnotists. How something is said is as important as what is said. There’s far more to communication than the sum of our words.
You may have heard me say, “You are changing the world around you. The decisions and choices you make today impact the people in your life tomorrow, and have a far-reaching effect.” After writing Maya’s story, I am convinced that how we speak, the tone we use, and the emotional force behind our words is equally important. Whether we are called upon to speak forcefully as the lioness, or to soothe as the nightingale, there is power swirling behind and in our words.
May your life be filled with love, peace, and joy!
—Kathleen Baldwin
Kathleen loves hearing from readers. Her contact info, Readers Guides, and other insights about the world of Stranje House are on her website:
KathleenBaldwin.com
Also By Kathleen Baldwin
The Stranje House Novels
A School for Unusual Girls
Exile for Dreamers
Refuge for Masterminds
My Notorious Aunt Series
Lady Fiasco
Mistaken Kiss
Cut from the Same Cloth
Others
The Highwayman Came Waltzing
Diary of a Teenage Fairy Godmother
For Reader Guides, Newsletter, and Story Extras, visit:
KathleenBaldwin.com
Harbor for the Nightingale Page 28
