by Donna Hatch
As she reached the village, the eastern horizon shimmered silver, gilding clouds as they peeped out from behind distant mountains. Signs of life arose with the sun. A goose girl herded her charges, and the blacksmith’s hammer rang out. Chickens clucked and a baby cried nearby as Susanna passed by shops and picked her way to the pawn shop next to the mercantile.
She pushed open the door and almost let out an audible sigh that she’d made it this far. “Mrs. Miller?” she called.
Footsteps and a swishing skirt announced the owner’s arrival. “May I help you?” With lively eyes peering out from underneath her white frilled cap, Mrs. Miller blinked at Susanna as if she didn’t recognize her.
Indeed, they had not conversed much over the years since her parents’ death but she remembered going with her mother when she visited tenants and villagers, sometimes bringing baskets of food even when it wasn’t Boxing Day. Mrs. Miller had always received them warmly. Since then, Susanna had only glimpsed Mrs. Miller in church—on the days her aunt allowed her to attend.
Susanna smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Miller. It’s Susanna Dyer.”
Mrs. Miller’s eyes widened. “Well bless my soul, so it is. I haven’t seen you around much—I heard you were poorly.”
“Not as ‘poorly’ as my aunt and uncle would like you to believe. I have some things I need to sell.” She showed the woman her clothes, pins, and the miniature. “I’m not interested in letting go of the portrait, of course, but I thought perhaps the frame would be of value?”
Mrs. Miller looked them all over. Under the woman’s scrutiny, the articles Susanna had brought suddenly looked shabby and worthless. Kindly, the woman asked, “Why do you need money, Miss Susanna?”
“I need to buy passage on the mail coach.”
Mrs. Miller studied her. “I see. Your aunt and uncle aren’t treating you well, are they?”
Exhaustion and fear and uncertainty drained her composure. Tears pricked her eyes. She looked down to cover signs of her emotion. “Please, is any of this worth anything?”
“Is this your mother’s wedding band?” Mrs. Miller picked up the gold and sapphire ring and held it into the light.
Tears escaped. Susanna hastily brushed them away and nodded. “It’s all I have of hers—and this miniature.”
“I think we can work out something.”
“And please, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. They can’t know where I’ve gone.”
Mrs. Miller patted her hand. “I understand, my dear. You have my silence.”
Susanna left the shop with a lighter portmanteau and a few coins wrapped up in a handkerchief and tucked into her stays. A few hours later, Susanna sat atop a mail coach and offered a prayer that she would reach London safely, procure employment, and find a place to stay.
“And,” she added to her whispered prayer, “if isn’t not too much to ask, a guardian angel would be very helpful about now.”
The coach bumped along and Susanna held on for her life, not bothering to wipe away the tears she shed for leaving behind her mother’s ring, her harp, her home, her village, and everything she had ever known. Eventually, she dried her tears and looked ahead. London, and all its possibilities awaited. If nothing else, she’d be safe from her horrid relations who wanted her for their own purposes. And maybe, just maybe, she would prove to herself and them that she was smart and capable. Or at the very least, worthwhile.
Chapter Three
If only every day were so fine, Christopher Anson could die a happy man. Eager as always for tonight’s performance, Kit tucked his violin case under his arm and strolled along the sidewalk toward the now-familiar brick building graced with statues, arches, and a dome that made up the King’s Theatre. Some musicians cited the thrill of playing for an audience, but Kit loved playing music for its own sake. Besides, performing for an audience meant the conductor wouldn’t stop the orchestra and break up the flow of music nor the fluid beauty running into Kit’s soul. Solos were all fine and well, but being part of a group created a magical blend he could not produce on his own.
As he approached the back of the King’s Theatre toward the stage entrance, a small figure arose from its crouched position. Another urchin, no doubt. Without breaking stride, Kit reached into his pocket to toss the poor creature a coin.
“Excuse me, sir.”
He halted. Such cultured tones did not belong to a street urchin. In fact, they sounded a great deal like the voice of a lady. He peered more closely at the form. A gray, threadbare woman’s coat, and a decade-old straw bonnet engulfed a body about half his width and barely the height of his shoulder—and he was no giant. She gripped a bag resembling a sad excuse for a portmanteau. The form lifted her head and a large pair of eyes almost the color of the coat peered at him. A decidedly feminine, young face accompanied those eyes.
“Forgive me for my intrusion, sir, but are you a musician at this theatre?”
Almost speechless at the incongruity of her voice and appearance, he nodded. “I am.”
She heaved a small breath of relief. “I am trying to see the conductor—to audition for the role of harpist—but the door guard refused me entrance. Please, can you help me get inside to speak with the conductor?”
He lifted his brow and looked her over more carefully. “You are a harpist?”
“Yes, sir. I have played for the past sixteen years.”
“You don’t look old enough to have been alive these past sixteen years.”
“I began taking lessons when I was three. I am now nineteen—nearly twenty.”
Nineteen? Much more grown up than she appeared. Her coat hung limply straight from the shoulders, giving no hint of a womanly figure. She must be half starved or sickly.
“I’m sorry, miss, but we already have an orchestra harpist.” Of course, the current harpist, though skilled, played with very little emotion, notwithstanding that Kit suspected the man to be a bit unhinged. Kit gave her an apologetic smile. “Auditions are conducted weeks before each new production, and the musicians are selected by a panel of judges including the manager.”
“Perhaps I could be a secondary harpist—like an understudy the singers have?”
“That’s not up to me.”
“Please, sir, can’t you get me in to at least plead my case to the conductor? Surely he has some influence with the theatre manager or this panel of judges.”
Her pleading eyes reminded him of a sad puppy. Kit was never cruel to puppies. “Very well, but Alex is a temperamental man; I cannot guarantee he’ll even speak with you.”
She let out her breath as if she had been holding it. “Oh, thank you so much. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I am rather, er that is, I…” She glanced at him from underneath her lashes as if fearing his temper. “I really need the work.”
Kit had been a hungry musician once, too. And something about her brave yet desperate plea touched his heart. “Follow me.” He knocked on the door.
The door guard opened it and stuck his face out. “Oh, Mr. Anson, it’s you.”
“Good evening, Bert.” Kit glanced over his shoulder at the ragged girl. “She’s with me.”
The door guard hesitated, clearly torn between rules and his desire to stay in Kit’s good graces. “Er, as you wish, sir.”
“My thanks.” He retrieved a hot cross bun from his pocket and handed it to Bert. “They’re fresh today.”
Bert grinned. “Thankee, sir.”
The harpist-waif kept close to Kit as he mounted the steps and entered the stage, dodging curtains, ropes, dancers warming up, vocalists running through trills, and the stage crew carrying pieces of the set. The prima donna, painted like a character from a bygone era, whined about the fit of her costume, and one of the dancers silently wrapped her bleeding foot in a strip of cloth before pulling on her ballet slipper. Kit spared a thought for the dancer, but such occurrence was so common that everyone looked at him as if he had grown a second head when he offered aid.
At the top of the
stairs leading to the orchestra pit, he glanced at the opulent auditorium, unceasingly awed by the fresco-painted, domed ceiling, the three levels of seating, and private boxes on each side of the stage. Invigorated by the sight, Kit descended into the orchestra pit with his little shadow trailing him. He glanced back at the girl who looked around her with wide eyes.
“Now?” thundered the conductor, Alex. “He’s just now telling me this?”
A young stagehand shrugged and trotted up the stairs to the stage.
The conductor tugged on his hair. “I can’t believe this!”
“What’s amiss, Alex?” Kit asked, while the rest of the orchestra ignored his outburst.
Alex Abbiati, one of the most brilliant young conductors of the decade, turned to him, his brown skin reddening and his coal-black eyes flashing. “The harpist injured his hand today and cannot play.” He let out a groan. “I knew we should have hired a secondary harpist. This one is so temperamental and…odd…that I had a feeling we ought to have someone ready in the wings.”
Kit blinked. A harpist appears begging for work the same time their orchestra harpist is injured and cannot play? What were the chances of that? Perhaps fate was on this girl’s side. Or an angel watched over her.
Alex paced back and forth, tugging on his black hair until it stood on end in all directions as if he had been out in an electric storm. “I suppose we’ll have to change your duet in the second act from harp and violin to pianoforte and violin. I’ll have to send word to Marcus. He’s the only one I know who can sight read well enough to perform without rehearsal.”
“Perhaps we have another option.” Kit glanced over his shoulder at the waif-who-would-be-harpist shadowing him, but she had already stepped around him.
With all the poise of a duchess, she approached Alex and sank into a curtsy fit for the queen’s drawing room. “Sir, if I may; I am an excellent sight-reader. If you’d be so kind as to allow me to audition, I believe you will agree I am a suitable replacement.”
Alex’s mouth opened in surprise. “You play the pianoforte?”
“No, sir, I am a harpist.”
Alex took a quick measure of her, his passionate Italian features taking on a speculative edge. “I do not have time for little girls with illusions of grandeur. Leave at once!”
Unimpressed with his temper, she remained composed. “I assure you sir, I am very accomplished. My last master was Phillip Schlomovitz and I studied under him for four years.”
Her declaration took him aback. “Schlomovitz, you say?”
“Yes, sir,” she said with quiet firmness. “If you give me a copy of the score, I am confident I will prove myself adequate.”
Still, Alex hesitated.
The waif’s quiet courage and determination, not to mention her outward serenity against an angry man twice her size won Kit’s admiration. Besides, Kit remembered all too well what it was like to beg for a chance to prove himself as a musician.
“Give her a chance, Alex,” Kit said. “You gave me one. With curtain half an hour away, we’ve little to lose.”
Alex threw up his hands. “Oh, very well.” He gestured to the resident harp at the back of the orchestra pit behind the second violin section. “Impress me.”
The girl’s smile lit up her face, turning her plainness into a thing of, well, perhaps not beauty, but at least less bland. She picked her way through the string section to the harp. The girl set down her portmanteau and removed her coat revealing a thin figure and a faded, threadbare gown that a servant would have been embarrassed to wear. Discarding her hat displayed a thick head of dark hair twisted into a knot trying to pass for a hairstyle his sister called a chignon. Hairpins, he supposed, were an expense she could not afford. She removed the harp cover with a practiced tug and adeptly tuned the instrument with long, slender fingers.
Kit joined her in the back of the orchestra pit. After rosining his bow and tuning his violin to her harp, he waited for her to warm up with a series of scales and arpeggios. A few moments later, he pointed to a spot in her music. “Alex wants to hear you play our duet in the second act.”
She fixed large eyes on him. “Our duet?”
“It’s for harp and violin, and I’m the principal violinist,” he explained.
She nodded, swallowed, and took a deep breath. “Whenever you are ready, sir.”
“I’m ready.”
She wiped her hands on her skirts, and moved the pedals to put the harp into the correct key. Alex folded his arms, determined not to be impressed. The girl placed her fingers on the strings. And played.
Kit was so thunderstruck by the skill and beauty issuing forth from the instrument that he barely remembered to come in at the right time. Quickly, he raised his violin to his chin, lifted his bow, and closed his eyes. They played together. All the world—all noise, other performers, the audience entering—all else faded away. Kit and his violin, and the girl with her harp, were the only creations in the universe. Together, they produced magic. His soul sang as loudly as his violin.
As the last notes of their duet faded away, Kit let out his breath and swallowed the knot in his throat. Such beauty and passion. This little waif was a true musician. In all his five and twenty years, he had never heard her equal.
Kit lowered his violin and clutched his bow. Meeting her gaze, he smiled. “Brava.”
Alex sniffed. “Humph, you’ll do. Watch that key change—A natural.”
Before he strode away, he glanced at Kit, and his approval revealed itself. Kit grinned. She had impressed Alex—no small feat.
Kit gave her a friendly smile. “Welcome aboard, Miss…?”
“Susanna Dyer.”
He inclined his head in an abbreviated bow. “Kit Anson, at your service.”
She stood and curtsied. “Thank you, Mr. Anson, for your assistance convincing him to allow me to audition.”
He shrugged. “We had nothing to lose.”
“You play magnificently.” Shy admiration entered her eyes.
“As do you.”
She frowned at the music. “He’s right—it should have been A natural.” She resumed her seat and played it correctly, although few would have noticed her minor error earlier. Then she flipped to the beginning of her music and began practicing. The serenity in her expression, the concentration in her eyes, the graceful movement of her fingers captured his attention, as did the beauty she created as she played. Perhaps it was the lighting or her talent coloring Kit’s perception of her, but Susanna Dyer appeared less a dingy, half-starved waif, and more a captivating young lady he might have been happy to meet during his former life.
Her fingers paused in their intricate dance with the strings, and she fixed her gaze on him. “Thank you again, Mr. Anson.”
He grinned to cover his embarrassment that she had caught him staring. “You’re welcome. By the way, we aren’t so formal in the orchestra. My friends call me Kit.”
His sister had begun calling him Kit when she was little, a name she called him even now that she was a wise married lady, so he had come to think of himself by that name. When he left home, he had begun introducing himself as Kit Anson. The name suited him better, anyway.
Susanna Dyer glanced at him, offered a strained smile, and returned her attention to the music, a clear dismissal, and without giving him permission to use her given name. He paused, his pride deflating a little. Women seldom treated him so dismissively. Perhaps he had gotten too accustomed to charming any woman he chose.
Still, he respected that she was a serious musician. Now that he thought of it, he found it refreshing to meet a lady not interested in flirting with him or trying to gain his favor for her own purposes. How unlike ladies in the ballrooms he once frequented before his self-imposed banishment.
Kit returned to his seat in the front and trained his ears on the harp music floating from the back of the pit while he prepared for performance.
On stage, all the usual drama and a few mistakes of a theatrical production p
roceeded. Kit reveled in it all, especially the music, which was as nearly perfect as he’d ever heard, thrilled to be a part of a greater whole creating beauty and power. As the final curtain fell and applause rose and died away, Kit stood, nodded to his stand partner who was probably plotting to usurp Kit, shook hands with Alex, and glanced back at the harpist.
She sat like a ragged little urchin behind a harp too big for her small frame with her face glowing in after-performance euphoria. He caught her gaze and smiled. She beamed. Under the force of her stunning smile, he nearly dropped his bow. By Jove, she was pretty when she smiled.
He lost sight of the harpist in the chaos that always came after the curtain fell. As he made his way to the harp to speak with her, he spotted Alex in conversation with her. She nodded, then smiled brilliantly. Kit blinked. Yes, indeed, very pretty when she smiled. Or perhaps part of the beauty came from that portion of her soul she bared when she played.
Alex nodded and stepped back. As he passed Kit, he said, “I have a few notes for you, as well.”
Kit moved to the harpist as she covered her instrument. “Miss Susanna, you are heaven-sent.”
Practically glowing, she let out a half laugh. “Believe me, this was an answer to my prayers.” Her smile faltered. “Not that I wish any harm on the other harpist, but…”
He chuckled. “I know what you mean.”
“I thank you for your assistance.” She nodded in Alex’s direction. “The conductor asked me to return tomorrow night.”
