Heart Strings (Music of the Heart Book 1)

by Donna Hatch

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She let out a happy sigh, her eyes sparkling like a brook in the sunshine. “Well, good night.” She donned her shapeless, ugly coat. “I suppose I shall see you tomorrow evening.”

  She would be back tomorrow. The thought shouldn’t thrill him the way it did. He had no interest in romantic entanglements, especially with a ragged little urchin who played like an angel.

  He almost let out a sigh as happy as hers. “Good night.”

  Perhaps the manager would offer her a permanent position as secondary harpist. A pity he couldn’t make her the principal—she certainly deserved it. And she was a bright spot where the regular harpist was such a blight in the beauty of the music. Kit packed his violin and conferred with Alex. By the time they finished, the orchestra pit had emptied. Kit exited the theatre. The statues gracing the top of the three-level building seemed to bid him farewell. Kit shook his head at the fanciful notion. With visions of a hot meal awaiting him making his mouth water he crossed the street. A now-familiar form stood under a streetlamp, barely visible in the growing fog. The little harpist. She glanced up and down the street indecisively.

  “Are you lost, Miss Susanna?” he called out.

  Her head snapped toward him but she didn’t censure him for using her given name. “Oh, Mr. Anson. Good evening.” She curtsied and turned away.

  She meant it as a farewell, but he stopped next to her. “Do you require assistance?”

  She let out a little nervous laugh. “No, I just, er…goodnight.” She made a vague gesture and started walking as if she had chosen a direction at random.

  He cocked his head. “Are you truly lost or do you have nowhere to stay?”

  She folded in even tighter. “I arrived just today so I don’t know my way around just yet.”

  “From where?”

  After a brief hesitation, she replied, “The Thames Valley.”

  “And you arrived with no arrangements of a place to sleep?”

  “I didn’t say I had no place to sleep; I said I just arrived and I am not yet familiar with London so I am easily turned around.” She drew herself up primly. “Good night.”

  Questions about her flitted through his mind—why a gently bred lady had come to London looking like a half-starved orphan and desperate for work. That she had somehow fallen on hard times, he did not doubt. Either she had no family or she had run away. How long had she been alone?

  He deliberated what, if anything, he should do about her. “Wait.”

  She paused, shifted her hold on her bag, and glanced back.

  He tucked his violin under his arm. “I am in the habit of eating very little before a performance, so I dine afterward. I’d be pleased if you’d join me—I know a little pub nearby that serves excellent food.”

  “Thank you, but I must decline. Enjoy your dinner.” She curtsied like a lady in a ballroom and strode the opposite direction from where she had headed moments ago, head high, walking with firm, decisive steps.

  He paused, oddly disappointed that she had dismissed him yet again. And really, a young girl shouldn’t be traipsing around London alone.

  He trotted to catch up with her but she disappeared into the fog. “Susanna? Miss Dyer?”

  No answer.

  “Miss Dyer!”

  Still nothing.

  A rumble in his stomach prodded him again. Still, he could not easily dismiss her. He would never let his sister walk the streets alone, especially not at night. He made a circle, retracing his steps several times, but the fog thickened, devouring everything within a few feet of his face. Finally, he conceded defeat. Susanna seemed resourceful and confident. Surely she would be well.

  Hunger urged him onward to his destination. He whistled as he strode down the cobbled streets but glanced back twice to look for her. Still no sign of the surprising girl.

  Before long, the sign for the Silver Duck pub swung back and forth on creaking hinges, calling a friendly greeting. Kit stepped in and took his usual seat. The regular diners had all gone home. A few men hunched together, murmuring and drinking from tankards.

  “Evenin’ Kit,” called the owner as he wiped the bar. “’ow was yer performance?”

  Kit grinned. “Good evening, Ol’ Joe. A few mishaps but nothing of which the audience would have been aware.” Including a little drama involving the orchestra harpist and a timely newcomer.

  The owner nodded. “I presume yer ’ungry.”

  Kit grinned. “You are a mind-reader.”

  Joe disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a few minutes later with a bowl of lamb stew in one hand and a half a loaf of bread on a tin plate in the other.

  “Yer probably me last one tonight, so finish off this ’ere bread, will ya?” Joe set the food on the table and stood wiping his hands.

  “You’re too good to me, Ol’ Joe.” Kit tucked into his meal, ignoring Joe’s sniggering about his “high falutin’ table manners.” As he ate, he thought again of the new little harpist. He relived the glory of playing the duet with her. Having another opportunity to recreate that experience with her left him almost giddy. Tomorrow night wouldn’t come soon enough.

  Kit finished his food with a satisfied sigh. He tossed a coin on his way out. “My thanks, Ol’ Joe.”

  Ol’ Joe caught it and held it up, continuing their ritual. “You paid too much, you know.”

  “That’s for keeping it hot and ready for me.” Kit put on his hat and left the pub with a full belly and thoughts of his warm bed waiting for him. Upon reaching his bachelor’s rooms, a message awaited him.

  He held the letter, staring at Mother’s familiar handwriting on the outside. Why was it so hard to open and read it? He had no quarrel with her. He had even had dinner with her on occasion each time she came to London—after ensuring his father would not be in attendance, that is. Messages from home always reopened old wounds, old arguments. Still, Kit was no coward. He tore the seal and opened the letter.

  My dearest son,

  We’ve come to London early for the Season. Your father has business and I miss you terribly. I know you’re still proving you are your own man and probably enjoying your independence, but you’ve been gone far longer than I thought you would, and I had really hoped you would pay me a call more often. Now that we are in town, do join me for breakfast tomorrow. I’ll have Cook make extra eggs. I brought hothouse strawberries with me from home.

  I remain

  Your loving mother

  He smiled. Breakfast with his mother sounded pleasant. She had certainly brought the right bait—strawberries. He would make a point of arriving late enough to give his father an opportunity to have absented himself or Kit might be tempted to do something he would later regret.

  Chapter Four

  A bang uncomfortably nearby awakened Susanna from a fitful sleep. She peered around the wooden crates that had made up her temporary home. Exhaustion from a nearly sleepless night weighed her limbs and left her eyes hot and gritty. Every time she had nodded off, lulled to sleep with a Sweet Memory, a strange sound had roused her, and the terror that some unsavory character bent on bringing harm to her had prevented a deep sleep—not to mention the cold damp, the horrific smells, and her uncomfortable position crouched against a building.

  If only the boarding house Martha had recommended had been willing to take her in. Without a letter of introduction and enough money to pay for a week in advance, none of those she tried would have her. If she had known she would be sleeping in the streets, she might never have left home for London.

  No, that wasn’t true. Playing in a symphony orchestra for an opera had exceeded her imagination—not to mention that duet she played with the stunning, dark-haired Kit Anson…oh my! She thought she had been transported to heaven. What a glorious, joyful union that had been. Surely kissing couldn’t be more wondrous than that experience—not that she had thought of kissing when she had gazed at Kit’s handsome face or his expressive mouth. Not at all. And that smi
le he’d sent her, the approval shining in his brown eyes, had been sublime.

  Nearby, a ragged figure dug through a pile of refuse, tossing unwanted items into the alley and pocketing others. Susanna stood, cramped muscles protesting after having spent hours curled in a ball. Her numb feet refused to move and sharp tingles raced down her legs. She tried to lick her lips but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. If only she could find a cup of water! After a moment, the feeling returned in her feet and the pain left her legs. Moving quietly so as not to alert the scavenger to her presence, she gripped her portmanteau and crept out of her hiding spot. She skulked down the alley to the edge of the avenue. So early in the morning, little traffic traversed the streets so she strode unimpeded down a street called Haymarket to the imposing King’s Theatre.

  Outside the stage door, she paused to smooth her hair. How she missed her bed, a basin of clean water, and most of all—food. Even sporadic meals were better than none. Still, she had no regrets about leaving. Here in London she was free—free from her aunt’s constant fault-finding, free from Cousin Percy’s improper advances, and free from marriage to a toad. A few more days of hunger was a small price to pay for such a great prize. And the conductor, Alex, had told her she was to come back tonight—perhaps all week, depending on the extent of the other harpist’s injury. The thrill of seeing Kit again, of playing music with him, filled her with such delight that the money she would earn seemed secondary. Almost. Having a safe place to lay her head, and food to eat would be sublime.

  She reached the huge brick structure and went to the stage door. She knocked smartly. And waited. She knocked louder. Nothing. She must be too early. It was probably just as well. She might have difficulty speaking with her mouth and throat so dry. Perhaps she could find water somewhere. Regardless, she appeared to have time on her hands. She sighed and hefted her portmanteau. After stopping at an outhouse behind a haberdashery, she wandered down the street, gazing into shop windows, and trying not to stare at the breads displayed in the bakery.

  Even with Susanna eating as little as possible, the food Martha had provided had only lasted three days. The money from Mrs. Miller’s pawn shop paid for her mail coach ride and two meals. The journey had taken longer than expected, first due to bad weather and then a broken wheel. Hence, Susanna had eaten nothing during her last two days of travel. Since her arrival in London yesterday, she’d had no other means of feeding herself.

  No matter. She had employment now, at least for a few days. After that, she could ask for a letter of introduction to gain access to other orchestras. Perhaps now that she had a position, however temporary, she could appeal to one of the boarding houses again.

  A pub with the whimsical name of the Silver Duck caught her attention. Then another sound came—running water. She followed the sound down a narrow alley similar to the one where she had spent the night. Presently, she came to a woman filling two buckets of water from a pump. Susanna hung back, fearful of the other’s reaction.

  As the woman hefted her buckets, Susanna’s desperation overcame her fear. “Please, ma’am. May I have some water?”

  The worker glanced at her and shrugged. “Suit yeself.”

  Susanna approached the pump and set down her bag where it would be out of the way. Gingerly, she lifted the handle as she had seen the woman do. Cool clear water shot out of the spigot. Susanna released the handle, cupped her hand and drank and drank, quenching her thirst and attempting to fill her empty stomach. After drinking all she could hold, she washed her hands and face and brushed her teeth. Then, after putting a little water on her hairbrush, she freed her hair from its knot, brushed it, and twisted it up again at the nape of her neck. How refreshing!

  A girl about her own age emerged from the back door of another establishment. She approached, carrying two buckets.

  Feeling more like a lady and less like gutter trash, Susanna nodded at the other girl. “Good morning.”

  The girl stared as if Susanna had spoken to her in a foreign language, moved to the pump, and filled her buckets. Susanna picked up her portmanteau and returned to the King’s Theatre.

  This time, the grizzled guard opened the door and peered at her. “Eh?”

  What had Kit called the guard? Bert, that was it. She smiled. “Good morning, Bert. I am here to speak with the manager, please.”

  Bert screwed up his face and looked her over as if he couldn’t take her measure. She stood up straight and smiled with a confidence she didn’t feel. Silently, she pled for him to comply.

  “Who are ye?” he finally asked.

  “I am Susanna Dyer, remember? I’m the replacement harpist who played last night for the resident harpist who injured his hand?”

  He blinked.

  “I came in with Kit Anson?” she prompted. His name revived memories of a pair of warm brown eyes and a face far too handsome for his own good—for her own good. He had been a joy to watch as he played, his eyes closed much of the time, his hands moving so gracefully as he played, his lean body swaying slightly. When he had spoken, his voice had been a smooth baritone that made her wonder if he sang as well as he played. He had not only behaved as a gentleman but had been uncommonly kind. She had found in Kit a perfect opposite of Algernon. Or Percy. Not only was he dark to their fair coloring, and handsome to their plainness, but the differences in their conduct set them as clear opposites.

  “Ooooh, right. Now I remember ye.” Bert opened the door wide enough to let her in, and looked in all directions as if he expected her to have brought a den of thieves.

  She waited for him to finish locking the door before she spoke. “If you would be so kind as to point me in the direction of the manager’s office.”

  “It’s next t’ the booth.”

  “And that is where?”

  He grumbled something under his breath. “I’ll take ye.”

  He led her through a dark maze of curtains, ropes, and pieces of the set backstage, down a narrow passageway, and up a flight of stairs. Finally, he took her to a door between a row of chairs.

  “That’s it.” He turned and left.

  “Thank you, Bert.”

  He grunted without halting his steps.

  Susanna raised her hand to knock, but the floor rocked beneath her feet and black spots appeared before her eyes. She grabbed onto the nearest chair as her knees buckled.

  Breathe, breathe. She fought back the darkness. How long she sat gripping the chair and trying to stop the spinning she could not have guessed. Eventually, the world righted. She had best eat soon or she would not have the strength to perform. How embarrassing it would be to faint in the middle of the performance. They would probably throw her out without blinking an eye.

  Leaving her portmanteau on a chair near the door, she drew a breath and knocked.

  “Enter!” a man barked.

  Inside, she found a middle-aged gentleman with a full head of gray hair and long, wide mutton chops. He poured over papers scattered on his desk and scribbled with a quill.

  She clasped her hands together and waited. And waited. Finally, she said, “Excuse me, sir.”

  He gave a start as if he had forgotten she was there. “Who the devil are you?”

  “Susanna Dyer, sir, your replacement harpist. The conductor said he would speak to you about me?”

  “What?” he narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, yes. What do you want? I’m a very busy man.”

  “I came to discuss the possibility of my remaining with the company on a more long-term basis.”

  He eyed her. “You can play tonight, but beyond that depends on how long the principal harpist is out. I have to discuss it with Alex and my business partners. Come back tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow?

  “Sir, I had rather hoped that I could collect pay for last night’s performance as well as dis—”

  “All performers will be paid Friday next.”

  A whole week away? Panic sent a tremor down her spine.

  “Sir, I am rather in
need of funds at the moment—”

  “I don’t care what you need. I have an entire cast and crew to manage as well as the musicians. I cannot cater to one.”

  His habit of cutting her off battered her nerves but she kept her composure. “It is not my wish to cause you any inconvenience, sir, but—”

  “Look.” He took a breath in an obvious attempt to control his temper. “Even if I were willing to pay you early, I don’t keep money here for payroll. You will have to wait until next Friday. Good day.” In a clear dismissal, he picked up his pen and resumed writing.

  She refused to surrender so easily. “Sir, I am not asking for much—”

  “I said good day.”

  “—just enough coin that I might buy a bit of bread.”

  He lifted his head.

  “Please, sir. A shilling. Anything.”

  Either his heart softened or she looked particularly close to swooning. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and reached into his pocket. His mouth pursed as he retrieved a coin and tossed it to her. “That’s all I have on my person.”

  She scrambled to catch it. A farthing. She hugged it. “Thank you, sir.”

  “It will come out of your pay.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Out.” He picked up his pen, inspected the tip, and resumed writing.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful to you for your kindness.” She curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.

  A farthing. She had no hope of it lasting an entire week, but it would feed her today. Picking up her portmanteau as she passed by the chair, she retraced her steps. She cast a longing glance at the orchestra pit. Did she dare leave her portmanteau there? It would spare her having to carry it everywhere. Surely with Bert guarding the entrance it would be safe. But that bag contained everything she owned. No, she dare not risk it.

  The door guard sat whittling by the light of a sputtering candle. He looked up at her approach.

  “Thank you, Bert.” She smiled.

  He nodded, unlocked the door and let her out.

  Susanna paused, unsure of which direction to take. She had seen a bakery and the pub where she had washed this morning, but had no idea where would be the most economical place to purchase food.