by Ashe Barker
“No, I love lamb hotpot. And I’m starving. This is very kind of you, really.” The delicious smells are wafting around me and I am salivating. I haven’t eaten since I grabbed that burger at Woodall Services, south of Sheffield. How soon can I get my hands on a bowlful of that stuff, I wonder?
Pretty much straight away, it seems. Mrs. Richardson ladles a generous helping into a brown earthenware bowl and puts it on the table. Even before I can sit down—and I’m no slouch—it is joined by a spoon and a half loaf of crusty bread on a chunky wooden bread board, a couple of doorsteps already sliced. A lethal-looking breadknife lies alongside the loaf, ready to do further damage as required.
“What about you, Mr. Darke? There’s plenty…”
“I don’t think I’ve ever turned down your hotpot, Grace,” he says, taking the chair opposite mine and reaching for the breadknife.
After placing another full, steaming bowl in front of him and passing him a spoon, Mrs. Richardson sits at the end of the table, looking from Mr. Darke to me and back again, obviously waiting for an explanation now that the urgent matters of food and warmth seem to be in hand. Neither of us is forthcoming, but she’s not put off.
“So, how come you’re both so wet?” Turning to her employer she tries a bit of gentle humor. “I know you like to drive with the top down on that Porsche of yours, Mr. Darke, but tonight’s hardly the right weather for all that malarkey.”
The humor is lost on him. It would appear he is just not ready to see the funny side of this—yet.
“I crashed the Porsche. Into Miss Byrne’s”—he hesitates, lost for a word to accurately describe the contemptible object he clearly considers Miranda to be—“vehicle”—well, I suppose that will do—“which was dumped in my gateway. I activated the gate from my remote”—ah, that explains the mysteriously opening gate just before he screeched round the bend—“and piled into the heap of junk Miss Byrne seems to have managed to drag up here from London.”
Mrs. Richardson is duly horrified. “Oh, you poor dears. Are you both okay? Do you need a doctor?”
He cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “Miss Byrne wasn’t actually in her car when I hit it—I’m not sure why…” He glances at me suspiciously, and I open my mouth to start to explain, but he cuts me off. “Later.” Turning back to Mrs. Richardson, he continues, “No, no medical attention needed. What we will need is a tow truck. I’ll sort it first thing.”
“Well, thank goodness for that, could have been a lot worse. So, you got soaked to the skin just walking up the drive?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
He turns his full attention to the hotpot and so do I. There is silence for a few minutes as we both dip bread and shovel the stew into our mouths. Mrs. Richardson refills both bowls without asking, and we both nod thankfully at her and stick our noses back in the metaphorical trough.
“More hotpot, Miss Byrne?” asks Mrs. Richardson eventually, as my slurping finally slows down.
“No, thanks—but that was wonderful.” I am pleasantly full, and even starting to feel warm at last. And suddenly I remember how very tired I am. Glancing at the clock on the wall over the fireplace, I am horrified to see it is two-fifteen. I am supposed to be starting work teaching little Rosie in less than seven hours’ time!
“God, is it really that late?” I gasp.
“Yes. Time for your practical,” Mr. Darke says softly, leaning back in his chair. Stretching out his foot, he pushes my violin case toward me across the kitchen floor. “You promised me a demonstration of your…skills. By way of a job interview. Then we’ll decide if you’re a music teacher or not.”
Tired as I am, I know I can handle this. This is my moment. Without a word, I kneel by the violin case and carefully open the lid, then extract the instrument from among the folds of my chiffon skirt. Unclipping the bow from the lid of the case, I stand up. I draw the bow experimentally along the strings, just to hear the tone and make any minor tuning adjustments. I have a good ear, and with only minute twists of the keys on the neck of the violin it is perfect, ready to play.
“Any requests?” I ask.
“No, you choose.” He is still seated at the table, waiting. And apparently not expecting much.
Mrs. Richardson has been bustling around the sink, clearing up after our meal, but she also comes to sit back down, drying her hands. Even Barney has opened one of his eyes. All three settle themselves, watching me.
Stepping slightly farther back, away from the table, I stand facing my audience with the door open behind me. I place the violin under my chin, resting my face against it like a favorite pillow, and draw in one long breath. I let it out slowly, and again. My feet are planted firmly, about a foot apart. I am relaxed, grounded. In my element. Now, at least, this I am good at.
Leaning into the violin and closing my eyes, I start one of my favorite melodies, not really written for violin—but I think it works beautifully and I love it. The opening, evocative strains of Ravel’s ‘Boléro’ fill the room. I don’t need to look up or hear his sharp intake of breath as he recognizes the piece, to know that Mr. Darke is stunned. He didn’t expect this from me. I am glowing inside because I know, at last, I have him.
I hear a slight noise behind me and open my eyes to see Mr. Darke leaning slightly to see around me. Placing his index finger vertically across his mouth, he signals for quiet, then beckons with his hand. A little shadow slips around and past me.
A small girl—impossibly pretty, with long, straight dark hair—runs across the room, climbs onto his knee and puts her little arms around his neck. She looks sleepy and is wearing a long, pale pink nightie. Her feet are bare. He hugs her, whispers something in her ear that makes her smile, and he kisses her hair. Then they both turn back to me, silent, watching, listening intently as I continue to play.
Completely in my element, absolutely in control of my audience, the music, the instrument, I sway gently as I slowly, surely develop the piece. I build the melody, pouring my own energy into it, louder, faster, ever more compelling as my bow flies back and forth across the resin-heavy horsehair strings. Unerring, every note perfect, I feel the familiar pull of the evocative music and lose myself in it, completely alert but at the same time only dimly aware of my surroundings, my audience. I coax the music toward its crashing crescendo. I am so exhilarated, so pumped up I feel sure I can fly in that moment, but as the final note dies away I am also aware of feeling drained, as if my last dregs of energy were poured into that piece.
No one moves. No one speaks. In the silence that follows, I straighten and stand before them, violin in my left hand and bow in my right, both now pointed down at the floor. Raising my eyes, I meet Mr. Darke’s gaze.
His face is still, expressionless, but his beautiful dark brown eyes are warm, admiring, the passion of the piece not lost on him. I feel a clenching low down in my belly, glad that I have somehow affected him, touched him. We stare across the kitchen at each other for long moments before he finally comes to his feet, holding the little girl in his arms.
“Bravo, Miss Byrne,” he says softly, bowing his head to me. “That was superb.”
Mrs. Richardson leaps to her feet, finding her voice at last. Clapping wildly, she can’t seem to find the right words to express her delight at my impromptu performance in her homey kitchen. “Oh, how wonderful, that was lovely. Really lovely. You should be on the stage, love, you really should. Wasn’t that good, Mr. Darke? Absolutely beautiful. Do you know any more tunes like that?”
“Yes, I know lots of tunes,” I answer quietly.
Turning to the little girl still clinging to Mr. Darke’s neck and peeking at me through her hair, I think it’s time to make friends. “You must be Rosie.”
She nods shyly.
“My name is Eva, Eva Byrne. I hear you like to play the violin too, so I am hoping we can play together. Would that be okay?”
Wriggling out of her father’s arms, she runs her hand along the edge of the table, looking at her bare feet,
not sure yet about me. Peeping up at me through her hair, she decides to risk it. “Can you teach me that tune? The one you just did?”
“Yes, if you like. It sounds even better if two people play it.”
“I’m not as good as you.”
“I expect I’ve had more practice.”
At last, she smiles up at me. “Do I have to call you Miss Byrne? You’re not old like Miss Snow.” Miss Snow?
“That’s Rosie’s teacher down at the school. Just retired at the end of the summer term,” supplied Mrs. Richardson, noticing my puzzled expression, no doubt.
“My first name is Eva. You can use that if it’s easier.”
“It’s Miss Byrne when you’re teaching, is it not—Miss Byrne?” Ah, so he hasn’t quite finished taking the piss out of me.
“Oh, yes, that’s right. Miss Byrne, please.” No harm in stamping my authority on the situation, such as it is.
“Hello, Miss Byrne. I’m glad you’ve come. I tried to stay awake for you, but I had to go to bed. When can we start lessons? I have a violin too.” She smiles brilliantly. I know I have made another friend in this place.
“It’s time we got Miss Byrne, Evangelica…Eva…into bed.” My insides start doing somersaults, even though I know he didn’t mean to be suggestive. Well, maybe he didn’t… Still, I feel myself start to blush. As I glance up at him his eyes are on mine, hot and intent, and I am suddenly not sure his words were accidental.
Stepping in to break the tension, Mrs. Richardson comes to my rescue. “I made up a room for Miss Byrne—the guest room at the back, opposite Rosie’s. There’s a nice view of the moors from that side and I thought she might like it…”
“Good choice.” Bending to pick up Rosie, who wraps her legs around his waist as he arranges her on his left hip, Mr. Darke strolls toward the door. “I’ll show Miss Byrne up, and put this little imp back to bed.” He blows a raspberry into Rosie’s neck and she giggles, cuddling in tightly to his chest. Lucky kid.
Astonished at the disconcerting way my thoughts are unraveling around this rude and beautiful man, I say my ‘goodnights’ and ‘thank you agains’ to Mrs. Richardson before following him out of the door. He strolls along the corridor back to the bottom of the stairs, where his leather jacket, complete with my precious papers in the inside pocket, is still draped over the banister, dripping. Grabbing the jacket, he shakes it again, then hands it to Rosie.
“Hold that, would you, princess?” With his other hand he reaches down to pick up my holdall, still waiting, forgotten, by the front door.
Making his way up the stairs with Rosie in his arms and me in tow, he looks gentler now, less intimidating. Maybe we could get along together after all. I wish.
At the top of the stairs he strides along the carpeted landing, passing several white-painted doors.
“You can have a proper tour tomorrow, in the daylight,” he calls back over his shoulder. “The place is fairly big, but Rosie’ll make sure you don’t get lost.” Not him, then? Maybe he’s not staying long and perhaps he won’t be here tomorrow. I realise I am saddened by that thought. The place will seem empty without him.
Reaching the end of the landing, he opens the last door on his right and strides in. He flicks the light switch as I follow, to reveal a fairly large and very pretty room. It is decorated in yellow and pale blue, with a deep eggshell blue carpet and white wooden furniture, and the double bed, covered by a dove gray duvet, looks like a dream come true. The floor-length curtains are closed to make it seem even cozier, and fresh flowers have been arranged in a vase on a side table to complete the welcome.
After depositing my holdall on the bed, Mr. Darke turns for the door.
“Shower and en suite are over there.” He gestures with his head toward the door in the far corner of the room. “Make yourself comfortable and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Oh, still intending to be here, then? “Oh, and don’t bother about starting work at nine—we could all do with a lie-in.”
“Thank you. Goodnight, Mr. Darke. Goodnight, Rosie. And thanks for bringing my bag up.”
“You’re welcome. And it’s Nathan.”
“What? What is?”
“Nathan. My name’s Nathan.”
As I stand staring at him, unaccountably delighted to be on first name terms, he stops in the doorway, a sleeping Rosie now drooping over his shoulder.
“One last thing, Evangelica.” He turns to me with a slight smile, his eyes warm now, regarding me closely. “Have you ever worked in a library?”
Chapter Three
I feel great. Fabulous. Refreshed. Vibrant and alive. Eager to… Eager to what?
In that hazy space between sleeping and waking, I stretch and roll onto my back, totally content, extending my whole length from headboard to foot of the bed, pointing my toes to ease out the last remaining kinks. I have just slept better than I have in ages, certainly since my escape from St Hilda’s. A solid God knows how many hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep, and I’m not sure I really want to surface any time soon. Cracking my eyes slightly, I can tell it’s light, but other than that I have no idea what time it is. I’m not sure I care, but out of habit I reach out my right arm, feeling around for my trusty little travel alarm clock. Nothing. No clock, no bedside table, just empty space where my stuff should be.
What the fuck? I open my eyes properly and start to sit up, panicked momentarily by the strangeness, then remembering.
I’m not at home. Was St Hilda’s home? Certainly, I never thought of it as home. And I’m not at my mother’s home. I’m in someone else’s home, somewhere in the wilds of Yorkshire where it rains a lot and there are no mainline stations for miles. I lie back down and pull the duvet up to my chin defensively, as the events of yesterday come flooding back. Natasha’s call, the endless hours spent driving through torrential rain to the back of beyond, getting lost, Miranda getting pranged by the gorgeous Mr. Darke… No—Nathan, he said to call him Nathan.
Somehow, he doesn’t seem like a Nathan, more a Heathcliff or a Mr. Rochester, except that that’s me being fanciful. I might be a lot of weird things, but fanciful isn’t one of them. I give myself one of my self-betterment lectures, along the lines of, Get a grip. He’s your employer, for goodness’ sake. Rich, probably, from what I’ve seen so far of this place. Married possibly, and a father definitely, and he is so not interested in a scruffy little fiddle player like you.
I cringe inside as I remember making a fool of myself by yelling at him out there in the pouring rain—not that he seemed to notice that, he was too busy slagging me and Miranda off—then throwing up all over his car. Then I went on to make a pig of myself in his cozy kitchen, guzzling lamb hotpot—Christ, I was starving last night. Mind you, the lovely Nathan Darke shifted as much hotpot as I did.
Then came my moment of glory, courtesy of Ravel and his lovely, sensual, atmospheric melody. That moment was sublime, and I just know it will live with me forever. I go warm again, lying there tucked under my duvet, basking in the inner glow. I know I am smiling to myself in smug satisfaction, remembering, reliving the silence in the room as I finished playing and looked up, met his eyes and saw…what? Something certainly that had not been there before. Might have been admiration? Awe? Envy?
Warmth, certainly, and interest. I had his full attention, and for the right reasons at last.
Whatever he may have been thinking, I just know down to my stretched-out toes that I nailed it. I impressed him. It was the performance of my life. I’ve never played better, technically and with more emotion, than I did last night. I wanted to perform for him. That’s what I set out to do and I did it. Perfectly.
It means everything to me and for once I feel so powerful inside. If there’s a swimming pool anywhere in this godforsaken outpost, I don’t doubt I could walk across it for my encore.
Wide awake now, I see that my pretty blue and yellow guest room is bathed in the watery sunlight slipping in through a crack in the curtains. Probably means it’s stopped
raining, and come to think I can’t hear it lashing against the windows anymore, the way I did last night in those moments before I went comatose. Which was about thirty seconds after my head hit the pillow. I was exhausted—from the drive, certainly, but also from the nervous energy I expended trying to hold onto my equilibrium around Mr. Nathan Darke. He is definitely an intimidating individual—an attractive man who knows it, uses it and is used to getting his own way. Certainly, he had no hesitation in bossing me around. Bullying me, even, and I am not all that comfortable with that thought. It reminds me of being back at school when I was quite little—not fitting in, the butt of some joke I didn’t understand, isolated and unsure what to do to, how to belong.
Around him, I am vulnerable, out of my depth. He makes me nervous, and I am annoyed with myself for letting that happen, for slipping into that mode. I am not a scared little kid anymore and my sensible, grown-up head tells me that my feelings and responses are mine to control, not his. But still.
Nathan has many fine qualities, clearly. I saw some of them last night. His tenderness and obvious love for his daughter, his affection for his dog and his respect for his housekeeper. He reserved his suspicion and contempt, the unreasonable criticism and withering put-downs for me. Without the lovely Mrs. Richardson’s intervention, I’m still not sure he wouldn’t have just slung me back out in the rain. That was, at least, until I played my violin for him. Yes!
I push back the duvet and swing my legs out onto the floor. I slept in just a long, baggy T-shirt, which I had remembered to screw up in the bottom of my holdall, and now it swishes around my thighs as I head for the window to check what the weather is doing today. Pulling back the heavy yellow curtain, I gasp. I can only stare in awed silence.
