by BJ Hoff
Still, no matter how she tried to justify her resistance to his maneuvering, her excuses seemed to bounce off the wall of her conscience. They all added up to nothing more than fear. The fear of calling attention to herself. The fear of failing—failing not only the expectations of those who were counting on her, but failing the music itself. The fear of not being…adequate.
It was a fear that even she could not explain, so how could she expect anyone else to understand it? Least of all a man who almost certainly had never felt inadequate in his life.
19
LIGHT AND SHADOW
My heart is like a trembling leaf carried by the wind.
ANONYMOUS
For the past hour, Bethany Cole’s mood had seesawed from exasperation to anticipation so many times she was getting a headache.
The exasperation stemmed from the time and effort spent on decking herself out in an exceptionally uncomfortable dinner dress and a new hair style, which she immediately decided made her look somewhat like a ferret.
By the time she removed some of the froufrou from the dress and secured her hair to its usual nape-of-the-neck twist, her hands were trembling. She felt three kinds of fool for working herself into a state over what should have been nothing more than a pleasant evening among friends.
As for her earlier anticipation, it had been all but swept away by her impatience with herself. This was not some sort of a…a rendezvous, after all, but simply a social gathering to which Andrew had offered to escort her.
And wasn’t Andrew the reason she was so jumpy in the first place? He seemed bent on making more of the occasion than it really was. He had even sent her flowers, for goodness’ sake! Not to mention the fact that, with all the time she’d wasted fussing over her appearance, she could have seen a few more patients or even made hospital rounds. Certainly, she could have accomplished something more worthwhile than giving herself a roaring case of hives.
Not that she actually had hives just yet, but if she didn’t calm down and stop fussing over her appearance, it could still happen.
And wouldn’t that be just fine and dandy? No doubt poor Andrew would be positively elated at the thought of escorting a red, bumpy-faced partner into Gaulerio’s elegant dining room.
She took one more quick glance in the mirror, deciding not for the first time that her hair was too pale—was it just the light, or was she starting to go gray around her temples? And one side of her neckline was draped lower than the other. Well, it was too late to do anything about that. Leaning closer to the mirror, she jabbed another hairpin into the back of her hair—and discovered a spot on the tip of her nose, a blemish that she was quite certain had not been there a minute before.
She groaned, slapped some more talc over her face, and resigned herself to the dismaying fact that she was going to be a huge disappointment, if not an all-out embarrassment, to poor Andrew.
But why did she keep thinking of him as “poor Andrew,” when this entire debacle was all his doing anyway?
Andrew Carmichael fumbled with his neckcloth, finally giving up in utter frustration.
He should have left the office earlier. He had insisted that Bethany take some extra time, sending her off a good hour and a half before they usually closed up. Now he wished he had left when she did. But the three patients remaining in the waiting room had all seemed serious enough to warrant attention, so he had stayed.
So much for allowing some extra time for himself tonight. As it was, he’d barely managed to shave and change clothes.
Bethany, of course, would be absolutely lovely. As always. Which raised the question he’d been asking himself all day: given the fact that Bethany Cole would steal the breath from any man at twenty paces, why on earth had she agreed to accompany him tonight?
What a picture they must make to anyone else: the Princess and the Peasant.
Beauty and the Beast.
He actually groaned in self-disgust. What had ever possessed him to think that Bethany might want to spend an entire evening with him? She spent most of her days with him as it was.
Had she consented only because they were associates? Did she view tonight as just another event to be endured because they were partners?
Or had she simply not been able to think of an excuse quickly enough to beg off?
Anxiety tore at him even more as he recalled the conversation he’d had only last week with Frank Donovan. Frank’s cynicism often rankled him, but on this particular occasion, he had found his friend’s sarcasm particularly annoying. In truth, Frank’s remarks had hurt, and hurt deeply. And yet his barbs had held such a ring of truth that Andrew had actually found himself fighting off a kind of bleak despondency for days after.
Frank had come to the office just as patient hours were over, and Bethany was on her way out. Andrew had watched her leave, not realizing that Frank was watching him.
When he turned back, Frank’s face was creased with a smirk. “Ah, Doc, you’re in a bad way, it seems to me.”
Andrew had known exactly what Frank was getting at, but he’d managed to feign a questioning look.
Frank shook his head. “I don’t reckon there is a sorrier sight than a man in love.”
“Frank…”
“Have you given this sufficient thought, Doc?”
Frank’s abrupt change in tone, from his usual wry banter to this unexpected gravity, caught Andrew off guard. “Have I given what sufficient thought?”
“Have you considered the consequences if things don’t work out?”
“Am I supposed to know what you mean?”
“Oh, come on, Doc! You know what I’m talking about. You’re in love with the woman, and that’s the truth.”
Andrew felt mortified. Had he been that transparent? And if he had, what business was it of Frank’s?
“Even if you were right—and I’m not saying you are—shouldn’t you let me worry about it?” He forced a short laugh. “I’m not exactly wet behind the ears anymore, you know.”
Frank had a most irritating way of eyeing a man as if he were nothing shy of a fool. “Well, that’s true enough, Doc. But you wouldn’t be the first man to go diggin’ yourself a grave with the wrong shovel. If you take my meaning.”
Andrew frowned but said nothing.
“I’d hate to see you make a bad mistake, is all.”
Andrew clenched his fists at his sides.
“The thing is, Doc, if it’s settlin’ down to home and hearth fire you’re wanting, I confess I don’t quite see that happening with your Dr. Cole. She may be a fine doctor—by all accounts, she is exactly that—but can you honestly see the woman with a passel of young’uns hangin’ on to her skirts while she stirs the soup?”
For the first time in their friendship, Andrew found himself angry with Frank Donovan. No, more than angry—furious. Frank’s intentions might be the best; he might sincerely believe he was doing nothing more than looking out for a friend, but that did nothing to cool Andrew’s anger. This time Frank had gone too far.
Andrew gave a shrug, intending to put an end to the conversation before he said something he might later regret.
As it turned out, it was Frank who brought the exchange to a halt. With an idle wave of his hand and in a tone thick with exaggerated Irish, he said, “Ah, well, ’tis none of my business after all, is it now? I’m naught but a thickheaded mick who needs to mind his own affairs.”
They parted with an unresolved—and unfamiliar—tension between them. They hadn’t encountered each other since, but Andrew knew how it would be when they did. They would make an attempt at small talk, pretending nothing had happened, but the tension would still hang between them until either time or circumstance managed to expel it.
He quit fiddling with his tie and picked up his hairbrush. His hands were so swollen he could scarcely manage the brush, but he made one more hasty attempt to coax his hair into place. He had never thought much about his hair one way or the other. Lately, however, he bemoaned the color, an odd sha
de, neither brown nor black, rather like the bark of a tree.
And that dreadful forelock that simply would not be constrained; had he been a woman, he could have anchored it in place with a hairpin, but as it was, he went about most of the time looking like a one-eyed sailor.
He passed a hand down his nose. The hawkish, too prominent beak of the Carmichael men was definitely not one of the familial traits he might have coveted.
By now he was thoroughly disgusted with himself. This was a simple evening out with friends, not some sort of a…a tryst. And yet he’d made a royal botch of things when he asked Bethany if he could escort her, and then gone on to compound his humiliation by behaving like a lovesick poet most of the week. Sending her flowers this afternoon, for goodness’ sake, and insisting she take time away from the office when he would have really preferred to have her there—had needed her there, in fact.
He’d rather just call the whole thing off. But of course that was impossible. Then he really would make himself out a total fool.
He swiped the stubborn lock of hair away from his forehead and grabbed his coat and gloves from the back of the chair. He looked for his scarf, found it at his feet, then struggled to pull his gloves on over his swollen knuckles. Finally, stomach churning, he left the room, uttering a hasty prayer as he went that he wouldn’t knock anything over at dinner to embarrass himself or Bethany.
At least one piece of news he had saved for tonight was almost guaranteed to please her. And he hoped she’d also like the surprise he’d planned for after dinner.
All in all, it would be a lovely evening, except…except for what he planned to tell her later—something he must tell her. Tonight.
20
SUSANNA’S SURPRISE
He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride.
JOHN BUNYAN
Susanna was still smarting from the scene back at the concert hall when they walked into Gaulerio’s restaurant. The setting that greeted her, however, caused her to forget everything else—for the moment, at least.
This was Michael’s favorite eating place, and Paul’s as well. Gaulerio’s was known to be a favorite meeting and dining establishment for many among the music community. Even so, Susanna was surprised at the lack of gilt and glitter. Instead, the restaurant had a quiet elegance, warmed by a great deal of wood and rich tones of burgundy and deep blue. The room was illuminated with candles and low-hanging chandeliers.
Although every table seemed to be occupied, the sounds of conversation and the clink of silver and china were unobtrusive, muffled by the thick floor coverings and heavy draperies.
A small, trim man with a neat mustache rushed up to them. “Ah, Maestro! Benvenuto, benvenuto! We were beginning to think you had abandoned us!”
Michael laughed. “Surely you know better than that, Enrico.”
Enrico greeted Paul just as effusively, then bowed low to Caterina. “Ah, the principéssa! See how quickly you are growing up!”
The three men exchanged a few words in rapid Italian before Michael took Susanna’s arm and introduced her as “Signorina Fallon—Caterina’s Aunt Susanna.”
With a huge smile and a sweeping bow, Enrico kissed Susanna’s hand, then said something in Italian too quickly for her to catch. Straightening, he turned to Michael and took his arm. “Everything is ready, Maestro. We will go upstairs now.”
Michael and Paul, obviously well-known here, had to stop several times before reaching the stairway to acknowledge greetings from the various diners. A number of men stood to shake hands, while the women, Susanna noticed, watched Michael closely with unconcealed interest.
At the top of the stairs, Enrico led them down a narrow hallway and flung open the paneled double doors at the end. “Here we are! Come, please!”
Caterina scampered ahead of her, and Paul, too, moved quickly forward. Susanna started into the room, then stopped. At the same time, Paul’s good-natured face split into a wide smile as he stood watching Susanna.
Directly ahead of her, a small group was gathered around a large oval table, lavishly decorated with winter greenery, candles, and sparkling china. Nearby, on a smaller table, several brightly colored, beribboned packages were heaped.
Susanna stared in astonishment. Rosa Navaro was there, along with Dr. Cole and Dr. Carmichael. Pastor Holt. Even Miss Fanny Crosby had come. The moment they caught sight of her, they all stood, laughing and applauding. “Happy Birthday, Susanna!”
Caterina danced circles around her. “Did we surprise you, Aunt Susanna?” she piped. “Did we?”
Susanna smiled down at Caterina and took her hand. “How clever you are, alannah. And how well you kept your secret—you and your papa!”
“Papa did all the work,” Caterina said with the utmost seriousness. “He and Cousin Paul.”
“Well…I’m very grateful. This is a wonderful surprise.”
Susanna didn’t trust herself to so much as glance at Michael.
This, then, was what he and Caterina had been whispering about this morning. Not a scheme to replace the missing organist, not a ploy to “advance” her to a place where she had no desire to be. A party.
A surprise party. For her.
Michael had been telling the truth, after all. Just as Caterina insisted. And fool that she was, she had made a scene, humiliated herself, disappointed Caterina—and embarrassed Michael.
Susanna wished she could fall through the floor, so great was her self-reproach. Two things struck her in that instant: she was dismayed at how quickly the old mistrust of Michael could reappear, confounding her other feelings for him; and at the same time she was shaken by a surge of relief, in spite of her shame, to realize that she’d misjudged him so badly.
“Michael,” she said, her voice low as she turned to him, “I didn’t know…this morning, when you and Caterina—”
“Sì. I know,” he said, his tone quiet and unmistakably sad.
She had mistrusted him, misunderstood him, hurt him. He was still hurting—she could hear it in his voice, see it in the slump of his shoulders, the white lines that bracketed his eyes.
“I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry…so sorry…for thinking—”
“It’s all right, Susanna. Come—we should go in now.” He waved off her apology, but his demeanor was restrained, his expression inscrutable.
“I must talk with you later.”
He offered his arm as if he hadn’t heard her. “Your friends are waiting.”
Somehow Susanna managed to ignore her raw feelings as the evening progressed. The heaviness in her heart seemed to recede in the laughter and the warmth around the table, and at one point she realized she was actually enjoying herself.
If Michael bore her any grudge, no one would have guessed. He was his usual affable, congenial self, greeting all their guests and drawing Andrew Carmichael aside for a private word. No one else seemed to notice that he seldom spoke directly to her, that he avoided even the most casual touch of the hand or brush of the sleeve when passing a dish or a condiment her way.
The only bad moment came after all the gifts had been opened. There was a soft indigo shawl from Rosa, a delicate, lace-edged handkerchief from Miss Fanny, and a pair of fawn-colored gloves and matching neck scarf from Dr. Cole and Dr. Carmichael. From Paul she received copies of Miss Alcott’s Little Women and Little Men, and Caterina presented her with a portrait she had painted—a remarkably realistic likeness of Gus, the wolfhound.
Only after all the other gifts had been opened and an elegantly decorated cake had been served did Michael surprise her by quietly pushing a gift wrapped in shimmering paper and satin ribbons in front of her.
Susanna looked at the package, then at Michael. Her fingers trembled as she loosened the ribbons and pulled the paper from an exquisite ivory jewelry box. The lid was adorned with an intricately carved minstrel’s harp, also in ivory.
She caught a sharp breath. “Oh…how beautiful!”
Bethany Cole an
d Rosa echoed her sentiment, while Paul described the gift in detail to Miss Fanny.
Caterina tugged at her sleeve. “It plays music, Aunt Susanna!”
Susanna wound the spring, and “Dear Harp of My Country” by Ireland’s own poet, Thomas Moore, began to chime its plaintive melody in bell-like tones.
Susanna’s eyes filled, as did her heart. Her gaze went to Michael, who sat quietly, his lips curved in a faint smile.
“It’s…exquisite, Michael.”
“It was my mother’s,” he said softly. “My papa gave it to her when I was born.”
She stared at him, shaken by the value his words attached to the gift, a gift she would have counted as highly precious even without its personal significance to Michael.
“It’s…the most wonderful gift ever. I don’t know what to say.”
“I hoped you would like it,” he said simply.
Like it? Susanna felt like weeping. She was thrilled that he had chosen to give her something that obviously meant a great deal to him. And yet the personal nature of the gift only served to sharpen her feelings of guilt.
She looked around the table and saw the well-meaning but curious smiles. Somehow she managed a smile of her own.
“Thank you…so much, every one of you. This has to be the most special birthday party I’ve ever had.”
In truth, it was the only birthday party she’d ever had. At home, there had never been enough money for such extravagance. The enormity of what Michael had done for her, the trouble he’d gone to for her, overwhelmed her anew.
She should probably say more, especially to Michael, but she couldn’t think of a thing that wouldn’t have sounded gauche or mawkish. “I’m truly grateful for your kindness,” was all she could manage.
The buzz of conversation and laughter rose again as they shared the birthday cake. When the evening ended, Susanna felt almost relieved. She had enjoyed herself, certainly, and she appreciated the kindness of these friends whom she had known for only a brief time. But the collision of her emotions was taking its toll on her, physically and emotionally. She felt depleted by the time they left the restaurant. All she wanted was to get away and be by herself.
