by Rosanna Leo
“Judging from the flush on your face, you’re going to slaughter her, aren’t you?” he teased.
“There’s a very good possibility I will slaughter your first violinist, yes.”
“Could you do it after the festival? Good violinists are hard to come by.”
“I make no promises,” I replied, laughing.
“Come,” he said, interrupting my sudden need to jump his bones for being so funny and handsome. “The house is stunning. If I remember, you always loved old homes.”
“You recall correctly.”
His gaze darkened. Something in his jaw clenched. “I recall a lot of things.”
I tried not to swallow my tongue as we entered Dawlish Manor. I couldn’t handle Finn flirting with me, not here, not ever. Not if I were to maintain any grip on sanity.
Once inside the foyer, my eye was quickly drawn to an immense chandelier hanging before a grand staircase. Even in the light of morning, the crystals twinkled and the brass shone. One could easily imagine how the chandelier would have welcomed former guests, all ablaze in its gaslight glory. “Wow.”
“I know. It’s incredible. We’re lucky to have the run of the manor, so to speak, for the festival. Sonata has taken over for the last few summers, using the music room for rehearsals and the grounds for the concerts, and hopefully bring the trust some tourists with their money. It’s a good relationship. They only ask we stay behind the velvet ropes.” He gazed at the chandelier. “Apparently, the family, the Dawlishes, were always great patrons of the arts. They’ve been holding similar festivals here for decades. A generous grant allows us to continue.”
“I can’t think of a better place.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I hear it’s haunted.”
He rolled his eyes. “Rubbish. The village children tell tales of the ghost of Dawlish Manor. I think it’s a ploy to get visitors.”
We chatted as we strolled through the ground floor. Finn led me through ornate rooms, each one resplendent with gilt furniture and velvet upholsteries. It was strangely comfortable talking with him again. Despite how successful he’d grown, he still had the easy manners and hearty laugh of the young student who’d claimed my heart. Despite our grandiose surroundings, I almost didn’t take them in. I was too caught up in Finn. In his scent, in his smile. And in the way he walked close to me, his hand inches from mine.
After a quarter of an hour, we found ourselves in a massive portrait gallery. I managed to drag my gaze away from Finn and gawked at the works of art. There were the typical hunting scenes and landscapes, as well as portraits of personages long dead. A staff member from the house walked by and asked a question of Finn. As he chatted with the man, I gravitated toward one of the portraits, pulled as if by an unseen hand.
When I saw the face in this painting, I gasped, feeling as if someone had punched me in the gut.
Him.
It was the portrait of a man, much in the style of a Gainsborough painting. Full-length, it displayed the man in Regency dress. Tall Hessian boots reached up over his pants, accentuating his height. A waistcoat peaked out from under his soft blue riding coat. I looked up to the face above the coat, clean-shaven and somehow boyish with its round features. His hair was the color of honey and quite curly, with long sideburns travelling down his cheeks. Although he bore a fashionably serious countenance, his blue eyes smiled.
It’s him.
The man from my recurring dream, the man from the theater mezzanine in Toronto. I blinked several times, not believing my eyes.
I couldn’t move. I returned the stare of the man in the portrait. A friendly face, it still managed to unnerve me. The artist must have been a master because its subject seemed to be looking right at me. His pale eyes bore into mine. As I continued to gaze at my dream man, other objects in the background began to blur. The portrait frame and the wallpaper behind him dissolved into nothingness. I could only make out the man, and his gaze seemed to issue me a challenge, daring me to look back at him. My head swam. My tongue grew thick. Pain shot through my stomach and I clutched it so I wouldn’t keel over.
Lizzy came out of nowhere and bounded up behind me. “What's up? Ooh, he's cute.” She, too, had noticed the portrait. She also saw how intently I stared. “Hey, are you okay?”
“No.” I couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t stop myself from raking my gaze over every painted inch. “It’s him. The man from my dream.”
“Yeah, right.” She frowned.
Finn walked up to us and put a hand on my back, oblivious to my shock. “So you’ve found the lord of the manor.”
“Huh?”
“Hugh Dawlish, scion of Dawlish Manor. The women in the ensemble love this portrait because they think he’s, ah…easy on the eyes. So, shall we rehearse?”
I let him lead me away, but I couldn’t stop looking back at Hugh Dawlish’s portrait. He was real. Not a wraith from my imagination.
Real. And dead.
Lizzy elbowed me. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
As we left the room, I looked back once more. The eyes of Hugh Dawlish followed me. I shivered.
A slight smile played on his lips.
Chapter Four
The rehearsal went as well as it could, considering I’d come face-to-face with the man who’d been haunting me for weeks. As we filed into the music room, Lizzy told me once again I had to be mistaken about the man in the portrait. In order to keep a clear head during my first day as Sonata’s guest soloist, I decided she was right. It couldn’t be the same man, plain and simple. If I’d truly been dreaming of this Hugh Dawlish, then it opened up all sorts of other questions I wasn’t prepared to confront or answer.
After greeting the choir, Finn smiled and introduced me. “Everyone, I’m pleased to welcome Renata Bruno, who’s come all the way from Canada to sing soprano solo for us. As I’ve already shared, Renata and I were at university together with Lizzy, so I can vouch for her artistry. She’s studied everyone from Bach to Britten, but I know Mozart is her grand passion.”
Heat pricked my cheeks and I grinned and offered him a grateful nod.
He leaned on his music stand and pointed a playful finger at me. “I will tell you one other thing about this woman. I once snuck a chip off her dinner plate and she almost bit my finger off. Consider yourself warned.”
We all shared a laugh, but the smile he offered me seemed warmer somehow, his face lit up by memories. I dared to return his gaze for a moment, but finally caved in and looked at my lap, reminding myself to breathe.
Finn always had the knack of knocking me off my feet with a few words. It seemed he still did.
Still shaken by seeing the portrait, vying as it did with my reminiscences of Finn, I listened to my fellow musicians. It didn’t take long for me to learn the unique timbre of the Sonata ensemble. Finn began the rehearsal by diving right into a couple of choral sections. As a soloist, this gave me an opportunity to sit quietly and catch my breath.
When we finally reached my initial solo, it almost felt as if I were hearing my own voice for the first time. After so many years of singing only with others, I feared I didn’t have what it took to be a soloist. However, I concentrated on my breath control, keeping my gaze locked on Finn’s face, and the notes poured out of me. Degree by degree, my body grew less tense. My hands unclenched. My pinched shoulder blades relaxed into the proper posture. My knees regained solidity, transforming from the gelatinous lumps they’d been moments before.
As Finn conducted me, my juices flowed again and my breathing regulated. His guiding baton, never out of my periphery vision, steered me in all the right directions. As if no time had elapsed, as if I hadn’t been mired in an atmosphere of disappointment for the past few years, he elicited a powerful sound from me. I sang just as I wanted to sing. After each of my solos, I darted glances at Lizzy, who nodded and smiled.
I sounded good. I felt accepted. And all because Finn
clearly managed a troupe of people who believed in supporting each other, not in stabbing each other’s backs.
By the time the rehearsal ended, I convinced myself the last few months had been a dream. I lost myself in my music, as I often did, and gave myself over to the sweet melodies of composers such as Vivaldi, Bach, and my cherished Mozart. Finn had planned an ethereal program, full of some of my favorite pieces.
For a few mad seconds, I wondered if he’d chosen them for me.
I couldn’t overlook the fact he’d hired me. God only knew England boasted scads of talented sopranos. He could have used any of them, and would likely have had less bureaucracy for it, and yet he’d picked me. Of course, he knew I had extensive knowledge and experience with the pieces.
Yes. That had to be it.
Hours later, as the afternoon sun broke through the windows of the music room, Finn called it a day. I felt a flush of excitement at working with the new ensemble and getting to see Lizzy in action again. Everyone had been welcoming and I found myself on the receiving end of several invitations to hit the local pubs. My social calendar had suddenly exploded.
Of course, the only one I was really interested in having a drink with was Finn. Watching him conduct, following his lead, had brought back so many memories. Yes, many of them sad, but so many lovely ones, too. Astute and sensitive to his musicians, he’d elicited some gorgeous sounds from the ensemble. I’d worked with conductors who’d ruled with iron fists. Finn, however, remained true to his vision, while showing appreciation for our limitations as well. He didn’t push. He encouraged. He made me want to sing my best and soar to new heights.
Every time I’d performed one of the solo passages to his liking, he’d rewarded me with a wink and a grin. It made me blush like a school kid who’d just received an A on a major project.
As the Sonata members readied their things, putting away sheets of music and music stands, I discussed the evening plans with Lizzy. “So, it sounds as if most of the folks are heading to the Lion’s Head. Wanna go?”
She gnawed her lip. “Actually, Joseph just asked me to have dinner with him.”
“No way? Your dishy drummer?”
“I’ll take a rain check. I don’t want to desert you. You just arrived.”
I waved her off with a laugh. “Never let it be said I stood in the way of true lust. I’m a big girl and we’ve already had a chance to catch up. We have all summer. Go, have dinner with your percussionist. Make sure he bangs your drum really hard.”
“Oh, God. I hope he does.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek and dashed off to meet Joseph at the front of the room.
I was just grabbing my purse when I spotted the lead clarinetist heading my way, his lips compressed in determination. Before the man reached me, Finn darted forward and pulled me aside. The clarinetist stopped in his tracks, motioned as if he’d forgotten something at his seat and walked away.
“Have a drink with me,” Finn said.
“Sure. It would be nice to catch up. If you're not too tired, that is.”
“You're the one dealing with jet lag. Are you still, in fact, awake?”
“I refuse to acknowledge jet lag. If I pretend it doesn't exist, it doesn't.” Although I meant it as a joke, it struck me as my tactic of coping with most things lately.
“All right, then. There’s a pub on the high street and I think it’s quieter than the Lion’s Head. Let’s go.”
Within a matter of minutes we arrived at the Brandy Nan pub. Finn pointed out the sign bearing a rather unflattering rendering of Queen Anne. “They say she used to drink,” he explained. “Had a very sad life, poor woman. Perhaps the drink got her in the end.” We stepped inside, found a cozy booth in back, and sat. “I hope you don’t mind I swooped in and rescued you from old Charlie.”
“Charlie? Oh, the clarinetist.” I grinned. “He did look rather intent on making a new friend. Do I need to be rescued from him?”
“He’s a good man. Don’t get me wrong, but he just went through a bad break up. I didn’t want him trying to use you as rebound material.”
“Thanks,” I teased. “My hero.”
Finn stared at me and his smile slowly faded, becoming something more intense than I expected to see after eight years. “It’s good to see you, Lark.”
Damn.
All day he’d called me Renata. The first time I heard him use my proper name, my heart had sunk a little. By the third time, I’d grown convinced I’d never hear Lark again. After all, why should he call me by a pet name? I wasn’t his pet anymore.
I returned his gaze, about to confess how very good it was to see him, when a buxom waitress arrived at our booth. As she directed her boobs at Finn, telling him the specials, I took a moment to breathe. Okay, kiddo. Just because he’s looking at you the way a hungry man looks at a sizzling steak doesn’t mean he wants you. He’s the one who left. Remember?
He ordered up a Guinness and a steak and mushroom pie. I ordered the same entrée with a Pimm’s and lemonade. We then stared at one another. I resisted the urge to gnaw on my thumb.
“I know this must be awkward,” he said. “I hope you won’t mind working with me.”
“Of course, not. I’m thrilled to be here. I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well, I knew you’d always wanted to sing abroad and I thought this might be of interest to you. The endowment from the trust left us with a healthy budget so I’m able to be creative with my hiring. And I have to admit, I’m glad Lizzy mentioned you. You sound better than ever. I’ve followed your career and I’m happy you’re living your dream.”
He’d followed me? I hadn’t really followed him more than Googling him once or twice over the years. I’d never been able to bear anything more than that. “Thank you.”
“I agree with Lizzy, you know. Anthony Price is an idiot. He has no clue what he lost. You were good today.”
Surely my face was crimson with such praise. I deflected and tried to turn the spotlight on him. “What about you, Mr. Big Shot conductor?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“The ensemble really responds to you. You have their respect.”
“I have to admit it’s good to hear you say it. I was nervous about seeing you again. I’ve spent a lot of time worrying you’d hate me.”
So he wanted to go there already. Okay, you can do this. “I could never hate you. I missed you. I mourned you. But I never thought ill of you.”
He grabbed my hand across the table, softly stroking. “I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. If it hadn’t been for my education… In the end, it was good I came home. Mum had to deal with a bout of cancer.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. She’s fine now, but I’m glad I was in the U.K. I could support her. God only knows she never got much support from my father.”
“Are they still together?”
“Of course. Frosty and civil and barely talking, but under the same roof. You’d think they lived in the 1950s with their attitudes toward divorce.” He shook his head. “How’s your brother?”
Here we go. It was time to talk family, the one discussion I wished we didn’t have to have. “He’s fine. Engaged to a really nice woman. They’ve set a date for next year.”
“That’s great. Your parents must be thrilled.”
I stared at the table, awash in emotion. With a few words, I was hurtled back into that sterile room at the morgue. I could still hear the click of the officer’s shoes on the tiles, as he guided me toward the viewing room. I could still see the yellow stain on the thin sheet that covered my mother’s face, and the way the attendant rolled it to her shoulders to expose her face. I’d never forget their bruised faces.
If only I could forget how their deaths, so soon after Finn’s departure, had plunged me into an abyss of black agony. For weeks, I couldn’t sing, couldn’t work. Could barely talk. It had taken several doctors, many medications, and therapy sessions to get me to a point where I resembled a human being
again. I still operated on auto-pilot for months afterward.
I felt as if I’d lost everything.
“Renata? Your parents?”
I raised my head. “They’re dead, Finn. Killed by a drunk driver.”
“Jesus Christ. When?”
“About two weeks after you went home.”
I dared to look at him and witnessed the bizarre show of emotion on his face as disbelief, disappointment, and guilt waged a war on his features. “Lark, I’m so sorry. Did they catch the driver? Is he in jail?”
“Yeah. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when it happened?”
“I called twice and spoke with your father. He said he’d pass on the message.”
He let go of my hand and his hands balled into tight fists on the table. “That meddling piece of…”
“It’s okay, Finn. We’d broken up. He probably felt it was better that way. A clean break. I don’t blame him.” Only it hadn’t felt clean to me.
He reached for my hand again, squeezing. “I would have come to you.”
“I wouldn’t have wanted you to come.” Liar. I tried to smile. “Besides, I wasn’t in a good place. I…I didn’t take it very well.”
His eyes misted. “Shit. Tell me.”
“There’s not much to say. I got sick. I spent some time in a hospital. Everything happened at once.” I managed a grin. “You could say my mind went on a holiday.”
“And I made it worse by leaving.”
“Finn, don’t…”
“I hurt you, the one person I never wanted to hurt. Renata,” he said, his voice a murmur. “I’m sorry. I wish I could make it better.”
“It’s not up to you to make it better. I had to do it for myself. My reaction…scared me. I freaked out when the going got tough. My world up-ended and I couldn’t handle it. I had to learn to be strong again. On my own.”
He stared at me, into me. “I knew there was something different about you. I couldn’t put my finger on it.”
“Well, I am eight years older.” I smiled, trying to show him I could handle this conversation, even though it was proving harder by the moment.
