by Sara Reinke
* * *
That afternoon, Rafe invited Kitty to sit beside him on a small, upholstered bench near the stern windows. She was puzzled, but took a seat as he had requested. The chains between them rattled as he reached behind them; she heard unfamiliar rustling sounds as he hefted something that had been stowed behind the bench. “What is that?” she asked, somewhat apprehensive.
“It is a guitar,” Rafe replied, drawing her cuffed hand toward him. “Here…”
He pressed her hand against the neck of the instrument, letting her fumble curiously against the strings and frets. “Have you ever heard one played?” he asked.
“No,” Kitty said, shaking her head. She loved music, but there had never been much occasion for it on the Wight, only the infrequent―and often excruciatingly awful―performance by a friend or acquaintance on a harpsichord, lute or pipe. She had always longed to go to London to visit Vauxhall and thrill to the operatic season, but her father had never allowed it.
Her roving hand traveled toward Rafe, finding the polished belly of the instrument. “Can you play?” she asked him, excited by the notion.
“Yes,” he said, the warm tone in his voice lending itself to a smile. “I thought you might enjoy to hear, to while away some hours, at least.”
“Oh, yes, please,” Kitty said, smiling broadly.
He began to play, and she sat with her cuffed hand draped against his sleeve to leave enough slack in the chains to accommodate his efforts. The guitar stirred to life at the stroking of Rafe’s fingertips, and the sounds that emanated forth―rich and resonant chords, deep-throated undertones and delicate trills―left her breathless with amazed delight. She could hear his fingers sliding against the guitar strings; the friction of his skin against the cords. She could feel the visceral vibrations rising from the belly of the instrument, thrumming throughout Rafe’s form and into her own. He tapped his foot against the floor, and after a long moment of painstakingly intricate melody, he began to sing.
Kitty sat immobilized, listening. He had a wonderful voice; a rich tenor with gentle timbre. He sang in Spanish, a lulling, forlorn lament, his tone alternating between tremulous despair and passionate fervency. It was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Kitty had ever heard, and when he finished, when his voice had quieted, and the thrum of the guitar through her body had subsided, she gasped softly, moved.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
She blinked, as if emerging from a reverie and smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding, tightening her grasp against his sleeve. “It was beautiful, Rafe.”
She didn’t realize he was so near to her, that he had canted his face down to look at her as he had spoken. She looked up, and drew back in start as her nose brushed against his mouth, the tip of his own. His unexpected proximity immediately sent warmth fluttering through her, and she blushed. “It…it was beautiful,” she said again. “What did it mean?”
“It is a cante, a traditional song of lamentation,” Rafe said. “It is meant to express what the Spanish call pena negra―black sorrow. That cante in particular is about a man who mourns for his one true love, a woman he can never have.”
Again, Kitty thought of Isabel. Were you playing it for her, Rafe? Is that why you dream of her, because she can never be yours?
“There is a dance that accompanies the cante,” he said. “I could teach it to you later, if you would like.”
“Oh…oh, no,” Kitty stammered, blushing again, more brightly this time. “I do not know how to dance.” It had been one of those things John Ransom had always promised to show her, but with his duties at sea, that day had never come.
“It is easy. I will show you,” Rafe said, and she blinked, startled.
“I…well…that is very kind of you to offer, but I…” she began.
“You will enjoy yourself,” he said. “It will be perfectly amiable.” He said this last with a mischievous edge, as if making half-hearted effort to goad her, and she laughed.
“Would you like to hear another?” Rafe asked. Already, she could hear him moving his fingertips against the cords, settling them into place to play once more. She remembered the wondrous sensation of his touch against her, how those fingers had explored and caressed her body with the same practiced ease.
“Yes, please,” she said, nodding, and even though she was loathe to admit it, a part of her wished he had played the cante lamenting lost love for her, just as she wished he had dreamed of touching her the night before, not Isabel.
