by Karen Ranney
Somehow he would translate his memories of Alice into music, simple notes that would tell of his great lost love and grief. And perhaps, in the creation, grant her immortality. Within his music, Alice would be forever young, a sprite created from wishes and dreams and poignant recollections. The world would know how much he loved her, by listening to one of his compositions, by being stirred, heart and mind and soul. Was not that the most perfect use of music? To speak what could not be said?
“It is a pretty tune.”
That confession came from a woman who thought music represented evil and should be punished. He smiled at her, tolerant of her intolerance, knowing that he had only to walk through the door and mount his horse to be away from her forever.
Cecily stood next to the pianoforte, head tilted like an exquisite porcelain bird, the picture of startled delight. Except, of course, that she feigned such an interest. They both knew it, but for the sake of this moment, they each allowed the falsehood.
“You’ve been here nearly an hour, James. Come, take a rest and share your tea with me.” She smiled at him, and the gesture was so like Alice’s that all he could do was stare at her, remembering the last time Alice had smiled at him just this way and shared with him the utter beauty of her laughter.
Perhaps that was why his fingers lifted from the keys, silencing the music, why he stood and went to her, giving her his arm. James smiled down at her and escorted Cecily into the parlor, the sunny room she used as hers.
“Can you not make the horses go faster, Peter?” Bernie chafed at Mary Kate’s cold hands.
Mary Kate held herself perfectly composed but rigidly stiff, as if she hid all of herself on the inside, where it could not be seen.
“I’m not about to kill myself on this icy road, Bernie. Not in this bloody barouche.” He turned and scowled at her from the driver’s perch.
“Can you at least put the top up? It’s freezing cold.”
“Do you want us to get there, or is it comfort you want?” Another scowl.
“Is it too much to ask for both? She’s like an icicle.”
Once, Bernie had stood in the crowd before a fakir in a Mediterranean market. The wise man had been telling a story of demons and possession when he went into a trance. At first the spectators had laughed and jostled one another, thinking it a well-timed trick. But his expression had been so filled with alarm, his skin pulled tight against his skull, his mouth flaccid and expressionless, that all merriment ceased as the crowd grew silent. Except for the pulse beat in his neck, it would have been possible to think him dead. From that moment until nearly an hour had passed, the fakir remained stiff and unmoving.
Mary Kate was nothing in appearance to that dusty, half-naked man. Why, then, did the expression upon her face mirror that same look?
“She looks more like a bloomin’ corpse, Bernie.”
“Oh, do shut up, Peter.”
“It will be all right, Bernie. You’ll see.”
How did he know that? Was it only because she was so frightened, and he had seen it? She glanced up at him, and Peter leveled another stare at her, this one warmer than before, as if he wished to reassure her somehow. The tiniest smile bent her lips.
The journey seemed interminable, and although Peter’s words had been unwelcome, they were not incorrect. Mary Kate did appear more corpse than living soul. It was as if everything about her had been coated in a cloak of gray. Beneath her blue cloak, she was like ice. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, her eyes were open and fixed, but on the distance and not some internal vision. Other than that, she might as well have been in a trance, so still was she. It was as if she prepared herself, focused what energies she had on a coming battle, as a captain might prepare a ship sailing toward a gale, or a military man might gird himself upon spying the enemy encamped upon a far hill.
Was it an apt analogy? Was this, then, a battle they were embarking upon? Good against evil? The thought of it spawned chills all over Bernie’s body, the type of sensation that was a presage to danger, not anticipation.
If she had not believed, she would not be here now. Had she so completely and absolutely ingested Mary Kate’s terror into herself? Ever since they’d entered the open carriage, Mary Kate had remained speechless, a turn of events that had not added to Bernie’s feeling of comfort.
She had a strange premonition as she sat beside Mary Kate, bathed in the afternoon sun of a winter day, cloaked against the cold. This journey they were on would lead to something that would change all of their lives, for good or ill. None of them would emerge from this experience without being touched by it. It was a sure and certain knowledge she could not explain to another living soul.
There was that damn noise again.
Archer leaned out the window on both sides of the carriage, inspecting the turning wheels. Nothing. And still he had the distinct impression that the sound was there, whistling in through his ear.
It was the damnedest thing, really. An odd feeling had traveled with him for the last hour. At first he’d thought it was a nudge of memory, something undone, forgotten, left behind. Then, the more time passed, the more irritating a feeling it had become. As if he must do something, act in some way, that the failure to do so would have lasting consequences upon his life.
Help her….
The sound of it made him sit upright.
Help her….
It was not the wheels or the wind or his own imagination. Mary Kate was in danger.
He did not care to investigate the source of this unwelcome knowledge at this particular moment. Nor did he consider that he may be acting in a highly irrational manner. Nothing was as important as the feeling that surged through him, the odd and compelling warning so strong that Archer knocked on the closed window and shouted his instructions to Jeremy.
In Mary Kate’s mind sang a song of words. Help him…. Help him…. Help him…. A refrain that echoed the turning of the barouche’s large wheels. The rush of air against her face kept her upright, from falling into a faint, and the sheer terror in her mind and soul kept her focused on their destination. Otherwise, Mary Kate was certain she would be nothing more than a whimpering child.
It was as if she were in a tunnel, formed with gray, shiny walls. No sound penetrated, only this feeling of being driven forward. Of needing to be somewhere quickly, more rapidly than they were now traveling. She wished that the horses could be spurred to greater speed. There was danger here. Such mortal danger that fear etched into her heart like acid, one damaging drop at a time.
Her hands were clutched tightly together upon her lap, so tightly that she could not feel them anymore.
A sense of danger. A feeling of doom. Alice’s voice, soft, entreating, laced with terror. Help him….
James Moresham was in danger, of what kind, she did not know. Only that it was swift and deadly and wanted the annihilation of his body, if not the expunging of his soul.
A dark and brooding bird of death hovered wraithlike upon the horizon.
Chapter 38
Cecily had such dainty hands. Odd, that he’d never noticed before now. As she poured his tea, James settled back against the chair, realizing that it had been years since he and Cecily had enjoyed a quiet moment together. It was more often that they sought moments apart than opportunities in which to share silences.
The tea was bitter, so he added extra honey to it, sipping more from a desire not to hurt her feelings than actual enjoyment. But then, most of the rituals he’d engaged in for so long had been done with that in mind. The feelings of others, above his own.
What would it be like to live in Vienna? To walk the streets he’d wanted to see for so long, to experience life among those who talked his language, spoke of orchestration and composition, of tonal melody and contrapuntal rhythms. Who understood the need to express, even as he did.
What would it be like, without Alice?
He sipped at his tea, wondering if this moment was an aberration created so effortlessly by Cecily be
cause he was going away. Was this her way of sending him off with her approval, or simply her way of showing appreciation that he was leaving?
Perhaps he would never know. Cecily did not dabble in truth, only in religion.
“You are packed, then, James?” Her voice seemed the softest of sounds, a cottony thing.
“Yes. I find that I have not as many belongings as I believed. Yet they managed to take up three trunks, nevertheless.”
“And your music? Have you packed all those sheets as well?” She smiled, revealing even teeth and a gap on the bottom where one was missing. Strange, he’d never noticed it before now. Or perhaps he’d never shared a smile with her and thus would not have seen such a minor imperfection.
“I have.” How had she known of all the sheets he’d covered with his compositions?
“Alice spoke of your music with some fondness, James.”
He looked down into his tea. So today was to be a day for firsts, then. She’d never mentioned Alice’s name in all these many months. How odd that he’d not noted it before now. Perhaps because he had been so immersed in his own grief that he’d never noticed hers. He wanted to say something to her, some odd comment that would note her grief, or remark upon its presence, or perhaps ease it in a small way. Would it not be the greatest sorrow to lose a child? Especially a child with such sweet goodness as Alice.
And his own child? He mourned that loss, as well.
But he found no words to coax from his mouth, nothing that would ease her pain. Only a look, sent to her without words, one that compelled a soft, bittersweet smile from her.
Odd, that he should feel a kindred spirit in her, this woman he’d never liked, not even on that day his father had brought her home. That moment, like so many others, was frozen in time the way a child’s memory sometimes is, complete with all the nuance that adult recollection furnishes to it. He could remember the sky, gray as a squirrel’s stomach. The carriage was new; the sound the wheels made upon the gravel mimicked hard rain.
The smell of her seemed to be the first memory he recalled, the scent of her perfume, something too flowery and nearly overpowering. Then her foot as she stepped down from the carriage, white stockings, something a child was not supposed to see, the adult in him cautioned, kid slippers banded across the instep, a skirt of flowered fabric, a coat of coal gray to shelter her from the chill of an early spring day. Cecily, into his life with no more fanfare than that. And the essence of his existence changed forever-more.
It was not that she had been such a severe stepmother. It was mostly that he was simply ignored by her for long stretches, as if beneath her regard. The child in him needed the softness of a mother’s touch, but that warmth had never come from Cecily. Instead, he was used as errand boy or object lesson, neither role being much to his way of liking. But when he was twelve, Cecily found religion, grasping piety as if it were a prize handed down for only the most righteous. From that day on, she frowned upon his playing the pianoforte and encouraged his father to limit his free time so that the symphonies he heard in his head would never find fruition upon paper.
He had always suspected she was one of those people who found themselves elevated only upon the descent of others. She spread venomous tales about the most innocent of people, all the while expressing her earnest wish that her prayers for them be answered. Still, he could not hate Cecily, for one reason. She was Alice’s mother. Such an accident of nature was surely worth a few points in heaven.
But even Alice’s disappearance had not brought them closer together. James looked at her now, over the rim of his cup, wondering what had brought about the show of affability from his stepmother. He had learned, over the years, that Cecily always had a reason for everything she did. Especially those gestures of charity. They were most often the more suspect.
“You know I’ve always disagreed with your father about your music, James.”
He nodded, surprised again that she would bring their differences to light. So it was to be honesty from Cecily today. “And you know that I have often prayed about it.” Again he nodded, a more cautious gesture now. He did not want Cecily to begin praying over him. Her invocations to God were long and loud and filled with demands. He’d once heard her brag that she was free of the seven deadly sins, but he had the forbearance not to call to her attention the fact that pride was among them.
She folded her hands into a little fisted ball and rested it against her waist. Wasn’t it odd that the sun seemed so bright it created a nimbus around her skin, one that appeared as if she glowed? “I told Alice the same thing, of course, when she mentioned that the two of you were going away together.”
His hands shook. The cup made a delicate chink of sound against the saucer as he lowered it too quickly. Surprise mixed with hope, but beneath it was an emotion that threatened to overwhelm both, utter confusion. A thousand questions pummeled his brain. Had she seen Alice on that last day? Why had she never told him so? Did she know something of what had happened to his beloved almost-wife? What about his child? His lips trembled with the need to speak all of these questions at once.
A curious throbbing sensation nearly overpowered him, as if his heart were a booming drum, whose sound occupied the entirety of the room. A most bizarre numbness seemed to permeate his feet and hands, an even more strange sensation of his ears tingling, then his nose. And wasn’t it strange that his forehead seemed to be made of clay, devoid of feeling, sitting above his features lumplike. And his lips, numb.
Was this, then, the shock of her statement? Had it rendered him insensible?
Her smile seemed oddly bright. Her teeth so white they seemed to catch the glare of the sun. Her hair was too blond; the ribbons of color around Cecily’s form seemed to merge into a nimbus of gray. No, black. His field of vision narrowed, compressed, slowly but with definition. It was the one clue he had that it was not shock that caused these unusual feelings. Not surprise nor befuddlement, nor even elation.
He was dying.
His stepmother had killed him, a knowledge that seemed confirmed by the brightness of her smile.
“What is it now, Peter?”
“The bloody wheel’s lost a band.” He stood frowning at it, his gloved hands clenched into fists and resting on his hips.
“Let’s go on without it.”
“On what? The iron’s what keeps the pieces of wood together, Bernie. Without it you don’t have a wheel.”
“Bloody hell.”
Peter’s grin was cut short. “And where the hell do you think she’s goin’?”
Bernie turned from her examination of the wheel to see Mary Kate skimming over the grass, her skirts drawn up in her hands, her bonnet hanging down her back. She was running over the snow-covered ground as if to meet a lover.
“You’re not thinking of running after her, are you?”
Bernie looked down at her three-inch heels, at her voluminous velvet skirts, at the glitter of frozen blades of grass, then shook her head reluctantly. She was, after all, twenty years older than Mary Kate.
“No, but you’d better get this bloody carriage fixed in record time, my friend.”
It was not a request, Peter decided, looking at the expression in his lover’s eyes. It was an order.
“With what, Bernie? A prayer and a miracle?”
Bernie looked back at the sight of Mary Kate. She was almost lost among the grove of trees that banded the Moresham Farms from Sanderhurst land, the trail her skirts made in the snow pointing toward her diminishing figure.
“Well, haven’t you any tools or something?”
“What we need is a spare wheel. Barring that, we’re at the crossroads. Someone’s bound to come along sooner or later.”
“And what do you propose we do until then, Peter?”
“Stay warm, Bernie. Have you any better ideas?”
Bernie looked to the distance once again. She didn’t like being powerless, hated feeling helpless. She was very much afraid that circumstances were conspiring
to separate her from Mary Kate. For what reason, she didn’t know.
She turned and glanced at Peter. One look at her worried face and he nearly volunteered to race after Mary Kate. Except, of course, that it would have left Bernie alone. That, he would not do. He was getting too many strange feelings about this day to tempt fate even further.
“Very well, Peter, if you can’t fix the bloody thing.” She aimed a kick at it, and winced. She wondered, hearing his chuckle, if she hadn’t had the wrong target in mind.
The cold no longer bothered Mary Kate. It seeped in through her slippers; the sensation of it traveled only as far as her ankles. Somewhere she’d lost a glove. Or perhaps she’d left it in the carriage. It simply was not important. She ignored the burn of cold against her cheeks, the fact that her hair had tumbled free of her bonnet.
Ahead, puffs of smoke alerted her to the fact she was not far from Moresham Farms. Perhaps less than a mile away. It would have been no distance at all on a bright summer day. Even in this winter’s cold, with the frost of the morning coloring everything a delicate silver, such distance would be but a stretch of the legs. Now, however, it loomed as a mirage, ever increasing, so that even after a hundred steps, Moresham Farms seemed farther away, not closer.
She should have watched her step, been alerted that this was not an area cultivated by the plow or fenced for the horses, but unstewarded land. The open burrow, field mouse or rabbit or gopher home, ensnared her, and as she fell, it wasn’t the pain from her ankle that made her sob aloud, or even the jarring impact of the frozen ground beneath her. It was the knowledge that she was so close, but not near enough.
