Gillian woke to the lilting melody of sweetly singing birds,
the sound of children's laughter, and the warm friendly chatter of her
daughters as they prepared breakfast. She breathed a relaxed and contented
sigh. She managed to sit upright and pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. She
shuffled over to her dressing table, sat on the old hand-carved stool and began
to brush her hair. She used an antique brush, the bristles were splayed and
white with age, and in the lamplight the beautiful curved writing glistened as
she moved. The words on the brush were inlaid with mother of pearl in the almost
black ebony wood, “Esme” even the name looked like the flow of a violin
arpeggio. She smiled as she placed the brush on the dresser top. Running her
fingers along the surface she saw the scratches in the wood that she had made
as a girl. Chuckling to herself as she remembered being so young, and so
defiant. She remembered defacing her mother’s tabletop that day, and the
punishment that followed.
Her eyes wandered to the base of the mirror, she ran her
finger lightly along a dark stain that ran the entire length of the mirror and
over the edge.
xxx
Weeks had passed by and life carried on as usual for all at
Thorngate; Mrs. Dodd bustled, Smithson - who was weeks from retirement -
fumbled, Deliah gossiped and Esme played the violin. Not a day went by without the
house being filled with the crisp sweet sound of Esme’s playing. Rupert was
getting frailer by the hour. They waited anxiously for the day when he would
breathe his last. Esme still tended to his needs and lovingly helped to dress
him, feed him and read to him. One night, Rupert woke when the house was in
darkness; not even the two new dogs stirred, lying curled by the coal stove in
the kitchen. He sat slowly, lifting his skeletal body unsteadily and turning
himself to place his cold feet on the thick carpet. He grabbed a hold of the
chair that Esme usually sat in and pulled himself into it. He sat for a while
recovering and then got down onto his knees, he crawled painfully to the
dressing table where he had written so many letters and where Dawn had lovingly
brushed her long hair before the mirror. He climbed up onto the stool and
looked at himself, he hardly recognised the old man staring back at him. He
tried to smile but he just sighed, hunched over at deaths door. He pulled out
the top drawer and removed a piece of writing paper placing it squarely in
front of him; he took his quill, dipped it into the mother of pearl inkwell and
began to write a note to his family.
“It is with much sadness that I bid you all farewell.
I am not a simple man and I know that it is a great burden
for you to tend to me, and take care of me as you have been doing so kindly
these last months. I know that in life I have not been a kind man, but I hope
that in death and in this last act, that I will be in some way, undoing the
past.
Esme, I cannot believe that you have so easily forgiven me
the pain that I caused you. You have been a source of inspiration to me, you
have made me laugh, and you fill my cramped world with music and song. You are
my firstborn child Daughter and it is to you and your future husband alone that
I bequeath Thorngate and all its assets. I know that you will care for Mrs.
Dodd, Smithson, Mother and the other servants in their old age. I also leave
you my music collection in the hope that you will carry on where I left off. In
the cabinet under my Violin collection, there is a key on a red blue velvet
ribbon. Take it and go to the wine cellar under the east wing, look along the
far wall to the biggest wine barrel and underneath it you will find a vault,
what you find there is yours.
Dawn, you have been a good wife and you have given me your
best, I only wish I could have known you better, loved you more and treated you
with the respect and love that you deserve. I don’t know why you have remained
by my side through all the hard times. I do not deserve a wife like you. I love
you Dawn, with all my being and only wish I could have told you in person just
one more time. My only excuse is that I was blind, blind to the fact that you
could have been a great friend. I’m so sorry my darling. I free you, follow
your heart, live out your dreams, and fulfill your greatest desires.
Forever I will know this one thing: Great people have
surrounded me. Grand people. Good people. You have been MY people. I only
realise this too late. Forgive me for thi
I go on to another place now. This world has made me weary.
Do not cry for me, please, celebrate for I am freed from suffering and sadness,
I shake off my mortality and gain immortality. I feel as if the angel of death
is at the door, waiting patiently for me. I must not keep him.
With all my grateful and undying love.
Rupert Edgar-Harrison.
Ps. Robert, although I know that you will never read this, I
love you. I always have. You are my only son and I wish that I could have been
a better Father to you.
He fell forward exhausted onto the writing paper, aching
from holding the quill. With a shaking hand he folded the letter clumsily and
placed it in the letter holder on the right hand side of the dresser. He lay
with his head on the dresser-top for a while, his hooded eyes exploring the
detailed carvings on the letter holder. Cherubs and rose thorns, Esme and
Robert, violins and banquets. Under his breath he muttered confused thoughts
and tears welled in his eyes at the futility of his predicament. After a while
he heard the great wall clock chiming one, two, three, he knew that soon Mrs.
Dodd would be up, preparing the fire and making the food. He knew that in a few
hours Thorngate would be beginning another day, the first day without him.
The sun rose slowly, warming the front stones of Thorngate.
Mist rose lazily from the front lawn, and birds sunned themselves on the
cobbled driveway, opening out their delicate wings exposing the soft fluff of
their underbellies. Light filtered into the lounge through the windows and
warmed the carpets in squares of glowing heat. The dogs waited patiently at the
kitchen door, tails wagging lazily, ears back and tongues lolling out. As Mrs.
Dodd shuffled with her aging bent back into the kitchen she spoke to them,
nonsense words which sent their tails spinning with pleasure at all the
attention. She opened the heavy wooden door and shivered as the cool wind came
in and the dogs bolted out to roll and play on the grass.
Esme came into the kitchen and lifted the tray carrying hot
breakfast for Rupert. She poured a mug of brandy for him, to warm him up. As
she made her way up the stairs she looked across the landing and saw Dawn
sitting by herself in the library, she remembered the days when she would race
up the stairs in time for her lessons. She popped her head in the doorway,
“Is everything alright?” She blew a strand of hair away from
her eyes.
“Yes, I’m just thinking.” Dawn, beautiful Dawn, looked so
tired, so early in the day.
“You’re fine then?” Esme smiled sweetly.
“Yes dear, I’ll be fine. Go see to your father now.” She
looked back down into her lap and shut her eyes as if in prayer.
Esme walked on up the stairs to the landing where her father
stayed. She hummed the melody of Esme’s Song” and balanced the tray on her hip
as she wrenched open the stiff doorknob. As the door swung open she stepped
into the room…the tray crashed to the ground as she tried to scream, but no
sound would come out. Rupert sat at the dresser, his head lay on the wooden
surface, his expression was peaceful and his dead eyes gazed unseeing out of
the open doorway. In his hand was a writing pen and a pearl letter opener, he
had knocked over the pot of ink and the dark stain ran along the base of the
mirror and spilled over the edge onto the carpet.
Esme screamed.
The following days were filled with deep contemplation and
shock. Smithson was upset the most by the death of Rupert as he had grown up
with him, from young boys to manhood. Mrs. Dodd seemed to accept it as ‘the
right time’ and was only seen weeping once. The funeral was held on a bright
sunny day, birds sang in the tall trees that lined the cemetery near Thorngate
chapel; and the air was alive with the sounds of hymns, violins and mourners.
They wore black as was the custom, and the funeral procession was very grand.
Most of Rupert's pupils attended the procession and a group of violinists
played his favourite pieces. He would have been pleased to see so many people
there. The night of the funeral Esme and Dawn sat in the parlour and held
hands. They held the farewell letter and read it through again.
A month after the funeral they decided to do away with
wearing black, soon after that Esme plucked up courage and went to her father’s
music room where she read the letter again:
“In the cabinet under
my Violin collection, there is a key on a red blue velvet ribbon. Take it and go
to the wine cellar under the East wing, look along the far wall to the biggest
wine barrel and underneath it you will find a vault, what you find there is
yours”
She took the key and walked to the east wing, in the wine
cellar she walked past huge barrels, brushing away the cobwebs that grasped her
hair like desperate maidens. She stopped and stood in front of the vault, a
large rusted iron door obscured by corrosion and hidden in shadows. She had no
idea what to expect and so, with a shaking hand she reached out and pushed the
key into the slot. She turned once and then twice and the lock jumped. Slowly,
she pulled the cold metal door towards her, it squealed as it opened up its
heart to her.
She gasped.
Inside the cellar’s vault the musty smell of cold unused air
sauntered up to meet her. In the space beyond was pile after pile of money,
paper cheques, gold coins, jewels, she reached in and pulled out a leather
folder, bound together with a thick strap. Inside the folder were a letter and
some other written articles. The letter was stamped and sealed with Rupert's
wax seal. With trembling hands and teary eyes she opened it and read:
I, Rupert Edgar-Harrison, am writing this with a sound mind
and in good health. The finder of this vault is the owner of the contents”
In the leather bound note book at the back end of this vault
are some documents concerning the ownership of Thorngate, the details of some
of my investments are also enclosed.
I am not sure of the total sum of wealth in this vault but
whatever it is, it is only roughly a third of what I own, the rest is in the
care of a Mr. J. Branaugh, 34 Pine lane.
In a velvet pouch under the cracked brick along the left
side of the inner vault is a piece of paper, on the paper is a word and a
number, take the bag to Mr. Branaugh and he will deposit the amount he is
holding for me into your account. If you do not have an account he will open
one for you.
I am also owner of other pieces of property aside from
Thorngate; the details for those are in the folder as well.
God Speed, and use all wisely.
Rupert Edgar-Harrison.
She reached inside and removed the pouch, she tucked it into
her bodice and slowly shut the vault door, and she sighed as the weight of what
she had just read sank into her mind. She had enough money to last her two
lifetimes, she had had no idea that Rupert had saved and invested his money so
wisely. From what she saw, she was a rich woman.
Early the next morning, when mist was still curled like
sleeping cats around the tall trees of Thorngate’s long sweeping driveway, she
sat at her own new writing desk and composed a letter to Mr. Branaugh. In her
feathery feminine handwriting she informed him of her father’s letter, and
asked if she would be able to meet with him to discuss things further. She
walked across the brightly coloured red persian style carpet in the main
lounge, and called Rosalyn who then ran out of the front door and down along
the slippery cobblestone path to the stables, at the back of the building.
There in the feeding room knee-deep in horse manure she found Squeaky, one of
the stable boys. She gave him the sealed note, told him to clean up, and sent him
off to town saying that he could use one of the horses from the main stable.
Squeaky ran excitedly and fell onto the hay, pulling off his
soiled trousers he then ran to get a fresh pair. He wet his face and then
licking his fingers he knelt over a puddle in the drive, and fixed the hair
around his ears, tucking it in and smoothing it down. If he did well in this
errand he might be promoted from stable boy to messenger, which meant clean
clothes and adventures across the countryside.
The rest of the day Esme walked up and down the front room,
stopping at every window to stare at the driveway, waiting for a sign of
Squeaky and the reply. After a few hours she heard the sound of the horse
approaching the house and she walked out to receive the letter herself. As she
reached up to take it, Squeaky smiled his gapped tooth smile, the smell of
whiskey reached her nostrils turning her stomach.
“Squeaky, will you put the horse away? And then I want you
to go and see Mrs. Dodd.” As she walked
away she smiled to herself, knowing what would happen to him when Mrs. Dodd
smelled the whiskey on his breath. He certainly wouldn’t drink on the job
again!
The letter warmly informed her that Mr. Branaugh would make
an appearance at Thorngate the next day at noon.
When he arrived the next day Esme was wearing a fine blue
dress, with white lace around the collar and wrists. Her hair was washed and
bound up with blue and white ribbons, her skin was scented with lavender and
her eyes shone. When he walked in his breath caught short, for he suddenly
remembered where he had seen her before. He bowed low, concealing his
knowledge.
“Miss Edgar-Harrison” He knelt and kissed her hand. Rising
slowly he stepped back and sat opposite her, placing his own leather folder on
the arm of the paisley, over-stuffed parlour chair. For an instant he saw
Rupert in Esme’s features where he had not seen it before, the way she carried
herself, the way she seemed so soft and yet so totally in control. Her eyes
glowed in the same way as her father’s did and when she smiled at him he saw
her for who she was, not a maid as he now recalled, but as Esme Edgar-Harrison
heir to Thorngate.
The meeting went successfully, they ate cream scones and
drank tea, the arrangements were made to open a banking account for Esme
personally and one for Thorngate under the direction of Esme. It was understood
that until Esme was married all decisions regarding Thorngate were to be made
between Esme and Joseph; both signatures had to be on all documents.
As she saw him out to his carriage he lifted her bare hand
to his lips and kissed it gently. He looked at her and smiled before stepping
into the carriage. He still, as yet, had never married and now for the first
time in years Mr. Branaugh could picture himself living out his life with the
beautiful young Esme.
For the next few weeks life carried on as usual. Esme taught
violin and even started to study voice training. Each week she would call for
Thorngate’s coach, driven by a now very sober and dapper Squeaky, to go to Mr.
Watkins’s house for vocal coaching. He taught her everything he knew and very
soon she was proficient enough to start teaching voice as well as violin.
She walked out one morning, and stood with her head tilted
to the side; admiring the way the sun’s rays broke through the silver clouds
landing yellow and warm on the green grass, erasing the grey of the driveway.
She watched how the shadows softened on the rough stone walls every time the
sun vanished. As she stared out across the landscape she sighed; her sigh was
carried up on an eddying wind and it flew over the rooftops and out over the
grasslands until it reached the sea. It travelled out over the ocean till it
landed quietly and ever so gently, embedding itself secretly, deep inside the
heart of the man she adored.
She was awoken from her daydreaming when she heard the dogs
barking excitedly down the drive, she walked across the front lawn and looked
to see who it was that was coming.
Mr. Branaugh stepped out from his carriage and bowed before
Esme.
“Madam, I was wondering if you would accompany me today.” He
stood up and stared at her, she thought to herself that although he was older
he was indeed not an unattractive man. She smiled coyly,
“And where might we be going?” She cocked her head in the same
manner as her father had done, and waited for his reply:
“Ah… that my dear is for me to know… it is up to you to
wait… and enjoy the experience…” He stood still looking for a response.
“I will go with you Mr. Branaugh,” She laughed and turned to
go indoors, “but it is you who will have to wait… while I ready myself.”
She walked indoors and raising her slender right arm, called
for Rosalyn to help her with her hair and dress. Mr. Branaugh smiled to himself
as he was shown into the parlour to wait.
The carriage raced along the dirt road, at every corner
birds scattered from the road and flew squawking up in to the morning air. Esme
had a warm shawl wrapped around her and the wind whipped her cheeks into two
rosy orbs. She had wisely tied a soft silk shawl around her head and so, her
beautifully styled hair went untouched by the wind. After an hour or so of
travelling they stopped just on the other side of town. He stepped down from
his seat, and raced around to help her down from the high step. As she stepped
down her hem caught on a nail and they heard a small rip, instantly the two of
them were laughing quietly under their breaths. Mr. Branaugh pretended to tie
his high boot lace while looking for the torn hem. He found the torn piece,
swiftly reached out and broke it free from the rest of the dress. As he
straightened up he smiled and reached out for her arm,
“There is nothing the matter with your dress now Madam..” as
they walked in he pushed the piece of lace deep into his pocket.
They walked through the swinging doors of the Hotel Grande
and were shown to a table overlooking the fields to the side of the hotel. A
river flowed lazily by, right alongside the hotel window. As they ate they
spoke of the ducks on the water, the lovers walking alongside the river and
laughed again at the torn hem of her skirt.
After a lovely lunch they walked out to the carriage again,
this time they rode even further out of town. They arrived at an old chateau,
as Mr. Branaugh stepped out of the carriage Esme looked around her and wondered
what they were doing here. They walked together to the front door and
knocked. An old man who was in his
seventies no doubt, opened up for them and smiled. Waving them cheerfully
inside. He silently showed them to a waiting room and asked them to sit
patiently. Esme looked questioningly at Joseph but he merely shrugged and
smiled. After a period of silence, he returned,
“Could you follow me please…” the thin old man who had a
thin old voice, waved at them to follow him. “…this way please Mr. Branaugh.”
They ascended to the second floor of the chateau and stood
outside a door.
“What are we doing here Mr. Branaugh?” Esme asked in a
hushed voice.
“Shh, you will see. Now please before we take another step,
call me Joseph.” He smiled and leaned in closer to her, she felt her heart race
at his nearness, the only man who had ever come that close to her was Joel.
Joel.
She stopped short, and her heart grew heavy at the thought
of him. The sound of the door opening snapped her out of her memories and she
was ushered into a big bedroom.
She stopped and looked around. The walls were
crimson-velvet, and the ceiling was high. Across it, in between a golden
framework, were paintings as beautiful as the Sistine Chapel. The window was
box framed, a long Chaise Lounge seat ran the entire length of the window, blue
and red velvet cushions adorned it. Gold embroidered cushions were scattered
over the bed and the carpet was plush blue, gold and red. She gasped as all of
it sank in and squeezed Mr. Branaugh's arm.
“What is the purpose of this Joseph?” She asked quietly.
“There is someone I would like you to meet Esme. He is an
old friend of mine and he is a very influential man in our town. Mr. Doherty.”
He stepped forward and reached out a hand. Esme looked to where he was reaching
and saw the tiny crumpled figure of a very old man sitting in a very large
chair.
“Joseph!” She whispered “Is this the Mr. Doherty?” She
blushed and then paled in quick succession.
“Yes Esme, it is He.”
Mr. Doherty had been Rupert’s violin master and had been
instrumental in teaching and promoting musicians for the past fifty years or
more.
He had orchestrated the collection and preservation of
countless original manuscripts, collected vast amounts of violins and other
valuable instruments. Everyone knew of Mr. Doherty.
“The reason I have brought you here Esme, is to discuss a
business proposal” Mr. Branaugh shifted in his seat. He looked from the nodding Doherty to the
interested Esme.
“Mr. Doherty has, as you know, a large collection of violins
and instruments stored away. He wants to know if there is any way that you
would be interested in donating money, you could sign the amount over to him
right here.” He coughed.
“…and open up a musical museum or a collection for view if
you would.” He straightened his suit. “Mr. Doherty will provide all of the
instruments, and is willing even to sell you a portion of the instruments at a
good price... If you are willing to put money down for a building. A renovation
of an old house for example, then we could make it a safe haven for the
instruments.” He shuffled in his seat and looked directly at Esme.
Esme rose calmly and walked out of the room.
She stopped outside the bedroom and waited for Joseph. When
he followed her she spun around her eyes angry and her cheeks fiery red.
“How dare you!” She spat. “You didn’t even have the decency
to tell me so that I could prepare myself! How can you expect me to have a… a
business meeting when I have not had the time to even research the facts! I am
sorely disappointed in you Joseph… Mr. Branaugh.” She walked down the stairs
and was heading out of the door when she felt a strong arm grip her elbow and
force her to a standstill. She turned in the moment and found herself being
held tightly to Mr. Branaugh's broad chest. In a second she struggled to break
free and pulled away staring up at him, seething with anger. The sorry look on
his face quieted her rage.
“I’m sorry Esme.”
Joseph looked so genuine that she felt her anger seep away
like the ebb of a low tide. ”I had to do this, to test your character; it was
Rupert’s wish Esme. I had to come up with a way to prove that you are not
frivolous and carefree with his money. It had to be done like this.” He nodded
apologetically and she understood. She blinked slowly as the colour drained
from her face, leaving her pale in comparison. He smiled then, and she mirrored
his grin. He chuckled low, deep in his chest and linked arms with her, leading
her back inside.
Later Joseph told her that if she had jumped into this
“business proposal” she would have found out too late that the chances of
making a profit from a violin museum were very slim. Doherty’s violins were in
fact near worthless, as they had all been partially destroyed in a fire. If she
had signed her money away to Mr. Doherty right then, she would have failed the
test. Rupert had written a clause in his will that stipulated that, the person
in charge of his wealth had to pass a test like this in order to be solely left
responsible for the money.
Mr. Branaugh then informed her that contrary to popular
belief, the laws had recently relaxed and that she was now the sole proprietor
of Thorngate. Her strong will to succeed, her innate wisdom, had saved her yet
again. She held no grudge against Joseph and they returned to the room to talk
some more with the aged Mr. Doherty. They returned to Thorngate late that night
and made plans to see each other again for lunch the next week.
Dawn held firmly to the words of her deceased husband
“I free you, follow your heart, Live out your dreams, and
fulfill your greatest desires…“
For weeks after Rupert’s death she almost chanted the words
to herself, trying to find a calling. She spent mornings praying in the chapel,
asking for guidance because for years she had lived in the shadow of Rupert’s
dreams and desires. One morning, before the sun had turned its face to
Thorngate, she knew what she was meant to do. As soon as it was an appropriate
hour she hurriedly got dressed, running from drawer to drawer looking for
stockings, shoes, combs, shawls trying to waste as little time as possible. She
ran to the door and then ever so calmly opened it and stepped out into the
passageway. She walked over to Esme’s room and gingerly knocked on the door.
“Yes?” She heard rustling and knew that Esme too was already
up and dressed.
“It is Mother, Esme.” She took a deep breath and smiled to
herself.
The door opened and Esme ushered her in, placing a comb in
her hand she smiled and gave her mother a kiss on the cheek,
“As payment for this early intrusion Mother, would you
please brush my hair, I am having a terrible time with it.” She sat at her
desk, the one that Rupert had written his last letter upon. Dawn began to brush
it while Esme chatted on about ideas to improve Thorngate and bring in money
and people from the town; she waited for a chance to speak.
“Esme…” She asked as she twirled Esme’s long hair up into a
bun and secured it with a pin.
“I have had an idea.” She waited, her heart racing now.
“Well, Mother what is it? I’d love to hear it!”
“Esme, I want to open a school.” She closed her eyes and
waited, placing her hands on Esme’s shoulders.
“A school... for whom?” Esme looked sweetly up at Dawn.
“I want a school for the children from the town whose
parents may not be able to afford home schooling. I want to do what I did for
you Esme.” She looked down.
Esme looked at the surface of the desk, her eyes ran slowly
along the stain that Rupert had left behind; she placed both hands flat on the
surface and nodded,
“I like it. I even know where we could have it.” Esme was
racing, her active mind running with figures, dates, places, people and
practicalities.
“So we will have a school?” Dawn moved her trembling hands.
“Of course Mother! There is absolutely no reason why we
shouldn’t!”
Work started almost immediately to restore the old barn
where Esme had spent all those months in solitary practice. The walls were
scrubbed and painted white, the roof was cleaned and the windows replaced. They
fitted the school with a coal stove for heat in winter and brought in writing
desks complete with inkwells and quills. In a matter of weeks the barn was
completely renovated into a wonderful little school.
They named it:
The Edgar-Harrison Public School
And invited all of the local people; including gentry, to
the official opening. Wealthy people who wished to appear generous made
donations of chalk boards, colouring paints, paper and other school work
necessities leaving their names or mark on any items donated. At first there
were only a few individuals who attended, but when news spread of the good that
Dawn was doing the school became progressively fuller.
In the meantime, Mr. Branaugh was spending more time with
Esme, treating her to long walks, horse rides, dinner, lunch and theatre. Esme
had never been at the centre of so much attention. On the one hand she was
enjoying herself but always present at the back of her mind was Joel, her first
love.
