Wildalone (35 page)

“I'm afraid Master Rhys is not in at the moment.”

“Yes, I know.”

The relentless eyes inspected my face. I knew that Rhys wasn't home and yet had shown up at the house anyway? Unannounced. In the middle of the night.

“Can I be of any help, Miss Thea?”

“I left some music scores on this piano.” The word
this
brought relief into the air, as if the piano belonged to no one. “Do you happen to know where they are?”

He nodded but showed no intent to retrieve them. Loyal like a well-trained watchdog, he wouldn't let me take anything from the house until his master returned home.

“I am sorry for disturbing you so late, Ferry. This is my last visit here, and I have no doubt Rhys would be glad to know it as well. I just need my music back before I leave, that's all.”

“Leaving at this hour is perhaps rather . . . inadvisable? I can arrange for a taxi, of course, but I suggest you remain here until Master Rhys comes back.”

I had to leave, advisable or not. “May I have my music, please?”

He opened the piano bench and took out the scores (in a pile, as I had left them). I checked if Elza's paper was still there. It was.

“Master Rhys cares for you very deeply.” His voice had become unexpectedly warm, no longer the voice of a butler. “It may not be too apparent at times. But he does. You might be able to see it, if only—”

“I saw enough for a lifetime tonight, Ferry.”

Once again that evening, there was dread in someone's eyes. And this time it didn't dissipate behind closed eyelids.

“Miss Thea, if I may . . .” The sound of him taking a breath filled the room. “I must give you something, if you can spare me a moment.”

“Thank you, but I really need to leave.”

“What I would like to give you belonged to your family and should be returned to it.”

It was as if he had slammed all doors to the house with a single sentence.

“How do you know my family?”

“It just so happens.” And, pretending that this could pass even
remotely for an answer, he headed out of the room. “Come with me, please.”

I followed the rheumatic pace of his steps—through the hallway and into the library, where he pointed to a maroon leather couch.

“If you don't mind. I will only be a minute.”

The minute felt like ages. My sister. It had to be her. No one else in my family had a point of contact with a Princeton butler. But why wait until now to tell me? Being discreet was a matter of pride for him, I had seen that. And dead relatives were not exactly a topic one broached casually to a houseguest. Maybe tonight, this being my last visit and all, he saw no more harm in mentioning her or giving me an old keepsake—a farewell gift, to soften the blow of what Rhys had just done to me. Yet if Ferry knew Elza, how come Rhys and Jake didn't? Or if they did, why keep it a secret from me all this time?

He returned, carrying a silver tray on which a glass of lemonade balanced its contents over a long thin stem. I wasn't even thirsty. But, clearly, in certain circles the rules of etiquette came first. The glass landed on a side table next to me. The tray sank somewhere, quietly. Then he walked over to a leather-inlay writing desk across the room. Opened a drawer. Lifted the mystery object and handed it to me.

It was a black-and-white photograph in which a girl my age sat at a piano, looking out at the camera, smiling. Next to her, a boy—eleven or twelve, at most—had glued his hands and eyes to the keys, struggling with a tune that had long ago vanished into silence.

I recognized the girl. Her enigmatic smile, the oddly wise depth of her eyes.

“Where did you get this? Did you actually know my sister?”

“She was a friend of the family. A very dear one, even if only briefly.”

Elza—a friend of the Estlins. It was impossible to fathom. Who, out of the entire clan, could she have been friends with? Isabel? Archer? Or some other relative I didn't know about?

I took my best guess: “Someone told me once that Isabel . . . I mean, Mrs. Estlin . . . was a famous pianist. Why would she befriend a student from Bulgaria?”

“She didn't, not exactly.”

“Then who did? And why?”

“Your sister was a strikingly talented musician, Miss Thea. The Estlins have rarely been able to find a pianist to match their caliber. Even at a place like Princeton.”

“Was she really that good?”

“Oh, yes. She could steal your heart with just a few keystrokes.” His eyes glided over the scores in my lap. “Although I must say she didn't care much about Chopin. Her taste was decidedly darker, as I recall.”

“Dark in what way?”

“In the marvelously complex way of what is often referred to as ‘the Slavic soul.' She idolized the Russians: Rachmaninoff, Scriabin, and especially Stravinsky. But, strangely enough, her favorite piece had nothing to do with them. ‘Clair de Lune.' She played it every time she was in this house. I used to tell her that once she set her fingers to Debussy, even time itself paused to listen.”

I imagined Elza playing in the Estlins' living room, driving the moon in the sky wild with envy at the other, more perfect moon rising from the keyboard.

Then a suspicion crossed my mind.

“Since my sister was such a dear friend, do you know by any chance if someone in this household sent flowers to the funeral home?”

“Certainly. I was in charge of it myself.”

Shorter than Giles and more formally dressed.
Way more formally, as it was turning out.

“Why did the delivery need to be anonymous?”

He measured his words, the way he had measured that lemonade so it would fill the glass to just below the rim, without spilling.

“Your sister's death was a very delicate matter, Miss Thea. The flowers were meant to express everyone's most sincere condolences. Under the circumstances, however, it was imperative that the family not be implicated.”

“Could it have been?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Was there anything in particular the family was trying to keep private?”

His eyes turned stone-cold. “Given the timing—yes. Any attention from either the police or the press would have been most unwelcome.”

“Why?”

“I thought you knew. Master and Mrs. Estlin had just passed, only days prior.”

I realized how insulting my insinuation must have been to him. “My apologies, Ferry, I had no idea. And I don't mean to pry. It's just that I'm having a hard time with . . . with all the mystery surrounding Elza.”

“That's entirely understandable. Family wounds never heal.”

“I wouldn't call it exactly a ‘wound.' More of a sense of urgency. As if my own life can't start until I find out how hers ended.”

He considered my words, then shook his head.

“Your sister was an astoundingly fearless young lady. Pardon my observation, but from the day you were first brought to Pebbles, I have been certain that lack of fear was something the two of you had in common. Yet the problem with this rare quality, you see, is that it can lead to rather rash decisions. I would never wish for you to go down such a path.”

“You mean make the same mistakes?”

“Mistakes are always relative, Miss Thea.”

Some were. But others were not—like still being in that house when its owner would come home.

I slipped the photo in my pocket, ready to leave. “Who is the boy at the piano?”

“Master Jake. He was Miss Elza's pupil. She loved the boy to bits, called him ‘Miracle Hands.' And that's exactly what he was. The instrument came alive under his fingers, even then.”

“Was Jake the only one she gave lessons to?”

The nod was so slight I wasn't sure if I had imagined it.

“But his brother isn't much older. Was he not around?”

“Master Rhys was here, yes.”

“Then he must have been so good that he didn't need lessons?”

I had never seen a person so still, as if even the blood in his arteries had solidified.

“You ought to excuse the ramblings of an old man, Miss Thea. At times, I find it difficult to let go of the past. Perhaps you would rather—”

We heard loud brakes outside. Then the front door of the house opened and someone rushed in, calling my name from the hallway.

“THANK GOD YOU'RE STILL HERE!
Ferry promised to try and keep you, but I thought I'd be too late.”

“As you always are with me, right?”

So much for dreading a face-off with Rhys—the one storming into the library wasn't even him. Now I knew why the butler had served me that lemonade and why it had taken him so long to bring it: he had needed those extra minutes to call Jake, given that the other Estlin was not to be disturbed.

“I can't believe this was all an act, Ferry. Aptly staged, though. And it did keep me in the house, indeed.”

“I'm afraid I had no choice, Miss Thea. It was late, and you seemed disinclined to wait. To let you leave unaccompanied would have been imprudent.”

“Whereas deceiving me was fine?”

“My apology, if this is how you feel. I assure you that every word you heard in this room was meant with utmost sincerity.” Then his face morphed back into the detached mask of a house servant. “Now, unless my assistance is still needed, I will retire for the night.”

And with a quick nod to each of us, he left.

“What was that all about?” Jake reached for a hug, as if we were old friends about to enjoy a heart-to-heart. “Deceit, stage acting—not Ferry's usual repertoire.”

“But it seems to come naturally to everyone else in this house. And get your hands off me. Or should I say
your miracle hands
?”

The phrase hit him, draining the blood from his face. “What exactly did Ferry tell you?”

“Why? Are you worried that your own version might not check out?”

“There are no versions, Thea. You are my brother's girlfriend. Whatever you need to know must come from him.”

“And it did. As a matter of fact, your brother couldn't have been more explicit tonight.”

I headed for the door but he stopped me. “Please wait until Rhys comes back. He'll want to talk to you.”

“That's highly unlikely, given where he's been all night.”

“Where do you think he's been?”

“Seriously?” I couldn't believe he would join in on the act, and pretend that nothing had happened. “Don't lie to me, Jake, okay? Your brother gets high on lying to everyone. And he can do whatever he wants; I guess lying is what makes him . . . Rhys. But I didn't think you of all people would—”

“I haven't lied to you. And I never will.”

“Silence can be a lie too, you know?”

He had nothing to say. I asked him to call me a cab and leave me alone—this time he didn't argue.

While I waited for the car, I looked at Elza's picture again. At the girl who had so much—and yet so little—in common with me. She was smiling back at whoever had held the camera, but I liked the illusion that her smile was intended for me. That, in some secret corner of her mind, she had anticipated how one day I would trace her steps all the way to this house.

Then I flipped the image over.

To the most beautiful girl in the world,

Jake.

Made up of the two musical clefs, the tiny heart was unmistakable. Just a doodle, drawn with a quick sweep of the hand.

She loved the boy to bits
, Ferry had said. But, as it was turning out, the one in love had been Jake. It didn't matter how young he might have been at the time. Not even a teenager yet, practically still a child. Elza must have become his first innocent (or maybe not so innocent) fantasy. His tragically doomed crush. The kind of crush that stays with you forever.

Many years had passed. Until he had seen her last name on a concert flyer, one September morning. Or it could have been afternoon—late in the day, the light already receding into long shadows, making him think for a second that the whimsical Princeton sunset was distorting the letters, to play a trick on his heart:

. . .
the music department's youngest student, Thea Slavin . . . acclaimed pianist . . . just arrived from Bulgaria . . .

No wonder, then, that he had shown up in Alexander Hall. That he had followed me into the museum basement and spoken to me about a musician who lost his love because he was too weak. It wasn't me he had been looking for. All this time, he had been chasing after a long-lost dream—only to realize, in the end, that I wasn't her.