The rain poured down. Janet worried over the fate of her piano, but still breathed in the pleasant smell of rain on earth. It had been decided to leave the piano, but not by her, farther up on the beach, elevated on blocks, until the weather permitted moving it, because of the danger of the slippage of the mud on the long trek to the house. She did not know when that would be. It continued to rain. She should be planning her wedding, but her thoughts are with her piano. It was her voice, her means of creative expression, the link to her daughter's father, her solace - and she would be lost without it.
All of her other belongings had already been delivered - the children, thinking the entire thing a lark, were allowed to carry small, light things such as lampshades and hat boxes, as they excitedly clamoured to take part and help, but for every one else it was hard work.
She thought she might enlist Mr. Marston's help, and she and her daughter Grace make the muddy trek to his house, through a grove of tree ferns and where occasional, unsteady planks and boards are the means for crossing over the ground, sodden from days of rain. A dog barked from the porch of the thatched-roof cabin; alerting his master to visitors, or trespassers. The foundation of the dwelling was raised on stump posts. She had learned that Mr. Marston was the small settlement's blacksmith.
When he answered the door, he looks at them as though they were not welcome. Cautiously, he lets them in, and Grace rushes to the piano, now standing in a corner of the room. The child sat down and immediately started banging on the keys.
"Gracie!" her mother admonished her. "It will need to be tuned!" She thought of all the damage it must have sustained on the trip. At least it was finally safe and dry. And she needed to give some thought to finding an appropriate place for a studio for her teaching, piano and voice. Perhaps the school, church or community center would be available.
"I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Marston, but we have come about the piano. This is my daughter, Gracie."
Her daughter's actual name was Charis, from the Greek, meaning grace - but everyone called her the name in English, the affectionate Gracie.
But instead of the jarring, discordant sounds she expected, it sounded fine when her daughter played a simple scale; pitch perfect, as her fingers pressed down along the keys of C major. She sat down at the piano next to her daughter, and played a few chords.
"I had it tuned for ye." he quietly said. She was surprised, and a little embarrassed, that she had prejudged him, assuming him to be uncultured and boorish.
"Well . . . that was very kind of you." she stammered. "Thank you."
"Seònaid," he then said to her. "Your name in Gaelic. Did ye know that." He did not seem to be a man who smiled much, and one side of his face she could now see was horribly scarred, burned.
Yes, she thought. It had been her mother's middle name too. From near Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis and Harris. It had always sounded like "Shawnet" to her, when she had heard her grandmother call her and her mother by that name.
"I thank you, and good day to you, sir."
She and her fiancé could arrange for the piano to be moved from here.