Chapter 7 – A Likeness of Frederik

Louisa and Henrietta, hearing that they were to entertain a famous musician and playwright, began to research the man, who was formerly no more to them than a name they might have recalled having heard once or twice. Anne found it trying, in the least, to be bombarded with information about Frederik Wentworth, for Mary had taken up the amusement as well.

"You know, he might know of Dad," expressed Mary one evening. "Dad does know everyone of any real importance."

The Musgrove girls hid their smirks behind the piano where they were going over one of the musical scores of The Siren of the Laconia. It had taken some pains for Louisa to get her hands on it, having done so almost criminally. The spirited Louisa, when determined on what she would do, would brook no opposition. If the celebrity coming to visit had had a painting or a sculpture displayed somewhere, she would have hunted it down and done all in her power to know everything she could about it, short of removing it from the premises to her own home. So it was with the theme song from Mr. Wentworth's Laconia. It had hardly reached the shores of the U.S., having gained its reputation in Europe, and she was already espousing its merits to all her acquaintances. The piece she had commandeered she studied and practiced meticulously. She agonized over its chords.

"How soul-searching the mood and nuances of the song," she mused to Henrietta one day in the presence of Anne. If Anne had not been fraught with her own anxieties at the time, she would have found the ravings of Louisa more entertaining. Yet she could not smile at this sudden infatuation with the man of her past. She struggled daily to come to terms with the churning emotions within, to find a sort of equilibrium.

The day before the expected dinner, the girls came to their brother's home for a visit and brought with them a recent picture of Frederik. Most of the shots of him, up to that point, had been from the side, or blurred. Mary was allowed time to examine it, then Anne. The pining woman could not help but gaze upon it for some time. It was a different countenance altogether staring back at her, though she recognized the liquid amber eyes. And something in the forehead was familiar. Now she understood the relationship between Dr. Musgrove and Frederik's brother. It was Edward Wentworth who had solicited the aid of the good surgeon to reconstruct the features that lay on her lap before her.

A sadness swept over her unlike any she had felt before. Louisa and Henrietta were discussing some interesting tidbit they had found with Mary and did not notice how quickly their friend left the room.

Their only account on the matter went as follows:

"Oh, has Anne left already?"

"She is very attentive to the boys, you know. They can hardly do without her when she is here. She is their favorite aunt, I daresay."

And whether Mary meant it as an insult or not, it was taken that way. Before long, the sisters had found some excuse to get out of Mary's way, taking their precious picture with them.

Anne escaped to the basement. The boys had vacated it, preferring the warm weather outside. As she moved to pick up the toys strewn across the floor, pictures flashed into her mind. The creaking planks of the stairway of the old Opera house…the vast height of the room as she entered the chapel from the narrow corridor. Then the haunting, luring music, she heard it again.

Anne looked around her. The stained-glass windows brightly played their colors across the benches and wooden floorboards of the room. 'Was the music real? And where could it be coming from?'

She had been practicing in one of the rooms off the empty opera hall when she heard it. It was her favorite place to practice; the antiquity of the building brought a sense of being close to her mother again. No one came here now; it was kept up as more of a museum. Sometimes she would hear people wandering through the rooms as sight-seers, or couples looking for a hidden alcove to conceal themselves. But never had she heard that bewitching music. It was intoxicating, and she had to find its maker.

She went through all the rooms, checking each one by one listening to find whether she were closer to the spell-binding melody. The haunting tune led her into the chapel, built long ago as a retreat for those artists who would wish to ask for divine assistance before their performances. It was small, and not so ornate that Anne had trouble seeing that there was no real place for the piano she heard in the distance. For she was able to ascertain that that was the instrument being played. She moved up the room toward the altar where a portrait of St. Cecilia was hung between heavy red brocade draperies that spanned the back wall of the jutting room. As she looked upon the innocent face of the woman in the portrait, the music stopped. All was quiet around her, as though the very atmosphere was hushed and waiting.

Had she been given a divine message? Could her mother be calling to her? What did this mean? The walls around her remained still and silent. She stayed in the room until it was time for her to go to her next class. Something mysterious awaited her there, but what?

It was a week later that the music beckoned once more. Immediately she ran into the old chapel. She looked upon the portrait, but this time the music did not stop. Its melody was like a laughing trickling brook, and she stepped up into the alcove of the dead martyr's memorial. The playing was coming from behind the heavy curtain. She drew it back, and there she found a door only slightly ajar. She opened it and walked forward and down the winding stairway. The music was playful and intoxicating. The musician charmed the keys in such a way that it made the hairs on her arms stand; it was pure euphoria to listen to the sweetness of the chords. Yet she was not familiar with the song.

She walked down a long corridor; there were closed doors which she passed on each side. She knew where she was going. She could see the open doorway ahead. From it's opening came a sliver of light, and she pushed it forward to enter.

"Stay where you are!" a male voice demanded. The music had stopped. She had no doubt the voice was the musician's.

"You play so beautifully," she called from the door, but did not intrude. "May I come in?"

There was silence for some moments. She waited for him to open the door. He did not, but the words floated through the doorway.

"If you come in, you will have to sit at the first chair you see."

While Anne thought his words odd, she pushed the door open. Before her was a large room which housed only a single chair and dim lamp. The cord of the lamp was stretched through the doorway of another room. Her first impulse was to continue on into the second chamber, but she remembered the instructions and sat upon the chair.

"Are you seated now?" the voice was strong and demanded her response.

"I am," she said loudly.

Then the music began again. This time it was more sentimental, a love song. She had heard its notes before; but never had they been played like this, she was sure. She closed her eyes, letting the music take her spirit from her body and transport her to a realm of wonder and joy. The music stopped for only a second. Then the piano began anew, and its chords were the sounds of unearthly sadness. Anne felt she could almost touch the emotion within them. Her heart yearned for more; and, hungrily, she listened until he stopped abruptly and spoke.

"You need to go to class." She looked at her watch in doubt, but he was right.

"Will you play again tomorrow?"

"If you will be here."

"I will!" Unconsciously, she stepped toward the doorway from which the musician's voice came. The door slammed in her face. Confusion swept over her as she left the small room and clambered up the stairs into the chapel. Very carefully she pulled the door to as it had been before she entered it and draped the curtain over it again. Whoever he was, he did not enjoy visitors. And in her heart she knew, she didn't want to share him – or his music, to be more precise.

Many weeks passed wherein she went to the room below the chapel almost every day. The pianist's music had become almost an addiction to her. She found she could not sleep without replaying some portion in her mind; and when she woke, the melodies she could not remember the night before were on her tongue. Yet it was not enough. She had to know who this mysterious musician was.

In her frustration, she sat upon the chair without announcing herself and spoke to him.

"I want to see you today." There was silence, though she could feel his presence. "I want to see you play that lovely music."

"No," answered the unswayable man through the doorway. "But I will play a different instrument today."

A moment later the pleading strains of the violin came through the portal. Now this was something Anne had not thought could be so, but he was playing a song that was well known to her. It was one her father was famous for playing: The Resurrection of Lazarus. And he played it beautifully, as though each stroke of the bow was his own unique story being told. The listener in the chair felt speechless when the piece was completed, and the violinist waited in silence for some time. Anne got up out of the chair and found that her knees were shaking. The music had brought so many recollections to her that she felt very exposed, as though the musician had trespassed some unseen boundary of her mind.

"I must go," she stated simply and walked out the door.

"Anne Christine Elliot," the voice called to her as she walked toward the stairway. It stopped her in her path. "I will let you see me play next time." She did not turn and look back, though she knew he was right at the door to the hallway. Her legs raced up the steps and out into the light shining through the windows of the chapel. She did not turn back to straighten the curtain. There was fear within her. He knew her name! But her heart rested in the knowledge that she would return; she could not help but do so.

She did return. And he kept his word.