The Harpsichordist

By Celeste Plowden

Newly transformed vampire, Miles Beaumont, London maker of famous harpsichords is a noteworthy concert artist.  But as with all creatures, he craves a mate of his own kind.

On a ship bound for New York in 1731, Miles is unwit

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sky Blue Wulf Publishing
• Release date: Aug 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781087894447

Book preview

I

New York, 1990s

Even as a boy, Robert remembered how his Aunt Eugenia Vye’s presence had hung heavy about her, an ammonia cloud waiting to spew caustic raindrops on any and all. But the waiting for such drizzle was all that ever happened, for the storm cloud never erupted.

Yet there were the awful stories about her past. He remembered her on a particular evening, arched backward over his mother’s baby grand, her slender body bent into a kind of S curve, under her sensuously glossy dress, a cigarette holder of ebony and mother-of-pearl clutched tightly between her hard, red lips.

Was it true about his aunt having murdered her own illegitimate child when she was seventeen? Did she smother it just after birth, when the nurses had brought it to her for its first feeding? The nurses knew. Or so everyone believed.

They found the tiny child cold--dead for hours--they said, lying side by side with its peacefully slumbering young mother. By all accounts, the coroner was said to have deemed it accidental, or merely a sudden infant death of some common, yet unknown, cause. Accidental? the nurses had exclaimed in whispers, recalling what looked like bruises--thumb-sized bruises--on the child’s neck. A day later, they watched as the mother-no-more swayed down the hospital corridor, almost gaily, wearing a soft, peach suit, the only bright thing in the otherwise dismal and sickly-smelling institution.

He, Robert, had never seen the baby or the peach suit, yet he believed the story, secretly, as he remembered the arch of her body against the piano, her cool expression, and the false vivacity in her overly red lips when she smiled. On the evening from his memory, someone had been playing, "Am I Blue," and she, who could not sing, aligned her figure with the piano, enjoying thoughts of her latest conquests, while leaning deeply into the edge of the instrument.

It must have been about 1950. Robert was five, and she was some twenty-five years older. She was passing gracefully into a middle age that would rend her more beautiful than she had been in her youth. Her hair and skin had taken on the luster of pearls, and her eyes glistened like blue ice. Certain men found her attractive, desirable, and she was never without wealthy suitors, who slipped her in and out of puffy furs or chic Dior gowns. They handed her sleek cocktails and poured empty talk into her diamond-studded ears until she gave them what they wanted.

Eugenia even married one of them. She was Mrs.-Frank-Something, for a week, not even long enough to have bothered changing her name before his heart gave out. Her husband had been a pudgy, greedy, little man who had utterly fallen for Eugenia’s curves and smiles. Where his sweaty hands had once been, now there was only his money. She spread the green stuff around in their bed on the day of his funeral and rolled in it, naked and laughing, or so a neighbor, who had heard it from a maid, had told Robert’s mother one morning, while leaning over the white picket fence of their safe, square patch of lawn.

What had she done to see to his death, the little Robert had wondered? As if imagining his thoughts just at that moment, she bent down from her pose over the piano and kissed him. He had stared into his aunt’s eyes, those jets of cool, blue mist, and saw what had forevermore horrified him – an eternity of nothingness. Eugenia’s eyes were like the place one goes to who does not believe in God or Heaven. She was nullity, the extinction of the soul, worse than limbo, where a lost soul sailed forever in nothingness; she, herself, was that nothingness.

And now she rose from her chair like vapor ascending, calmly, smoothly, as if something within her were not quite awake. Hers was Age disguised as Beauty; only her wrinkled hands, and ever more present blue veins betrayed her seventy or so years. "How many lifts had that face had?" one was likely to ask after viewing those hands, the skin of which appeared crumpled like fine grenadine silk, crushed and twisted, having lain forgotten in some dusty drawer.

The well-formed features of her face showed barely a line. Her lips, still fairly full, with fine points drawn at the corners, reigned over the rest of her features with absolute authority. Her hair was platinum blonde, youthful and luxurious; her eyes, often vacant, though sometimes piercing, revealed nothing of what was on her mind. No limb moved, nor breath rose until that fixed moment when, with deliberation, the rouged lips parted and gave way to speech, smiling so meagerly that it seemed calculating, untrue. It was a practiced, prepared smile which said, I mean to have my way.

Eugenia Vye always intended on having the last word when departing the room. She insisted on her part, as an actress on stage alone would, in ending a significant monologue. Her squared shoulders lifted her slim frame from the chair, her chest puffed slightly, her waist tightened, and one foot followed the other, sliding discreetly beneath a calf-length dress, usually of a dark color--often burgundy. She commanded every nuance of her every feature, and they followed her obediently as if playing parts in some foreboding symphony.

What did she want now with his daughter? Robert could not believe that she was at last lonely for familial companionship, after all these years. He did not know for what purpose she required young Jane’s presence for the summer, but he had a purpose of his own, Jane’s benefit from the invitation. Aunt Eugenia would establish his daughter in an apartment of her own for the season, along with a reasonable stipend. Should the arrangement come undone, Jane would at least be able to finish her education. After all, it would only be from June through mid-August, at which point she would return to begin her formal musical training. What could happen?

True, he mistrusted his aging aunt and her unclear motives. He hated her as well – as if such an empty being were worth the effort of his emotions. Instinctively, he knew that the one thing Eugenia prized above all else was her life, her youthfulness, and she would do nothing to put her carefully preserved body in any danger of being harmed. He was sure Eugenia suspected that if anything were to happen to his daughter, he would certainly twist the life out of her. Though he had never given her any reason to detect any outward contempt in him, she had to feel his loathing for her. She knew it and she did not care. She had tasted his disgust with her years ago, when she had given him that spurious kiss in front of the baby grand. That was the moment he was certain that he, Robert, was of no consequence to her.

No one at the table spoke until Eugenia left the dining room. After dislodging a piece of lettuce from his fork, and clearing his throat from time to time, Robert explained to his daughter that she would have to stay the summer at his Aunt Eugenia’s house in the country. Jane turned her blank, downward stare towards the window. Her straight, collar-length hair fell in droopy strings over her face, so that her father could not make out her sentiment, try as he might. But there was no expression there to see, no argument to be had.

Jane, or rather the spirit that she embodied, hung as listlessly from her features as her hair did on her face. In all of her eighteen years, Robert had never been able to read her, except when she called to him with the airy voice of a fairy-child. "Continuo," she would announce, and he would turn to see a bright creature, violin in hand, poised and ready for a fairy’s music. Lightly, swiftly, her spirit hovered and waited to escape through her fingers, igniting everything with its sound. With quick pleasure he would reach for his cello, or seat himself at their piano just as his late wife, the mother of this pixie once did. It did not matter which instrument he chose as continuo. Jane was the life and breath of the music; he was only a support, a ground, which kept her steadily in place so as not to fly off too quickly towards heaven.

Allegro and andante, vivace and moderato she played, through the movements of many a fantasia, or fugue--especially those of Bach. She was not in neglect of the dark airs of Purcell and Eccles, nor the regal strains of Handel, or the driving melodies of Couperin or Rameau. She soared up through to the lightness of Haydn, and then to Mozart, nearly reaching Heaven through his work. She commanded Beethoven’s power to the envy of all who heard her. In Schubert, she called forth spring--purely, gently, and with the silent cheer one feels when seeing early crocuses through melting snow. Her Tchaikovsky was as delicious as sugar plums; Paganini, as wild as a demon cast out of Creation. She spun circles of delight with Kreisler and the Waltz King. Though she could easily unleash Stravinsky’s fire, she much preferred her Baroque favorites.

And so, ran her passion, even onto Bernstein and Bartok, both of whom she barely tolerated, but learnt still, for the challenge playing all with equal fervor. Her fingers knew no bounds, nor her ears, nor her soul. She came to life when she played, and she was, then, the best of what she was meant to be. The rest of the world whirled around her, and fell away, merely fragments of someone else’s imagination. Music was her world, and she, its mistress, a universe of all-enveloping sound and harmony that bent in awe of her playing.

God had put her in this space, this thousand-fold galaxy where he, Robert, her earthly father, was invited to join her for hours or merely minutes (as they so often seemed), in the evenings. By the mere whisper of Continuo, he was beckoned, and he always came with joy, staying until his little son tired and slept from his play with toy trains and trucks on the floor, just beyond his sister’s universe.

Robert looked hard at his daughter, so plain now, and wondered if she would ever care if she were pretty. Would she ever become as facile in wit and manner as she had in music? Did it matter? He had tried his best to reach her, to draw her into her dresser mirror and make her face the young woman who stood there. She cared not. Her hair hung limp and undone and her eyes remained cast down, their light always closed to the world , save for when she made her music. To those of her age who would befriend her, she did not, could not, reciprocate, and only replied to their inquiries one-word answers. She turned away everyone, except those very few who shared some musical ability, who could accompany her playing. She seemed to have no use for anything or anyone, otherwise. If she were simply a music machine, Robert would have to let her be one; he had resolved that long ago. Believing that time would shape her whole, he allowed her to remain as she was for the present. The future would see to itself.

Yes, he would sacrifice her for the summer to his unpredictable aunt. Eugenia was rich, and able to aid Jane’s cause for being. She had agreed to purchase a small condominium on Manhattan’s Upper West Side in Jane’s name, only a few blocks from where the young musician’s greatest hope lay, the Juilliard School of Music. She had been accepted there with great eagerness, a full scholarship, and encouragement for her future as a top-ranking violinist.

Still, he, Robert Vye, father and widower, worried about his brilliant violinist child. What future could she have if she refused to communicate or cooperate with the rest of the world? Could she do those things so vital to one’s success in life? He doubted his ability to provide for her for many more years. The premature arthritis in his left leg was spreading upward through his hip, hobbling him in his work as an upholsterer. While by himself in his shop he sometimes cried out and silently begged God not to let the disease to creep into his fingers. Please, let him keep his fingers and hands for the piano and cello, so that he could always be Continuo as long as he lived.

Robert’s late wife had died suddenly of a quick and cutting pneumonia, and he had lost so much vitality as a result. He was left alone to raise Adam, his small son, and Jane. Sometimes the loneliness for his wife was so great, he felt it was the heartache rather than the disease that was destroying his limbs. He believed he would not live to see his son grow to manhood. He prayed that he might at least live another few years in order to see his eldest, Jane, reach a professional level with her musical ability. Then he could leave this arthritic body behind, his soul flying into the blue serene on the sound of, perhaps, castrati angels, their large bodies dangling awkwardly beneath smallish heads and tiny wings, as they sang Bach’s cantatas forever into Eternity. He was certain Jane’s earthbound music would surely reach him there, as well.

II

The day came when Jane was to be expected at Eugenia’s home, just off the east bank of the Hudson River, north, in the town of Rhinebeck. The day had come with warning for weeks, and stole up behind Jane at every opportunity, like a nagging, ill-bred child forever tugging at her hands, and reminding her of its unwelcome presence and all its wants.

Jane turned the corner onto Joralemon Street and into the door of Robert Vye, Upholsterer. Standing at the threshold, she surveyed the walls lined with rolls of fabric, and her eyes rested momentarily on each bolt, photographing them in her mind as she bid all farewell.

Her father appeared from the back of the Brooklyn shop, glad to see her, and careful not to show the least anxiety about her departure. He spoke the parental speeches she expected to hear, of remembering manners while visiting her great aunt, of practicing her violin daily, of not keeping late hours with any new friends she might meet. He knew she would do none of what he asked, except the part about playing her instrument, in fact she would do that to the exclusion of all else. But he made his little speech all the same, and she made no pretense at listening to it.

He talked while she busied herself with sublime abandon, handling the many fabrics surrounding her. Some she caressed as one would an animal, with long open-handed strokes, or rubbed others between two fingers, feeling the texture on both sides of the cloth. On some she traced the patterns and colors of flowers or borders with an index finger, redrawing them in a painterly rhythm. Still others she crushed in her fist or wound over her arms, hugging lengths of it to herself. The watered silks she saved for last, approaching them as a conductor might approach his orchestra, giving pause, and then seizing upon them. She played them like harps, the dusty blues and then the muted roses, across the fern greens, the rich golds and brilliant burgundies – and each hummed in its own timbre, the melody she played on them.

A large black cat rubbed against her legs and purred his baritone song of greeting to her. He bore the white markings of surreal F holes on either side of his back. Thoroughbass, she replied, ceasing her fabric harmonies to trace his F holes with her fingers, caressing his soft black head and gently twisting his ears like tuning pegs on a violin.

Her father continued his soft drone, and Jane interrupted abruptly, as if she had not heard one word, with her usual and periodic request that she learn to work with him in the upholsterer’s trade. It was a weak plea, and he knew she would make it a surely as he would give his negative answer. Then he would commence another fatherly discourse about doing what she was really meant for, studying music.

Only this speech was different from those prior, for he sp0ke with a new and patient deliberateness, his words echoing across the yards of silk and billowing out in punctuation. All the while he sought his daughter’s expression from behind the drooping hair which dangled over her face, grabbing the ends and playfully pulling one side, and then the other, like the silky ears of a dog. But Jane appeared not to listen; she simply continued to stroke the cat, pluck his upward stretched tail like a great string, and tune his ears.

A short time later, Robert took his daughter by the hand and led her from the shop into a cab. Together they rode through the grey and pink towers of concrete and granite to that far away isle called Manhattan, towards a pit where trains slithered furtively in and out like enormous snakes.

III

A dark brown shadow, Eugenia Vye’s massive house stood like three drab, square boxes, the center square being the tallest, and each half-hidden amidst a thicket of trees and overgrown lilac hedges. Jane sat hesitantly in the car sent to collect her from the tiny rural station, vaguely wondering at Eugenia’s choice of color for the very large, somber and severe colonial-style house. The brown clapboard was brightened only a little by the salmon-pink shutters at each of the many windows, like hard, painted lips which might whisper to the trees of the secrets of within. With some misgiving, Jane approached the door, mentally preparing herself to enter what seemed a strongbox of mysteries, the home of her great aunt, Eugenia.

A plainly dressed woman in a clean, white apron answered the door, and politely but routinely showed Jane into the front hall, where she deposited Jane’s bags. Jane was led into a large parlor at one side of the house where Eugenia awaited her arrival. Eugenia planted a mechanical kiss on her great niece’s cheek. With barely a glance at her young guest, she patted the seat next to herself, bidding Jane be seated on the elegant and stiff-looking Chippendale-style chair.

The elder woman wasted no time in acquainting Jane with plans for her visit, the purpose in having her there. Jane had brought her violin, of course? Eugenia’s garnet lips formed their practiced smile, and Jane nodded in affirmation, hardly looking at her great aunt, instead turning her eyes around the room, taking in the colors and textures and guessing how many yards of fabric made up the voluminous oriental-patterned drapes. She was certain she would not like any of her hostess’ suggestions for how they would spend the summer. All she heard were the words violin and performance, intermixed with some utterly uninteresting concepts such as parties and people. Her aunt’s whole persona was reduced to those garnet