Chapter Three
THAT CAT WAS GOING TO be the death of him. If Tristan weren’t Ma’s beloved pet, Ezekiel would dump the feline on the nearest ferry to be a mouser and someone else’s problem.
“Mr. Beaumont, I need your assistance, please.”
After four months of Miss Davis deftly outmaneuvering his attempts to force a formal introduction, her soft, dulcet voice had finally addressed him. Ezekiel might have to begrudgingly reward the ball of fur later for forcing the enigmatic dark-eyed beauty to speak directly to him.
“My apologies, Miss Davis”—he bowed to her, then her ma—“Mrs. Davis. It appears Tristan has decided you are a better companion than I.”
“Tristan must have a good sense of character. My daughter is as sweet as she is talented.” Mrs. Davis sat stiffly in her chair, warily eyeing Ezekiel. “However, it appears his opinion does not speak well of you.”
And there went Tristan being helpful. The cat must be determined to make Ezekiel’s life miserable at every opportunity. “I assure you, the cat only hates me because he’s jealous of how handsome I am compared to how ugly he is.”
A surprised laugh burst from Mrs. Davis. He’d aimed to amuse Miss Davis, but her face remained impassive. Of course, the source of her displeasure was still lying across her lap. Perhaps a heroic rescue would be more to her preference.
He found her hand and bowed over it. “Allow me to save you from this beastly dragon, m’lady.”
She yanked free. “You can turn off the charm, Don Giovanni.”
The accusation landed like an unexpected uppercut.
Don Giovanni was a vile character who ruined women, and it stung to be compared to him.
Given the way she’d been avoiding him, she probably hoped to deter further interaction.
“I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment to my good looks or an insult to my character. ”
“I’d say take it as both, but I imagine that would inflate your ego too much.” As soon as she said it, her eyes widened and her now-free hand flew to her mouth.
Oh, she was quick and her tongue sharp, but he did enjoy a good parry. “You’re probably right. Wise decision to keep it to yourself.” He winked to show he’d taken her words in good stride.
Color crawled up her neck as she averted her gaze.
“If it’s all the same, I will alleviate you of the infuriating pest.”
“Thank you.” Her voice barely rose to a whisper.
He eyed the way Tristan was sprawled across her lap and against her stomach, but there was no way to remove the cat without grossly breaking the rules of propriety. She’d certainly believe him a Don Giovanni then.
“I confess, I don’t see a way to respectfully retrieve him in his current position. Perhaps by the time we’re formally introduced, he’ll have shifted.” He might as well use the opportunity to his advantage.
Mrs. Davis adjusted to a more regal position, with a lifted chin and straightened back. “I am the famed Constanza Brisbane, and this is my daughter—”
“Nora.” Miss Davis cut her ma off with a hint of panic to her tone. “Nora Davis. You’ll have to forgive Mum. She’s not having a good day.”
“I’m having a perfectly fine day, dear. You are here and training to become my superior protégé.”
Ah. So Mrs. Davis was one of those who believed themselves to be someone else.
The woman must have a taste for the dramatic to claim the life of the famed opera singer who mysteriously disappeared.
Honestly, he’d prefer it if Ma were here for a similar reason.
At least Mrs. Davis seemed happy. Ma hadn’t been happy in many years and had almost succeeded in prematurely exiting this life a mere five months ago.
Some of the enjoyment at having finally cornered the lovely Miss Davis into conversation died, but he kept his smile in place. It was better to deflect sadness with jokes and feigned happiness than to reveal how much Ma’s disinterest in life pained him.
The reception door swung open, and Nurse Abbott ushered his reluctant ma into the room. She went no further than urged and stared at the floor as she rubbed one arm like a child ashamed and awaiting punishment.
Oh, Ma.
Ezekiel strode across the room, arms extended, and pulled her into a hug he hoped showed how much he loved her and needed her in his life.
Unfortunately, embracing her was like cuddling a corpse.
She just stood there, cold and stiff beneath his hold, not returning his love with even a pat or word of hello.
“I brought Tristan with me. I thought you might like to see the rascal.” He took her limp hand and led her to stand before Miss Davis.
Tristan lifted his head, gave a yowled greeting, then took his time in jumping to the floor to brush Ma’s skirts with a proper hello.
A small tremor showed at the corner of her mouth. Might she finally smile for Ezekiel? Instead, a giant tear rolled down her cheek and dripped to the floor. His own smile faltered at the ache of squashed hope.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Beaumont.” Miss Davis rose and offered a low curtsy.
Her brief glance his direction spoke of a compassion only those with parents such as theirs could understand.
She didn’t smile, but her voice was gentle and kind without being patronizing.
“Your son was just introducing himself, but I’m afraid he hasn’t shared his name yet.
Would you be so kind as to enlighten us? ”
Ma turned to him, and the slight questioning slant of her brow was a vast improvement over the earlier blankness.
Ezekiel raised his hands and shook his head. “Don’t look at me. I haven’t decided yet which of my names I will present. Miss Davis suggested Don Giovanni, but I think I’d rather a hero’s name. Perhaps Tamino?”
A hint of the look Ma often gave him as a child—that quit-being-ridiculous-and-behave-yourself look—appeared, and Ezekiel could have whooped at the small victory.
“Ezekiel.” The single word rasped out, evidence of a voice too long unused.
“Ezekiel, you say?” Miss Davis tilted her head at just the right angle to show interest and encouragement. “Why, how very biblical and apropos. He was just prophesying like his namesake, for he is indeed a hero by bringing you over here to lure Tristan away.”
Miss Davis was a gentle melody in the brash cacophony of coping with Ma’s melancholia.
Ezekiel should have brought Tristan sooner.
They might have already formed a steady friendship if he had.
Her tenderness toward Ma and Ma’s reactions to her, no matter how small, were a balm to the constant grief he carried.
“Do you like music, Mrs. Beaumont?”
Ezekiel held his breath at Miss Davis’s question.
Music had once been as important as breathing to Ma.
It was because of her that he composed music and played the piano, clarinet, and violin.
Until Pa got sick and Ezekiel had to abandon his pursuit of becoming a composer for the steadier income of a stage manager, Ezekiel couldn’t remember a time when music didn’t fill the quiet moments of their lives.
During Pa’s illness, Ma’s love and desire for music had waned, then it had died with Pa.
At Ma’s nod, Miss Davis smiled. Well, most wouldn’t call the slight upturn at the corners of her lips a smile, but he’d been surreptitiously watching her for months, and this definitely counted.
The only times he’d seen her actually smile was at her ma or when she sang, and even then, it was restrained.
One day he would succeed in encouraging her into an unrestrained grin, but for now, he would bask in the slight upturn and in Ma’s engagement with life.
Miss Davis offered Ma a seat on the sofa nearest the piano.
Tristan jumped onto Ma’s lap and demanded her attention.
She obeyed, even going so far as to scratch under his chin.
If Ezekiel closed his eyes, he could pretend they were at home, with Ma prepared to listen to one of his compositions while she wiggled a string for Tristan to play with.
The hope they might one day again experience that joy dangled in front of him, but the fragility of it made him hesitant to grasp it.
This was the most progress he’d seen from Ma in far, far too long, but how long would it last?
“I’m afraid scales are the extent of my skill, but perhaps you would enjoy a private performance from the famous Constanza Brisbane?” Miss Davis gestured to her ma. “Mum, would you mind?”
Either Miss Davis was modest or she truly didn’t believe she had the skill he’d heard.
Each week, when he’d arrived during a singing lesson, he’d purposely lingered in the hall until caught by a passing nurse, all so he could listen.
She was truly talented and had the potential for fame.
He didn’t have many connections, but he did have one who could change her life forever.
Graham Linville.
The local librettist and impresario wanted to start his own opera company.
With his knack for spotting and encouraging talent, he’d no doubt take Miss Davis on once he heard her.
Ezekiel could help her prepare and provide her an advantage.
After all, he was the composer for Graham’s most recent libretto.
Of course, teaching her the music would require him to finish the score that was long past due.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve just gotten her to speak to you.
With her Don Giovanni statement, she’d probably think the offer a seduction ploy. Getting past that fortress of prejudice would require a cautious approach, one that wouldn’t put her on the defensive but earn him an invitation to walk through the open gate.
Mrs. Davis beamed at her daughter’s suggestion and stood with all the pride and proper stance he’d seen of any true prima donna. “It would be my honor. What do you say to a little ‘Der Holle Rache’?”