Island Of The Heart. Sara Craven
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it’s totally bizarre, like all of them.’ Jessica cast a droll glance towards the embroidered runners that masked the polished surfaces of the chests and bedside table, and the pin tray and trinket jars in rose-painted china which ornamented the dressing-table. ‘It’s like being caught in a Thirties timewarp. Fortunately, the plumbing is bang up to date. Flynn saw to that, although all our water comes from the lake.’
‘It does?’ Sandie’s eyes widened, and Jessica grinned.
‘Sounds rather primitive, eh? But it’s the norm round here. It would cost a fortune to bring mains water to this scatter of population. We have a rain tank as well,’ she added, nodding towards the streaming window. ‘As you can see, it’s rarely empty.’ Her tone became brisker. ‘Mother wondered whether you’d like to see the music-room, where you’re going to be working.’
‘Yes, I would—very much.’ Sandie forced a smile. ‘I began to wonder if I’d be staying, or whether I’d be asked to leave. Everyone keeps—staring at me as if they’d seen a ghost.’
‘How rude of us,’ Jessica said lightly. ‘The fact is, you’re the image of someone we used to know. The resemblance is quite amazing.’
So that’s all, Sandie thought with relief. She said, ‘Well, they say everyone has a double.’
‘So they do.’ Jessica’s tone was faintly ironic. ‘Come on, and I’ll introduce you to the piano.’
The music-room was on the ground floor, at the side of the house.
‘It used to be the morning-room,’ Jessica explained as she led the way in, ‘but Flynn had it converted to make the most of the view.’
Sandie gasped with pleasure. The entire end of the room had been extended out over the lake, and the walls and ceiling glazed so that sky and water formed the backdrop for the magnificent Steinway grand that stood there.
‘It’s fantastic!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’m glad you approve. You’re going to be spending a lot of your time here.’ Jessica paused. ‘Crispin can be a hard taskmaster, but I suppose you know that.’
‘I don’t really know very much about him at all,’ Sandie returned. ‘But he thinks I have promise as a pianist, and I want to work hard for him.’ She swallowed. ‘I hope Mrs Sinclair will let me try and play her accompaniments. I need to justify my existence here.’
‘I should find your feet before you start looking for extra jobs,’ Jessica said quite kindly. ‘This room is completely soundproofed, by the way, so you can come and practise any time when no one else is using it. I tend to work in my room, so you’ll only have Mother and Crispin to compete with.’ She gestured towards the piano. ‘Go on, try it. I can see you’re dying to.’ She disappeared, closing the door behind her.
Sandie sat down and ran her fingers experimentally over the keys. She began mutedly with scales, and a few loosening exercises, then broke into the last movement of the concerto she’d played at the festival.
When she finished, there was a burst of applause from behind her, and she glanced round startled to see Crispin standing in the doorway, smiling at her.
‘Don’t get up,’ he directed, walking towards her. ‘You look just as I imagined you would. This room is the perfect background for you.’
Sandie flushed. ‘I didn’t come here to be ornamental,’ she protested, with an awkward laugh.
‘Of course not,’ he said soothingly. ‘But you can’t escape the fact, sweetheart, that you are—amazingly decorative. I’m surprised your parents allowed you out of their sight.’
Her blush deepened, and she searched frantically for some casual and sophisticated response. I’m not very good at flirting, she thought despairingly. I’ve been so immersed in my music that there hasn’t been time for men—or even boys. Of course, I know he isn’t seriously interested in me in that way—he’s just being—nice to me.
As he reached her, she wondered if he would kiss her again, and found herself both thrilled and a little nervous at the idea, but Crispin walked past to her to one of the long line of cupboards and extracted a pile of manuscript paper which he brought over to the piano.
‘Here’s something you might look at, when you have a moment,’ he said. ‘I call it Elegy.’
‘You wrote this?’ Sandie began to turn over the sheets.
‘A long time ago. It’s never had a public performance yet. I’m waiting for the right moment—and the right person to play it.’ He smiled at her. ‘Maybe that person will be you, Miss Alexandra Beaumont.’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ she said honestly. ‘I haven’t got a very big span—look.’ She spread out her hands. ‘Some of these chords will be beyond me.’
‘Darling, you’ve only just got here, so don’t start being defeatist already.’ He spoke quite gently, but there was a faint undercurrent of irritation. ‘I said I’d like you to have a look at the piece—try it over, that’s all. I’m not planning to launch you on to the world stage with it next week.’
‘I’ll start on it tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m tired and a bit stupid this evening.’
‘Then I recommend an early night.’ He paused, then said rather carefully, ‘I hope Magda spread the welcome mat for you, after all my groundwork.’
‘She’s been very kind,’ Sandie said neutrally. ‘I only hope I can be of some use to her.’ She hesitated. ‘The man who met me at the airport was—rather strange. He didn’t seem to like me much.’
Crispin laughed. ‘Well, don’t lose any sleep over it, sweetheart. O’Flaherty likes very few people. He reckons he’s descended from kings, and considers himself a cut above the rest of us. In actual fact, he’s the gardener, handyman, groom and occasional chauffeur. So much for royalty!’ He paused. ‘But he’s lived at Killane since the beginning of time, and he’s Flynn’s man, so unfortunately we have to tolerate him.’
‘I see.’ Sandie looked down at the keys. ‘Someone said Flynn might be coming here. Are you sure he won’t mind—having a guest he hasn’t invited?’
There was a silence. Then, ‘Flynn and I pursue a policy of non-interference in each other’s lives, and preferably mutual avoidance,’ Crispin said with forced lightness. ‘So you really don’t have to worry. Anyway, Flynn rarely comes within miles of the place when we’re all in residence. He’ll be in New York, or Tokyo, or somewhere. And when he does come, he retreats to his island.’
‘His island?’ Sandie questioned, her eyes going instinctively to the huge window, and the mist-shrouded water beyond.
Crispin nodded. ‘It’s at the far end of the lough—about as far from here as it’s possible to get. He’s built himself some kind of shack there, for when he feels like leading the life of a recluse.’
‘Does that often happen?’
Crispin shrugged. ‘Not often enough to suit me.’ He gave her a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid Cain and Abel weren’t the only brothers unable to get on with each other, although I don’t think either of us have got near to contemplating murder, quite,’ he added with a laugh.
‘I—I’m sorry,’ Sandie said with a slight awkwardness, not quite knowing how to respond to these family confidences. She decided to try a change of topic. ‘You—you didn’t tell me about the twins—they’re real charmers.’
Crispin looked faintly surprised. ‘I don’t really see a great deal of them. They were my mother’s “afterthought”. She married Henri Clémence, the French polo player, but they split when the twins were still babies. They used to spend some time with him, but he married again a few years ago, and his second wife isn’t so keen on having them around—so now they seem to be here more and more.’
‘I