Love's Refrain by Patricia Kiyono

back stairs to avoid seeing him. She couldn’t bear to see him, not yet. Besides, she must look a mess after sobbing on her father’s shoulder. Hopefully, Jones would be able to repair any damage she’d done to her father’s coat with her silly tears.
    Once in her room, she used the washbowl to freshen her face. She took a deep calming breath, willing the tears to stop. She needed something productive to do.
    Satisfied she had her emotions under control, she settled herself in the chaise longue with a new volume of poetry called Hebrew Melodies . Her father, knowing how she loved poetry, had given it to her last Christmas. She opened it, and her eyes focused on the title: “My Soul is Dark.” How appropriate , she thought. The poem must have been written for her. Perhaps the author, Lord Byron, had experienced the same pain she now felt. Her eyes scanned the page, taking in the poet’s words:

    My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
    The harp I yet can brook to hear;
    And let thy gentle fingers fling
    Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
    If in this heart a hope be dear,
    That sound shall charm it forth again:
    If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
    â€˜Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

    But bid the strain be wild and deep,
    Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
    I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
    Or else this heavy heart will burst;
    For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
    And ached in sleepless silence, long;
    And now ‘tis doomed to know the worst,
    And break at once - or yield to song.
    How perfectly this poem described her feelings. Byron’s words imprinted themselves on her soul, and immediately a melody, full of melancholy, played in her mind. She hummed softly, wanting to keep the song to herself. But the song wasn’t meant to be sung in silence. It wouldn’t stay inside her. The haunting words entwined with the sad, minor modes of the melody and swelled—
    Remembering the guest downstairs with her father, she took her book and slipped down the back stairs to the courtyard behind the townhouse. A recent rain had freshened the gardens and the colorful blossoms beckoned to her.
    Thankful she had put on her sturdy, sensible shoes that morning rather than light slippers, she stepped on the path.
    Again, Lord Byron’s verses filled her heart. There was pain, but the suffering erupted in song. The melody in her head worked its way to her heart and then to her mouth.
    She sang as she walked, keeping the volume fairly low, in case others had decided to enjoy the sunshine.
    Finishing the verse, she felt better, so she began again. But now a countermelody played, a lighter, more cheerful melody, rising above the notes she sang and rendering hope and optimism. She took a deep breath and sang with heartfelt passion, not wanting the feeling to end.
    The last note rang true and echoed for a moment, and she basked in the beauty of the harmony. But suddenly her eyes flew open as she realized that the harmony had not been imagined. Where had the music come from? She whirled around to face her duet partner.
    Andrew stood behind her, his flute still at his lips, as if ready to play another chorus. His eyes shone with emotion. But what was it he felt? Was it pleasure at creating the lovely music? Or could it be…?
    Finally putting his instrument down to his side, he smiled gently. There was no hint of embarrassment, no hesitation in his step as he came to her.
    â€œI’ve spoken to your father,” he began.
    Laura’s heart dropped to her feet. Of course. She had known the reason for his visit. Why had she allowed herself to hope?
    â€œMother told us you would be here,” she told him. “Has Miranda accepted?”
    â€œLady Miranda?” His brow dipped in confusion. “I didn’t see her. We didn’t talk about her. You are my only concern.”
    â€œM-me?”
    â€œYes, you. I wanted to speak to you that morning, out here in the