nightfall. Pressing on her was the need to talk to Rowena about the wedding, ask what was planned, demonstrate interest and enthusiasm while hoping against hope that she wouldnât be asked to be a bridesmaid. But on her first attempt her sister did not remain still long enough to say more than it was all up in the air. Much depended on how soon John would have to start his next job, likely not to be in Australia this time, but one never knew. His company had a way of changing its mind; he was a pawn really, not a knight or a king.
Half an hour later, Gwen tried again. âTell me at least, will it be a church wedding?â
Rowena took a moment to turn her head. âAre those tears in your eyes? Such a sentimental little darling! Didnât I always try to discourage you from reading Dickens? Heâs so incorrigibly weepy. No, I think John and I will skip the church. Canât you just hear Great-Aunt Harriet pounding on the floor with her stick while proclaiming on the unsuitability of my gliding down the aisle in white? And I suppose it would be a trifle unseemly. No,â squeeze of the hand, âyou wouldnât think that way. Unlike me, you never did have unkind thoughts. Sorry, must away. Momâs beckoning. She really shouldnât worry so much about Dad. Look at him laughing now with Sonny. You and I will get together in the next few weeks and talk trousseau to your heartâs delight. For now why donât you go and pound out something bridal on the piano? Perhaps that holy-minded thing you and Charles had at your wedding? Handel, wasnât it? Iâm sure John would love to hear you play. He can be frightfully high-brow himself. It adds to his inescapable appeal.â
The last thing Gwen wanted was to make herself the centerpiece of the afternoon but Charles, having overheard the suggestion, urged her to play. When she said sheâd just as soon not, heâd whispered irritably that the piano wasnât there taking up half the room on the basis of its ornamental value. She didnât want John Garwood thinking she considered herself a brilliant pianist, and was relieved when Sonny came to join her on the bench, but Charles ordered him back to the sofa. Her heart sank. And yet, that afternoon the piano was waiting for her as it had never done before. She sat, eyes closed, hands feeling for the keys, as if they were fingers known only to her, longing for her touch, responsive to her every half-formed thought, taking her to a place deep inside the music. Not Handel, the choice for her wedding. Chopin, transitioning into Mendelssohn, then Mozart. Their music, theirs alone. All else, all others, left behind. For he, John Garwood, was there with her. She knew with absolute certainty that he had followed her into this momentary heaven. She could feel his heart beating in tune with her own.
Then a disturbance, dragging her upward to the surface: something heavy falling, the sound echoing until it became a pounding like fists on a door. And somewhere a dog was barking distantly. Still she could not get her eyes to open. She was fuzzily aware of having slumped forward, pushing the piano bench backward; also that the commotion had been caused by Sonny having elbowed a vase, and in the process of trying to straighten it, had knocked over the table on which it stood. She had to go to him, tell him that it didnât matter, that she loved him . . . would always . . . Suddenly, startlingly, she was awake. That living room of nearly fifty years ago, and those gathered within it, gone. She was seated back in the book room on Ridge Farm Rise, her neck stiff and cramped from being tilted at an awkward angle. Someone was banging on the door with increasing urgency.
âWho, what . . .?â She ran the short distance to the hall, Jumbo moving aside to allow her clearage. Her hands fumbled with the front door knob as panic squeezed her heart with a tight fist.
âGwen . . . Gwen!â
Half an hour later, Gwen tried again. âTell me at least, will it be a church wedding?â
Rowena took a moment to turn her head. âAre those tears in your eyes? Such a sentimental little darling! Didnât I always try to discourage you from reading Dickens? Heâs so incorrigibly weepy. No, I think John and I will skip the church. Canât you just hear Great-Aunt Harriet pounding on the floor with her stick while proclaiming on the unsuitability of my gliding down the aisle in white? And I suppose it would be a trifle unseemly. No,â squeeze of the hand, âyou wouldnât think that way. Unlike me, you never did have unkind thoughts. Sorry, must away. Momâs beckoning. She really shouldnât worry so much about Dad. Look at him laughing now with Sonny. You and I will get together in the next few weeks and talk trousseau to your heartâs delight. For now why donât you go and pound out something bridal on the piano? Perhaps that holy-minded thing you and Charles had at your wedding? Handel, wasnât it? Iâm sure John would love to hear you play. He can be frightfully high-brow himself. It adds to his inescapable appeal.â
The last thing Gwen wanted was to make herself the centerpiece of the afternoon but Charles, having overheard the suggestion, urged her to play. When she said sheâd just as soon not, heâd whispered irritably that the piano wasnât there taking up half the room on the basis of its ornamental value. She didnât want John Garwood thinking she considered herself a brilliant pianist, and was relieved when Sonny came to join her on the bench, but Charles ordered him back to the sofa. Her heart sank. And yet, that afternoon the piano was waiting for her as it had never done before. She sat, eyes closed, hands feeling for the keys, as if they were fingers known only to her, longing for her touch, responsive to her every half-formed thought, taking her to a place deep inside the music. Not Handel, the choice for her wedding. Chopin, transitioning into Mendelssohn, then Mozart. Their music, theirs alone. All else, all others, left behind. For he, John Garwood, was there with her. She knew with absolute certainty that he had followed her into this momentary heaven. She could feel his heart beating in tune with her own.
Then a disturbance, dragging her upward to the surface: something heavy falling, the sound echoing until it became a pounding like fists on a door. And somewhere a dog was barking distantly. Still she could not get her eyes to open. She was fuzzily aware of having slumped forward, pushing the piano bench backward; also that the commotion had been caused by Sonny having elbowed a vase, and in the process of trying to straighten it, had knocked over the table on which it stood. She had to go to him, tell him that it didnât matter, that she loved him . . . would always . . . Suddenly, startlingly, she was awake. That living room of nearly fifty years ago, and those gathered within it, gone. She was seated back in the book room on Ridge Farm Rise, her neck stiff and cramped from being tilted at an awkward angle. Someone was banging on the door with increasing urgency.
âWho, what . . .?â She ran the short distance to the hall, Jumbo moving aside to allow her clearage. Her hands fumbled with the front door knob as panic squeezed her heart with a tight fist.
âGwen . . . Gwen!â
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