What Happened at Midnight(37)

“It’s different. Not the way I remember it.”

She didn’t remember it being so bright, for one. The spring air had only a hint of a bite to it. It was too quiet here, too quiet at home. Caroline, George, and Jacob were long since out of the house. Even Caroline’s children were off at school. Aside from a few last students, Mary had too little to do. So when John had suggested that they retrace their most important moments together as a second honeymoon, she’d jumped at the chance.

“Ready?” he asked.

Maybe he was asking about her back. Or maybe…

This, the first portion of their journey, was the only part she’d fretted over. Doyle’s Grange brought to mind a darker time, one she’d been glad to leave behind her. She feared that visiting this place again would bring back all those long-settled memories. But she shrugged and started up the hill again.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see when she came through the trees. Doyle’s Grange was the same—and yet so different. Someone had planted a hedge of shiny green leaves between the house and the lane. The drab front shrubberies had been torn out and replaced with beds of dark soil, sprouting the green beginnings of spring flowers. And in the meadows that surrounded the property, growing amidst the new grass, were crocuses—thousands of them.

And then she heard a sound—a shriek; not one of horror or pain, but a child’s excited squeal.

“You can’t catch me!” someone taunted. Another shriek, and the taunter tore into view, dashing across the road and into the tall grass across the way.

“Hyacinth!” came the return shriek, from far off. “You had better hide well.”

She and John exchanged amused looks.

“Well,” Mary said with a sigh, “you were right, after all.”

“About what?”

“I’ve got forty good years behind me. This—” she waved her hand at the cottage “—this is nothing in comparison. I’m bigger than it now.”

He smiled. “You always were.”

This place wasn’t a box, to hold her worst memories. It was only a bright, sunlit house—a place of happiness for a new generation.

And the last forty years had brought quite a bit of happiness. From here, they’d go on to London. With the money Mary had recovered from the partnership, they’d spent a few months of their first winters there. She had played in salons, enough to get her name out. From London, they’d move on to Vienna. She’d never played at the grandest halls—living in Vienna only during the winters, when the farm was quiet, had restricted her choices—but she was the only musician she knew whose husband never missed a performance.

There had been no professional reason to visit Paris, which made those few weeks in 1870 all the more memorable. She was looking forward to seeing that new tower they’d erected. After a week there, they had passage on a steamer to Boston—that was where John had displayed his new, more efficient water turbine, the one that had truly secured their future.

It had been a good life.

She took his hand again, and together, they started down the hill. Halfway to the station, though, she heard a noise—a faint little whimper, so high-pitched that she almost didn’t hear it.

“What’s that?” she said.

John shrugged. “What?”

She listened, turning her head to one side. “That noise—there it is again.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

Mary shrugged this off. Likely, the noise was too high for his ears. He couldn’t hear half the notes on the upper register of her piano anymore. She turned to the side of the road and rustled through the early summer foliage of the hedge.

“I knew I heard something!” she said, leaning down and moving branches aside.

“What is it?” He had come up behind her.

It was a dirty burlap sack, the end tied in a knot. Under the fabric, something moved.

“Oh, no.” Mindless of the branches that snagged her sleeves, she reached in. Her fingers closed around the edge, barely gripping, and then yanked the burden high—eliciting a high-pitched yip from the residents of the sack. She sank to the ground. Her fingers tore into the knot, her hands shaking.

And when the sack was opened—

“Oh, John.” She’d scraped her arms rescuing the bag. But she could scarcely feel those scratches for the feeling that almost overwhelmed her. The bag contained two tiny puppies—tawny all over, barely palm-sized, their eyes still creased closed.

“Oh little ones,” she crooned. “Who would do this to you? We’ll have to get you something to eat. John?”

He was looking at her with a small smile on his face.

Maybe another man would remind her of the expensive hotel that awaited them in Vienna, or the long voyage to America that would follow. Another man might have mentioned that puppies needed to be trained, or he might have made noises about needing his sleep at night.

John simply smiled. “Well. I guess it’s not going to be quiet any longer.”

Mary hugged the puppies to her and stood. She had forty good years behind her—a life that anyone would be lucky to live. Was it selfish to be glad that it still felt like the beginning?

“I wonder who’s at Beauregard’s farm now?” he said. “I think they’ll have milk.”