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As Jacob had predicted, his early return to Bath was a relief to Richard. After returning the horse to the stables he’d let it from and then going to the hotel they were staying at, he found Richard pacing the halls.
“There you are!”
“And I’m two hours early,” Jacob pointed out.
“Yes, but tonight is your final performance, and we have much to discuss, practice to do . . .”
“Richard, I know precisely what to do tonight. Whoever you think may be in attendance, I will do my utmost to impress them.” He always did his utmost; Richard should know that by now. “But if an additional rehearsal will put you at ease, I’m happy to do one.”
“Good, good,” Richard said, dabbing a handkerchief on his forehead. “Because there’s a rumor that a duke is visiting Bath. That he was at the baths earlier today and dined in the Pump Room!”
A rumor. Those were dangerous, for when they referred to nobility especially, they were as likely to be true as false.
Jacob did his best to calm his manager, then found some supper with Richard in the hotel dining area before they headed to the theater for the concert: his last of the season, last of the year. He could hardly wait.
Backstage, he heard the crowd growing in size, the rumbling sound of voices and footsteps increasing as their numbers did. As always, butterflies came to life in his middle, something that used to make him terribly nervous but that he’d managed to view, in recent months, as a sign of energy and excitement.
The concert itself was magnificent. The orchestra not only hit every note perfectly but played with such emotion and clarity that the accompaniment alone would have been enough to bring forth tears—and did, in some cases, before he sang. He looked out over the span of people gathered before him and wondered where they hailed from. How many were in Bath for the holidays? How many called this city home? How many, such as the duke and duchess—if the story was true—had come for a visit in hopes of benefiting from the restorative powers of the Roman baths?
The concert went extraordinarily well. As always, Jacob sang, the orchestra played some pieces alone, and a few smaller ensembles made up of orchestra members played as well. Sometimes Jacob told a story to lead into a particular song. When the concert was nearly over and he had one song left to sing, he addressed the audience directly.
“As I look out and see your smiling faces, I am grateful and humbled that you would spend your evening with me. This is my last concert of the year—”
The crowd moaned slightly at that, but he raised a hand and went on. “I am not retiring. I’m sure I’ll return to Bath. But seeing as this is my last performance of this year, I wish to dedicate it to a very special young woman.” He paused, feeling his eyes prick. He fought back tears; he couldn’t very well honor Miriam’s memory properly if he began crying. His singing would come out no better than a warble. He swallowed and continued. “As many of you know, I end each of my concerts with the same song, but I’ve never explained why.”
Movement from the corner of his eye grabbed his attention, and he glanced into the stage wing. Richard was shaking his head and making an X motion with his arms. Richard always wanted to protect Jacob, had withheld as much personal information as he could from the public, including the newspapers, which was why Jacob had transposed his name to create his professional stage name: Jacob Davies had become Davis Jacobson.
He smiled at Richard in an effort to calm him. It wasn’t as if Jacob was going to reveal personal information like Miriam’s name, that they’d grown up in Audbury, or—especially—anything about the accident.
“I will end tonight’s performance with the same song I have for a year, one which I created the music for and borrowed the lyrics from Lord Byron. This time, however, I am publicly dedicating this song to the woman who inspired it. A young woman who . . . who is no longer with us.” His throat threatening to choke up, he let his gaze scan the audience from left to right, pausing for a moment to gather his composure. Then, there on the right, for a heart-stopping moment, he saw a woman who he could have sworn was Miriam—sitting not in a regular padded chair but in a wheeled one. He stared for the briefest of moments, but she quickly lowered her face, and he looked away, heart pounding uneasily.
His visit to Audbury and its graveyard must have awakened more in him than he’d realized. He cleared his throat in an attempt to loosen it. He looked at his boots for a moment, then lifted his face to the audience once more, but this time, he looked straight down the middle of the auditorium, barely over the attendees’ heads.
“As I was saying, I dedicate this, my final performance of the year, to her. My love, who passed away one year ago.” He gave a slight nod to the conductor—his cue to begin the music, a plaintive, melancholy, and utterly beautiful score that fit the melody he’d invented while lying in bed for those long days at Branbourne Manor.
“And thou art dead, as young and fair,” he began, “As aught of mortal birth.”
The audience hushed in a now-familiar way, silence rippling across the room until only the instruments and Jacob’s voice could be heard. He kept his eyes straight forward, where shadows loomed, so he wouldn’t look about the room. The limelights of the stage lit him so he was easier seen than he could see out, yet he had to fight the pull to look at the woman in the wheeled chair. His mind was so caught up in his visit to Audbury and the memories of that horrible day when he’d gone to the chapel, only to learn that his love had died, that afterward he had no memory of singing the next few lines. He must have, however, because the orchestra picked up after the verse, playing the interlude.
Jacob continued to sing. Every person’s attention was locked on him. He felt that this was, quite likely, the best performance he’d ever given of this or any song. When at last he reached the final verse, he had to close his eyes to keep from looking at the woman who bore such a striking resemblance to his beloved Miriam. The emotion of the lyrics poured from him.
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o’er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
The orchestra concluded the song with half a minute of a reprise, during which Jacob’s self-restraint exhausted itself. He opened his eyes and could not help looking at the woman sitting near the aisle in her wheeled chair. Surely he’d imagined the resemblance, or so he’d assured himself until he looked on her again. If anything, she appeared more like Miriam than before—and she had tears streaming down her cheeks.
When she realized he was looking at her, she startled, then turned to her lady companion. After a quick, whispered interchange, the companion hurriedly stood and got behind the chair, and next thing he knew, the woman—a twin to his Miriam—was being wheeled away.
They stopped briefly for the friend—servant?—to place a wrap about the shoulders of her charge. A wrap of deep browns with swirls of blue and burgundy. He’d seen a wrap exactly like that before. He’d given its twin to Miriam on the night of their engagement.
Could a woman who looked just like Miriam also possess a wrap that looked precisely like the one she owned?
No. That was impossible. This had to be Miriam, or perhaps a hallucination. Either way, he had to find out. Catch the women before they were lost to him somewhere in the city’s many buildings. Lost forever.
When the audience burst into applause, Jacob was only vaguely aware of it. Richard’s motions from the wing reminded him to go through his routine of bowing for the audience, but he shortened it and left the stage abruptly. He had to chase after the woman in the wheeled chair. Had to find her, speak to her, learn the truth about what had happened a year ago. His heart told him she had just left the room.
That his heart hadn’t needed to be broken.
That Miriam was alive.