The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (57 page)

It was the spring of 1884 by the time he came. The maid rapped on the door of the drawing room to tell Anna there was a man waiting to see her.

‘I’ve told him to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, but he refuses to move until he’s seen you. The front door’s closed, but he’s sitting on the
doorstep.’ The parlour maid pointed to a huddled figure through the large window. ‘Shall I call the police, Frau Halvorsen? It’s obvious he’s a beggar or a thief, or
worse!’

Anna heaved herself up slowly from the settle where she’d been resting and walked to the window. She saw the man sitting on the front step with his head in his hands.

Her heart plummeting into her stomach, she asked the Lord for strength once more. Only He knew how she would bear this, but under the circumstances, she had no other choice.

‘Please let him in immediately. It seems that my husband is returned.’

Bergen, Norway

September 2007

My heart was in my throat as I read of Jens’ return to Anna, and I hurriedly turned the next few pages to find out what happened after his return. But Jens had chosen to
skim over what must have been an agonisingly difficult few months and concentrated more on their move back to Bergen to a house called Froskehuset, close to Grieg’s own Troldhaugen estate, a
year later. And the subsequent premiere of his own compositions in Bergen. I skipped to the Author’s Note on the final page:

I felt unsettled and confused as I closed my laptop. I found it almost impossible to believe that Anna, with her strong character and uncompromising moral principles –
the very tools which helped her survive what Jens had done to her – could have forgiven him so readily and taken him back as her husband.

‘I’d have kicked him out and divorced him as soon as I could,’ I told the walls of the hotel room, feeling highly irritated by the conclusion to Anna’s incredible story.
I knew things had been different back then, but it seemed to me that Jens Halvorsen – the living embodiment of Peer Gynt himself – had got off scot-free.

I looked at my watch, seeing it was past ten o’clock at night, then stood up to use the bathroom and boil the kettle for a cup of tea.

As I closed the heavy curtains on the twinkling lights of Bergen harbour, I seriously pondered if I could have forgiven Theo for deserting me. Which I supposed he had, in the most dreadful,
final way he could. And yes, I knew that I too was angry and had yet to forgive the universe. Unlike Jens and Anna, mine and Theo’s story had been cut short before it had even begun, through
no fault of either of us.

To stop myself becoming maudlin, I checked my emails, raiding the fruit bowl as I felt too weary to go downstairs and there was no room service after nine o’clock in the evening. I saw
there were messages from Ma, Maia, and one from Tiggy, saying she was thinking of me. Peter, Theo’s father, had also written, telling me he’d sourced a copy of Thom Halvorsen’s
book and wanting to know where to send it. I replied, asking if he could FedEx it to the hotel address, and decided that I would stay here in Bergen until it had arrived.

Tomorrow, I’d go and search out Jens and Anna’s house and perhaps go back and see Erling, the friendly curator of the Grieg Museum, to hear more of their story. I liked it here in
Bergen, even if, for the present, my investigation had come to a grinding halt.

The telephone by my bed jangled suddenly, making me jump.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s Willem Caspari here. Are you okay?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Good. Ally, would you like to have breakfast with me tomorrow morning? I have an idea I’d like to put to you.’

‘Er . . . yes, that would be fine.’

‘Excellent. Sleep well.’

The line was terminated abruptly and I replaced the receiver, feeling vaguely uncomfortable about agreeing to Willem’s request. I tried to work out why, then admitted it was guilt. If I
was honest with myself, there was a small flicker of something inside me that told me I was physically attracted to him. Even if my head and heart forbade it, my body was disobeying their orders
and reacting of its own accord. But it was hardly a ‘date’. And more to the point, from what he’d said about his partner, Jack, dying, Willem was clearly gay.

As I readied myself to go to sleep, I allowed myself a giggle; at least it was a safe crush, and probably had far more to do with his talent as a pianist than anything else. I was aware it was a
powerful aphrodisiac and I forgave myself for succumbing to it.

‘So, what do you think?’ Willem’s intense turquoise eyes bored into mine over breakfast the next morning.

‘When is the recital?’

‘Saturday evening. But you’ve played the piece before and we have the rest of the week to practise.’

‘God, Willem, that was ten years ago. I’m very flattered that you’ve asked me, but—’

‘“Sonata for Flute and Piano” is so beautiful and I’ve never forgotten you playing it that night at the Conservatoire in Geneva. By definition, to remember it and you ten
years on means it was an outstanding performance.’

‘I’m not anywhere near as gifted or successful as you,’ I protested. ‘I’ve looked you up on the internet and you are seriously big time, Willem. You played at
Carnegie Hall last year! So thank you very much for asking, but no thanks.’

He eyed me and my untouched breakfast. I really did feel horribly sick. ‘You’re nervous, aren’t you?’

‘Of course I am! Can you imagine how rusty you’d be after ten years of not putting your hands on the keys?’

‘Yes, but I’d also play with a new vim and vigour. Stop being a coward and at least give it a try. Why don’t you at least join me in the hall after my lunchtime concert today
and we can play through the piece together? I’m sure Erling won’t mind, even though he might think it blasphemy to play Francis Poulenc on Grieg’s hallowed turf. And the Logen
Theatre, where the recital will take place on Saturday, is a lovely venue. It’s the perfect way to ease you back into playing.’

‘You’re bullying me, Willem,’ I said, now on the verge of tears. ‘Why are you so keen on me doing this?’

‘If someone hadn’t forced me back to the keys after Jack’s death, I’d probably never have played another note on the piano again, so you could say that karmically,
I’m returning the favour. Please?’

‘Oh, all right then. I’ll come up to Troldhaugen this afternoon and give it a go,’ I agreed, feeling I’d been battered into submission.

‘Good.’ Willem clapped his hands together in pleasure.

‘You’ll probably be horrified when you hear me. I did play at Theo’s funeral, but that was different.’

‘Then this will be a walk in the park after that. So,’ he said, rising from the table, ‘I’ll see you at three.’

I watched Willem as he left, his slim frame belying the enormous breakfast I’d just watched him eat. He obviously lived completely on adrenaline. Back in my room ten minutes later, I
opened my flute case tentatively and gazed at it as though it was an enemy to do battle with.

‘What have I done?’ I murmured as I took out the parts and assembled them, slowly twisting the joints together and aligning the instrument correctly. After tuning up and playing a
few quick scales, I tried the sonata’s first movement from memory. For an initial attempt, it didn’t sound too bad, I thought as I automatically wiped off any excess moisture and
cleaned under the keys before packing the flute away.

I then went out for a walk along the quay and stopped in one of the wooden clapboard shops to buy a Norwegian fisherman’s jumper, as the temperature seemed to have plummeted and I only had
summer clothes in my rucksack.

After heading back to the hotel to retrieve my flute, I took a taxi up into the hills, asking the driver if he knew a house on the same road as the Grieg Museum called Froskehuset
.
He
said he didn’t, but that we could both look at the names of the houses as we passed. Sure enough, we spotted it, only a few minutes’ walk down the hill from the museum. Letting the taxi
go, I looked up at the pretty wooden house, painted cream and traditional in design. As I walked to the gate I saw that it looked rather dilapidated, the paintwork peeling from the wood and the
garden unkempt. Hovering outside, feeling like a burglar planning a raid, I wondered who lived there now, and whether I should just go and knock on the door to find out. I chose not to and
continued up the hill towards the Grieg Museum.

I made for the café, feeling vaguely sick again. My appetite had deserted me since Theo had died and I knew I’d lost weight. Even though I wasn’t hungry, I ordered an open
tuna sandwich and forced myself to eat it.

‘Hello, Ally.’ Erling smiled as he came to greet me in the corner of the café. ‘I hear you have an impromptu rehearsal after the recital in the concert hall this
afternoon?’

‘If you don’t mind, Erling.’

‘I never mind anyone playing beautiful music here,’ he assured me. ‘Have you read any more of Jens Halvorsen’s biography?’

‘As a matter of fact, I finished it last night. I’ve just been to see the house that he and Anna once lived in.’

‘Ah, that’s where Thom Halvorsen, the biographer and great-great-grandson, now lives, as a matter of fact. So, do you think you might be related to the Halvorsen family?’

‘If I am, I can’t see how. Not at present anyway.’

‘Well, maybe Thom will be able to enlighten you when he returns from New York later this week. Are you watching Willem’s lunchtime concert today?’

‘Yes. He’s extremely talented, isn’t he?’

‘He is indeed. As he may have told you, he had a personal tragedy a while ago. I think it’s made him more accomplished as a pianist. These events in life can kill or cure, if you
know what I mean.’

‘I do,’ I replied with feeling.

‘See you there, Ally.’ Erling nodded at me and walked away.

Half an hour later, I was once again in Troldsalen, the concert hall, listening to Willem play. This time it was a lesser known piece called ‘
Moods
’ that Grieg had written
towards the end of his life, when he’d hardly been able to leave the house due to illness but had still staggered to the cabin to write. Willem played it superbly and I wondered what on earth
I was doing to even consider playing with such a consummate pianist. Or more accurately, what he was doing suggesting he play with me.

After the appreciative audience had filed out at the end of the concert, Willem beckoned me down to the platform and I joined him nervously.

‘I’ve never heard that before. It’s a gorgeous piece and you played it beautifully,’ I said.

‘Thank you.’ He gave me a curt bow, then stopped to study me. ‘Ally, you’re as white as a sheet! So, before you turn chicken and run out on me, let’s get on with
it, shall we?’

‘No one can come in, can they?’ I said, looking up at the doors at the back of the auditorium.

‘Good God, Ally! You’re starting to sound as deeply paranoid as me.’

‘Sorry,’ I mumbled as I took out my flute and put it together before Willem indicated we should begin. I was proud that I managed to get all the way through the whole twelve minutes
without dropping a note, but I was helped hugely by Willem’s intuitive accompaniment and the incredible sweeping timbre of the Steinway piano.

Willem applauded me, the sound echoing loudly around the empty auditorium. ‘Well, if that’s how you play after ten years, I think I’ll ask them to double the entry fee for
Saturday night’s recital.’