Island of the Heart (2 page)

'So I understand,' he said. 'I've been having an illuminating chat with

your teacher, and she told me it was make or break for you. That's

really tough.'

He was one of the most attractive men Sandie had ever encountered,

dark-haired and blue-eyed, and his smile was devastating. Suddenly

the dressing room seemed tinier than ever.

She hastily picked up a comb and began to tug it through her hair.

'Well,' she said, 'you win some, you lose some.'

His brows lifted. 'Are you really that philosophical about it?'

'No,' she said baldly. 'But I've no other choice.'

'Maybe you have at that,' Crispin Sinclair said slowly. 'That old fool

Gregory said we were unanimous, but that was public relations.

Actually, I was in there fighting for you. And now that I know how

important that win would have been, I have a proposition for you.'

'For me?' She stared at him. 'I don't understand...'

He laughed. 'I haven't explained it yet.' He paused. 'But first, a little

criticism. You performed the set pieces well, but your own choice

was unadventurous, to say the least. That could have lost your first

place.'

'It's a difficult movement...'

'Not when your basic technique's as good as yours. You should have

taken a stance—gone for broke, like the guy who won did with the

Prokofiev. You've been well taught, but now you need more.' He

smiled at her equably. 'I think it's time I took you on myself.'

Sandie's eyes widened in incredulity. 'You—want to teach—me?

But why?'

'I think it could be rewarding. I also think you deserve another

chance, rather than having to rely on this sudden death situation

you've been in. No one at your level can do her best with that kind

of threat hanging over her.'

He scooped the taffeta dress off the chair and on to a hanger in an

undoubtedly practised movement. 'Pity to spoil it, because it's a

good platform dress- catches the light well, but doesn't take over.'

He pushed the chair towards her. 'Sit down. You look as if you need

to.'

Sandie subsided in limp obedience. She said in a little rush, 'I'm a

junior secretary with a law firm. I don't know the kind of fees you

charge, but I couldn't afford even half of them.'

'Well, there's a way round that.' Crispin Sinclair seated himself on

the dressing stool. 'My family have taken themselves off for their

usual summer break in Connemara, to rest and prepare for the next

concert season, but my mother's regular practice accompanist has

just got married, silly bitch, and to an oil man who's whisked her off

to Venezuela. This has left Mama in quite a spot. She's inclined to

be temperamental, but she liked Janet and she was used to her.' He

paused. 'If you came to Killane, you could take Janet's place, and—

work your passage, as it were.'

'But I don't know the first thing about accompanying anyone,'

Sandie protested feverishly. 'It's a skilled profession.'

'You're talented and intelligent, and you wouldn't be appearing in

public, after all. Magda would soon teach you the ropes.' He

grinned. 'Blood on the keyboard and all that. Does the thought put

you off?'

'No,' she denied instantly. Summer, she thought, in a house filled

with music. She paused. 'Did you say—Connemara?'

'Yes. Magda's first husband was Irish, and he left her a life interest

in the house. He was killed in a hunting accident while Flynn was

still a baby. She's two husbands further on now, but she still spends

her summers at Killane, although the damp can't be good for her

throat. The house really belongs to Flynn, my half-brother, of

course, but he's rarely there.'

'Flynn.' Sandie tried the name. 'Is he a musician too?'

'God, no!' Crispin's laugh was faintly derisive. 'Magda's always said

he's some kind of changeling. He hasn't a note of music in his body,

even though he spent his formative years touring with her. She'd put

her career into cold storage when she married, but took it up again

in a hurry when she found herself a penniless young widow. And the

rest, as they say, is history.'

'So what does he do?'

'My father's family were merchant bankers, and they lured him into

commerce.' Again Sandie sensed a faint sneer. 'Now he's a high-

powered financial consultant, dealing mainly with tax advice for the

rich and famous. He even keeps my mother on the straight and

narrow. God only knows where he gets it from. Neither she nor his

father had any head for figures at all,' he added with a shrug. 'But

that's enough about Flynn. Are you prepared to give up your

summer to a madhouse in the west of Ireland?'

Sandie said, with a catch in her voice, 'It sounds wonderful. But

what will your mother say—having a stranger foisted on her?'

'You won't be a stranger. I'll explain the position, and you'll arrive

with the backing of my warmest recommendation. How's that?'

'It can't be that simple.'

'Where are the complications?'

'Well, have you ever had a private pupil before? I mean—won't your

family think it's odd, if I suddenly appear...?' She looked away,

reddening slightly.

'I know what you mean, Miss Alexandra Beaumont.' Crispin

sounded amused, then his voice sobered. 'I'm asking you to Killane

because I think you have a worthwhile talent which you won't

otherwise have the opportunity to exploit.' He paused, then said

deliberately, 'Let's leave any other considerations in the lap of the

gods, shall we? Now, do you accept my proposition?'

Sandie's heart was thumping swiftly and painfully against her ribs.

She could feel Other objections crowding in. She was assailed by

nervousness and exhilaration at the same time.

She said, 'Yes, I do. But I don't know what my parents will say.'

'Leave them to me,' he said. 'I'll handle them.' He rose, and so did

she. 'Now, shall we seal our bargain in the time-honoured way?'

He held out his hand, and Sandie put her fingers into his, only to

find herself drawn forward to receive Crispin's light kiss on her

mouth.

He said, 'I'll be in touch,' then the dressing room door closed behind

him.

Sandie stared after him, her hand lifting involuntarily to touch her

lips.

She thought, A summer in Connemara. It sounds like magic—too

good to be true. She hesitated. But after the summer—what then?

She shrugged. I'll wait and see, she told herself, and let the

remembrance of Crispin Sinclair's smile dispel that faint chill of

anxiety inside her.

A fortnight later, still dazed at the total upheaval in her life, Sandie

found herself descending from the plane at Shannon.

Looking back, she realised she had never thought her parents would

agree, and she hadn't the slightest idea how Crispin had persuaded

them. Neither, she thought, had they. But she was aware that he'd

accentuated her dubious role as his mother's accompanist rather than

her status as his pupil, and although this wasn't exactly a deception,

it had caused her a slight flicker of uneasiness.

Inside the terminal building, she collected her luggage and made her

way to the Aer Lingus desk as Crispin had instructed.

'Excuse me,' she addressed the green-clad girl, who looked up

smiling at her approach. 'My name is Beaumont. Someone is

meeting me here.'

The girl nodded. 'Your man was just enquiring for you,' she said.

She looked past Sandie, and beckoned.

Sandie turned to find herself confronted by a short, squat individual.

His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and his greying

hair still held a tinge of fierce red. He was staring at Sandie with an

expression of incredulity that was too disconcerting to be amusing.

'It's you, is it, I'm to take to Killane?' His tone held lively dismay.

Sandie tilted her chin a little. 'I'm Mr Sinclair's guest, yes,' she

returned coolly. 'How do you do, Mr— er --?' She held out her hand.

'O'Flaherty will do—without the Mister.' The man ignored her hand,

and picked up her cases. 'Guest,' he added with a faint snort. 'Well

for Mr Crispin that himself's not at home to see this.' And on this

obscure utterance, he turned and strode towards the main doors,

heading for the car park. Sandie had to run in order to keep up with

him.

She said breathlessly, and a little desperately, *I am expected, aren't

I?'

'They're expecting someone, surely.' Sandie's cases were fitted into

the back of a large estate car. 'in you get, now. We have a fair drive

ahead of us.'

Sandie got into the passenger seat and fastened its belt. It was not

the introduction she'd expected to Ireland of the Hundred Thousand

Welcomes, she thought, trying to feel amused, and failing.

'It's a beautiful day,' she tried tentatively, as they won free of the

airport's environs, and embarked on the road to Galway.

'It won't last,' was the uncompromising reply, and Sandie sighed

soundlessly, and transferred her attention to the scenery.

It took well over an hour to reach Galway. Beyond the city, the road

narrowed dramatically, and the weather, as O'Flaherty had

predicted, began to de- teriorate. Ahead, Sandie could see

mountains, their peaks hidden by cloud, and the whole landscape

seemed to be changing, taking on a disturbing wildness now that the

narrow grey towns had been left behind.

O'Flaherty had wasted no time with his driving so far, but now he

slowed perceptibly, as the rattle of loose chippings stung at the

underside of the car. Moorland rolled away on both sides of the

road, interspersed with a scatter of small white houses, most of them

with thatched roofs. Here and there, the earth had been deeply

scarred by turf cutting, and piles of turfs stood stacked and awaiting

collection near the verges. There were great stretches of water too,

looking grey and desolate under the lowering sky. Some of the lakes

had islands, and Sandie, fascinated, spotted the ruined stones of an

ancient tower on one, half hidden by trees and undergrowth. She

would have loved to have asked its history, but after sneaking a look

at O'Flaherty's forbidding countenance she decided to save her

questions for Crispin.

She was frankly puzzled by the little man's hostility, and it made her

apprehensive about her reception generally when eventually they

reached their journey's end. If they ever did, she thought, stretching

her cramped legs in front of her.

'Too long a ride for you, is it?'

'No, I'm enjoying it,' Sandie said mendaciously. 'The scenery's

fabulous, isn't it? So romantic.'

Her innocent comment was greeted by another snort, and silence

descended again.

There was little other traffic—some cyclists, a lorry piled high with

bales of hay, a few cars and a couple of horseboxes. Occasionally

they were brought to a halt by sheep and cattle wandering across the

road in front of them.

Rain splattered across the windscreen, and O'Flaherty swore under

his breath, and flicked on the wipers, before turning off on to a side

road bordering yet another enormous lake. The clouds were down so

low now that only the lower slopes of the mountains were visible.

'What are they called?' Sandie asked, pointing.

'The Twelve Pins.'

The road unwound in front of them, like a narrow grey ribbon,

edging the water. Sandie watched the rain dancing across the flat

surface of the lake, and shivered a little, not from cold, but a sudden

swift loneliness.

If she was at home now, she thought, she would probably be helping

her mother in the garden, with its neat lawns and beds and well-

pruned trees. And instead, here she was driving, through a

wilderness of water and peat bogs, to what?

She hadn't expected Crispin to be at the airport to meet her, but she

wished with all her heart that he had been. Perhaps she wouldn't

have been feeling quite so strange—and desolate, she thought

swallowing a lump in her throat, as she realised just how far she was

from home and everything familiar.

'There's Killane,' said O'Flaherty abruptly, and gestured towards

where a broad promontory jutted out into the lake. Peering forward,

Sandie could see a thin trail of smoke rising above the clustering

trees and, as they got closer, could make out the outline of a house.

He turned a car across a cattle grid, through empty gateposts, and up