The Glass Harmonica Read online

  Contents

  1. London, November 1761

  2. London, November 1761

  3. Seattle, April 2018

  4. London, November 1761

  5. Seattle, April 2018

  6. London, November 1761

  7. San Antonio, May 2018

  8. San Antonio, May 2018

  9. London, December 1761

  10. Seattle, May 2018

  11. Seattle, May 2018

  12. London, January 1762

  13. Seattle, May 2018

  14. London, January 1762

  15. Boston, May 2018

  16. London, March 1762

  17. London, May 2018

  18. London, June 1762

  19. Seattle, May 2018

  20. Seattle, May 2018

  21. London, July 1762

  22. Seattle, June 2018

  23. London, August 1762

  24. London, September 1762

  25. Seattle, August 2018

  26. London, 1762, 1763

  27. Seattle, August 2018

  28. London, March 1763

  29. San Francisco, September 2018

  30. San Francisco, September 2018

  31. San Francisco, September 2018

  32. London, autumn and winter, 1763, 1764

  33. Seattle, September 2018

  34. Bath, April 1764

  35. London, September 2018

  36. London, June 1764

  37. London, September 2018

  38. London, July 1764

  39. London, September 2018

  40. Seattle, October 2018

  41. Boston, Christmas 2018

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  THE GLASS HARMONICA

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2000 by Louise Marley

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-0790-1

  AN ACE BOOK®

  Ace Books first published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  Electronic edition: February 2002

  Ace Books by Louise Marley

  SING THE LIGHT

  SING THE WARMTH

  RECEIVE THE GIFT

  THE TERRORISTS OF IRUSTAN

  THE GLASS HARMONICA

  For our darling Zack

  Joy of the past, hope for the future

  Acknowledgments

  This novel, and all my offerings, have been deeply influenced by Dr. James Savage, Director of Music and Liturgy at St. James Cathedral, Seattle. His musicianship, his pedagogy, and his scholarship are beyond compare, and I am most grateful to have been his student and his colleague.

  This book also owes a great debt to William Wilde Zeitler, contemporary virtuoso of the glass armonica, whose playing, music, support, and advice have been invaluable.

  Thanks are also due Brian, Cathy, Dave, Jeralee; and Niven, Jake and Zack Marley; June Campbell; Dean Crosgrove, P.A.C., and Nancy Crosgrove, R.N.

  The Body of

  B. Franklin, Printer

  Like the Cover of an Old Book,

  Its contents torn out,

  And stript of its Lettering and Gilding,

  Lies here, Food for Worms.

  But the work shall not be wholly lost;

  For it will, as he believed, appear once more,

  In a new and more perfect Edition,

  Corrected and amended by the Author.

  He was born Jan. 6, 1706.

  Died 17—

  Epitaph composed by the young Benjamin Franklin in 1728

  Thus shall ye think of all this fleeting World:

  A star at dawn, a bubble in a stream;

  A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,

  A flickering lamp, a phantom, and a dream.

  The Buddha

  1

  London, November 1761

  “PLAY it again, child.”

  Eilish Eam looked up from her rickety stand of glasses into the watery eyes of an old lady who peered at her from beneath powdered curls. The lady leaned on a carved ebony stick, and the broad panniers of her skirt blocked the wooden walk. Behind her the fashionable citizens of Mayfair and St. James, wrapped in furs and woolens against the fog, sauntered through Covent Garden piazza in colorful ranks.

  Eilish rubbed her reddened hands together. Her chosen spot under the east portico of St. Paul’s Church was the warmest in the whole square, but the chill fog crept in just the same. She pushed her little collection basket forward with her foot.

  The water in her copper basin was greasy with the cold, and it stung her chapped fingers when she dipped them into it. Only thirteen glasses remained in the crooked wooden stand that served as her instrument case. Just last week a passerby had broken three of the glasses with a careless brush of her widely framed skirt, and Eilish hadn’t enough pence to replace the glasses. She had to rearrange her melodies to accommodate the loss. She could only dream of a full complement of twenty-six, such as Richard Pockeridge played, or Maestro Gluck.

  The old lady had stopped to hear “Barb’ry Allen,” and Eilish began it again, slowing her circling fingers to draw out the sweet refrain, singing the words half under her breath. She glanced up hopefully at each cadence, gauging her listener’s response.

  “In Scarlet Town, where I was born

  There was a fair maid dwellin’ . . .”

  “Ah,” the lady said when she finished. “Lovely.” She opened her eyes wide to fix Eilish with a rheumy stare. “How old are you, child?”

  Eilish dropped a curtsy as best she could while bracing her unsteady case with her hands. “Ten, milady,” she lied.

  “Oh!” the old lady cried. “Only ten, and so talented?”

  “I’m Irish, milady,” Eilish said, as if that explained all.

  Perhaps it did. “You mustn’t call me milady,” the old woman said. “I’m only Mrs. Tickell.” She looked behind her, and took one gloved hand out of her thick muff to gesture to someone. Her breath wreathed her wrinkled face with mist.

  Eilish pushed the basket again, trying to make her two seed coins clink together. Talk bought no food. ’Twas money she needed. She made the basket rock on the uneven cobblestones, hoping to get the woman to make her donation before some sourfaced escort came along to tell her not to waste her pence.

  But Mrs. Tickell wanted conversation. ’Twas better than what some wanted, at least.

  “Where are your parents, child?” the old lady pressed.

  Eilish gave a small, practiced sigh. “With the angels, missus,” she said in her smallest voice. “ ’Twas the fever carried ’em away, God rest ’em, and left me behind. And three little brothers to care for!” She sniffed noisily, a real enough sniff. She caressed her glasses with three fingers, bringing out a little swirl of harmony, a triad that shimmered and evaporated into the mist like the passing of a shade. Eilish shiver
ed, and that was real, too.

  Mrs. Tickell sighed theatrically. “How sad! We live in terrible times, do we not?”

  At last, fumbling and scrabbling through the reticule hanging among the folds of her ample gown, the woman brought forth a ha’penny. She held it up with such a flourish, one would have thought it a shilling. Eilish held out her hand, and Mrs. Tickell, wary of the dirty palm, dropped the coin from several inches above. Eilish snatched it from the air with a nimble flash of small fingers. “Ta, missus.” She held the coin for a moment, to feel its history, but it was cold and dead. She thrust it into the little flat purse she kept inside her bodice, and pulled her cloak more tightly about her shoulders.

  “Why, Aunt, I did not know you were fond of music!”

  The sour-faced escort had arrived.

  She wasn’t truly sour-faced, though. She was young, and buxom, and the hand she tucked under the old lady’s elbow was warmly gloved. Her skirts were far more practical than Mrs. Tickell’s, being only moderately framed and of simple pressed wool. She wore no wig, but a close-fitting bonnet.

  “Just think, Polly!” the old lady quavered, waving her stick at Eilish, narrowly missing her row of glasses. “This poor girl has lost both her parents, and she’s only ten years old!”

  “Ten, is it, Aunt?” Polly said. She looked at Eilish with sharp brown eyes beneath curving brows. Her cheeks were round and pink, her chin dimpled.

  Eilish’s own eyes were the vivid blue of the Black Irish. She blinked, all childish innocence. “Shall I play you a tune, milady?” she asked. “Irish, Scotch, or English?”

  The young woman’s smile made her plump face very pretty. “Oh, Scotch, I think,” she said. To her aunt she said, “Mr. Franklin does love the Scottish airs.”

  Eilish bobbed once and dipped her fingers into the basin. She began “Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie,” modifying the melody to suit the paucity of her glasses. She kept her head down, avoiding the young woman’s gaze, watching her own fingers circle the rim of each glass. The sleeves of her dress were tied back with grimy ribbons to keep them out of her way, and her thin wrists embarrassed her. Her dress, lacking even a petticoat, hung straight as string from her narrow shoulders. Her cloak was threadbare, its collar torn, and she with no needle to mend it.

  When the tune was ended, she glanced up to see the younger woman frowning again. Eilish took her hands from the glasses and thrust them under her arms for warmth. She had grown so much that her skirt barely reached the tops of her shoes, and the cold reached beneath to freeze her ankles. She would have to visit the Rag Fair for a second time this year, if she could scrape together a little money. She toed her collection basket again, but without much hope.

  The old lady’s eyes strayed away from her, down King Street, searching for some fresh attraction. “Come, Polly,” Mrs. Tickell said. “Let’s see what Mr. West is showing today.”

  She hobbled away in the direction of the milliner’s. Her niece hung back a moment, still fixing Eilish with her sharp gaze. “You’re not really ten, are you?” she asked.

  Eilish wished the woman would move along if she had no intention of broaching her purse. “It’s a close enough number, miss,” she said. “I might be.”

  “You’re an orphan? Truly?”

  Eilish was on certain ground here. “Truly,” she said, lifting her chin. “Soon after we came to London, me ma died. Me da followed the very next year.”

  “No doubt you should go back to Ireland, then,” the young woman said.

  “Ireland’s no better, I can tell you, miss,” Eilish answered in a peppery tone. This one had no mind to offer her a penny. “Food and money and work are short. So here I am.”

  “Hmm.” Polly eyed Eilish, and Eilish stared right back. Polly took a step after her aunt, saying, “I must go. But perhaps—Is this your special corner, or any such practice?”

  “If I’m early enough, ’tis mine, miss. Unless some dirty buffer pushes me out.” She shrugged. “Then I find some other corner. But I like it here, just by this column. ’Tis warmer.”

  “Where do you live?”

  Eilish hesitated before she said, “Seven Dials, miss. Down Monmouth Street.”

  Polly drew back a little, full lips pursed with distaste, but still she did not leave. “Tell me—Will you be here tomorrow? Are you working tomorrow?”

  A juggler began a noisy show in the center of the piazza, turning the heads of passersby. Eilish, afraid of losing her audience, dipped her fingers into her little basin of water and began to play “Planxty McGuire.” She said, her fingers circling, circling on the glasses, “I work every day, miss. The little ones, you know.”

  Polly tilted her head to one side and regarded Eilish doubtfully. “Oh, of course, the little ones,” she said. “Well, perhaps I will see you tomorrow. There’s someone who should hear you play.” Without farewell, she turned away to follow her aunt. She lifted her long skirts as she stepped over the edge of the wooden walk, showing very clean, embroidered damask shoes.

  Eilish glared after her. “Bring money next time,” she muttered. Her fingers were almost numb, but they slid around and around the tuned glasses, spinning their plaintive melody out from under the eaves of St. Paul’s and into the bustle of Covent Garden market.

  • • •

  SEVEN Dials was as dark and close as Covent Garden was bright and spacious. Eilish, her assortment of glasses wrapped and carefully stowed in rags gone gray with age, lugged her wooden case across King Street, down to Garrick, and on to Monmouth. It was a long walk, and she stopped several times to catch her breath and ease her aching hands. At least the effort made her warm for the moment.

  Home, for Eilish Eam, was little more than a cupboard granted her by the aging whore who paid rent on one corner of the courtyard tenement. Dooya O’Larick walked the streets of Seven Dials and the Strand by night, and slept by day. Her son, a big-eyed boy of three, crept about during daylight hours in the cramped flat above the Clock and Cup Public House, careful not to wake his mother. Eilish stayed with him nights while Dooya went about her business.

  Dooya had known Eilish’s da before he died, and had taken her in to help with the boy. Though of the opinion that Eilish would be better off pursuing her own chosen trade, Dooya tolerated the girl’s skimpy income in order to have her in the flat by night.

  The sounds of London changed as Eilish made her way into Seven Dials. The lilt of spoken Irish flowed from crowded buildings and cramped shops to mingle with the syncopated chatter of the Cockneys, the calls of the costermongers, and the shouts of children. The buildings leaned so closely together that neighbors could shake hands across the street from the upper windows. The slanting tenements closed out the worst of the wind and fog, and captured the smells of cooking soup and rotting garbage, making the narrow streets as noisome and cozy as a fox’s den.

  Eilish much preferred her own end of Monmouth Street to the wide boulevards of Covent Garden. Few swells dared the streets of Seven Dials, for fear of having their pockets picked or their heads broken. And Eilish was known here. She was Raffer Eam’s daughter. No one grasped at her skirt or groped at her chest to see if she was worth hauling into some corner.

  “So, you’re here at last!” Dooya cried when she staggered up the dark stair, her case banging against her knees. The boy, Mackie, came to greet her, wobbling on his crooked legs.

  Eilish leaned her case against the inner wall of the tiny room that was hers, and pulled off her bedraggled cloak. Soup was steaming on the hob, and Eilish hurried to put out her aching hands to the coal fire. There was no other heat in the room. She and Mackie slept on Dooya’s bed, curled together for warmth like orphaned kittens. On the coldest nights, Eilish piled her cloak and an old dress, too short now to wear, on top of the worn blankets.

  “And how much today, me lass?” Dooya demanded, holding out her hand.

  Eilish pulled the little purse out of her bodice and emptied it into Dooya’s palm. Dooya picked over the few coins with d
irty fingernails.

  “ ’Tisn’t much, is it?” she snapped. “Wasting your time! Oughta follow my example.”

  Eilish tossed her head. “And who’d be staying with your spalpeen, then, Dooya? While you’re playing the trull?”

  Dooya only grunted as she bent over the kettle to ladle oyster stew into a wooden bowl. She set the bowl on the crooked table and put a spoon beside it. Mackie pulled on Eilish’s hand.

  “Hi, Eilish,” he piped. “Soup! Soup!”

  Eilish smiled at him, and kissed the top of his head. Dooya gave her a bowl of stew, then sat down with her own. Dooya was thirty-five, with faded red hair, and freckled skin ravaged by hard living and poor food. She was missing one front tooth, and two bottom ones.

  Mackie was redheaded, too, his face round and white, his freckles standing out like flyspecks. His short legs, it seemed to Eilish, were even more crooked than they had been the year before. He was cheerful and affectionate, though he often screamed with night terrors, making Eilish irritable with fatigue the next day. It was perfectly true, as she had said to the well-fed Polly, that she played her glasses every day of her life. Even then there was never enough to eat, and she was cold, always cold.

  Dooya finished her stew and sopped up the broth with a heel of bread left over from the day before. One slice was left for Mackie. It was dry, but he chewed on it, anyway. Eilish had the dregs of the stew, the last oysters, and a few scraps of scorched potato. Dooya, as always, finished off her meal with a big glass of gin. Gin, at least, was cheap and plentiful.

  The flat’s grimy window looked out into Monmouth Street, where one block to the northeast the clock stand, Seven Dials, marked the intersection of seven roads. Eilish watched from the window as Dooya made her way through the courtyard and disappeared into the evening traffic. Dooya would go to the pillar of the seven clocks, and lounge about until someone approached her. If her customer wasn’t particular, she would satisfy his needs right then and there, in the shadows. If he was a bit more discriminating, she might lead him back up the road to her rooms, in which case Eilish would take Mackie into her cupboard to wait until the work was done. The sounds and smells of such work made Eilish swear never to follow in Dooya’s uncertain footsteps.