Finally it was the day before the Gather and his mother arrived
with Master Gennell. What with the necessary hospitality accorded them, he had trouble finding a few moments alone with Merelan, when he could chide her for making such a long journey when she was obviously tired.
“Tired of riding, yes,” she said, her voice vigorous. “Your father has sent a short piece, which I’m to sing at your espousal.”
“He did?” Robinton was flabbergasted as he took the score from his mother’s hand.
“It’s not in his usual style, either. I do believe your father is mellowing with age.”
Robinton snorted but, as he scanned the music, he realized that this was a softer music, almost gentle, and quite simple, considering the usual style in which his father wrote.
“Minnarden said he would accompany me, as you’ll he otherwise occupied …” And then Merelan hugged him fiercely.
“She’s lovely, your Kasia, and she is besotted with you. You’ll be happy, Robie. I know you’ll be happy.”
“I am already,” he said with a silly grin on his face. “And Mother, I have some music I need you to look over.”
“You do? Just like old times,” she said, waiting as he rummaged in his drawers to find the sonata. “I’m almost jealous that others get
to see your music now before I do.”
“I always send—”
“I know you do, lovey, but it was such fun to be the first to–” She had unrolled the score and blinked at the first measures. She read on, and started to hum the opening melody. Cocking her head, she took to walking as she read, sometimes half-singing, sometimes nodding her head to the tempo, her eyes never leaving the page.
While his stomach churned and his heart seemed to be squeezed tight, he watched. Fortunately he had moved into their new quarters on the uppermost level of the Hold, well down the corridors from the rooms the old aunties and uncles occupied. There were two rooms with a small bathing facility in what Kasia called a walk-into closet. So there was space for Merelan to pace from the bedroom door across the wide living area.
Abruptly Merelan paused, gave him a bemused look, then sat herself down on the stool by his gitar stand and, propping up the music and picking up the gitar, she started to play it.
He had arranged it for first fiddle, or a gitar, harp and pipes, with the occasional emphasis of a flat drum. It wasn’t that long a piece, for all its three movements. He had not added a fourth, as his father would have done, because he had said, musically, all that he needed to in the allegro, adagio and rondo. A scherzo would have fractured the mood.
When his mother played the final chords, her hands remained motionless on the strings for a long moment. Then she gave a funny little shake as if she’d had a spasm and looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, Robie, that is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written.
Does Kasia like it? For I know you wrote it for her.”
Robinton gulped. “I haven’t shown it to her. I didn’t… know …
if it was any good or not.” The last phrase came out fast.
“Not good! Not good!” His mother returned the gitar to its stand and rose in indignation. “Robinton, you have never written a bad piece of music yet, and that’ – she pointed a stiff forefinger at the roll – “is the best composition to date. How dare you not give it to her? You said she plays the harp. Why, it’s the most romantic piece of music I have ever heard. Even better …” She closed her lips.
“No, there is no comparison. You have a far more romantic soul, my dearest son.” She put her arms around his waist and hugged him. “If you don’t show her that before tomorrow …”
.“When will I have the time? It is nearly tomorrow now, Mother!” He hugged her tightly to him, smelling the scent she packed her clothing with and wondering at how the two women he loved felt much the same in his arms.