Free Lynna Banning by Plum Creek Bride

ago, patients had filled every chair in the spacious front hall.
    “Ted? Come right in.” Jonathan rose from his desk, extending his hand to the older man. “More headaches, is that it? I thought we had them licked this time. But I’ve a new idea to try.”
    The rest was inaudible as the physician’s resonant voice faded behind the closing door.
    And then suddenly the door cracked open, and the lion roared. “Stop that child’s caterwauling, Miss Scharf! It’s giving me a headache!”
    Erika turned away. That child? Not “Marian Elizabeth,” or even “my daughter”? What kind of father was he? What kind of man?
    Insensitive, a voice within her spoke. Incomprehensible. Irascible. Just yesterday she’d used the dictionary to make a list of new English words to describe Dr. Jonathan Callender. Illogical and illmannered, she added mentally. She conveniently forgot her very last entry. Intriguing.
    Tonight, she resolved, she’d start on the J words. She felt better already. Heartened, she moved toward the kitchen, rocking the baby gently up and down. “Please, please, dear baby, stop crying. Your papa it makes angry, and your mama up in heaven will not be happy.”
    She spoke briefly to Mrs. Benbow, just emerging from the-pantry with a large towel-draped bowl ofrising bread dough in her hands. Then she half walked, half danced her way into the sitting room.
    “Ssh, ssh, Liebchen.” She spun this way and that, avoiding the long rocker runners, the polished walnut harp in the corner, the heavy end table covered with a lacy black shawl. Around and around she waltzed, softly humming an old tune. Her skirt rippled as she turned.
    “…liegst mir im Herzen.” she sang. Her hem flared out, brushing against the harp strings with an echoey glissando. Instantly the baby stopped crying.
    Erika stared down at the infant, barely able to believe her ears. The reverberation of the harp shimmered in the silence.
    Experimentally she plucked a single string with her forefinger, and a lovely note bloomed in the quiet. Marian Elizabeth made a soft cooing noise.
    Erika plucked another string, and then another. Even individual notes sounded beautiful, all by themselves, she marveled. Laboriously she picked out the first phrase of a lullaby by ear.
    The baby’s tiny fist uncurled, and her head settled onto Erika’s shoulder. By the end of the second plucked phrase, the child was sound asleep.
    Erika tiptoed to the wicker cradle and gently laid her on the smooth white sheet. Still humming, she moved to the harp and stood gazing at it. In the late-afternoon light the wood looked warm, the carvedscroll at the top almost fluid. A forest of strings stretched beneath her tentative fingers.
    Never before had she heard any sound as heavenly sweet and pure as the notes of a harp. A sharp yearning rose in her, a need so strong it almost frightened her. She wanted to make the instrument sing! Oh, if she could only make more of those beautiful sounds!
    “Erika, my dear, would you like to learn?” Mr. Zabersky stood in the doorway.
    “What? Oh, I did not see you, Mr. Zabersky.”
    “Do you wish to play the harp?” The old man’s voice was so soft Erika thought she must have dreamed his question.
    “I can teach you. I was a musician once.”
    “Oh, I—I couldn’t,” Erika demurred. “Harp does not belong to me.”
    Mr. Zabersky reached a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew a white paper packet. He shook it. “Pills,” he announced with a broad smile. “For my headache. Pay for them later, the doctor says. Maybe I can give you music lessons instead?”
    Erika gasped. “Oh, could you? Do you think—do you think doctor would let—that I could really learn?”
    “But of course, my child. I am a very fine teacher. I’ll come tomorrow, shall I? When the baby sleeps, at.” He withdrew a gold watch from his top trouserpocket and squinted at it. “Four o’clock. Would that be satisfactory?”
    Erika opened her mouth to reply and