Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,11

she had sunk her teeth into him and tasted real blood, and he needed a lantern to see just like all the other people she’d followed over the years, which meant he was of this world too. She scanned the men in the crowd, keeping her breathing as steady as she could. Was it possible that he was here at this very moment?

Mrs. Edith Vanderbilt, the mistress of the house, walked into the room wearing a striking velvet dress and a wide-brimmed hat. Serafina couldn’t take her eyes off the mesmerizing movement of the hat’s feathers. A refined and attractive woman, Mrs. Vanderbilt had a pale complexion and a full head of dark hair, and she seemed at ease in her role as hostess as she moved through the room.

“While we wait for the servants to bring up our horses,” she said happily to her guests, “I would like to invite everyone to join me in the Tapestry Gallery for a little bit of musical entertainment.”

A pleasant murmur passed through the crowd. Delighted by the idea of a diversion, the ladies and gentlemen streamed into the gallery, an elegantly decorated room with its exquisitely hand-painted ceiling, intricate musical instruments, and delicate antique wall tapestries. Serafina loved to climb the tapestries at night and run her fingernails down through the soft fabric.

“I’m sure that most of you already know Mr. Montgomery Thorne,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said with a gentle sweep of her arm toward a gentleman. “He has graciously offered to play for us today.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Vanderbilt,” Mr. Thorne said as he stepped forward with a smile. “This whole outing is such a wonderful idea, and I must say you’re a most radiant hostess on this lovely morning.”

“You’re too kind, sir,” Mrs. Vanderbilt said with a smile.

To Serafina, who’d been listening to Biltmore’s visitors her entire life, he didn’t sound like he came from the mountains of North Carolina, or from New York like the Vanderbilts. He spoke with the accent of a Southern gentleman, maybe from Georgia or South Carolina. She crept forward to get a better look at him. He wore a white satin cravat around his neck, a brocade waistcoat, and pale gray gloves, all of which she thought went nicely with his silvery-black hair and perfectly trimmed sideburns.

He picked up a finely made violin and its bow from the table where it had been lying.

“Since when do you play the violin, Thorne?” called one of the gentlemen from New York in a friendly tone.

“Oh, I’ve been practicing here and there, Mr. Bendel,” said Mr. Thorne as he lifted the instrument to his chin.

“When? On the carriage ride here?” Mr. Bendel retorted, and everyone laughed.

Serafina almost felt sorry for Mr. Thorne. It was clear from their playful banter that Mr. Bendel and Mr. Thorne were companions, but it was equally clear that Mr. Bendel had serious doubts as to whether his friend could actually play.

Serafina watched in nervous silence as Mr. Thorne prepared himself. Perhaps it was a new instrument to him and this was his first performance. She couldn’t even imagine playing such a thing herself. At long last, he set the bow gently across the strings, paused for a moment to collect himself, and then began to play.

Suddenly, the vaulted rooms of the great house filled with the loveliest music she had ever heard, elegant and flowing, like a river of sound. He was wonderful. Spellbound by the beauty of his playing, the ladies and gentlemen and even the servants stood quietly and listened with rapt attention, and they let their hearts soak in every measure of the music he made.

Serafina enjoyed the sound of his playing, but she also watched his dexterous fingers. They moved so fast over the strings that they reminded her of little running mice, and she wanted to pounce on them.

When Mr. Thorne was done, everyone applauded and congratulated him, especially Mr. Bendel, who laughed in disbelief. “You never cease to amaze me, Thorne. You shoot like a marksman, you speak fluent Russian, and now you play the violin like Vivaldi! Tell us, man, is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Well, I’m certainly not as skilled a horseback rider as you are, Mr. Bendel,” Mr. Thorne said as he set his violin aside. “And I must say it has always been most vexing to me.”

“Well, stop the presses!” Mr. Bendel called. “The man has a chink in his armor after all!” Then he looked at Mrs. Vanderbilt with a smile. “So,