A delicately sad tale of transcendent love, a perfect kiss, and haunting, beautiful tragedy…

Introduction
A dozen candlelit chandeliers gently swayed in the cool sea wind rolling in across the lawn from the cliff’s edge. The wind lazily wafted through half a dozen open double French doors, their pale, gauzy curtains billowing ethereally in the breeze. The distant roar of crashing waves, upon the sandy shore below the cliffs, underlaid the bright waltz playing as exquisitely costumed couples tread their graceful, swirling dance. The mirrored walls of the elegantly appointed grand ballroom reflected the dancers, the candlelight, the ghostly billowing curtains, and all their mirrored images to infinity.

A fair, flame-haired beauty with luminous dark green eyes watched demurely from an alcove beneath the grand staircase. Her name was Elspeth, but everyone called her "Ellie;" she hated the diminutive. Her unwilling guardian, Mrs. McIlroy, was the hostess and, though she’d dressed Elspeth appropriately, was not pleased to have the girl at her daughter, Cora’s ball. Cora’s gown, like most of the debutantes, was a frothy, brightly colored confection in which the girl seemed lost. Cora’s mother doubtless thought the gown she’d provided her ward plain and washed out. Elspeth preferred the simplicity of its flowing and uncluttered lines.

Elspeth caught her lower lip delicately between her teeth, and she leaned out slightly to follow his progress through the throng. He passed near her. The scent of him floated gently in his wake, as he bowed over the hand of an exquisite ingenue Mrs. McIlroy introduced to him. Somehow, though half the men there were also naval officers, his flawless dress-blues and shining epaulets set him apart in the ballroom. Perhaps it was his exotic features, or his fluid grace in so tall a frame; but he and the ingenue dominated the scene, as Elspeth watched from her alcove. He watched the whole room, yet never seemed to let his attention stray from his dance partner.

A small crowd of gallants arrived and obscured Elspeth’s view of the ballroom dance floor. Her guardian passed the alcove again, turned back momentarily and considered her in a lingeringly dismissive glance. Then, she took her daughter, Cora -- always a rather wilted looking girl -- by the elbow and herded her off to a dance partner. With a crestfallen sigh, Elspeth withdrew deeper into the alcove, to a small chaise.

A deep, melodious voice broke her reverie, “May I join your retreat from the crush of the dance?” Elspeth looked with a start and found herself looking up into his handsome face. She felt the moment frozen and endless… felt she was loosing herself in the depths of his ebony eyes. He smiled lightly -- she felt weakened in every limb -- and continued laughingly, “I bring refreshments in exchange for a moment’s repose here.”

Dropping her gaze and clearing her throat lightly, Elspeth found her voice and softly thanked him for the cup of punch he proffered, as she swept aside her pale sea foam green gown to make space on the chaise. He sat elegantly on the edge, one leg thrust out rakishly. “Our hostess neglected to make introductions,” he began, in his light, fluid Near Eastern accent. “Allow me to introduce myself, milady. I am Lieutenant Sarvazad Aryenish.”

She leaned away slightly, and smiled shyly at him. His gaze inquisitive, he smiled at her. Blinking, she mildly stammered, “I - “ she licked her lips, “I’m Elspeth Montrose.”

“Tell me, Miss Elspeth… why is the loveliest flower secreted in this hidey-hole?” He lifted her hand to his lips and shot her a smoldering gaze, one brow rising briefly… enticingly.

Biting her lip again, Elspeth blushingly smiled as she reluctantly withdrew her hand. “You are a flatterer, sir, “ she gently, teasingly admonished.

A warm and shining low chuckle escaped his full lips. “I am, sweet lady, yet an honest one. In my country, a flower called the Shariara Rose is found in hidden places in the wilderness. It is the loveliest of blooms. I compare you to it because you are the loveliest bloom I have seen here in this England’s wild, highland domain.”

Under his meltingly penetrating gaze, she blushed deeply and turned her head, lest he see the tear trailing down her delicate cheek. “Please, sir… “ her voice caught, “please don’t… don’t mock me thus.”

He caught her hand and gently, but firmly drew her little pointed chin back to face him. His expression was all sincerity as he caressed away the tear from upon her cheek. “Truly, Miss Elspeth, I mean no mockery. You are a fair, honest beauty among these sculpted puppets.” He looked her earnestly in the eye, “I am sorry your experience makes you doubt the beauty shining from your soul.”

She raised her eyes to his, her head tilted in an attitude of wonderment. For the breadth of a heartbeat, their eyes locked. It seemed to her, in that pulse-beat moment, the whole of creation existed for them alone.

Jarringly, Mrs. McIlroy loomed before them. “Ellie, please walk out with Cora to chaperon her and young Mr. Jameson,” she commanded, holding her frame in a rigid demeanor.

“Ah, but Madam,” standing, Sarvazad interjected smoothly, “Miss Elspeth has granted me the next dance.” He smiled blindingly at the dowager and her whole demeanor softened as she smiled warmly in return.

“But of course, Lieutenant Aryenish,” she replied, utterly charmed by him and offered her hand. “Please enjoy yourselves. I’ll send a maid to walk out with Cora and her gallant.” He bowed, letting his lips politely brush the back of her gloved hand. She turned and made her way through the partiers with never a glance at Elspeth.

Sarvazad turned back to her and took hold of her fingertips as she rose. “‘Ellie’ is no suitable name for you, Miss Elspeth.” As they walked the edge of the dance floor, waiting for a new piece to begin, he continued, “For that matter, ‘Elspeth’ little suits you.”

She shrugged lightly, “It is the only name I own.”

“I shall christen you a new name. I shall only ever call you ‘Shariara,’” he proclaimed.

“It’s a very musical name… I feel quite unworthy of it,” she replied, coloring charmingly. She peeped up at him, unaccountably pleased with his pleasant humor. “Thank you for asking me to dance. I don’t believe my guardian intended that I should dance tonight. I’m afraid I’m rather a burden to her.”

“She strikes me as a burdensome harridan,” he quipped.

“Oh, no, sir… she might have turned me away when my grandmother passed. I have no fortune and she supplies all my need. My mother was only a half-sister to her late husband.” Her expression turned pensive and earnest. “I’m hopelessly behind in all my lessons. She has made clear it is a burden that weighs upon her.”

She looked up at him in consternation as he laughed outright, and found it only made him laugh all the more. “Shariara, my rose, you are irrepressibly charming!” He gave her no chance to respond further, gliding into the dance with refrains of another, rather haunting waltz beginning.

He led her expertly through the dance, wending gracefully between the pale, billowing curtains, onto the veranda, into the cool, starlit night. They danced and made light conversation. He seemed to make every effort to entertain her. His friends and fellow officers and their elegant ladies joined them. She was introduced and included in their revelry. She timidly accepted offers to dance from his friends. He encouraged her to dance with them when they asked, but always claimed every second or third dance for himself. In this way, an evening she had dreaded passed in delight.

In a last moment together on the veranda, Sarvazad brushed a kiss upon her cheek and whispered, “I shall call upon you tomorrow, my Shariara.”

Mrs. McIlroy called for her and for Cora. Sarvazad led her to Cora, and walked with both young ladies to Mrs. McIlroy’s side. When he had made his goodbyes, her guardian turned to her with a rare, proud smile, “Ellie, my dear girl, you did splendidly. I had despaired of your ever leaving your alcove this evening.”

“Thank you ma’am. I am sorry to have been so recalcitrant to attend,” she replied. “I must thank you for insisting, Mrs. McIlroy.”

The dowager paused in her usually determined stride to peer at her ward, “You surprise me, Ellie. I presume this means you’ll be more determined in your lessons.” With a curt nod, she sailed up the stairs to her apartments, leaving the young ladies together.

Cora, prattled on endlessly, sharing the rumors of mystery and intrigue about Sarvazad. Elspeth… no… she would not be Elspeth any longer… Shariara listened with half an ear, but her attention was arrested when Cora said, “I heard mama saying he was the son of a certain royal personage and an exiled Persian princess…” Shariara was all attention now. “But Lady Truxely intimated he held some dark secret over Lord Montague and that was the reason he’d purchased the lieutenant’s naval commission…”

Shariara let all the prattle wash over her, secreting all the fantastical details in her memory. Cora continued to prattle on as the maids combed out their hair, after taking up their gowns. Shariara meandered off to her own bedroom, and drifted off to sleep, humming the tune of the first waltz they’d danced.

 

A Seaside Picnic
Shariara woke to the sound of rain pattering lightly against her window. Never one to lie a bed, she was usually up before the fire was laid in the parlor. This morning, she gave into the lure of remaining snuggled beneath the duvet. She lay wreathed in smiles, still softly humming the tune of their first waltz, hearing music in the rain and wind outside her window. In this reverie, she must have dozed again, because when she heard a soft tapping at her door, she awoke to bright morning sun pouring through the rain dappled window, casting rainbows across her bed.

With a happy sigh, Shariara climbed out of bed and slid into her dressing gown before opening the door. The upstairs maid, Mabel entered with the coal bucket, and smiled conspiratorially as she said, “The kitchen is full of gossip this morning, Miss.”

“Oh, Mabel! Last night was wonderful!” Shariara breathed and gave a little twirl, still humming.

Mabel threw open the window as Shariara laid out a simple, pale yellow muslin with soft puce ribbons and began her toilette. “Madam’s certainly pleased with you this morning. She told me to leave extra coal for you,” Mabel said. “She’s received cards this morning. Invitations for you and Miss Cora to ride out this very day with Mr. Jameson and your dashing lieutenant!”

Shariara stopped dressing her hair, and turned, finally all attention, “Lieutenant Sarvazad has called this morning?”

“He sent a man round first thing this morning to leave his and Mr. Jameson’s cards. They’ll call for you and Miss Cora at elevenses.” Mabel gave a familiar, that’ll-show-them sort of nod.

“Oh! But, Mabel! I can scarcely ride! I haven’t even a habit!” Shariara fretted.

From the doorway, Mrs. McIlroy said firmly, “Nonsense, Ellie. You ride tolerably enough and you shall have Cora’s second best habit.”

Even Mabel blinked in surprise to see the dowager and to hear her generous tone. The lady never left her apartments before elevenses for tea. And, she had always only grudgingly provided for Shariara’s requirements. As the lady was fond of reminding her ward, she knew full well her responsibility and took great pride in honoring it. But, she made sure the girl new the largesse expended on her behalf.

Mabel bustled about her work, as the lady continued, “My maid is bringing it now and will dress you this morning.” Mabel’s eyes bulged as she looked back suddenly, under her arm at Shariara with a shocked expression. Shariara nearly laughed outright, the maid was so comical.

She covered her mouth and turned her humor into a light clearing of her throat, “Thank you, Mrs. McIlroy. And, please, thank Cora for me.”

“Quite proper of you, my gel,” she replied as she sailed into the room, crossing to the wide window and looking out across the expanse of lawn before the cliffs, and to the sea beyond. “Your view of the harbor here is superlative. The fleet is quite impressive from this vantage.”

“Yes, ma’am. The view has always pleased me,” Shariara told her, recalling that her guardian had always disliked that view. She had even upbraided the drawing instructor when he’d had Cora and Shariara sketch the view one day when inclement weather had kept them inside. Mrs. McIlroy had admonished him that it was not a fit scene for study by genteel young ladies.

“Ellie, I rely on you to support Cora for a courtship with young Mr. Jameson,” the dowager continued. Mabel gave Shariara a knowing look at that, finishing her duties as she gathered her pail and dustbin to leave. “I procured two dances with him for her last evening. My great friend, his mother and I are convinced they will make a great match. He is certainly a desirable one for my Cora.”

She turned back from the window, as her lady’s maid arrived with a bundle of charcoal-colored garments and a pair of mildly worn riding boots. She oversaw Shariara’s dressing, and inspected the fit with a critical expression. The dowager said to her French lady’s maid, “Dress her hair as well, Antoinette.”

“Bien sur, Madame. We shall shoose ano-thair jhacket and chapeau. I fear Mademoiselle Cora’s would burst,” the French maid said, as she twitched the overskirt into place.

The dowager stepped to the hall, where Mabel, ostensibly cleaning the corridor, bustled hurriedly out of sight around the corner. “Ellie, you are too familiar with the upstairs maid,” she admonished, watching after Mabel.” Turning to Antoinette, she continued, “You must fit her with my chartreuse jacket then.” She paused at the door, “It ill becomes me, my gel,” she said to Shariara. “You may keep it.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Shariara said.

“When you have done here, Antoinette,” the dowager said commandingly, “accompany her straightway to me. I will assure myself of Cora’s toilette, then await you in my chamber. Come with me now to collect the jacket and hat.”

“Oui, Madame,” Antoinette replied, then turned back to Shariara, “Mademoiselle is rather taller than Mamselle Ellie.” She stood back with a critical look at the skirt “Oh la la… there is no time for ‘emming,” then rushed after her mistress.

An hour later, Shariara and Antoinette joined the dowager and Cora in Mrs. McIlroy’s apartments. Cora exclaimed, “Oh Ellie! You look lovely in that jacket!”

“Thank you, cousin,” Shariara smiled slightly. “Your new riding habit is quite lovely too.”

Cora was almost pretty in the lustrous midnight blue velvet. Even in her riding finery, she still had an air of the rumpled about her. Her fair hair was dressed in a sweeping style about her long, handsome face. Mrs. McIlroy smiled warmly for her daughter and caressed her chin affectionately before seating herself at the vanity. With a rather stern expression, Mrs. McIlroy said to Shariara, “Quite charming, Ellie.” She blushed, unaccustomed to the lady’s compliments and thanked her guardian. “Very well done, Antoinette.” The lady turned back to her vanity mirror. Antoinette, her adept fingers dancing about the dowager’s only slightly greying brown hair, quickly completed her mistress’ toilette and dressed her for receiving.

They had just time to settle themselves to Mrs McIlroy’s satisfaction before the butler announced the gentlemen. Both gentlemen were all charm and poise, as they bent over the ladies’s hands. Sarvazad shot that smoldering look again into Shariara’s eyes as his lips lightly brushed the back of her hand. Mr. Jameson was polite and made easy conversation throughout tea, with only mild condescension toward Cora. Every time she exchanged glances with Sarvazad, Shariara could feel Mrs. McIlroy’s watchful eyes.

When they rode out, Cora’s maid, Margaret, doing duty as chaperon, followed at a respectful distance on a bad tempered Percheron. She shared her saddle with a light picnic snack which was bundled and tied on behind her. Mr. Jameson’s groom rode just behind her on a rather sway-backed nag, a pack of his own tied down behind him. Sarvazad led their little party, with Shariara riding beside him, and Mr. Jameson and Cora just behind. Sarvazad’s great grey Irish wolfhound, after growling low at Cora and the maid, had sniffed Shariara approvingly, then loped along the other side of his master’s horse.

Cora, both obvious and eager, called to Sarvazad, “Lieutenant, Ellie is a rather nervous rider. Please, have a care for her.”

With a sardonic smile at Shariara, he reached across and took her hand briefly, and called back in answer, “I shall make sure of her, Miss Cora.”

They followed the cliff road down to the shore, where the maid laid their picnic. When they sat, the wolfhound lay on one side, and placed his head comfortably in Shariara’s lap. Mr. Jameson said in mild surprise, “I say, your antisocial brute amazes me, Vaz. I’ve never seen him in such placid contentment.”

“‘Beauty hath charms…’ my friend.” Sarvazad replied, as he settled on the other side of Shariara, looking out over the sea.

The shared a lazy picnic, the call of seabirds wheeling about on the air currents echoed back from the cliff face. Mr. Jameson called for music and the groom took out a battered looking fiddle and began to play a haunting melody perfectly suited to the breaking surf. The couples danced there on the shore, while the maid watched, carefully indulgent.

As they danced, Sarvazad seemed to drink in Shariara’s gaze, while she abandoned herself in his shining, ebony eyes. His breath was warm on her ear when they turned together in the dance. Their steps were punctuated by birdcall and crashing waves. He caught her suddenly in an embrace and softly… like a tender caress, kissed her lips. The music had stopped and a mildly loud throat clearing from the vicinity of the maid broke the spell.

 

A Fortuitous Misadventure
On the ride back, the couples were chatting happily as the horses carried them back up the cliff road. Even Margaret and James, the groom, were on comfortable terms. The wind was picking up again and a storm roiled on the distant horizon over the sea. Mr. Jameson was now “Charles,” and all their little company was on a first name basis. Shariara didn’t even mind the diminutive, “Ellie,” when they called her name. Sarvazad, though, always called her by “Shariara” or by “my rose,” eliciting a rather indulgent smile from Cora.

A startled fox scurried across the path of Shariara’s horse, and it reared suddenly. Sarvazad snatched her from the now wild horse’s saddle. The frightened animal bucked and stomped backwards, causing Charles’ horse to rear. He held his seat and backed his horse a step. Margaret’s ill-humored Percheron took exception and sank its teeth into the horse’s rump and kicked its leg. The horse reared again, trying to turn and it and Charles tumbled down the embankment, and slid down the shallow cliff face along the road. Cora screamed and Shariara’s horse raced away past them, back down and around the road out of sight, as Sarvazad dismounted and set her on her feet. At the same time, his hound looked to him and he motioned him with a command after Shariara’s horse; the hound obediently tore after the beast. Sarvazad, helping Cora from her horse in passing, raced down the embankment, behind James. Charles waved the groom on to his horse.

Looking up as Sarvazad slid down to the wide ledge where he lay, Charles said, “Demme, Vaz. My leg is surely broken.” He looked down where the groom bent over his stricken horse. James met his eyes with a sad shake of his head. Charles nodded his acknowledgment as the groom went back to his own mount for the pistol. “Help me, Vaz.”

“My friend, you will only injure yourself further,” he gently admonished. But, he helped Charles down the embankment anyway, taking as much of his weight as he could manage on their precarious path.

Shariara, looking on in concern with Cora, turned to the maid, “Margaret, ride Miss Cora’s horse back up to the house and fetch help.”

“Yes, miss,” she said, bustling up onto the horse’s back and holding tightly about the neck. “Right away, miss.” She set the horse galloping as she settled in the saddle, laying across its mane.

“Pestilent creature!” Cora exclaimed as she slapped the Percheron on the rump and sent it cantering after Margaret, knowing it would follow her back to its stable stall.

Sarvazad helped Charles settle next to his horse’s head. The animal was wild-eyed but unable to do more than lift its chestnut head. Charles spoke soothingly to him as the groom brought the pistol. “Vaz,” he said in the same soothing sing-song voice he was using with the horse, “I can’t do it. I cannot put this loyal fellow down.”

“I understand, my friend.” He took the loaded pistol from the groom and told him, “Go back up and attend the ladies.”

Shariara watched Sarvazad until view of him was obscured by the road’s edge as James led her and Cora to shelter at the side of the cliff face. A sharp retort rang out, echoing off the rock wall and Cora dropped her face into her hands, shuddering. Shariara consoled her until Sarvazad’s and Charles’ heads rose above the road’s edge.

When Cora saw Charles, an amazing change came over her. She bustled about efficiently, laying out their picnic mat for him to lie upon. She spread the tablecloth over him for a blanket, then sank down beside him so he might rest his head in her lap. Shariara sat next to them. Cora helped Charles, by now ashen from the pain, to drink the wine left in their packet. Sarvazad sat himself at his friend’s feet, eyeing his twisted leg in concern. In this tableau, the physician, arriving in his dilapidated phaeton, found them.

Mrs. McIlroy soon arrived in her ornate barouche. As they were settling Charles as comfortably as possible, the wolfhound, which Sarvazad only ever called, “Dog,” returned. With the reins in his mouth, he was leading Shariara’s skittish mare back up from the beach. With a hard stare, Mrs. McIlroy said, “What a singular animal.” Charles, by now having imbibed a substantial quantity of wine, found this endlessly amusing.

Sarvazad helped the ladies into the barouche as Mrs. McIlroy said with barely concealed satisfaction, “The doctor has said you must remain with us at the hall for at least a fortnight, Mr. Jameson. You shall have the late Mr. McIlroy’s apartments.” Charles smiled weakly and mumbled a bubbly sort of thanks and sank against the cushions. Mrs. McIlroy took the seat next to Shariara, leaving Cora to settle next to Charles. The dowager settled back as she said, off-handedly to Sarvazad, “And you must remain to bear him company, Lieutenant. I cede our guesthouse for your use as long as need be.” He shot Shariara a meaningful smile as he closed the carriage door. He, thankfully, could not see how deeply she blushed.

A Perfect, Timeless Idyll

Whisper me a kiss…

Softly… softly brushing my cheek
As an - Oh! - so delicate caress…
A gentle kiss upon my fingertips,
So healing in its tenderness…
Breathing your kiss upon my mouth,
You softly whisper me a kiss…

Oh! Whisper me a kiss…

In your sweet breath is the promise
Wafting me gently to a healing space
This oft tossed ship carried ‘pon your breath
Oh! Let me harbor in your embrace!
Oh love… again… whisper me a kiss…
Set us free to sail ‘cross time and space.

Oh! Again… Whisper me a kiss…

In your arms, the promise of forever…
Shining as stars in your ebony eyes
Come my love, tomorrow’s our dawn…
Floating free as the star flies
*Our love, the vessel… you, my tether…
On whispered kisses, together we’ll rise.

Softly… Softly… Whisper me a kiss…

Three blissful weeks passed from what Charles came to refer to as “My fortuitous misadventure,” always with a smile for Cora. Her mother had given her oversight of Charles’ needs and care and she had blossomed. After the first week, Charles was permitted to sit in the parlor or on the veranda for some hours a day.

The Jamesons had joined their company when Charles was well enough for visitors and were housed in the wing nearest his rooms. Each evening, their small company read novels and poetry to one another. Cora played the piano forte and Shariara would sing. One of the under footmen, in a stiff livery, played the violin for them. And, every evening, someone would play while those others who were able would dance. Sarvazad and Shariara danced while Mrs. McIlroy looked on tolerantly. It was a perfect, timeless idyll.

Shariara and Sarvazad strolled, or rode out daily, his hound always faithfully at his side, with Margaret trailing at an indulgent, but watchful distance. On their walks, they usually stopped to rest at the small marble gazebo, marking the eastern boundary of the estate’s park. Margaret always sat beneath her parasol at a distance, on a shallow, stone bench in the grassy glen, absorbed in some tome or other.

On one such day, Shariara regaled Sarvazad with tales of the local gossip, which greatly amused him. Removing her fetching burgundy bonnet with gold-colored ribbons, she shared all the rumors concerning him. Her flame-colored locks glowed like a halo about her little heart-shaped face. She ended the tales in a light, teasing tone with, “But, my favorite is that you are the son of the Regent, himself, and an exiled Persian princess.”

He threw back his head and laughed outright at that. Light flashed blue in his wavy black hair and the sun gleamed off his perfect teeth. Then, he shared the truth of his tale with her. “Nothing so glamorous, I assure you,” he said with a sardonic smile. “My father was raised in a monastic school. He was the last of eleven brothers and his father intended he should assume orders. But, he was ill-suited to the rigors of the Cloth. So his father purchased him a commission aboard a merchant ship of milord Montague, where he, in time, rose to captain.”

Sarvazad continued, “Eventually, he rose to manage milord Montague’s considerable trade concerns in the Orient, from the Persian Gulf, at Abadan. On a tour of those concerns, milord brought with him his wilder young sister. I’m afraid she made rather a spectacle of herself with a minor French noble in the neighborhood. My father extricated her from a looming debacle. She was my mother.”

“Years passed before the French made the British situation too intolerable. Father, at milord’s behest, then made the treacherous journey with mother and myself and my sister to England.” He ended on a pensive tone.

Shariara’s asked, “You have a sister?”

Sadness darkened his expression, “Her name was Parvani. She and my parents died of a fever on the journey to England… within sight of the French coast. I was but a callow youth.”

She took one of his hands between hers and bowed her head. Spreading tear stains darkened the pale rose muslin of her gown, and the golden yellow ribbons of her bonnet trailing across her lap. Sarvazad took her face in his hands, wiping away the tears. He kissed her so tenderly it was like a whisper upon her lips.

Margaret looked on in silence, smiling at so reverently touching a scene, her own eyes brimming with unshed tears.

 

The Promise of a Future
On a bright morning, Shariara came down the stairs and Cora met her with an eager expression. “Oh, Cousin! You’ll never guess who has come to call!”

“Well, I did see the minister’s phaeton coming up the cliff road,” Shariara said with a happy smile, remembering the joy of their company last evening when Charles declared himself for Cora.

“Oh, Ellie. The minister isn’t here for me! And, his visit hasn’t thrown the household into disarray!” Cora continued, enthused. “It’s Lord Montague, himself!”

A pensive look crossed Shariara’s face. Had the great lord come to carry away Sarvazad? Both young ladies started when the morning room doors opened suddenly. Mrs. McIlroy stepped into the corridor. “Ah, Elspeth… I was but now going to send for you. You will join us here now, please.” She cast an appraising look over the girl in pale lavender muslin with sea foam green ribbons at the bodice. Her hair was neatly twisted into a long plait and draped down her shoulder, nearly to her waist, tied at the ends with more sea foam green ribbons. With an approving nod, she motioned Shariara over rather impatiently.

“Yes, ma’am,” Shariara replied, taking Cora’s hand and starting toward the dowager.

“Cora, you will speak to Cook about this evening’s repast,” Mrs. McIlroy directed her daughter. Feeling rather bereft, Shariara followed the lady into morning room with a backward glance at Cora; who, for her part spared a backward glance for her cousin.

When she looked back, into the room, Shariara sought Sarvazad’s eyes. His expression was so serious that fear gripped her heart. He stood beside and slightly behind a rather severe-looking, very fine gentleman. The minister, standing on this gentleman’s other side looked hopelessly dowdy next to him. Charles, his expression closed, reclined with his leg up upon a chaise.

“Elspeth, I have the honor to introduce to you the Lord Montague,” Mrs. McIlroy said, taking a step back so that Shariara was left out front before this exquisite personage. “Lord Montague, permit me to introduce my ward, Miss Elspeth Montrose, the daughter of my late husband’s deceased half-sister.”

He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingertips punctiliously. With a stiff nod, he said, “Miss Montrose. Allow me to come to the point.” He motioned her to a prim, gilded chair and sat next to her on the matching chair, once Mrs. McIlroy sat herself upon the edge of high-backed one. Sarvazad took up a station behind his lordship. The minister, looking rather tenebrous and harried — he always looked rather harried — settled on the settee in an attitude of relief.

“To the point, Miss Montrose,” his lordship continued in somber tones, “My nephew is to come into his fortune upon the day of his marriage.” A frightened expression must have given her state of mind away because the great lord’s face softened and he patted her trembling hands, folded demurely in her lap. “Dear girl, there is no need for such consternation. My! But, your hands are like ice, child.”

Tilting her head slightly, she respond only, “Yes, milord.” But she looked up at Sarvazad’s face and saw a smile in his eyes.

“My girl, my nephew has declared himself for you. Your guardian and I have come to an arrangement for you both, to which the good minister has officiated.” He looked back at his nephew, “Vaz, my lad, you quite understated the lady’s charms.”

Suddenly, she was in Sarvazad’s arms and he was all joy and laughter. She laughed with him, heedless of the joyful tears trailing down her cheeks.

Mrs. McIlroy and the gentlemen congratulated them and Charles even struggled up onto his crutches, patting her elbow and thumping Sarvazad soundly on the back, exclaiming “Much joy to you both, old chap! We shall make a double of the day!”

Mrs. McIlroy threw open the morning room doors and called for the rest of the household. They passed the day in celebration of both betrothed couples, everyone in a boisterous mood. Sarvazad and Shariara seemed oblivious to it all. When the music played, they danced as though no one else existed in all the world.

 

A Stormy Day
Late that evening, after supper, Sarvazad and Shariara’s dance was interrupted when an officer, drenched from the storm outside, arrived with papers for Sarvazad. He called for his horse and turned to his uncle, “Two French ships have been spied rounding Loch Dunvegan. All personnel are recalled to set sail by dawn.”

“The brazenness of them,” expostulated Charles, “Frenchies so far north and deep into English waters!”

“Oh! Do be careful, Vaz!” Cora interjected. “What shame to end such a joyous day thus!”

“You must take my barouche,” Mrs. McIlroy said imperiously, “Tis foolish the strike out on horseback in this deluge.” She let fly with a string of orders that sent servants bustling efficiently.

“I thank you, lady,” said Lord Montague in rushed civility. “Vaz, I shall accompany you and this fine officer to the harbor.”

Shariara sent the footman scurrying for Sarvazad’s and his lordship’s hats and overcoats, and turned a stricken expression back to Sarvazad, “Return to me but quickly, my love.”

He crushed her in his embrace, “My Shariara Rose… I will always return to you.” They shared a last, desperate kiss, then the men were gone.

The next morning, while the storm still raged, Mabel came into Shariara’s room, sobbing, barely able to relay her message, “Oh, miss… it’s so dreadful! Oh, miss!”

Her mind in a panic, Shariara shook the maid slightly, “What is it, Mabel?”

“Oh, miss! Oh, miss!” The maid took a deep breath and finally continued, “Madam requests you to come straightway to her chamber.” She buried her face in her apron and sobbed, “Oh, miss!”

Her unfastened dressing gown trailing behind her, Shariara raced down the long corridor, her undone hair wild about her, to her guardian’s apartments. As she crossed the threshold, she beheld Cora’s swollen, tear stained face. Mrs. McIlroy was at the door and caught Shariara in a strong embrace, holding her tightly. For the only time ever, she called her, “Shariara,” and told her, “Shariara, my dear child, your beloved’s ship sank in the storms. All hands were lost.”

All the strength in her body evaporated and Shariara just collapsed nervelessly in the dowager’s arms. The lady helped her to the chaise and held her, and cried with her as Shariara wept for hours. She wept until she slept in tragic exhaustion, and the dowager still held her.

 

A Promise Kept…
In the months that followed, Cora and Charles kept close company with Shariara. But her only solace was Sarvazad’s great grey hound. Mrs McIlroy, who’d never kept animals as pets, made no attempt to evict the poor sad creature. The hound seemed to mourn as deeply as Shariara. Many and many days she was seen walking along the shore, watching the distant horizon, until someone from the house would lead her back home. The animal was ever at Shariara’s side.

So, when again, on a clear night, when storms were on the distant horizon, Cora and Charles were approaching the shore in search of Shariara. They heard the dog barking animatedly, and cold dread gripped them both. There seemed to be music in the air… a melancholy, haunting melody. Charles raced out ahead, coming down in view of the shore first, where he froze, stunned by what he thought he saw. Cora pushed past him to where the dog was now dragging desperately at Shariara, who was knee deep in the surf. She was dancing in the crashing waves.

The dog’s bark broke the spell that seemed to hold Charles’ attention and he raced to help Cora drag Shariara, struggling against them, back from the surf’s edge. They collapsed together on the sand. A chill ran up their spines when Cora and Charles saw the sad, dreamy smile upon Shariara’s face in the bright moonlight.

The made their way back to the house and saw Shariara tucked into her bed, the dog at her side on the rug. Mrs. McIlroy went personally to speak to Cook about a warm drink and broth for her, declaring her intent to personally sit with her through the night.

Charles drew Cora aside and told, “Cora, she wasn’t alone on the shore.”

“Whatever can you mean, Charles?” she asked. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the dog’s company.

“I swear to you,” he began, “I- I saw him with her.”

“What? Who did you see?” Cora demanded.

He grasped his golden hair in a frustrated gesture, “You’ll think me mad… but I swear to you… When I came in sight of the shore… I would swear she was in the surf dancing with Sarvazad!”

Cora’s hand flew to her mouth and she made an incredulous sound. But the look she shared with Charles showed full well that she believed his vision. Of a sudden, her eyes widened, and she was trembling so that she sank onto a chair, “Oh, Charles… do you remember his promise to her?”

He shared a grieving look as he recalled Sarvazad’s last words to Shariara, My Shariara Rose… I will always return to you.

 

A Touching Gift
As the months passed, and the mourning period receded, wedding plans set the household and all the village in a whirl. Shariara drifted along with the bustle, but continued to feel disconnected from their society. She went along with their revelry and tried to show happiness for the couple and pleasure for her part in the coming ceremony. Cora and Charles, and even Mrs. McIlroy made every attempt to include her.

All the household had been watching her so very closely that Shariara hadn’t been seen back on the shore since that frightening episode. But, the servants and village folk claimed that on nights when storms were on the horizon, a haunting melody could be heard drifting up from the shore line. And, on those nights, the hound would prowl the cliff’s edge and howl mournfully.

In addition to the wedding plans, details for the Grande Tour were set. When the couple went off on their extended wedding trip, Mrs. McIlroy intended to make a tour of the Continent; Shariara was to accompany her. The days were filled with fittings and planning. When all the bustle became too much for Shariara, the dog trailing her, she would try to slip away to the little gazebo. But, she always found someone was ready to bear her company. Margaret usually made these trips with her and would sit quietly nearby, on the little stone bench, until Shariara would rise and make her way back to the house.

On the morning before the wedding, Cora, beaming happily, stood before the long mirror in her dressing room, while the dressmaker worked on some final details of her stunning gown of fine imported silk. Shariara too was standing stiffly, while an apprentice seamstress made adjustments to her soft, deep rose-colored velvet overdress, with a ruched, pale, golden colored under skirt. She tilted her head at her reflection, a sad smile on her lovely, pale face.

Wishing she could somehow lift that sadness, even for a moment, Cora said, “Ellie, you look quite a picture in that gown. The color suits you well.” She stepped over to her cousin, to the dressmaker’s consternation. “I have a gift for you from mama.” She handed her a small, gaily wrapped box, tied with a brightly patterned ribbon. Cora took her by the hand and led her to the chaise, to the muffled annoyance of the seamstress. They sat together and Cora said with enthusiasm, “Open it. Mama’s been very secretive about it!”

Shariara mustered a small smile and untied the ribbon and set it aside. Then, she delicately removed the wrapping and folded it neatly beside the ribbon before lifting the lid. When she saw what lay on the cotton batting, she breathed out, “Oh!”

Cora, peering into the box at the same time, exclaimed, “Oh! Ellie! It’s… stunning! It’s so like him.”

There, in the box, lay a delicately painted portrait miniature. A tiny, porcelain rose, set with seed-pearls topped the little gold frame of the setting, with a cloth of gold ribbon to wear it about her neck. Shariara caressed the image of Sarvazad as she held the necklace, and smiled sweetly, her eyes brimming with tears… and upon her face… finally… a happy smile.

Mrs. McIlroy chose that moment to enter the room and Shariara flung her self at the lady in gratitude. The dowager patted her a little gruffly and said, smiling, “Cora, you were to wait until the morrow to give her this.” She turned Shariara around, “Here, let us see it on you, Ellie.” She fastened the ribbon around her neck, then stood Shariara again before the tall glass. Blinking rapidly, Mrs. McIlroy swallowed and said, “Perfectly charming…”

Everyone in the room agreed and Shariara turned this way and that, absorbed in watching the play of light across the little portrait at her throat. “Thank you. This is the loveliest thing I’ve ever owned.”

The dressmaker and the seamstress set about finishing their work. Afterward, Shariara, the hound following her, and Cora, with Margaret in tow, walked to the little gazebo. Charles found them on his afternoon ride, bringing a little picnic tea, sent along by Mrs. McIlroy, tied on the saddle behind him. They shared a lovely afternoon and Shariara, for the first time in the year since Sarvazad’s passing seemed happy and at peace.

 

After the Wedding
The next afternoon, the house and all the estate were bustling with extra staff from the village and a stream of arriving guests in elegant finery. The wedding was a joyful affair, filling the day with laughter and beauty. Shariara joined the gaiety and shared in the joy of the day.

The grand ballroom was thrown open for the first time since that evening when Sarvazad had entered their lives. This night, the chandeliers and all the tasteful appointments in the room, overflowing out onto the veranda, were festooned with flowers, the air swimming with their perfume. The wolfhound lay in the shrubbery edging the veranda, all but his great grey head hidden in the depths of the flowering greenery.

Shariara, much in demand among the gallants, escaped for a moment’s repose on the veranda, where Charles and Cora found her. Charles proffered a glass of champagne, and she said, “I’m so pleased to be a part of this bless-ed day with you.” She raised her glass and continued, “I hope many long years of such happiness will be yours.” They raised their glasses, then drank.

Taking Shariara’s glass, Charles set their glasses on a small garden table, and bowed, “You are my kin now too. Will you honor me with a dance, Cousin?”

She smiled and gave him her hand as the strains of a waltz began, “My gallant new cousin, it would please me very much.” As they were dancing, a dreamy expression stole across her face. With a tender smile she said, “This waltz was playing the first time we danced…”

He too had a dreamy expression. Looking at the little portrait about her neck, as he said, “You know, it’s strange… I’ve felt the whole day that he was by my side…” She smiled a happy, distant and dreamy sort of smile at that. Charles continued, “I feel he’s here even now.”

“You dance so well together,” Cora said as the first raindrops fell. “We’d best go in. There’s a storm rolling in from the sea.”

A low, moaning growl came from the dog as they headed back inside. Shariara looked back towards the hound with smile, as Charles pulled the doors closed against the rain, and lightning flashed in the distance.

The night whirled on, dance after dance, in a crush of celebratory revelry. It was quite late when loud, crashing thunder sounded over the orchestra and the current of chatter that filled the ballroom. Cora looked around, startled by the clap of thunder that shook the glass of the half dozen double French doors.

With a sinking feeling, she scanned the room, gripping hard to Charles’ hand. “Charles, can you see Ellie?”

He turned about the room, grabbed the sleeve of a passing gallant he’d seen jostling for space on her dance card, “Phillip, did you note Miss Elspeth’s whereabouts?”

“I say, Chap, we’ve all been watching for her return the last half hour!” He passed on with a chuckle, presumably still looking for her.

Cora crossed to where the elders sat together and spoke to her mother, “Mama, have you seen Ellie?”

Mrs. Jameson, at her side, responded with a frown that matched the dowager’s, “I saw her slipping into the alcove under the stair… perhaps an hour ago.”

Mrs. McIlroy stood and strode across the ballroom, through the throng, with the bride and groom, and the elder Jamesons pressed to keep pace with her. When Shariara was not found there, the lady sent footmen and maids scurrying to search the house. When she still was not found, Charles stopped the music as Cora flung open one of the French doors to look for the dog. Everyone there could hear a haunting song, drifting up over the cliff’s edge, on the wild, chill wind.

In near silence, a dozen or more of the people followed the song, and Charles and Cora down the cliff road. As they came around the last bend toward the shore, they heard the song quite clearly, punctuated by the surf and the raging storm…

Listen to "Shariara's Lament"

Lyrics, tune, vocals, photography, and video by D. Denise Dianaty, c. 2014

 

I lift my eyes to see you
Your smile once shone on me
We danced a while as one heart
Now I dance alone

The dance plays on
          and alone I weep
for a promise lost
          in fading memories
You sailed away
          on a stormy day
And sank beneath the briny sea

I lift my eyes to see you
Your smile once shone on me
We danced a while as one heart
Now I dance alone

So now I wait
          for your shade’s return
I stalk this shore
          dancing here for you
With your faithful hound
          trailing by my side
I embrace the foamy brine alone

I lift my eyes to see you
Your smile once shone on me
We danced a while as one heart
Now I dance alone

Racing along the surf’s edge, Charles first came upon the wolfhound’s corpse tumbling in the surf. He pulled the poor creature from the water as Cora and a couple of the other searcher’s joined him. “Drowned,” he said, patting the sad, waterlogged furry head.

Cora, her eyes scanning the shore line, gasped and raced in the surf’s edge a short distance. Collapsing to her knees beside Shariara’s body, she sobbed, “Oh! My sweet cousin!” Charles dropped to his knees beside her and they wept together.

Epilogue
It was some few years since that tragic day. Many a storm has wracked the shore. In every stormy night, it was said you could hear that haunting melody and her echoing song –– “Shariara’s Lament,” they called it –– punctuated by the low, mournful howling of a hound.

A fair haired little girl, now residing in Shariara’s old room, often talked about hearing the howl of the creature or the sad melody from her window on stormy nights. But, on this night, the sky was clear and the moon was shining high and bright in the starry sky. She should long ago have been asleep. But a different light glowing in her window drew her from her bed. The light was coming from just out of sight on the veranda, and a lovely, haunting melody drifted up to her on the gently wafting breeze, scented with the perfume of roses.

The little girl, her stuffed toy under one arm, stealthy slipped out her door and crept down the stairs and around the grand staircase to the ballroom. There, she peeped around an open French door, batting the billowing curtain away. Without even realizing it, she found herself standing on the veranda, watching a beautiful, glowing couple dancing in the bright moonlight.

She heard a rustling behind her and turned her little head, and looked up to find her mama, Cora, standing there quietly. There was a tragic smile on Cora’s face and one single, large tear rolled slowly down her cheek. She took the little girl’s hand and spoke softly, “Come, Elspeth. Let them dance.”

Cora turned and led the little girl back through the doors to the ballroom. The little girl looked back over her should at the glowing couple and asked, “How long will they dance, mama?”

Cora breathed, “Forever…”

                                                                                                      ……The End……

All copy and poetry, all artwork is the original intellectual property of D. Denise Dianaty who retains sole ownership.

This the entirety of The Dance Plays On… – my paranormal romance novelette ebook – published in Amazon KDP 31 March 2016, by D. Denise Dianaty. Cover art created by D. Denise Dianaty. Cover art created by D. Denise Dianaty. You may purchase your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DPSBJDK/ref=cm_sw_r_tw_dp_U_x_7g9cEb73SFVGY via @amazon