Dinner with Mrs. Fairchild had saved Nathan’s Christmas and his sanity. Their conversation had never been completely informal, but Nathan felt it was as close to talking with a friend as he had felt in a long while. He even convinced her to address him without a title. It was his opinion that titles should not exist between friends, regardless of social standing. She agreed under certain conditions, namely that she would only do so in private company. It did not set a good example for the rest of the staff to see her speaking with him casually. Further, when his family was visiting, she would never address him as anything less than “Master Nathan.”

​

To his delight, Mrs. Fairchild told him that he may call her Jude so long that he also did so exclusively in private. The shift in their relationship from professionals to friends was slow at first. On more than a few occasions, Jude called him Master Nathan out of habit and had to remind herself that she was free to share her opinions with him. But after a few weeks' time, she warmed up, and they began talking plainly about the goings on around the estate. Occasionally, she would let slip some gossip about other members of the staff. He never told her that he had already heard most of the information as disembodied whispers floating through the house.

​

Living at the summer home had become more bearable with Jude to talk to, but Nathan still found himself lonely at times. He couldn’t discuss everything with her—not the voices he heard or visions he saw or even the true reason he was sent away from London—which was, of course, the greater issue. There wasn’t a soul on this earth that he could talk to about everything. He considered prayer as a means to relieve the burden of his secrets, but Nathan wasn’t sure that he believed in God. Or at least, not the one he was raised to. He knew there was something. Some kind of force responsible for the things that plagued him. But it was not a comforting thought.

​

Along with his newfound friendship with Jude, he also had his mother’s letters to keep him tethered to reality. In her most recent one, she told him about the guests they had to their manor on New Year’s Day and that his older brother Daniel had begun courting a new woman. Sometimes, reading her letters, Nathan envied his family for being able to carry on with their lives as normal. The simplest of life’s joys—socializing, courting—had always felt out of reach for him, and they seemed even farther away now. But still, he held no resentment against them. In fact, he very much looked forward to his mother’s correspondence. They were his only connection to the world outside of the summer home.

​

Sometimes her letters were nostalgic, reminiscing on stories from Nathan’s childhood; sometimes she spoke about the latest news circulating around the city. Nathan never knew exactly what would be in the next letter, but he knew with certainty what wouldn’t be—she never once spoke of his father.

​

He tried to make his responses to her interesting, but there wasn’t much to report. He spent most days reading novels by Dickens and poetry by Whitman and Housman. At least twice a week, he would practice violin. It was the same as he had always done, really, and it didn’t make for an engaging letter.

​

Things weren’t always mundane; though, he knew better than to write about them. One day in January, Nathan was reading in the conservatory—a room that protruded off the back of the house with large, wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the grounds. Outside, the wind rustled the dead leaves and twigs in the garden, and for a brief moment, the rustling sound took shape and became a melody, a delicate tune that sounded familiar to him. He stopped reading and tried to recall where he knew it, but it was just out of reach. So, he retrieved his violin to aid him.

​

Nathan had been practicing violin since he was a young boy, and it had become a skill in which he felt exceptionally competent. However, after a disturbing incident involving a performance he’d given to a small group of family friends when he was fourteen years old, he started playing exclusively in private. It was during this incident in which he made the alarming discovery that the pieces he diligently practiced and memorized would change as he played, mid-performance, without his realizing it. What’s more, this unconscious improvisation that poured from him seemed to have an unpredictable emotional effect on those who listened. As such, when he wanted to practice now, he would move to the uppermost part of the house to be away from everyone. The staff, not knowing the true reason why, simply understood that he was not to be bothered while he played.

​

Today, however, something in Nathan felt uninhibited. Instead of hiding away in the attic, he simply returned to the conservatory and began to play. He cautiously began working out the notes to the tune he’d heard before. As he played, the melody became sharper in his mind, and he performed with greater confidence. Despite this, he still couldn’t place where he’d heard it before. The more he played, the more he wondered if he really knew this song at all, or if it belonged to someone else’s memories. There was a strange knowing he felt in the tips of his fingers as they slid along the fingerboard that this song had come to him from someplace far away, desperate to be heard.

​

In that moment, he felt eyes on him. He quickly lowered his instrument and turned around to see Jude standing in the doorway of the conservatory looking at him with a stunned look, tears welling in her eyes.

​

“How do you know that song?” she asked in a whisper.

 

Nathan was at a loss for words.

​

“My mother,” Jude continued. “She used to sing it to us all the time when we were girls. She said it was a tune that her own mother created herself. I haven’t heard it since—” She paused and pressed a hand to her mouth. “You may not remember this, you were very young, but I left the estate for a short time nearly twenty years ago.”

​

Nathan finally found his words, “Yes, I remember there were a few summers when I was a boy that you weren’t here. I remember because Daniel fancied you and he complained.”

​

Jude let herself laugh at that. “Do you remember why I left?”

 

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

​

“I’d married.” She sounded very tired then. “His name was John. He was my childhood sweetheart. We’d lost touch for several years, but he found me, and we fell in love.” The welling tears finally spilled down over her cheeks. “Then he became ill. It started small. Just pain in his stomach, but it spread. And he— He just couldn’t— We were still only newly-weds.”

​

She crumpled to the floor, sobbing, and Nathan quickly kneeled beside her. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he placed a steady hand on her back and hoped that she could tell how sorry he was, how much he wished he could do something for her.

​

They sat there in silence for several minutes as her cries gradually quieted. Nathan handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.

​

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes.

 

“Please don’t apologize.”

​

She gave him a weak smile. “That song... My mother was with me when John passed. I was hysterical. But, my mother, she held me as I cried. And she sang her mother’s song for me again. I haven’t heard it since that night.”

​

Jude turned to look Nathan in the face, a question in her eyes. “How do you know it?” she asked in a small voice. At that moment, it seemed that she was ready to believe anything he told her.

​

For a second, Nathan considered lying, offering any explanation that would make him seem less strange and abnormal. But looking at Jude and the openness on her face, he opted for the truth instead. “I don’t know.”

​

She searched his eyes, debating whether to ask him more. But she seemed to think better of it and turned away. “Today is our anniversary,” she said.

​

A shiver went down Nathan’s spine, and he wouldn’t allow himself to consider the implications of how the song had found him on this day. The “how” wasn’t important, he thought. Only the outcome mattered, and for Jude that was catharsis. He took her hand and gave it a small squeeze.

​

Without another word between them, he helped her to her feet.