Enchanting the Swan is a beautiful story - full of suspense, drama, and enduring love centered around music. John Schwartz has created a whole world and a wonderful escape. The characters jump off the page with such personality and imagery that this book could make a great movie. Enchanting the Swan is a very enjoyable read, and I recommend it highly. Neal Cary John writes beautifully - I found the book difficult to put down - an easy read, full of intrigue, love, passion, international travel, and dubious banking business, and lots more - a must read. Maggie McElhone Enjoyed the book. Well written book. A very heartbreaking love story. Vera Wilson If you like old-fashioned romance stories, you will like Enchanting The Swan. There’s more to this story than doe-eyed romance. John Schwartz has written a fine romantic thriller that doesn’t let go until the very end. Daniel Dwyer Enchanting the Swan was a nice read, and a deviation from the predictable boy meets girl and falls in love formula. There were many turns in the book that are reminiscent of life in that they were off the path to the end result. The writing was very image evoking and it all made for a good story that kept me reading until the end. Looking forward to more from this author! Amy I loved this book! I had not read a novel in several years. After only 3 chapters I was hooked. I live in Virginia, so I was very familiar with the college where Paul and Fiona met. Very impressed with the author and his attention to detail. Hope he writes many more. VT Mom A lively composition! The various moneyed people, their elaborately appointed living quarters, and their high-wheeling lifestyle add a dash of pizzazz. Kirkus Reviews
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR Memoir Some Women I Have Known Audrey – A Cherished Memory (A Short Story) Fiction Francine: Dazzling Daughter of the Mountain State Non-Fiction Maarten Maartens Rediscovered Part I – His 13 Novels Part II – His Best Short Stories
Copyright © 2018 by John Schwartz First Published 2015 Published by Sun Hill Books Alexandria, VA 22304 USA http://johnschwartzauthor.com www.amazon.com/author/schwartzjohn www.facebook.com/followjohnschwartz Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9991544-7-2 Front Cover and Interior Design provided by MS Illustration and Design. This book was typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro. All right reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner. Printed in the United States of America. The Chapter tittle “The Drummer Girl” was inspired by John le Carré’s novel The Little Drummer Girl. The Chapter title “Remembrance of Love” was taken from the William Goldstein album released in 2012. The Chapter title “Stairway to Heaven” was taken from the song by the English rock band Led Zeppelin, 1971. The Chapter title “Diamond Music” was taken from the 1996 album by Welsh composer Karl Jenkins. Editing by Mark Spencer
To Fioen Who gave me my first kiss at six And went to heaven before I could tell her I loved her
Chapter 1 A Tormenting Dissonant
I
ran up the stairs and called out for Fiona. There was no reply. A small ceiling light was on in the hall. The airconditioning was off, and the air hung heavy and stale, so different from this morning when our place was super-charged with energy, excitement, and anticipation. In the bedroom, the sheets lay folded on the mattress. The shower stall in the tiny bathroom was wet, and a damp towel lay in the sink. An array of brown boxes and furniture stood center stage in the living room. No shipping labels attached. Her cello was gone. I’d expected Fiona to still be cleaning, her ebullient brown hair in disarray, a wrinkled T-shirt hanging half out of her jeans, sweeping up the last bit of trash strewn over the floor, looking at me, enthusiastic about our move, our future together. Her wall phone still worked. I called the Williamsburg Hospitality House where her aunt and uncle, Lady Irma and Henry Van Buren, were staying. I’d met them yesterday, on Sunday, at the graduation of William & Mary’s great Class of 1999 and was almost certain Fiona was with them. But no one picked up. I drove to the hotel and found them sitting in the lobby with my mother. No Fiona. Their faces spelled doom.
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“Where is she?” I asked. They looked at each other. “She’s left for Brussels,” her uncle said, lifting his arms in frustration. “Brussels?” I dropped down into a chair. “While we were helping her pack in her bedroom, we asked if she’d called her godparents about her graduation,” Henry said. “She’d told us her godmother had phoned several times leaving messages, but she hadn’t returned the calls because she was afraid she and her godfather would continue interfering with her life. She finally phoned her godfather who was still in his office, and suddenly we heard her raising her voice and then she called Irma.” “I overheard her telling him she would start at the law firm Jones Day in New York after staying in D.C with you for a few days,” her aunt said. “Her godfather got furious and didn’t want her to go to D.C. with you. She got very upset, was stomping around and yelled at him. I took the phone and said I had full confidence in her choice and that he shouldn’t worry, but he insisted she come home immediately.” “When did she leave?” I asked, feeling drained. “Around 1:00 p.m.,” Henry said. My head started to spin. “Why did she have to get away so quickly?” “Her godfather demanded she take the first flight out and had his secretary make the booking,” Henry said. “She got mad at us for having spurred her to call home and mad at herself for mentioning she’d be staying with you. She hated that she couldn’t talk to you. Your phone was already disconnected.” Her aunt’s voice reached me from afar. “She agreed on condition it would be an open return ticket, as she wanted to get back here as soon as possible to start her job and be with you again.” Fiona had been so euphoric that Jones Day New York had hired her, while I was practically assured of a career there with Morgan Stanley. Everything seemed ready for us, find friends to form a quintet, and mix work with music. “She wanted to confront her godfather in person,” Lady Van Buren continued. “She said talking with him over the phone was fruitless. The only things she took were a suitcase and her cello.”
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My insides turned to concrete. The celebratory melodies of The Swan we performed yesterday at the graduation ceremony suddenly turned into Grieg’s Ase’s Tot. “Why didn’t she wait? I could’ve gone with her.” Lady Van Buren and Henry stayed silent, looking embarrassed. “Something happened yesterday?” my mother asked, turning to me, her eyes showing suspicion. “Maybe she got cold feet?” Had she? She’d never showed anything close, not in her demeanor or in her sometimes cynical remarks. My mother must have forgotten what it was like to be in love and share that deep emotion night after night. Still, her supposition unsettled me thoroughly. Was Fiona copping out? “Not at all,” I said, annoyed. “She’d phoned her mother to talk about our plans.” “Did her godfather ever say anything about that?” my mother went on with her inquisition. “He’d apparently been making objections,” I admitted. Fiona had once said that her godfather had a compelling influence over her because of her parents’ wishes about her future. What did her godfather tell her in that phone call? Had he threatened her with her parents’ testament that she be groomed to marry someone from their own circle in Belgium, no foreign intruders? But Fiona had rejected all that. “Well, if she loves you and has any character, she’ll tell her godfather goodbye if he disagrees and come back,” my mother said in her usual stoical manner. “It may be more complicated than that,” Lady Van Buren told my mother. “She may have felt obliged in her family situation. I don’t know her godparents well, as we are distant family. I met them only once at the funeral of her parents, when Fiona was two. But I understand her godfather is rather domineering and narrowminded.” “We’ll send her belongings to Old Westbury as we had agreed,” said Henry Van Buren. “But what if her godparents keep making objections?” I wondered aloud. “I think I should talk to them, but as she said, you can’t do that over the phone.”
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Belgium had won the class war so far, or so it seemed. Fiona Baroness de Maconville, my love and bride to be, was gone. How would I get her back with her nobility clan pulling the strings? Would she burn the ships and return to me? Having an open return ticket was no guarantee. Compassion glimmered in Lady Van Buren’s blue eyes. “Paul,” she said, “the best thing for you is to go to Brussels in a few days and look her up. She may need your support to convince them, and once they see you, they’ll change their mind. Join some summer course while you are there. Here’s their address.” She took a leaf from a small Hospitality House notebook on a side table and wrote, “Avenue Bellevue, 15, Waterloo,” and handed it to me. “It’s a few miles south of Brussels. I don’t know the telephone number, but you can get that from the directory.” I slipped the paper into my wallet as if it were a leaf of gold. “Why don’t you send Fiona’s things tomorrow?” my mother asked me. “Now that she isn’t coming to D.C. with us, I prefer not to drive home in the dark. We can stay here tonight.” Practical Mom. Always keeping her cool in a terrible situation. “That would be very kind of you,” Lady Van Buren said. “We’d planned to return home today.” “I’ll be glad to take care of it if you tell me where to send it, Madam,” I said, the hollow hole in my stomach growing larger and larger. She penciled down their address. “I’ll send a message to her godfather to introduce you. I’ll recommend that he receive you,” Henry Van Buren said. “Here’s my card.” It said Vice President, Goldman Sachs. “Whenever you’re in New York, give me a call.” The next time I was in New York, I would. But I wouldn’t be going there without Fiona.
Chapter 2 Vorspiel to Enchantment
F
iona and I met about a year ago. She was a striking brunette. Tony Dalton, a slim, dark-haired fellow from Arlington, Virginia, and a friend of hers at the Law School, introduced her to me on the William & Mary tennis courts. It was a bright September afternoon in my final year. I’d seen her occasionally playing mixed doubles and admired her rapid shots at the net, leaving her opponents paralyzed. “Hi, Paul,” Tony said, coming to me with the girl at his side. “This is Fiona de Maconville. She’s from Belgium. When I told her you were half French, she wanted to meet you.” “Enchanté, Paul Cramer,” I said, shaking her hand.” Her lean figure, regal posture and sublime appearance in her smart tennis apparel bedazzled me. I guessed she was about my age, twenty-four. “I’ve seen you play. You’ve great shots. Tony should’ve asked me to play with you before.” “I’ve seen you, too,” she said. “Smashing serves and deep slicing forehand, so I asked Tony, ‘Who’s that tall fellow with the red hair playing there? Why not ask him to play with us?’ You still speak French?” “Yes, I do,” I said in French. “My mother is French. She taught me, and we often went to France on vacation with family.” Seeing Tony looking lost, I switched back to English and asked, “You’re doing
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Law, I suppose? I never saw you on the main campus. I’m a graduate student at the Business School. My classes are in Blow Hall.” Law students had their own buildings and graduate housing and spent most of the time at their own location. We sat down on a bench together, basking in the warm mid-September sun, chatting for a while about our games and the finals at the New York Open at Flushing Meadows. “You play like Lindsay Davenport,” I said to Fiona. “Sharp volleys at the net and marvelous groundstrokes.” I liked playing doubles with girls at William & Mary. Just too bad Fiona hadn’t been one of them. “She beats me,” Tony said, laughing. “Come play with us next Saturday at 10:00 a.m. I’ll get a court.” “Sure, I’ll be there, on condition that Fiona will be my partner.” “We’ll toss-up on that,” Tony said, getting up. “I leave you two to talk French.” While Tony walked away, I asked Fiona, “You must be from the French-speaking part of Belgium?” “We live near Brussels. Ever been there?” “Several times, with my grandparents who lived in Paris. I love the Grand Place, but also the old towns like Gand and Bruge. Why did you come here? Do you want to do law in the USA?” “I may. I’d like to work on both sides of the Atlantic. I have a Belgian law degree already.” “A European attorney studying Law at William & Mary? Blast! How is that possible?” “Our school system is different. I finished gymnasium at seventeen. Gymnasium gives you access to Belgian law school, which takes five years. I was twenty-two when I got here. I’m in my last year.” “Wow! That’s impressive. I’m twenty-four and only have a BA in economics from Bucknell. I’m in my last year, too. If I’d been in your shoes, I would’ve started work at home right away and make good money. How did you come to William & Mary?” “An Uncle and Aunt Van Buren, who live in Long Island, took me here. The Law School had an excellent reputation. I loved the campus, and Colonial Williamsburg seduced me completely.
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Luckily they accepted my application.” “Van Buren?” I asked, intrigued. “Is your uncle Van Buren the same one whose name is on that plaque in the Ewell Hall, you know, the Department of Music?” “I’m not sure. My uncle Henry originates from New York. You go to the Ewell Hall?” “For concerts. I’m a classical piano player and take lessons and practice there, too.” Fiona’s face brightened. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I play cello. Professor Cary’s my teacher.” “But I’ve never seen you in Ewell Hall! Where do you practice? “In my gradhouse apartment.” “What about your roommate, doesn’t she go crazy?” “I got a single.” “A single? I heard they’re hard to get.” “They keep it secret. My medical doctor concocted a document that I was unsociable. A letter from a friendly US Ambassador I knew in Brussels who’d graduated from here may have helped. And I was an attorney already.” She gave me a mischievous glance. “Well, Professor Cary is a very nice man. He directs the quintet I play with. How long have you played?” “From my sixth,” she said, as if it were nothing. “I also played in a quartet at Brussels University. We performed at university festivities. I quite liked that, but practice is very time-consuming.” “It’s fun and gives you something else to do but study. You must be playing quite well then. Surely good enough for our quintet. We’ve had a cellist vacancy for some time. Professor Cary’s been playing that part in the meantime. Didn’t he ask you?” “He did, but I’m not sure if I have the time.” She looked away into the sky, as if she didn’t believe what she just said. “The quintet won’t survive without a dedicated cellist. Professor Cary can’t substitute forever. Why not give it a try?” “You play with them, huh? Okay, maybe I’ll come next time you do. Oh, mon Dieu, it’s almost two. I must go, if you don’t mind. See you next Saturday. I’ll partner with you.” She stood, briefly waved and hastily walked away with a smile, the wind lifting up her short skirt. Geez, she got nice legs. Her
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whole figure was dazzling. She left me with a head full of thoughts. Her name sounded like Belgian nobility as I’d heard it when in France with my parents. Was she involved with Tony? a Late afternoon Thursday, I was practicing with the quintet. Professor Cary, a sharp-nosed, thin-lipped, but otherwise warmhearted music teacher with great educational skills who was filling in for the cellist position, continuously interrupted, banging his bow. “Aren’t you guys practicing? This isn’t going anywhere if you don’t improve. Come, let’s go over these last ten bars again. Please concentrate.” Just about when we were starting over, the door opened, and Fiona came in, carrying her cello. Everyone stared at her and stopped playing. She looked charming in blue jeans, a matching jacket, and a blue-yellow striped shawl loosely strung around her neck. “Oh, yes, I forgot,” Professor Cary said. “This is Fiona de Maconville, a Law School student from Belgium. She’s been taking lessons with me and finally consented to audition for the cello vacancy. Fiona, please take my seat, if you don’t mind, and play Schubert’s Ave Maria for us.” Fiona took her cello out of the case, sat down, glanced at me and sent me a comforting smile of recognition. She took up her bow. “Paul, please give a ‘c’,” Professor Cary said, and I did. She adjusted her strings and began the beautiful melody. Her sound was so moving that everyone, including me, sat silent for a moment after she finished, mesmerized by her awesome talent; then we clapped and cheered, sure that the vacancy had been filled and the professor could again devote himself to directing. “That was beautifully done, Fiona,” he said. “I’d be gladly relieved from my temporary job, if you want to stay on that seat.” Fiona nodded politely while everyone clapped and cheered again. Professor Cary showed her the score of Bach’s Air on a G string. “Let’s do this one, folks,” he said, and took up his baton, tapping it on his stand. The quintet came back to life.