The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

‘And I can assure you that you do not, dear madame. I was merely joking,’ he said with a gentle smile. ‘There are many spare rooms at Max’s house. So now, how did you fall so far from the great heights you had attained when I last saw you?’

  ‘Sir, I . . .’

  ‘Actually, don’t tell me!’ Grieg held up his hand, then scratched his moustache. ‘Let me guess! Herr Bayer’s attentions were becoming unbearable. Perhaps he even proposed to you. You refused him because you were in love with our handsome but unreliable fiddle player and would-be composer. He announced he was coming to study in Leipzig and you decided to marry and follow him. Am I right?’

  ‘Sir, please don’t tease me.’ Anna hung her head. ‘It is obvious you know the story already. Every word you say is true.’

  ‘Fru Halvorsen . . . may I call you Anna?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Herr Hennum told me recently of your sudden disappearance, although I did not know the details. And it was obvious from what I’d heard in Christiania that Herr Bayer had intentions beyond your career. So the fiddle-playing husband of yours is still in Paris?’

  ‘I believe so, yes.’ Anna wondered how he knew.

  ‘And, I’d fancy, staying in the apartment of a wealthy benefactress by the name of Baroness von Gottfried.’

  ‘I do not know where he stays, sir. I have heard nothing from him for months. I no longer count him as my husband.’

  ‘My dear Anna,’ Grieg said, reaching out a comforting hand to hers, ‘you have suffered so. Sadly, the baroness is fervent in her pursuit of musical talent. And the younger and more attractive, the better.’

  ‘Forgive me, sir, but I hardly care to hear the details.’

  ‘No, of course not. That was insensitive of me. But the good news is, she will soon tire of him and move on and then he will be back by your side.’ He glanced at her then. ‘I always said you were the spirit of my Solveig. And just like her, you wait for him to return to you.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Anna’s features stiffened at his insight. ‘I am not Solveig, and I will not wait for Jens to return to me. He is no longer my husband, or I his wife.’

  ‘Anna, for now, no more of this. You are with me and you are safe. I will do all I can to help you.’ He paused as the carriage drew up outside a grand and beautiful white house, four storeys high, with rows of tall, gracefully arched windows. Anna recognised it as the building of the music publisher, where she had dropped off her letter to Grieg so long ago. ‘For the sake of propriety, it is better if others merely believe you fell on hard times whilst you wait for your husband to return from Paris. Do you see, Anna?’ Grieg’s searing blue eyes met hers for an instant as the grasp of his hand tightened on hers.

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Please, call me Edvard. Now, we have arrived,’ he said, releasing Anna’s hand. ‘Let us go in and announce ourselves.’

  Still dazed by the events of the day, Anna was shown to the delightful airy attic rooms by the maid and was then allowed to sink into a welcome bath. After scrubbing off the grime of the past few months, she changed into a silk dress that had magically appeared on the canopied bed. Strangely, the emerald-green gown fitted her small frame perfectly.

  She gazed in wonder at the beautiful view of Leipzig from the large window, the memory of being trapped in the tiny lodging house already receding as she took in the grandeur around her. She made her way downstairs as she’d been instructed, marvelling at how were it not for Herr Grieg, she would still be in Frau Schneider’s grimy kitchen peeling carrots for supper.

  The maid showed her into the dining room and she found herself seated at a long table between Edvard, as she must now call him, and her host, Herr Abraham. As he welcomed her into his home, Anna saw a pair of kind eyes twinkling behind his neat round glasses. Other musicians were present, and there was much laughter and good food. Even though she was starving, she was unable to eat very much – her stomach had grown unused to digesting it. Instead she sat quietly listening, pinching the skin on her forearm hard to make sure she was really here.

  ‘This beautiful lady,’ Grieg said, raising a champagne glass in her direction, ‘is the most talented singer in Norway. Look at her! The very epitome of Solveig. She has already served as inspiration for some folk songs I have written this year.’

  The other guests immediately requested that he play his new songs and have Anna sing them.

  ‘Perhaps later, my friends, if Anna is not too weary. She has had a very arduous time, captured by the most evil woman in Leipzig!’

  As Edvard narrated the events that had led to Anna’s rescue, the guests gasping at all the right moments, she tried not to feel overwhelmed at the gruelling memories of what she had been through.

  ‘I thought my muse had vanished into thin air! But here she was, living right under all our noses in Leipzig!’ he finished with a flourish. ‘To Anna!’

  ‘Anna!’

  And the table raised their crystal glasses and drank to her health.

  After dinner, Edvard beckoned her towards the piano and placed some music in front of her.

  ‘Now, Anna, in return for my heroic rescue, can you find the strength to sing? The song is titled “The First Primrose” and, as yet, no one has sung it, because it had to be you. Come,’ he said, patting the piano stool, ‘sit by me and we will rehearse for a few minutes.’

  ‘Sir . . . Edvard,’ she murmured, ‘I have not sung for many a long month.’

  ‘Then your voice has been rested and will soar like a bird. Now, listen to the music.’

  Anna did so, only wishing they were alone so she could at least make mistakes in private, instead of in such esteemed company. When Edvard pronounced them ready, the audience turned to them expectantly.

  ‘Please stand, Anna, for your breath control. Can you see the words over my shoulder?’

  ‘Yes, Edvard.’

  ‘Then we begin.’

  Anna’s entire body trembled with nerves as her saviour played the opening bars. Her vocal cords had lain fallow for so long, she had no idea what would come out of her mouth when she opened it. And indeed, the first few notes were true but lacking control. Yet as the beautiful music began to fill her soul, her voice soared as it gained in memory and confidence.

  As they ended the song, Anna knew it had been good enough. There was rousing applause and calls for an encore.

  ‘Perfect, my dear Anna, as I knew it would be. Will you publish the song in your catalogue, Max?’

  ‘Of course, but we should also hold a recital at the Gewandhaus with the other folk songs you’ve written, if the angelic Anna will perform them. It is obvious they were written for her voice alone.’ Max Abraham gave Anna a small bow of respect.

  ‘Then it will be arranged,’ said Edvard, smiling at Anna, who did her best to stifle a yawn.

  ‘My dear, I can see you are exhausted. I’m sure everyone will forgive you for retiring early. From what we have heard, it has been an extremely difficult time for you,’ Max said, much to Anna’s relief.

  Edvard rose and kissed her hand. ‘Goodnight, Anna.’

  Anna took the three flights of stairs up to her room. And found the maid stoking the fire. A nightgown was already laid out on the big double bed.

  ‘May I ask who these clothes belong to? They fit me so well.’

  ‘They belong to Edvard’s wife, Nina. Herr Grieg told me you had nothing with you and I was to lay out items from Frau Grieg’s wardrobe,’ the maid replied as she unbuttoned Anna’s gown and helped her out of it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna, unused to having assistance. ‘You can leave me now.’

  ‘Goodnight, Frau Halvorsen.’

  When the maid had left, Anna undressed and donned the soft poplin nightgown, then slipped ecstatically between the fresh linen sheets.

  For the first time in months, she sent up a prayer thanking the God she’d discarded and asking for his forgiveness for losing faith. Then she closed her eyes, too exhausted to think any more, and fell in
to a deep sleep.

  The story of Grieg’s rescue of Anna from the clutches of the wicked Frau Schneider became the talk of Leipzig and was much embellished over the ensuing weeks. And as her powerful new mentor squired her around the musical and social echelons of the city, all doors were open to them. They attended several grand dinner parties in the most beautiful houses in Leipzig, after which Anna was requested to sing for her supper, as Edvard put it. On other evenings she took part in small musical soirées with other composers and singers present.

  She was always introduced by Edvard as ‘the epitome of everything pure and beautiful from my home country’ or ‘my perfect Norwegian muse’. As Anna sang his songs about cows, flowers, fjords and mountains, she occasionally wondered if she should simply dress in her national flag so that he could wave her around in front of him. Not that she minded, of course; she was honoured he had taken such an interest in her. And compared to the life she’d had in Leipzig before, every second was a miracle.

  During those few months, she met many great composers of the day, most thrillingly Pyotr Tchaikovsky, whose romantic and passionate music she adored. They all came to visit Max Abraham who ran C. F. Peters, and had developed it into one of the most revered music publishing houses in Europe.

  The business was run from the same building and Anna loved to wander down to the floors below and pore over the beautifully bound books of sheet music with their distinctive light green covers, marvelling over the compositions of such luminaries as Bach and Beethoven. She was also fascinated by the mechanical printing presses in the basement, which churned out page after perfect page of sheet music at unbelievable speed.

  Slowly, with the benefit of good food, rest and, most importantly, the tender care the entire household had shown her, Anna was recovering her strength and self-confidence. Jens’ terrible betrayal still seared through her, filling her with white-hot anger, but she did her best to put it – and him – from her mind. She was no longer a naive child who believed in love, but a woman whose talent could give her all she needed.

  As requests for her to give recitals came in regularly from both Germany and abroad, Anna took control of her finances too, never wishing to be dependent on a man again. She saved every penny she earned, hoping that one day she could afford an apartment of her own. Edvard encouraged her, championed her and, more than that, their closeness grew.

  Sometimes in the early hours, Anna would wake to the plaintive sounds of the grand piano below her at which Edvard often sat to compose late into the night.

  One night in late spring, tormented by the recurring vision of her poor dead daughter lying cold and alone in the earth, she wandered down from her room and sat on the bottom stair outside the drawing room to listen to the melancholy tune Edvard was playing. Tears filled her eyes and she put her head in her hands and wept, letting the pain of her loss flow out with her tears.

  ‘My dear girl, what is it?’ Anna jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder and saw Edvard’s gentle blue eyes looking down at her.

  ‘Forgive me. It was the beautiful music touching my soul.’

  ‘I think it was more than that. Come.’ Edvard led her into the drawing room, closing the door behind them. ‘Here, sit down next to me and use this to dry your eyes.’ He handed her a large silk handkerchief.

  Edvard’s sympathy elicited another flood of tears, which she could do nothing to hold in. Eventually, embarrassed, she looked up at him. Feeling he was owed an explanation, she took a deep breath and told him of the loss of her baby.

  ‘You poor, dear girl. To endure that all alone must have been quite dreadful. As you may know, I too lost a child . . . Alexandra lived until she was two, and was the dearest, sweetest, most precious thing in my life. Her loss broke my heart. Like you, I lost my faith in God and life itself. And I confess, it had ramifications for my marriage. Nina was utterly inconsolable and the two of us have found it almost impossible to comfort each other since.’

  ‘Well, at least that was one problem that I did not have at the time,’ Anna said dryly and Edvard chuckled.

  ‘My sweet Anna, you have become so very dear to me. I admire your spirit and courage more than I can tell you. We have both known genuine heartbreak and perhaps all I can tell you is that we must take solace in our music. And’ – Edvard’s eyes were upon her, and his hand reached for hers – ‘perhaps each other.’

  ‘Yes, Edvard,’ she said, understanding exactly what he meant. ‘I think we can.’

  A year later, with Edvard’s help, Anna was able to move out of the house in Talstraße and into her own comfortable townhouse in the Sebastian-Bach-Straße, one of the better areas of Leipzig. She went everywhere by carriage and was able to acquire the best tables at the most exclusive restaurants in the city. As her fame grew in Germany, she travelled with him to Berlin, Frankfurt and many other cities to give recitals. Apart from singing Edvard’s compositions, her repertoire now included ‘The Bell Song’ from the newly premiered opera Lakmé, and ‘Farewell, you native hills and fields’ from her favourite Tchaikovsky opera, The Maid of Orleans.

  There had even been a trip to Christiania for a recital at the very theatre where Anna had begun her career. She had written beforehand to her parents and to Frøken Olsdatter to invite them to the performance, enclosing enough kroner to fund the fare and making a booking for them at the Grand Hotel, where she herself was staying.

  After all that had happened and how badly she felt she had let them down, Anna had waited with extreme trepidation for their replies. She need not have worried. They had all accepted the invitation and it had been a joyful reunion. Over a celebratory dinner after the recital, Frøken Olsdatter quietly informed her that Herr Bayer had recently passed away. On hearing the news, Anna expressed her condolences, but then begged her to return with her to Leipzig as her housekeeper.

  Thankfully, Lise accepted the position. Anna knew that, given the circumstances, she needed someone she could trust implicitly to work for her inside her home.

  As for her errant husband, Anna thought of him as little as she could. She knew the baroness had been seen in Leipzig and had heard through the gossips that there was a new young composer she was championing, but no one had heard from Jens for years. As Edvard had commented, he had disappeared like a rat into the sewers of Paris. Anna prayed he was dead. For even though the way she lived was unconventional, she was happy.

  That was until Edvard arrived in Leipzig during the winter of 1883 in response to the urgent letter she had sent him.

  ‘You understand what we must do, kjære? For all of us?’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Anna answered in tight-lipped resignation.

  It was the spring of 1884 by the time he came. The maid rapped on the door of the drawing room to tell Anna there was a man waiting to see her.

  ‘I’ve told him to go to the tradesmen’s entrance, but he refuses to move until he’s seen you. The front door’s closed, but he’s sitting on the doorstep.’ The parlour maid pointed to a huddled figure through the large window. ‘Shall I call the police, Frau Halvorsen? It’s obvious he’s a beggar or a thief, or worse!’

  Anna heaved herself up slowly from the settle where she’d been resting and walked to the window. She saw the man sitting on the front step with his head in his hands.

  Her heart plummeting into her stomach, she asked the Lord for strength once more. Only He knew how she would bear this, but under the circumstances, she had no other choice.

  ‘Please let him in immediately. It seems that my husband is returned.’

  Ally

  Bergen, Norway

  September 2007

  34

  My heart was in my throat as I read of Jens’ return to Anna, and I hurriedly turned the next few pages to find out what happened after his return. But Jens had chosen to skim over what must have been an agonisingly difficult few months and concentrated more on their move back to Bergen to a house called Froskehuset, close to Grieg’s own Troldhaugen estate, a year
later. And the subsequent premiere of his own compositions in Bergen. I skipped to the Author’s Note on the final page:

  ‘This book is dedicated to my wonderful wife, Anna Landvik Halvorsen, who died tragically of pneumonia earlier this year at the age of fifty. If she had not been prepared to forgive me and take me back when I appeared on her doorstep so many years after I’d left her, then I would indeed have been swallowed up by the Paris gutter. Instead, thanks to her forgiveness, we have enjoyed a happy life together with our precious son, Horst.

  Anna, my angel, my muse . . . you taught me all that really matters in life.

  I love you and miss you.

  Your Jens.’

  I felt unsettled and confused as I closed my laptop. I found it almost impossible to believe that Anna, with her strong character and uncompromising moral principles – the very tools which helped her survive what Jens had done to her – could have forgiven him so readily and taken him back as her husband.

  ‘I’d have kicked him out and divorced him as soon as I could,’ I told the walls of the hotel room, feeling highly irritated by the conclusion to Anna’s incredible story. I knew things had been different back then, but it seemed to me that Jens Halvorsen – the living embodiment of Peer Gynt himself – had got off scot-free.

  I looked at my watch, seeing it was past ten o’clock at night, then stood up to use the bathroom and boil the kettle for a cup of tea.

  As I closed the heavy curtains on the twinkling lights of Bergen harbour, I seriously pondered if I could have forgiven Theo for deserting me. Which I supposed he had, in the most dreadful, final way he could. And yes, I knew that I too was angry and had yet to forgive the universe. Unlike Jens and Anna, mine and Theo’s story had been cut short before it had even begun, through no fault of either of us.

  To stop myself becoming maudlin, I checked my emails, raiding the fruit bowl as I felt too weary to go downstairs and there was no room service after nine o’clock in the evening. I saw there were messages from Ma, Maia, and one from Tiggy, saying she was thinking of me. Peter, Theo’s father, had also written, telling me he’d sourced a copy of Thom Halvorsen’s book and wanting to know where to send it. I replied, asking if he could FedEx it to the hotel address, and decided that I would stay here in Bergen until it had arrived.