Open Country

by Warner, Kaki

  “But she’s just a baby,” Daisy protested, fear coiling in her chest.

  “Why would he go after a baby?”

  “Probably wouldn’t,” Lucy said quickly, giving Daisy’s shoulder a reassuring pat. “I’m just saying keep her close, is all. And keep an eye on that Widow Tidwell while you’re at it. There’s something about that woman . . . something that ain’t right.”

  Daisy needed no warning on that score. When she had first taken a room in Maude Tidwell’s boardinghouse, the woman had seemed kindly enough. Having lost her own daughter to smallpox, she had been almost heartbreakingly grateful to have an infant to take care of again. But over the last months as Kate neared her second birthday, which was the same age as Maude’s daughter when she died, the woman had started acting strange . . . almost angry that Kate had survived while her own child hadn’t. She’d upped her price several times, even though her care of Kate had grown sloppier and sloppier. Daisy suspected she might be drinking. Plus, Maude had started keeping company with a man Daisy didn’t altogether trust. Bill Johnson seemed friendly enough, but there was a coldness about him . . .

  “Does Maude know you’re looking for someone else to watch Baby Kate?” Lucy asked, breaking into Daisy’s troubling thoughts.

  “I’m afraid to tell her until I find someone,” Daisy admitted. “If she learns of it beforehand, she’s liable to toss us into the street. Then what’ll I do?”

  Like most big cities, San Francisco was overrun with war widows and lost children trying to escape the terrible excesses of the Reconstruction. The fortunate ones hired on as servants in rich neighborhoods like Pacific Heights and Nob Hill. The unlucky ones sank to a new level of depravity in the brothels and opium dens along the Barbary Coast. Many died of despair or disease.

  Daisy was one of the fortunate ones. The small amount of money left after her parents’ deaths carried her through her pregnancy. But within a week of Kate’s birth it was gone, and she was frantically searching for a way to support them. Considering the other options open to a young woman with a child and no husband, Daisy considered herself lucky to have found a job as a saloon singer.

  And after today, luckier still.

  “You can always work here, if you get tired of the Silver Spur,” Lucy offered. “Stump likes big titties.”

  Daisy snorted. “I wish I could give him mine. They’re a lot more trouble than they’re worth.” Hopefully after tomorrow’s audition, she would be valued for more than the size of her bosom. “Besides I don’t work at the Spur anymore.”

  “You don’t?”

  Grinning at Lucy’s look of surprise, Daisy told her about her audition. “I am now working at the Elysium Theater on Broadway.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’ll know tomorrow.” Glancing up at the gray sky, Daisy realized it was growing dark. “I better go. You know how cranky Maude gets when I’m late.”

  “Be careful,” Lucy warned, that sad look returning to her tear-reddened eyes. “Fog’s coming in, and that always brings out the crazies.”

  DAISY HAD A RESTLESS NIGHT, PARTLY DUE TO EXCITEMENT, but mostly worry.

  Kate was croupy, Maude Tidwell was acting even more nervous and furtive than usual, and her gentleman friend, Bill Johnson, never took his eyes off Kate throughout the meager dinner Maude provided. Daisy resolved that as soon as the audition ended and she knew what her salary would be, she would find another place for her and Kate to live.

  Daisy adored her daughter. But there were times when the weight of responsibility for another life—even one she treasured—almost overwhelmed her. After her daughter’s birth, the realities of survival had forced Daisy to set aside her naive hopes of singing on the legitimate stage. Such dreams were not for a woman on her own with a daughter to raise.

  So with grim determination she had put those girlish dreams away, pushing them so far to the back of her mind they hardly ever resurfaced to pester her with lingering ‘what ifs’ and half-formed yearnings. In the two years since, she had spent every night at the Silver Spur Saloon, pretending she loved being surrounded by drunken fools and shifty-eyed gamblers. And if the smoke often burned in her throat and eyes, and the bawdy remarks and lewd stares made her skin crawl and her temper flare, she reminded herself at least she was singing, and contented herself with that.

  Until now. Now all those hopes and dreams had surged to the surface again, and despite two years of hard-won experience, she was daring to believe again.

  It was a heady feeling.

  She rose early. After spending extra time brushing her long sandy-colored hair into a smooth twist, and wiping every speck of dust off her best dress—a yellow gingham that she’d once been told brought out the fire in her hazel eyes—she set off for the Elysium, praying that this was the last time she would have to leave her daughter in Maude’s erratic care.

  Mr. Markham met her at the back door with a fresh stub in his teeth, ‘fresh’ being defined by the length and dryness of the un-chewed portion of the cigar. Since the ends were never lit, she figured he must break the cigars in half so he would have twice as many butts to chew. A disgusting habit, but less bothersome to those around him than smoking would have been.

  “ ’Bout time,” he said, locking the door behind her then towing her down the unlit hallway behind the stage.

  “I’m early,” Daisy protested, almost trotting to keep up. He was quite a bit taller than she and solidly built, and the hand gripping her wrist was broad and strong. Suddenly uneasy, she realized the building seemed ominously quiet, the hall narrow and dim. Was anyone else around? Would anyone hear her if she screamed? “What’s the rush?” she demanded, digging in her heels so forcefully she almost pulled him off balance as she yanked her arm free.

  He turned to blink down at her, looking somewhat surprised. “They’re waiting.”

  “Who’s waiting?”

  “The director and owner.” His eyes narrowed, the stub came up.

  “You better not be thinking to back out on me, Missy. I went to a lot of trouble setting this audition up and I won’t be made a fool of.” He reached for her arm again.

  She stepped back. “I have no intention of backing out, Mr. Markham. But I don’t like being dragged down a dark hallway like a sack of potatoes, either.”

  He almost smiled.

  Daisy made a shooing motion. “Lead on. I’ll follow.”

  Muttering under his breath, he continued down the hall. Stepping over ropes and cables strewn across the floor beside the stage curtain, he stopped and motioned her forward. “It’s all yours. Go out there and sing like you did for me.”

  Daisy peered past him at the brightly lit stage and the endless expanse of empty seats stretching into the darkness beyond the light. “Is there any accompaniment?” she asked, surprised by the tremor in her voice.

  “You don’t need any. Just sing.” He turned.

  She caught his arm. “In case—if I don’t—if this doesn’t work out, Mr. Markham,” she finally managed in a rush. “I just wanted to thank you for giving me this chance.”

  That almost-smile again, quickly covered with a stern look. “Don’t disappoint me, Missy. That’s all the thanks I need.” Then he shoved her out of the wings and into the light.

  On wobbly legs she walked across the stage, her footfalls echoing loudly in the stillness. It seemed huge, as broad as a city block, the planks of the floor covered with odd markings and scuffed by hundreds of feet that had tread them through the years. A sense of unreality swept her, and for a moment she feared she was dreaming and would soon wake up to find herself back in the Silver Spur.

  Halfway across, she stopped and stood uncertainly, nearly blinded by the light from the lamps along the front of the stage.

  Then out of the shadows a figure emerged. “Miss Etheridge, is it?” a short, round man with muttonchop sideburns called out as he came down the left-center aisle.

  Daisy nodded, afraid her voice would betray her nervousness if she spoke. />
  “I’m Bernard Bridgeport, the musical director here at the Elysium. You’ve heard of me, no doubt.”

  “Ah . . . yes, sir,” Daisy lied, figuring a little flattery wouldn’t hurt.

  “Excellent. Myself and the owner, Mr. Langdon,” he motioned over his shoulder to a man Daisy could barely see seated in the shadows twenty rows back, “will be listening to your audition. What do you plan to sing?”

  “What would you like?” she asked, clasping her hands tightly at her waist so he wouldn’t notice they were shaking.

  “Your choice. Perhaps a medley of your best pieces?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Excellent. Whenever you’re ready, my dear.” Turning, he walked back to his seat beside the owner.

  Daisy took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then another. She closed her eyes as a calmness stole over her, and with it came a heightened awareness of the openness all around her, the musty odor of the heavy curtains, the sharp scent of burning kerosene, the beat of her own heart. And out in the darkness beyond the two men in the center row, far in the shadows at the back . . . a presence. Someone watching. Someone waiting for her to sing.

  So she sang.

  She sang as if her daughter’s future depended on it, as if this might be her only chance to perform on a real stage, as if every hope and dream she carried within her heart rested on this one moment in time.

  Which it did.

  The acoustics of the hall were extraordinary, magnifying the scope and intensity of each sound, sending the notes out and back again, louder and fuller than when they left, until her voice filled all the empty spaces and she stood surrounded by glorious music.

  She sang the songs Mama had taught her—romantic sonatas, bel canto arias by Rossini and Verdi, lilting Irish melodies, and sad ballads of lost love. And when her throat began to tire and her lungs burned, she brought the sound back down with the haunting French lullaby her mother had sung to her every night of her childhood.

  When the last notes faded away into silence, she opened her eyes and waited. For what seemed like a long time, there was no sound or movement. Then far in the rear of the theater, she saw a shadow move. A moment later, a figure stepped out of the back row and slowly made its way down the aisle toward the stage. A bent figure. A woman.

  As she passed the row where the director and owner sat, Mr. Bridgeport rose. When he started to speak, she waved him to silence, and continued her halting steps toward the front, her attention fixed on the stage.

  Daisy watched her approach, her nervousness returning as the woman drew near.

  She was quite old, with white hair pulled severely up in a tight knot perched on top of her head. Her back curved at the shoulders, and she used a cane, her wrinkled hand clutching it so tightly every tendon showed.

  But her eyes were fiercely alive. Black as pitch, they seemed to take in the lamplight and reflect it back, making it appear as if they were lit from within. Probing, ancient eyes that left Daisy feeling vaguely exposed.

  The woman stopped at the front of the stage and for several moments stared up at Daisy with unblinking intensity. Then she nodded and smiled as if she had seen something in Daisy’s face that pleased her. “You have the gift,” she said in a rusty voice with a thick Italian accent. “Now you must learn how to use it.”

  Before Daisy could ask what that meant, the woman turned and walked slowly back up the aisle. When she came to the row where the men sat, she paused only long enough to say, “I will take her,” then continued her slow progress. A few moments later sunlight flashed as the front door opened then closed.

  As if abruptly released from a frozen state, the owner and director leaped to their feet. After conferring excitedly for a moment, the owner followed the old lady out while Mr. Bridgeport hurried toward Daisy.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he cried, clapping exuberantly. “She loved it. Just loved it. You’re one lucky girl.”

  “She, who?” Daisy asked.

  “You didn’t recognize her? No, no, of course not. You’re just a child. Markham, where are you?”

  Markham stepped out of the wings on the left.

  “Tell her who that was,” Mr. Bridgeport ordered with a flutter of his fingers.

  “Sophia Scarlatti.”

  “Madame Sophia Scarlatti,” the director corrected archly. When Daisy still offered no reaction, since she had no recollection of the woman or the name, Bridgeport sighed dramatically. “She doesn’t know. Lord help us, she doesn’t know. Tell her Markham.”

  Markham might have rolled his eyes, but in the smoky light Daisy wasn’t sure. “The Sicilian Songbird.”

  Realization finally struck. “Oh my gracious. The Sicilian Songbird? You’re jesting. That was really her?” Daisy had thought she was dead.

  The Sicilian Songbird was only the most famous soprano that ever lived. Daisy had never heard her sing, but her mother had been fortunate enough to, and she declared the woman had the voice of an angel, a voice so beautiful, grown men wept to hear it. “I sang for the Sicilian Songbird?”

  “And impressed her,” Bridgeport added smugly. “She has graciously consented to train you.”

  “Train me?”

  “As she is no longer able to sing, she helps others do so. Under her tutelage you can become the greatest soprano of your time.”

  “Me?” Daisy was too stunned to do more than stutter. “Butbut—”

  “You will join a handful of chosen apprentices,” the director went on as if she hadn’t spoken, his gestures growing more flamboyant with each word. “Together you will travel to the famous opera houses of the world as her special theatrical company. Meanwhile, she will teach you how to read music, how to project your voice, how to breathe properly, and how to perform before an audience. Then once you are trained, she will present you to the crowned princes of Europe. Just think of it, little one. The world will be your stage!”

  “B-but I have no money,” Daisy said, afraid she might burst into tears. “How would I pay for all that?”

  Bridgeport gave a tittering laugh. “You silly little thing. She pays you! Tell her, Markham.”

  Crossing his arms over his barrel chest, Markham recited in a bored voice, “She pays for everything until you’re presented. Then for three years after, she gets fifty percent of whatever you earn. And she also gets seventy-five percent of whatever the tour brings in while you’re being trained. After expenses. The other twenty-five percent is split between the members of the troop. It’s not much, but since everything else is paid for, it’s free money.”

  Daisy stared at him, still not daring to believe. “This isn’t a joke, is it, Mr. Markham? Tell me this isn’t a joke.”

  This time his smile was real. “It isn’t a joke.”

  “Sweet heaven.” For a moment Daisy felt dizzy, her mind soaring with all the possibilities. Then reality brought it crashing back down. “What about Kate?”

  “Who’s Kate?” Bridgeport asked.

  “My daughter.”

  The director glared at Markham. “You didn’t say she was married.”

  “I’m not,” Daisy cut in. She glanced at Markham, then quickly away. “Not really.”

  “He’s in Australia,” Markham told Bridgeport, neatly covering for Daisy’s omission. Then to Daisy he added, “He won’t be a problem, will he, Missy?”

  She read the warning in his narrowed eyes. “No, he won’t be a problem. But I can bring Kate, can’t I?”

  “Don’t be tiresome.” Bridgeport made an offhand gesture. “Leave her here. Surely there’s a relative or someone she can stay with. It’ll only be for a year or two, after all.”

  A year or two? Neither of them would survive it.

  “There’s no one,” Daisy said in a strained voice. And even if there were, she didn’t think she could leave Kate behind. Then suddenly an idea came to her. What if she found a way to bring Kate with her?

  “How much would my salary be during training?” Maybe it would be enough to
hire a nanny to come too.

  Markham must have read her thoughts. A sad look crossed his face. He shook his head. “Not enough.”

  “You either stay behind with her like a good mommy,” Bridgeport said with impatient sarcasm, “or come with us and be a star. It’s your choice. But you’d better decide soon. The company leaves for Rome in two months.”