Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  SINGING MONTANA SKY

  BOOK SEVEN IN THE MONTANA SKY SERIES

  by Debra Holland

  Copyright © 2017 by Debra Holland

  ISBN: 978-1-939813-56-5

  Digital Edition

  All other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  SINGING MONTANA SKY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from BRIGHT MONTANA SKY

  The Montana Sky Series

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Chicago, Illinois 1896

  Opening Night

  Wearing her Brünnhilde costume—complete with padding, breastplate, helm, and false blonde braids, and holding a spear as if it were a staff—Sophia Maxwell waited in the wings of the Canfield-Prendergast Pavilion. Nausea churned in her stomach, the banging of timpani drums throbbed through her head, her muscles ached, and heat made beads of perspiration break out on her brow.

  She hadn’t felt well all day but attributed the feeling to exhaustion due to the grueling rehearsal schedule and the strain and insecurity of preparing for such a difficult role. Sophia refused to allow anything, even the weakness of her own body, to stop her from giving the passion and perfection her admiring devotees expected of every performance.

  She looked out at the audience. The bright stage lighting made it difficult to see the people who filled the seats for the opening night of Richard Wagner’s Die Walküre. The character of Brünnhilde did not appear in Act I, but Sophia could feel the anticipation build as the time drew near for the Songbird of Chicago’s entrance.

  Taking slow, deep breaths, she inhaled the smell of the greasepaint on her face. Part of her listened to the music for her cue, and the other part immersed herself in the role of the god Wotan’s favorite daughter. From long practice, Sophia tried to ignore quivers of nervousness but couldn’t quite succeed. Not since her earliest performances had stage fright made her feel ill. Usually she couldn’t wait to make her appearance.

  The sick feeling had grown stronger throughout Act I. I feel more like a plucked chicken than a songbird, but I will not let my audience down. I can do this!

  Annoyed with herself, Sophia reached for a towel held by her dresser, Nan, standing at her side. She lifted the helm and blotted her forehead, careful not to streak the greasepaint.

  Nan tsk-tisked and pulled out a small brush and a tin of powder from one of her apron’s capricious pockets. She dipped the brush into the powder and whisked it across Sophia’s forehead. “You’re too pale. You need more rouge.”

  “No time.”

  A rhythmic sword motif sounded the prelude to Act II. Sophia pivoted away from Nan and moved to the edge of the wing, looking out to the painted scene of a rocky mountain pass. Soon the warrior-maiden Brünnhilde would utter her famous battle cry.

  Listening to the tremendous force of trumpets and trombones as the curtain opened, she allowed the anticipatory energy of the audience to fill her body. The trills of the high strings and upward rushing passes from the woodwinds introduced Brünnhilde. Right on cue, Sophia made her entrance, climbed a false rock, and struck a dramatic pose.

  Breaking the rules of proper opera-going behavior, her adoring audience erupted in chapping.

  Sophia suppressed a smile.

  Wotan, played by bass-baritone Laurence Lorenzo, stood in the foreground of the stage. Like Sophia, he held a spear, shield, and helmet. He pointed the spear at Brünnhilde, commanding his daughter to ready her steed for battle.

  Sophia took a deep breath, preparing to hit the opening notes of her battle call. But as she opened her mouth to sing, her throat tightened, and nothing came out. Caught off guard, her body tensing, Sophia cleared her throat and tried again. Nothing.

  What’s wrong with me? Horrified, she glanced around, as if seeking help, her body hot and shaky with shame.

  Across the stage in the wings, Sophia could see Judith Deal, her understudy and rival, watching with a narrow-eyed gaze. She was clad in a similar costume to Sophia’s for her role as the Valkyrie Gerhilde. A triumphant expression crossed her face.

  Warwick Canfield-Prendergast, owner of the theatre, stood next to Judith, his face contorted in fury. He clenched his chubby hands.

  A wave of dizziness swept through Sophia. The stage lights dimmed. Her knees buckled. As she crumpled to the floor, one final thought followed her into the darkness. I’ve just lost my prima donna position.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Chicago

  Six Weeks Before Opening Night

  Hiding her heavy heart under a serene smile, Sophia glided into the office of Warwick Canfield-Prendergast, the new owner of The Canfield Theater, for the meeting he’d convened. Today was not a good day for an important appointment, especially one she knew would be laden with emotional overtones—at least on her part.

  In preparation for the meeting, Sophia wore a silk dress of a purple hue—her favorite color, which brought out the violet of her eyes. Black velvet banded the bottom of the skirt and the V-shape of the bodice, adding a touch of mourning to her attire. Jet beads edged the velvet, swinging with each step.

  She’d briefly met Warwick at the funeral for his uncle, Arthur Canfield. During and after the service, Warwick had worn a sorrowful air. But Sophia had a sense that he was gleefully rubbing his hands at the inheritance that had fallen into his lap. She’d taken an immediate dislike to the man, although had tried to temper her feelings.

  I could be wrong. Grief takes many forms, and my own mourning may have thrown off my instincts.

  One thing Sophia did know was she needed to immediately establish the upper hand with the man. No more preemptory summons. Although she rarely acted like a diva, today she intended to sever Warwick’s attempts to act as puppet master and make her dance to the pull of his strings. He’ll learn to treat me with respect.

  Sophia hesitated in the doorway. By avoiding the theater for the past few days, especially Arthur’s office, she could pretend that he wasn’t really dead. Grief welled for the man who eight years ago had fostered her career by taking a risk on an unknown ingénue.

  How young I was. All at once, Sophia felt immeasurably older.

  Despite the red velvet curtains pulled back from the window, which emitted dim, overcast light, the office seemed dark, with red-and-gold flocked wallpaper and heavy walnut furniture. Oil paintings of scenes from famous operas lined the walls. The faint smell of stale cigar smoke lingered in the air. Arthur always had a cigar burning in a dish on the desk. But he’d courteously snuff it out when Sophia met with him because she hated the way the smoke lingered in her clothing and hair.

  Warwick Canfield-Prendergast rose upon her entrance. A plump man of middle age, he had a sweep of graying blond h
air, fluffy side whiskers, and a luxurious mustache. He’d set aside any sign of formal mourning, not even wearing a black arm band. His elegant silk, red-and-gold flowered waistcoat stopped just short of gaudy.

  Although theatre people often dressed in eccentric fashions, Sophia felt offended by the man’s lack of respect for his deceased uncle. Maybe he’s trying to match the wallpaper.

  “Miss Maxwell, welcome.” Warwick bowed and brought her hand toward his lips, luckily not making contact. “So charmed to meet you again, my dear Songbird. Those few minutes at my uncle’s funeral hardly counted.”

  “Arthur will be missed.” A sudden surge of sadness cut off further words, and she took a seat on the other side of the desk.

  A tea set on a silver tray rested on the desk in front of her. From long familiarity, she poured, raising an eyebrow in a silent question, asking what he took in his tea.

  “That’s fine.” He reached for the cup and saucer then sat.

  Sophia poured a cup for herself, adding the honey she preferred.

  Warwick clasped his hands in front of him, steepling his fingers. “I’m so glad to confer with you and plan the tenure of the next season of my opera company.” His voice was almost a purr.

  Over the last ten years, Arthur Canfield had built the opera house’s reputation until it rivaled those in New York and San Francisco. Sophia didn’t like the proprietary way Warwick said my opera company. He was only stepping into his uncle’s legendary shoes, and his only experience involved operating a small theater in Iowa.

  “I’m sure we’ll have quite a successful season, Mr. Canfield-Prendergast,” Sophia said, with a flutter of her eyelashes.

  “Please call me Warwick, my dear Songbird.” His smile showed teeth the color of old piano keys, probably meant to charm.

  Resisting a shudder, Sophia kept a tight smile on her face. After all, I am an actress.

  “I’ll be implementing quite a few changes,” Warwick intoned. “The first is changing the name of the theatre to the Canfield-Prendergast Pavilion.”

  “Oh.” Instead of rolling her eyes as she wanted to do, Sophia gave him her most admiring smile. “Quite a ring to it.”

  With an air of satisfaction, Warwick settled back in his chair. “I knew you were a woman of discernment, my dear Songbird. I’m sure you’ll approve of the decorative touches I’m making to the theatre, as well.”

  “I’m sure I will.” This time her smile was genuine, although Sophia felt guilty that her mentor had to die for important changes to be implemented. “I’ve been after Arthur to refurbish the seat cushions and repaint the interior, including touching up the gold leaf that’s worn off the carved details on the ceiling. He always agreed and then said, ‘Next season.’”

  Arthur will never have another season. With an effort of will, Sophia held in the tears stinging her eyes at the thought. She refused to show vulnerability in front of Warwick.

  “Next season has become this season. All these details and more will be attended to.”

  “I’m sure Arthur would approve.”

  “In addition, I will erect a memorial plaque for him in the lobby.”

  “What a lovely idea.”

  Warwick smoothed his fuzzy side whiskers. “I also have plans to elevate the quality of the acting. I, myself, will step in to train the actors and actresses to my standards.”

  Sophia raised one eyebrow. “Surely you’re not implying that I’m in need of acting lessons?”

  “Oh no, not at all. I meant the others.”

  Ah, Warwick’s someone who’s always wanted to be an actor. She kept an eyebrow raised, thinking of the leading bass-baritone. “Laurence Lorenzo will not take well to that idea.”

  “No, no, not Larry, either. His acting his fine.”

  Better not call him Larry to his face. The Great Lorenzo will not tolerate such familiarity, and you’ll get a tantrum the likes of which you’ve never seen. Tactfully, she changed the subject. “I’m looking forward to playing Susanna in Le Nozze di Figaro.”

  He languidly waved a pudgy hand in a dismissive gesture. “No, no, my dear Songbird. I have a much higher vision for my opera company.”

  Sophia suppressed an uneasy shiver at his continued use of her nickname instead of her name and kept an interested smile plastered on her face. Even though instinctively she didn’t like the man, the idea of a higher vision for the opera company caught her interest. Perhaps our artistic visions will align.

  “I plan for Chicago to become the world’s opera capital—grander than Europe, and certainly finer than New York or San Francisco. In the next year, I’ll start planning an opera festival grander than the one in 1885. I’m sure with talented performers such as yourself—” he gave her a respectful nod “—we’ll surpass a hundred thousand attendees.

  The grandiosity of his vision appealed to her. Yet, a fission of unease slipped down her spine.

  He tapped his fingers on the desk. “One of my first changes will be to replace the conductor.”

  Her fingers tightened on the tea saucer. “Certainly not James—?”

  “James Ortolon has had his day. It’s time for him to retire. I want someone more vibrant and fresh.”

  Replace James? Sophia found the air constricting in her lungs. She grew dizzy and wondered if she might faint. Nonsense, she scolded herself, trying to find her equilibrium. You never faint.

  Sophia struggled for a deep breath. Next time don’t tie your corset strings so tight. At the same time, she hid any further reaction from Warwick, still not believing what she’d heard. If Arthur had been the brains of the opera company, James was the heart, with a wealth of experience that included working directly with many of the foremost composers of the last fifty years.

  Warwick didn’t appear to notice Sophia’s difficulty breathing, continuing to wax eloquent. “As for the measly production of Le Nozze di Figaro that was planned….” He shrugged and flicked his fingers. “Pifft.”

  A frisson of unease shivered through her. She picked up the tea cup and took a sip.

  Warwick dramatically swept an arm in her direction. “We will perform Wagner’s, The Ring Cycle.” He paused as if waiting for her to applaud.

  Stunned, Sophia could only stare at the man, calling on all her acting skills to keep an interested expression on her face. Her thoughts jumped around, her mind unable to believe what he was saying. Richard Wagner’s cycle of four operas called Der Ring des Nibelungen in German, combined into one over-reaching story was far beyond the scope of their current opera company. And Das Reingold, the prelude, didn’t even have a part for her—or at least not a major role.

  She set her cup and saucer on the table and straightened, preparing for a delicate back-and-forth that would ultimately lead to the results she wanted, while making Warwick think he’d come up with a brilliant strategy.

  Warwick rubbed his hands together. “Well, what do you think?”

  Surely, he must be jesting? Just in case, I’d better play along. “That’s quite…ambitious,” she said, injecting an admiring tone into her words.

  His chest expanded. “Not all four, of course…at least not this year. I thought we could start with Die Walküre.” His smile widened. “My dear Brünnhilde.”

  He’s serious! With effort, Sophia kept her mouth from gaping open. The strenuous role of Brünnhilde called for a more mature voice. “Surely, you mean the part of Sieglinde?”

  He flicked his hand, as if dismissing the role. “I’m sure you’ve always dreamed of playing Brünnhilde.”

  “Of course.” Although not for many more years. “At twenty-four, no, twenty-five—,” she remembered today was her birthday “—I’m too young for the role. Sieglinde is a better fit for my voice.”

  “Nonsense. You’re in your prime, my dear Songbird.”

  If he calls me that one more time, I’ll scream or throw my cup of tea at his head.

  “You’ve performed The Queen of the Night, a challenging, dramatic role to great acclaim. I read
the newspaper articles. In the beginning, the critics felt you were too young, but you certainly changed their minds.”

  True. But she wasn’t reassured. Nausea churned in her stomach, and she placed a palm on her flat belly, tightly corseted for this visit. Although Sophia possessed a curvy figure, she didn’t have the flesh for such a role nor the musculature that developed over time to create the perfect resonance.

  “Die Valküre will be an expensive undertaking,” Sophia warned, trying a different tactic to dissuade him. “A larger orchestra, new costumes and sets, more performers.”

  His mouth pulled down into a pout.

  Sophia hurriedly dredged up some other reasons to change his mind. I can hardly tell him he’s an idiot.

  An idiot with his hands firmly on the reins of my career. She drew in a scanty breath and said, “We’ll need German tutors for almost everyone. A large German population resides in this city. They’ll laugh us out of business if we don’t pronounce the lyrics correctly.” Sophia didn’t tell him she was already fluent due to having a German nanny.

  “You all did The Magic Flute just fine,” he said in a petulant tone.

  “We had several German tutors—” she told him “and Fritz Von Braun—” she named the theatre’s biggest donor and proponent “—also helped. We rehearsed for months. And Die Zauberflöte isn’t nearly as difficult as Die Walküre.”

  His nostrils pinched as if he smelled something unsavory. “With my wealth, I’m above such plebeian concerns as the cost of the production.”