Smiling, Sophia waved back, touched by their devotion.
The crowd surged in her direction.
Sophia held her breath. Please may no one fall and be trampled!
Although some pushed and shoved, none of her admirers lost their balance.
She released her breath and started to enjoy herself. I feel like Jenny Lind. Sophia had always idolized the famous singer. When the Swedish Nightingale had arrived in America, similar to this situation, crowds had swarmed around her lodgings.
But I can no longer sing. Soon they will know there is no Songbird to admire.
But not today. She blew kisses. Today, I preserve their fantasy.
Men yelled, and women screamed.
She saw one lady faint into the arms of the man nearest her. I hope that’s her husband. Her arms started to tire. Her loss of stamina irked her, but Sophia kept a smile plastered on her face. Another round of kisses, then she waved good-bye and stepped back from the window, lowering her arms.
“Encore! Encore!”
Sophia leaned back out and blew a few more kisses. Feeling revived by her short performance at the window, she walked down the hall, accompanied by Emma. The screams of “encore” followed her until Blythe lowered the sash, dampening the sound, but not enough to completely muffle the multitude of voices calling for their Songbird.
The energy from her admirers filled her body and buoyed her spirits. For the first time, Sophia believed she would heal and her voice would return. She could stay home and recover while her hair grew back. Then I’ll take my rightful place on stage.
As she came to the landing, the butler was just coming up the stairs, a newspaper in his hands.
“Miss Maxwell.” Roth’s voice was heavy with foreboding. Her butler was a former tenor who’d come to work for her when he could no longer sing to his satisfaction. He carried himself stiffly, perhaps to compensate for his small stature.
What now?
The butler opened the newspaper, the pages folded back to show several ads. He pointed to the large one on top.
Sophia took the newspaper from him, and Emma and Blythe gathered round her to read.
The Songbird Opera Singer Sophia Maxwell’s Hair
Obtained by a Highly Trusted Source
Dark Brown, Braided in a Long, Thick Switch, 3 Feet in Length
Offered at $100
Bids Accepted
All three gasped.
Blythe straightened, her expression angry. “This wigmaker must be deceiving people. Capitalizing on your illness to make money.”
“But how would they know Sophia’s hair was chopped off?” Emma asked. “Only the family and those in this household, Fritz, and the doctor possess this information.” She glanced at Roth. “Do you think one of the servants gossiped?”
With a pained look on his face, the butler drew himself up as if offended. “We all are loyal to Miss Maxwell. No one would stoop to such behavior.”
Sophia nodded. Resenting the need for writing when speech would be quicker, she scribbled: My servants are trustworthy. I pay them well, and they’ve had plenty of opportunity to gossip about me before and haven’t.
Roth frowned. “I will question every one of the staff and get to the bottom of this immediately.”
Emma crossed her arms and tapped her chin with one finger. “I’ll tell Papa, and he can ask Dr. Hamb. Perhaps one of them said something, not realizing you wouldn’t want the public to know about your hair. If it was Fritz….” She shook her head.
Given his shaken reaction and weak condition, Sophia doubted her friend would have mentioned anything.
At least the newspaper reporters haven’t heard about my voice. Please reiterate to the staff that fact needs to remain secret.
The butler nodded and left to go downstairs.
Emma took the newspaper from Sophia and folded it, the sharpness of her gestures showing her anger. “I’ll go to this wig shop and interview the proprietress.”
Sophia glanced along the hallway and saw Fanny.
The young maid lurked behind a half pillar that held a blue-and white Chinese vase. Her hand covered her mouth, and her eyes were wide in obvious dismay.
Sophia beckoned the child over.
Fanny took reluctant steps, almost dragging her feet.
Blythe caught Sophia’s eye and gave her a questioning look—the one that had come to mean, Do you want me to speak for you?
Sophia nodded.
Leaning close to the girl, Blythe asked, “Fanny, what’s wrong?”
Tears welled in the maid’s brown eyes. “I didn’t mean any harm.”
“What harm?” Emma said sharply.
Sophia elbowed her sister to silence, not wanting to frighten the child into speechlessness.
Fanny twisted one of her feet. “Miss Bratton threw away Miss Maxwell’s hair. I took it from the waste receptacle. I didn’t know it was wrong.”
Blythe pursed her lips. “I supposed anything thrown away is available to be taken. But did you sell Miss Maxwell’s hair after you took it?”
Fanny hung her head.
Sophia touched the girl under her chin and lifted her head until they made eye contact.
Fanny sniffed. “Yes, ma’am, I did sell your hair.”
Sophia released her.
Tears spilled down Fanny’s face. “My ma sold her hair a few months ago when we had no money for rent, so I knew I could get a lot of money for your hair.” She wrung her hands.
“Why?” Sophia mouthed.
“For my brother Kent to attend school.” Fanny scrunched her face in an earnest expression. “After Pa died, Ma couldn’t afford his schooling. She can’t afford anything. That’s why I’m working.” She released her hands and looked from Sophia to Blythe. “My brother’s really smart, ma’am.” Her voice softened. “Pa wanted him to go to school and make something of himself.”
Sophia wrote on the pad, wondering as she did so if Fanny knew how to read. She held the paper in front of the girl. What about you? Don’t you want to go to school?
Fanny’s lips moved as she slowly read the message. She looked up, her brown eyes wide. “Pa said that he wished it was in his power to send us both to school, but he couldn’t afford the fees. Kent needed schooling more than me because he has to grow up and work to support a family. I’m supposed to marry so my husband will support me. Pa said to pick a husband who’s ambitious and a hard worker.” Fanny let out a sigh. “Pa was wrong, though,” she said in a mournful tone, sounding like a woman three times her age.
Intrigued by the girl—Fanny possessed a brightness even her poor circumstances couldn’t extinguish—Sophia wrote: Why was your pa wrong?
Fanny touched her chest. “Because I’m working to support my family. Ma and Kent and I are family.”
“That you are, child.” Emma touched the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure your father would be proud of you.”
Fanny dipped her head in acknowledgment, and then turned back to Sophia. “But I want to be like you, Miss Maxwell. You don’t have a husband.”
Sophia laughed silently, half amused, half smarting from the statement. I’m not likely to find a husband now, looking the way I do. She brushed away the thought and focused on Fanny, writing a question: Would you like to go to school?
Fanny’s grin transformed her face. “Oh, yes, Miss Maxwell.” Then her expression crumbled. “But I don’t want to leave you. I want to be with you forever.”
Oh, you little darling. Touched by the girl, Sophia made a sudden decision. She cupped Fanny’s cheek with her free hand and bent to kiss her forehead. Straightening, she wrote: My dear child, you shall go to school. In a few days, I’m leaving for Montana to stay with my sister for several months. So even if you didn’t go to school, you wouldn’t see me. Will you be a good student to please me?
Again, Fanny slowly read the words and then raised her head, her eyes shining. “Oh, Miss Maxwell!” The animation died out of her face. “I forgot. Ma needs the money I mak
e from working here.”
Her mother must be in dire straights indeed, if the pittance Fanny earns matters. Although perhaps, not having to feed and clothe her daughter also makes a difference to their household.
Again Blythe read Sophia’s mind and spoke for her. “Don’t worry about your mother, child. We will see that she’s taken care of.”
Fanny’s expression blossomed into joy. She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, thank you.” Tears welled again. “I’m happy. So why am I crying?”
All three of them laughed.
Bending, Emma hugged the girl. “Because that’s what women do. Hopefully, you’ll have many more tearful happy times in your life.”
Blythe glanced at Sophia, an eyebrow raised in askance. “Perhaps Fanny can take the rest of the day off so she can go home and deliver the news to her mother.”
Good idea. Sophia nodded and smiled. She touched her chest, and then pantomimed writing.
Blythe translated. “Miss Maxwell will write your mother a letter with the information.”
Sophia’s smile widened at how good Blythe was at reading her mind. Well, we’ve lived together long enough…. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
“And Miss Maxwell will send some money to your mother,” Blythe interpreted.
Fanny bounced in excitement. “Can I go now?”
Emma laughed. “Wait for my sister to write the letter, and then you can be off.” She gestured toward the stairs. “In the meantime, you can spread the good news. Be sure and tell Mr. Roth what happened, and that you’re not in trouble.”
“Yes, Miss Emma.” The child practically flew down the stairs.
Watching her made Sophia laugh. She scribbled: Perhaps I should buy back my hair.
She put down the pencil and reached up to pull on the short ends. She picked up the pencil and wrote: Once this grows out a few inches and can be slicked back, I can use the switch.
Emma read her comment. “Good idea. At least a third of the ladies I know wear false hairpieces. More probably do but would never admit it.”
Blythe chuckled. “At least yours will match exactly. I’ll go buy the switch for you right now before it’s sold to a higher bidder.”
The idea of using her own hair made Sophia feel slightly better about looking like a shorn sheep. At least I don’t need to go into hiding for five years before my hair grows out. Just six months or so.
Nevertheless, moving to Montana for the summer, away from both her well-wishers and the press appealed more and more.
And yet….what would she do with herself in a frontier town. No singing, no rehearsals or performances, and no social events.
She’d have Oliver to play with and the baby to cuddle. Lily to visit with. She could write long letters to Emma and Papa. Blythe would also keep her company.
Again came the picture of the kind man who’d given her a chair when she’d most needed it and paid her a compliment on her intelligence. Perhaps I’ll see him again. At the thought, her heart gave a little lift.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Twenty Days After Opening Night
Costumed in mourning black, Sophia stared out the train window, watching the prairie slide by. After two days of seeing only dry flat land punctuated by rolling hills, she wondered if she’d made the wrong decision to flee to the privacy of her sister’s home and the healing hot springs of Montana.
In Sweetwater Springs, only Peter, manager of the hotel, and the Dunns knew of Sophia’s decision to convalesce at Green Valley Ranch, and they’d been sworn to secrecy. Even Caleb Livingston, the hotel owner, wasn’t aware of their plans. Sophia and Blythe didn’t intend to lie to him, just not admit the whole truth. For the first night, she and Blythe planned to take a suite with two rooms, and only Blythe would sign the register. Her friend didn’t like the prevarication but had gone along with Sophia’s decision to act as the character of a grieving widow who veiled her face to the world.
Sophia turned away from the view of the endless prairie. She wanted to scream from boredom—not that she could scream, she couldn’t even croak. Nor would she have stressed her precious voice by screaming anyway.
She wanted to slump against the cushions of her comfortable velvet chair that was affixed to the floor. But a lady always kept her spine straight.
To heck with that! She propped an elbow on the arm of the chair, slid lower in her seat, and leaned to place her chin in her hand. For a few moments, Sophia watched the long fringe on the bottom on the other chairs, clustered in three conversation areas, dance with the train’s movement.
In desperation, she imagined the role she’d play. Feeling a thread of her old mischievousness, Sophia thought about how she’d blend into the community without anyone knowing better. That role sustained her for a few minutes, but restlessness soon returned.
She couldn’t even talk to Blythe to pass the time. Reading on the train was possible. But Sophia’s lack of concentration and the subtle swaying of the train car were enough of a deterrent to what usually was a favorite pastime.
The two friends had played cards, and then Blythe brought out a traveling chess board, and they’d played a few games. Sophia had never been good at chess, mostly because she seldom played it. But she figured without a voice a lot more games might be in her future as she sought new ways to entertain herself and others.
She let out a sigh.
Blythe, who’d been embroidering a chair cover, looked up. “You antsy?”
Sophia blew out a breath.
Blythe threaded the needle several times part way into the cloth and set the embroidery on the side table. “I am, too. I can hardly wait to see Peter.”
Sophia reached for the pad of paper and wrote: It’s not quite seven months since we came here for the Christmas Eve concert. Can you believe how much our lives have changed?
For Blythe, only good changes, for she’d fallen in love with Peter Rockwell during the preparations for the concert. Her betrothed had a modern outlook on matrimony, supporting Blythe’s career, which would allow her to travel for her performances after their marriage.
The opposite has happened for me. Sophia resisted reaching up to touch her shorn hair. I’ve not only lost my voice, my appearance, and my career, but also my dear friend.
Just traveling in Fritz’s train car with memories of him all around made her sad. She looked away from the flower rack he’d had custom built to hold vases of flowers. She’d had an abundance of bouquets after every performance.
A loving relationship like the one Blythe has with Peter is not in sight. This time Sophia couldn’t help touching her head, feeling the soft bristles of her hair. And not likely to be, as long as I look this way.
Blythe caught the gesture and raised an eyebrow in askance.
Sophia shoved the pad of paper across the table in her direction.
Blythe read the message, a smile playing on her mouth. “I never told you how dreadful I felt last December before we came here to visit.” She passed back the pad. “So very tired. Tired of traveling, of performing, of life.”
Sophia scribbled more words, cursing at how long she took to write out her thoughts instead of speaking them.
I knew you weren’t yourself. You seemed quieter, and when I asked, you gave a vague answer and changed the subject. So I didn’t pry. But once we came to Sweetwater Springs you seemed different, became more energized. Or I should say, Peter changed you.
Blythe read the paper and laughed. “Peter certainly did. Before he came along and convinced me otherwise, I thought as long as I was with you—the woman who mesmerizes everyone she comes across—no man would ever look at me.”
The woman who used to mesmerize. But Sophia didn’t let her expression show her moodiness. She wrote: Peter had eyes only for you from the very beginning.
Blythe’s expression grew dreamy. “With him, I’ve never played second fiddle.” Her eyes twinkled. “Or played second harp.”
Sophia loved seeing this happier side of
her friend. She reached for the pad and wrote: Dearest Blythe, I wish you hadn’t felt that way. I’ve always seen you as beautiful, and I thought you’d chosen to be retiring. If I’d known, I’d have
The pencil lead had dulled. Sophia paused her writing and reached for the pencil sharpener in her reticule lying on a nearby table.
While she was sharpening the pencil, Blythe peered over to read the pad. “You’d known, you’d have done what? Dimmed your charisma?” She finished Sophia’s unwritten sentence. “I never wanted you to change. That’s who you are. These last weeks—afraid you’d die, and then watching you struggle so—have been the hardest of my life.”
Frowning, Sophia wrote furiously. Charisma? I have no hair. No voice. I’m as skinny as a rail.
“Silly,” Blythe chided. “Your charm doesn’t come from your hair or your voice or body. It comes from your heart and is a true part of your essence. You’ll still possess the same ability when you’re eighty years old. You’ll be a beautiful, impressive matriarch. Men half your age will flirt with you, and all the ladies of your acquaintance will envy you.” She frowned. “That is, if when you’re elderly, you don’t do what you’re doing now just because you’re older and your hair turned white, and your skin wrinkled.”
Do what I’m doing now? Not clear on Blythe’s meaning, Sophia turned up a palm in a request for more information.
“You’ve pulled into yourself, like a snail into a shell.”
Sophia wrinkled her nose and smiled, remembering her mother’s stentorian Latin as she attacked snails in the garden. “The term snail wasn’t enough for the foul creatures,” Mama had declared. Sophia wrote: I’ve never been compared to a pulmonate gastropod mollusk before.
Blythe laughed. “Well, perhaps it’s about time you joined the ranks of the rest of us who’ve been compared unfavorably to a member of the animal or insect kingdoms.” She waved a hand up and down beside her face. “Moth comes to mind for me. A pale moth.”
Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7) Page 12