by BJ Hoff
Just then, she saw them both glance in her direction. Renny held her breath as the woman turned and started toward her.
Vangie stood studying the thin-faced busker girl for a moment. “What’s your name, child?”
“Renny Magee, missus.”
“And how old are you, Renny?”
The girl shrugged. “Don’t know, missus. I never knew my people, you see, so nobody ever told me how old I was.”
Vangie looked at her more closely. “You’re an orphan, then?”
“I am.”
Vangie speculated that the girl was probably close on eleven or twelve, perhaps even older, though she was small and wretchedly thin for her age.
She drew a long breath, praying she was not making a terrible mistake. “Very well, then. My husband has agreed to allow you the use of our son’s passage. But”—she lifted a hand to silence the girl’s attempt to speak—“but you will not bring so much as a scrap of trouble or dishonor on yourself or upon this family for the duration of the crossing. My son’s ticket is yours to use, but as of this moment you will conduct yourself with Christian decency, or my husband will have you put off the ship to your own destruction. Your hands will touch no other pockets except your own, and you will be obedient to what either my husband or I instruct you to do. Do you understand what I am saying, Renny Magee?”
The girl stared, her odd, pale blue eyes unnervingly steady, although Vangie sensed that she was restraining herself only with great effort. With one hand then, Renny Magee removed the sodden cap from her head and bowed slightly, as if in deference to a great lady. “I understand, missus,” she said in a voice that was noticeably shaky. “And I’ll not be a bit of trouble to you, my hand on it.”
Vangie glanced at Conn and saw her own weary resignation reflected in his face. She would have no help from him; that much was plain.
She faced the girl again, injecting a note of sternness into her voice. “Since you will be traveling with us, you will take on your share of the work, is that understood? The children will have to be looked after. And there will be laundry—though I don’t know as yet just how we will manage it. And mending. There is always mending with the children. Do you know how to sew, girl?” she asked abruptly, knowing the answer before she ever voiced the question.
Renny Magee glanced away. “I’ve never exactly tried my hand at it. But I can learn,” she added hurriedly, looking back at Vangie. “I can learn most anything I set my mind to, and that’s the truth.”
“And learn you will. You will not be idle, miss.”
Again the girl moved as if to speak—and again Vangie silenced her with a shake of her head. “When we reach America, you will continue to work for us no less than six months unless Mr. MacGovern says you may leave us sooner. Is that clear?”
“You’ve only to tell me what you want done, and I’ll do it,” said Renny Magee, now cracking a grin that revealed a pronounced space between her two front teeth. “For as long as you want.”
Vangie was surprised to realize that the girl was almost fair when she smiled. Her piquant features took on a certain pertness that was somehow agreeable. She actually possessed a kind of impish charm in spite of her unkempt appearance.
But there was no more time for questions or a closer examination of Renny Magee. The ship gave a final warning blast, and a crew member shouted at them to get aboard or be left behind.
As they hurried up the gangplank, Conn in front, Renny Magee just behind him, Vangie turned to look back, irrationally hoping that perhaps Aidan might have lingered nearby to watch them go. But there was no glimpse of him. He was gone, and now they were leaving, too.
As the crew herded them belowdecks, Vangie struggled to regain the memory of what she had experienced in the harbor. They were not alone, she reminded herself. Nor was Aidan.
Perhaps not. But being alone wasn’t the same as being lonely, and Vangie knew that without her son, her firstborn, she would always be lonely. Even in the midst of her family, she would be lonely.
She already was.
16
A MAN AND HIS MUSIC
In his music, consecrated,
The Divine is celebrated,
As his seeking heart embraces
Heaven’s high and holy places.
ANONYMOUS
New York City
The theater shimmered with gaslight and candle glow, dimmed only by the reflection of the ladies’ jewels and glistening gowns. A palpable sense of excitement hung over the concert hall, an anticipation so keen it could be felt above the shuffling and conversation of the audience.
“Papa will be coming out any minute now, Aunt Susanna! And he’ll be so handsome! Wait and see!”
Seated between Caterina and Rosa Navaro in Michael’s private box, Susanna smiled at her niece. She, too, was excited about the opening of tonight’s concert. This would be her first time to attend a performance by Michael’s orchestra, but that was not the sole reason for her anticipation.
In Dublin, she had often attended the symphony with the Mahers, her former employers. Her last outing with them had been over a year ago, but until tonight, she had had little time to reflect on the lack of music in her life, or the emptiness that lack engendered in her soul. Now, awaiting the concert, she realized how very much she had missed the experience.
Indeed, there had been precious little time to reflect on anything since she’d arrived in New York. The days had been filled with the effort of settling into her new home and acclimating herself to the routine of the household.
She had determined early on that considerable adaptability was expected from everyone at Bantry Hill, even from those who lived on the periphery of Michael Emmanuel’s life. If she had once envisioned her brother-in-law as a brooding recluse, spending his days in self-imposed seclusion while he labored over his music and massaged his inflated ego, it hadn’t taken long to send those preconceptions packing.
In truth, she had seen very little of Michael during the weeks since her arrival. He had been in rehearsal, staying in the city almost every night, some days coming home only long enough to spend a few hours with Caterina before rushing off again.
Other than what she’d learned from Deirdre’s letters, Susanna had been forced to glean the little she knew about the man from Rosa Navaro and Caterina. Her own contact with him had been sporadic and at times frustrating. Although he was invariably gracious and never failed to show a concern for her comfort and well-being, he was most often preoccupied, even more remote than he’d been the day she’d first arrived at Bantry Hill.
More perturbing still, he had yet to offer a full explanation of Deirdre’s death. By now, Susanna was almost convinced that he was deliberately avoiding the subject.
If that was his tactic—and she was increasingly suspicious that it was—he would soon realize that she wouldn’t be put off indefinitely. He had promised her answers, and she had every intention of getting them.
She was determined to know what had happened to Deirdre. It was true that they had never been close; actually, there had been times when she wasn’t even sure she liked her older sister. Nevertheless, they had been sisters, and there would be no peace for her until she learned the truth about Deirdre’s death.
She had already decided that if Michael persisted in his evasion, she would take her questions elsewhere, perhaps to Rosa Navaro. She had even thought about going to the authorities but didn’t quite know how to begin. Perhaps when Michael saw that she was a fair match for his stubbornness, he would finally give in and tell her everything.
And if he didn’t?
She would face that particular dilemma only if and when it became necessary.
The concert hall quieted. The lights dimmed as the crimson velvet curtains opened on the orchestra. Paul Santi, the concertmaster, rose with his violin and gave the other musicians the note of A, and dissonance reigned until all the instruments swelled to total agreement.
Then silence again descended, and Paul ex
ited the stage.
“There he is! There’s Papa!” Caterina tugged at Susanna’s sleeve, then bounced forward on the edge of her seat.
Susanna looked from the excited child to the stage, where Paul Santi was escorting Michael to the podium. The collective hush that had fallen over the audience now gave way to an unrestrained burst of applause as Michael took his place at the conductor’s dais.
She saw him touch the toe of his left foot to the metal strip he used as a marker. He acknowledged the audience’s welcome with a small bow and the quick, youthful smile that never failed to catch Susanna unawares. She had caught only brief glimpses of that smile, yet every time she encountered the sudden, unexpected expression of boyishness and warmth, she felt the same stab of confusion she’d known at their first meeting.
As it happened, Michael’s stage presence was even more unsettling than his smile. Up until now, Susanna had seen him in only weekend or informal attire—often in his shirt sleeves or a worn sweater, his dark hair carelessly tousled, his demeanor sometimes brisk, sometimes relaxed, but always distant. She had come to think of him as a very casual man in his preferences, not much concerned with appearances and seemingly more inclined toward the natural than the artificial.
But the man on stage this evening was anything but casual. In truth, he was downright resplendent. In black tails and vivid white linen, he had forgone the dark glasses. The black, shaggy hair had been brushed to some semblance of control, the dark beard neatly trimmed, and with his towering height and Tuscan bearing, he was positively regal.
Susanna’s throat constricted as she knotted her hands in her lap, acknowledging to herself, albeit grudgingly, that perhaps it wasn’t so difficult after all to understand how Deirdre might have been dazzled by this man.
“Didn’t I tell you, Aunt Susanna? Isn’t Papa handsome?”
Caterina’s loud whisper brought Susanna’s thoughts back to the present. With her niece’s small hand clasped warmly in her own, she smiled, then turned her attention back to the stage.
As she watched, Michael turned to the orchestra and gave an almost undetectable tapping of the baton. Then, with an authoritative lift of his wide shoulders, he signaled the musicians, and the three majestic chords of the overture to Mozart’s opera The Magic Flute sounded.
The orchestra followed this overture with another, Gluck’s Alceste, an intense, surging work of great nobility and depth. Then, with the assistance of Paul Santi, Michael again exited the stage, to return after only a moment or two.
He bowed again, then lifted his baton, and the first notes of the introduction to Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony ascended and filled the hall. Susanna loved the Seventh but had been somewhat surprised at Michael’s choice for the major work of the evening. She would have expected him to opt for the better-known and more ambitious Fifth or even the monumental Ninth. The Seventh was a more impetuous, emotional work, at times lively and deceptively lighthearted, then building to a frenzied, almost volcanic explosion of energy and power. It was also one of the tortured composer’s more controversial, less predictable symphonies.
Critics often sought to offer an analysis of the work, but Susanna shared Michael’s recently voiced opinion that the Seventh went beyond explanation, that perhaps the fact that it could not be explained or analyzed was actually a fundamental part of the work’s appeal.
Now, watching him, it struck Susanna that the man on stage was quite possibly as unpredictable, as inscrutable, as the capricious symphony itself.
By the time the music reached the driving, marchlike second movement, Susanna had temporarily suspended her misgivings about her brother-in-law.
Indeed, she had almost lost sight of Michael and the orchestra as separate entities. The two had somehow become one, melding into a single mighty instrument of rhythm and motion and sound, sweeping the hall with a somber but heroic processional that made her pulse thunder and her spirit sing with the magnificence of it all.
“Is he using a score?” she whispered to Rosa Navaro, unable to comprehend how such a herculean work could possibly be transcribed to Braille.
The older woman offered her opera glasses to Susanna, saying, “Michael doesn’t need a score. It’s all here,” she said, lightly tapping her own forehead, then her heart.
Incredible.
Susanna lifted the opera glasses to her eyes. Under the direction of a less brilliant conductor, the Allegretto could easily have become a funeral dirge, but Michael and his musicians had honed it to a persistent, exultant paean of praise.
She became aware that Caterina was gripping her hand more tightly, but when she looked, she saw that the child’s gaze was riveted to the stage. The sight of the little girl so completely absorbed in the music gave Susanna an inordinate sense of pleasure, perhaps because it had been the same with her. She couldn’t remember a time when music hadn’t been an overwhelming, even spiritual experience for her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Rosa Navaro, to her left, was blinking furiously, as if trying to hold back tears of emotion. Indeed, many among the audience seemed to be fighting to keep their feelings in check as the orchestra unleashed the full force of Beethoven’s colossal work.
She could see from Michael’s profile that his eyes were closed, his face damp with perspiration. Susanna sensed that so absorbed was he in this bold epic of musical struggle and celebration that he was no longer a conductor of the music… he had in some incomprehensible way become the music.
As the insistent, driving pulse of the Allegretto finally gave way to the more exuberant Presto, a faint, collective sigh rose up from the audience. Susanna expelled a long breath to relieve her own tension; at the same time she felt Caterina relax the grip on her hand.
She could not help but be transfixed by the man at the podium. Not one of his movements was superfluous, from the slightest roll of the wrist to the powerful shuddering that seemed to run the length of his tall frame as he demanded—and received—the ultimate in musicianship from his orchestra.
There was no melodramatic posturing, no obvious air of self-aggrandizement or showmanship. Instead he appeared to be a man lifted out of himself, transported to a higher plane as he reached for some sublime but elusive splendor, some unseen touch of glory, while the music gathered force and became a power in and of itself.
By the time the orchestra had plunged into the Finale, an energized, abandoned outburst of power and exhilaration, Susanna felt certain that the entire audience, herself included, had been left breathless. Watching Michael, seeing the unmistakable signs of the intensity, the physical and emotional demands this particular work placed upon a conductor, she would not have been surprised had he collapsed before his final bow.
She leaped to her feet with the rest of the audience as a violent explosion of cheers and applause erupted. For an instant, Michael seemed to hesitate where he stood. When he turned to face the delirious crowd, he appeared almost stunned for a moment, as if he might be struggling to place his surroundings. But then the familiar winning smile broke forth, and he made a deep, sweeping bow of tribute to the orchestra.
He and Paul shook hands, and then at last he lifted his face toward the box and, smiling even wider, gave a deferential bow in their direction.
“Papa always bows to me at the end,” Caterina said with obvious pride. Bouncing on the balls of her feet, she blew a kiss to the father who could not see her.
Flowers were flung wildly onto the stage, an enormous bouquet was presented, and the demand for an encore went up like a roar. Finally, Michael gave a consenting nod and turned back to the orchestra.
The piece they plunged into was new to Susanna. Her first thought was of a folk tune or an old world dance, but the music suddenly shifted to a medley that might have been martial in quality, had the rhythms not been so unrestrained. It ended with a hymnlike theme of great beauty, its final cadence sustained by the trumpets and horns and timpani. The entire work virtually shouted of something new, something dis
tinctly and utterly American.
Again the audience rose to their feet in a wild ovation. Rosa Navaro touched Susanna’s hand. “That was one of Michael’s own compositions,” she said. “Part of a larger work, a symphonic suite.”
“Did you like it, Aunt Susanna?” Caterina piped in.
“It was wonderful,” Susanna replied in all sincerity. “Your papa is a very gifted man.”
The little girl’s face dimpled in a wide smile as she gave a vigorous nod. “He’s the cleverest man ever. And the best papa in the whole world, too!”
Susanna studied her niece for a moment. Caterina obviously adored her father. Might her own feelings of distrust be unfounded after all? Could a man capable of such transcending emotion and brilliant artistry—and such obvious devotion to his child—also be capable of the kind of treachery of which she had long suspected him…and of which Deirdre had accused him?
Michael returned to the stage for two more encores. As Paul Santi led him to the wings for the final time, he seemed to falter and even stumble. Instinctively, Susanna lifted a hand out as if to steady him.
She caught herself, but not before Caterina had seen. “It’s all right, Aunt Susanna,” the little girl said, her features solemn. “You mustn’t worry about Papa. He trips sometimes, but he never falls. Even if he should, everyone will pretend not to notice. They wouldn’t want to hurt Papa’s feelings, you see.”
Susanna looked at the girl, sensing the total conviction with which she spoke. For one bittersweet moment she could see a reflection of herself in her niece’s eyes. Like Caterina, she had adored her own father, had placed in him the same total, unshakable confidence, and had held the same childlike belief that others naturally revered him as she did.
But her father had been entirely worthy of a daughter’s faith and devotion. For the sake of the trusting little girl beside her, she fervently hoped the same could be said of Michael Emmanuel.