by BJ Hoff
Rumors had run rampant after the accident in which she died, but then rumors always ran rampant about theater people. Still, there had been talk of something strange. For one thing, you didn’t find her kind driving her own buggy. She would have been driven. And taking off in the middle of the night during a fearsome thunderstorm—well, a number of the boyos had felt there was something wrong somewhere.
One thing was certain: the poor woman had met an ugly fate. Bernie Kehoe, one of the officers at the scene of the accident, told Frank that the buggy must have plunged a good twenty feet down before crashing against the rocks. According to Bernie, the Emmanuel woman had been thrown several feet from the buggy. Bernie said she’d looked for all the world like a busted doll when they found her.
Frank studied Emmanuel, wondering what a thing like that would do to a man. But his curiosity was quickly replaced by a surge of amazement as he saw Emmanuel suddenly throw back his head and begin to sing along with all the others.
Never in all his days had Frank Donovan heard anything like the sound that came out of that blind man’s mouth. It was a wondrous thing entirely.
The familiar hesitation had begun to plague Michael as he stood listening to what had to be thousands of voices lifted in unrestrained praise. He seldom sang in public anymore, and even when he did, there was always that initial hesitancy, that springboard of indecision, until, no longer able to constrain himself, he gave in to a need which was, for him, as basic as food or drink.
Tonight’s music had drawn him in with the force of a magnetic field. It was music that virtually demanded to be sung. The first time he had heard the new “gospel music,” as some were calling it, he had been surprised by the strength of his own response. Far removed from the classical forms he knew and loved so well, it nevertheless held a unique appeal all its own. It was a music without class or ethnic distinctions, a music seemingly without sectarian ties or the confines of some of the older, more traditional structures. And yet in its rhythms and melodies, Michael could hear the wail and the cadence of the exile, the sorrowful lament and the plea for deliverance of the black slave, and the vigor, the ecstatic joy, and the call to glory of the camp meeting preacher.
This was a music evolved from diverse roots and mutual needs: a music of the common people who sought to worship, to praise, to plead, and to be one in the freedom of Christian love. Some called it heathenish. Others found it too personal, too self-centered. Many thought it nothing more than “message music,” a trend that would never survive in the established church.
But Michael loved its lack of restraint and self-conscious convention, its spontaneity and free-flowing emotion, its inclusive embrace of the old and the new. This was the sound of America.
He had heard—only in part—a hint of this music years ago, when he had been but a boy, about to depart New York Harbor from his first visit to America. Something had happened to him that day, something too wondrous, too enormous for a child to grasp. Only years later had he finally come to accept that he had been given a kind of vision. Somehow he knew, without understanding how such a thing could be or why, that his Creator had given him a glimpse of a mighty, matchless music, a music that was as elusive as it was beautiful.
Ever since that day on the deck of the ship, he had been seeking the fulfillment of that early vision. And despite the years of frustrations and failures, the disappointments and defeats, he remained resolved to capture that divine spark, that it might ignite a flame and breathe its glory into his own work. It rang through his soul and echoed in his spirit, seeking—demanding—its own voice. This body of music would be his magnum opus, his greatest achievement—and the reason God had gifted him.
But for now, he was engulfed by the music at hand, a music that demanded to be sung.
And he simply could no longer resist its call.
“…This is my story, this is my song…”
“Blessed Assurance”—written by Miss Fanny—was quickly becoming one of Susanna’s favorite hymns. She loved to sing it, and she loved to hear it sung. But the unexpected sound of Michael’s voice as he joined the other voices filling the meeting place quickly silenced her.
She could not help but turn and stare. Before tonight, Susanna had only heard about the “Voice of the Century,” the voice that was said to fill an amphitheater and thrill even the most world-weary audiences.
She had read of Michael’s triumphs, but with nothing more than the curiosity of any other music lover. And of course in the early weeks of Deirdre’s and his courtship, her sister had raved about her new suitor’s “magnificent talent” and the unparalleled success that greeted him everywhere he performed.
But now, as she stood watching Michael, listening to him, her very soul shaken by his incredible voice, Susanna realized that neither the critics’ reviews nor her sister’s glowing accounts had been adequate to convey the wonder, the uniqueness of his extraordinary gift.
The truth was that mere words, no matter how eloquent or impassioned, couldn’t possibly begin to express the inconceivable power—the phenomenon—of his singing. If God had arranged to give glory a voice, it might have sounded very much like the voice of Michael Emmanuel.
Vaguely, she was aware that others nearby had also stopped singing, some turning to look. Even Miss Fanny, although she didn’t miss a note of her own, turned toward Michael with a broad smile of obvious delight, squeezing Susanna’s hand as if to share the moment.
Michael, for his part, was absorbed by the music, completely unaware of the attention he was getting.
Susanna thought that the experience of being in the midst of thousands of voices raised in collective praise to their Creator would have been enough by itself to overwhelm her. But the sound of that glorious voice at her side as it lifted and soared above the entire auditorium was nothing short of breathtaking.
Transfixed, she could do nothing but stand and watch him. With his head thrown back, he looked as if his every sense was alive and ablaze with exultation.
Questions hurtled through her mind. With such a gift, how could anything—anything—have driven him from the world he had once conquered and made his own? What could possibly account for his turning away from the vast international audiences who had adored him, practically enshrined him, above all other musicians of his time?
Even as the questions gripped her, Susanna felt a sudden sickening—and wholly unexpected—wrench of dismay for all this man had lost. She fought to shake off the emotion. How could she feel so strongly for this baffling brother-in-law who had yet to provide her with even the most cursory of explanations for her sister’s death?
Besides, she was quite certain he would not welcome her sympathy. On the contrary, he would most likely find it anathema. From what she had seen of Michael Emmanuel so far, she would expect him to have no desire, no need, for anyone’s sympathy. As for her natural feelings of compassion for the man, she told herself firmly that it would be far more appropriate to sympathize with him for the loss of his wife—and, of course, the loss of his vision—rather than the loss of his career, no matter how spectacular it might have been.
But what about Michael himself? Susanna studied him, again recognizing the look of some profound and unfathomable joy enlivening his features. And she wondered—which among his many devastating losses had been most grievous to him?
19
DARK REMEMBRANCE
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in Memory’s rapturous pain…
EMILY BRONTË
They visited with the Moodys and Sankeys for nearly half an hour, then took a late ferry. By the time they started for Bantry Hill, it was well after eleven. In the meantime, a cold wind had blown up, and with it a soaking rain.
In spite of the lateness of the hour, Susanna was still too exhilarated from the excitement of the evening to give in to fatigue. Michael sat in silence, his head resting against the back of the carriage seat, but Susanna knew he wasn’t dozing.
She had become accustomed to his silences by now. There seemed to be no pattern to them, no predictability. They were just as likely to come in the midst of a crowded room as when they were alone together, which was rarely the case. He was never exactly rude. He would simply grow very still, occasionally for several minutes at a time. Although he seemed to be aware of his surroundings in a peripheral sense, it was obvious that for the most part he had distanced himself from those nearby.
Just then, the carriage bumped over a deep pit in the road, and he stirred. He straightened a little in the seat, stretching his arms out in front of him. “It’s just as well that Caterina stayed behind tonight, no? She would be exhausted.”
Susanna agreed, especially given the chill rain that had set in. “It’s probably best that she stay in another day or two, I think, until her cold is completely gone.”
Michael nodded, but said nothing more as he again leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.
Just when Susanna had begun to think they would pass the rest of the drive in silence, the carriage took another jolt. She gave a sharp intake of breath. Michael uttered a sound of disgust and shook his head. “This road—un disonore! A disgrace.”
Susanna looked at him, a coldness spreading over her. Did she only imagine that he winced, as if he’d realized that by mentioning the condition of the road he might have opened a door he would have preferred to leave closed?
“Michael—”
He cut her short. “I know,” he said, giving a flick of his wrist. “We have not yet talked about the accident.”
Susanna braced herself for another attempt on his part to evade the subject. “Don’t you think it’s time?” she ventured.
“Sì,” he said, surprising her. There was a long pause, then, “We will talk now, if you like.”
His voice was low and tight, as if he were steeling himself for a dreaded ordeal. Susanna waited, still half expecting him to evade.
But apparently that wasn’t his intention.
“We are very close to the site of the accident,” he said quietly.
Susanna instinctively glanced out the window into the darkness. “How can you tell?”
His eyebrows lifted. “I know this road, of course. Every turn, every rise and fall of it. I know the exact place where it happened.”
“What…did happen?” Susanna felt as if her throat were swollen shut. It was all she could do to force the words out.
As she waited, he drew in a long breath, leaned back, and turned his face slightly toward the carriage window. “It was raining,” he said, his tone now more pensive than strained. “Even harder than tonight. A terrible storm. Thunder. Lightning. And wind—I remember the wind was particularly vicious. The road was already deeply rutted and slick from a week of much rain. In some places, large chunks had simply washed away.”
He pressed a hand against his bearded face. “Deirdre drove the buggy herself,” he went on, his voice thin. “She was not used to doing so. The police said she must have lost control in the turn.” He paused, then added, “It’s just ahead.”
The hand against his face trembled slightly. “The buggy went over the side and crashed…down onto the rocks. Deirdre—”
He broke off, removed the dark glasses, and wiped a hand over his eyes as if caught up in the throes of some memory too excruciating to voice.
At that moment, they entered the deadly turn. Susanna held her breath until they came out of it. As if he, too, had been waiting until they passed the dreaded place, Michael dropped his hand away from his face and knotted it into a fist against the door panel.
“She was thrown from the buggy,” he continued, his voice scarcely more than a murmur. “The police said she died instantly, from the impact of the fall.”
A hot surge of nausea rose up in Susanna’s throat. “But why was she alone?” she choked out. “You said she wasn’t used to driving. What possessed her to do such a thing? And in the middle of the night, in such a storm—”
His expression was shuttered, revealing nothing of his feelings. He began to tap his fist against the door.
So long was his reply in coming that Susanna feared he meant not to answer at all. But finally he brought his hands to his knees as if to steady himself. “We had…an argument. A terrible argument.”
For the life of her, Susanna couldn’t imagine an argument so fierce that a woman would leave the house in a raging thunderstorm and drive off alone on a treacherous road.
As if he had read her thoughts, Michael hurried on. “Deirdre was very angry. I tried to reason with her, but—”
He stopped, making the slight turn of the wrist Susanna had come to recognize when he either couldn’t find the words he wanted, or when no words seemed necessary.
“As I said, she was very angry.” Again he straightened, replacing the dark glasses as he turned his face toward the window.
Susanna sat watching him, her mind racing. Obviously, raking up the memory of that awful night had been very difficult for him. And his explanation, as far as he’d taken it, seemed candid enough. Her instincts, however, told her he was leaving out as much as, if not more than, he’d divulged.
“But whatever were you arguing about that could have upset her so much?”
The moment the words escaped her lips, Susanna could have bit her tongue. She had no right to ask such a question, and she knew it.
He turned toward her, one eyebrow lifting in obvious annoyance.
“I’m sorry,” Susanna said quickly, wringing her hands in her lap. “That was—that’s none of my business. But, Michael—I’m only trying to understand what happened, what drove Deirdre to do such a reckless thing.”
The line of his mouth tightened. “Married couples sometimes argue, Susanna. That is not such an uncommon thing.”
“But their arguments don’t usually end up with one of them dead!”
In the flickering light from the carriage lantern, he seemed to pale. “You wanted to know what happened, and I’ve told you. As for what we argued about, that is something I’m not willing to discuss.”
Susanna stared at him, her impatience heating to frustration. “Michael—I already know Deirdre was unhappy, that your marriage was far from perfect. It’s no great shock to hear that you fought. I’m simply trying to understand what happened, but it seems you don’t want me to know!”
She hurled the words at him like stones, but he seemed unmoved.
The wind shook the carriage. The rain was coming in torrents now, beating against the roof and battering the doors as if trying to gain entrance. There were repeated crashes of thunder. Lightning streaked along the tree branches bending and whipping in the wind.
Susanna shuddered, unable to shut out the thought of Deirdre abroad on such a night as this, undoubtedly frightened, perhaps even terrified, as she fled the stone monolith of Bantry Hill in an effort to escape—
Escape what? Susanna studied the dark-featured man across from her who had again retreated into silence, his features set, his head bent low. Clearly, he had said all he meant to say.
Anger renewed itself and slammed through her as she groped for words to launch an attack on his stubborn silence. But just then, she realized the carriage was slowing. She turned to look and saw that they had already passed through the gate and were almost at the front of the house.
Something didn’t seem right. She stared, at first unable to determine what was amiss. Then she realized.
“The lights,” she said, more to herself than to Michael.
“What do you mean?”
“The house—there’s too much light. It looks as if every lamp—”
She broke off as a blazing bolt of lightning cast the entire front of the house in an eerie incandescence. At the same time, the carriage quaked, slammed by a brutal gust of wind.
“Caterina—” The word was little more than a whisper on his lips, but even before the carriage came to a complete halt, Michael’s hand was on the door.
&nbs
p; The moment they stopped, he was out of the carriage, not waiting for Dempsey, hesitating only long enough to help Susanna down.
Susanna grabbed his arm, Dempsey following behind them.
Wind drove the rain against them, lashing their skin and clothing. Michael stumbled in his haste, but Susanna steadied him, and they went on.
By the time they reached the top of the porch steps, Moira Dempsey stood framed in the doorway. “Thanks be to God!” she burst out at the sight of them. “I thought you’d never get here!”
Paul Santi brushed by the housekeeper and took Michael’s arm to hurry them inside. “It’s Cati, Michael,” he said without preamble as they shook the rain off their hair and coats onto the floor of the vestibule. “She seemed all right earlier, but now—she’s very ill.”
Michael raked both hands through his wet hair. “But she was better. What happened?”
Paul met Susanna’s eyes for just an instant, and the worry she saw there chilled her far more than the water dripping down her face and hair.
Before Paul could answer, Moira Dempsey burst out, “ ’Tis the lung fever; I’m sure of it!” The woman stood wringing her hands, her mouth trembling. “She started in with the cough not long after you left, and she’s scarcely stopped since, God help her. There’s a wicked fever on her. She’s that sick, lad. I did all I know to do, but it hasn’t helped.”
Michael paled. Then, throwing off his wet coat, he started for the stairway.
20
A LONG NIGHT
Till her eyes shine,
’Tis night within my heart.
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN
They heard the hard, hacking cough before they even reached the landing.
Upstairs, the wolfhound was lying outside the door to Caterina’s bedroom. The minute he saw them, he whimpered and got to his feet. Absently, Michael put a hand to the dog’s head, ordering him to stay as they entered the bedroom.