American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  “How awful!” said Vangie.

  “It is that. He has his little girl, though,” Conn continued, “a lass of four years. His sister-in-law lives there, too, as well as a cousin—a young Italian fellow who nearly died right in the middle of the harbor from fear of the stallion.”

  He smiled at the recollection of the boy’s pasty face and boggling eyes. “And then there’s the older couple I mentioned. Dempsey manages the place, and his wife does the cooking and the cleaning. But the two of them are getting along in years, and Mr. Emmanuel is after making things a bit easier for them. When he discovered that I had a wife and a grown daughter—not to mention two healthy sons—who would be willing to work, he seemed pleased altogether.”

  He paused to catch his breath. “Did I tell you the man is blind?”

  “Blind?” Vangie cried. “Oh, the poor man! And him having lost his wife as well. So much sorrow for him to bear, Conn.”

  Conn nodded. “Aye, but he’s not a man who wears his feelings on the outside. He strikes me as the type who keeps his own counsel. He’s very soft-spoken and I suspect he’s quiet-natured all through. Dempsey says he’s a man of great intellect, with the music and all—a famous man at that.”

  “Oh, Da!” Nell Grace stared at him as if he had risen an extra foot in height even as she watched. “And to think he employed you right then and there as he did! He must place great faith in you.”

  “And why wouldn’t he?” Vangie said. “It’s clear this Mr. Emmanuel knows quality when he sees it.”

  She immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. “But he can’t see you at all! Oh, Conn, what if I say something as foolish as that in front of the man, God forbid?”

  Then she smiled at him, her eyes shining. “Well, but whether he can see or not, ’tis obvious he could sense the kind of man you are.”

  Conn fought down a surge of pleasure at the pride glowing in his wife’s eyes. In truth, he couldn’t quite forget the way his new employer had made him feel during their discussion. “Well,” he said, “the Maestro did consult with his man, Dempsey, and with his cousin as well, in private, before he offered me the position. But only for a short time. Indeed, it seemed to me that he had made up his mind before he conferred with them. And I would have to say”—Conn realized at that instant just how much it pleased him to say it—“that he treated me almost as an equal throughout the entire interview. He treated me with respect, Vangie. As one man to another.”

  Conn’s heart threatened to melt at the sight of his wife’s damp eyes, her trembling smile. He pulled both her and Nell Grace close, putting an arm around each of them. “It would seem that the good Lord has answered our prayers,” he said, feigning a gruff tone to conceal his own unreliable emotions. “I have a job, and we are to have a new home. And not in this wretched city, but in a place where there is land and clean air.”

  “And horses!” put in James. “Don’t forget the horses, Da!”

  “Well, now, it’s not likely I would be forgetting the horses, son.” Conn tousled the lad’s hair. “Seeing as how it’s a horse I have to thank for getting me this job in the first place!”

  Renny had hovered near the stove throughout the entire exchange, her feelings going into a spin as she heard MacGovern’s spirited account of his day.

  It was plain that the lot of them had forgotten her presence, not that she would have expected anything else, what with them being so stirred up over MacGovern’s big news.

  And it was big news indeed, no doubt about it. Vangie was all a-tremble. Nell Grace, the quiet one of the household, had more questions than a judge, while the twins exerted their energy by thumping each other on the head like wee simpletons. Through it all, Baby Emma fought to stay awake so she could emit an occasional squeal.

  As for MacGovern, well, he was about to rip a seam, so full of himself was he at the moment.

  Renny was glad for them all, she truly was. One look at Vangie, her face brilliant with this new joy, was enough to make Renny’s own heart swell to bursting. And in truth, it was fine to see the worry lines eased a bit from MacGovern’s rough features, as well. He was a good man, if a hard one, and he did dote on his family, every one of them.

  Aye, this was a good thing altogether, and she mustn’t mind that they would almost certainly be cutting her loose now. She could hardly expect a place among them in their new situation. More than likely, MacGovern would not give a thought to the bargain they had struck back in Ireland, but would be relieved to be shut of her, and the sooner the better.

  She was assuring herself that she would be grateful to get on with her own life when she noticed himself and Vangie looking in her direction, speaking in low tones to each other. As she watched, MacGovern gave Vangie’s shoulder a bit of a squeeze, then crossed the room toward Renny.

  She held her breath, steeling herself for what she was about to hear. She hadn’t thought it would come so soon. Couldn’t he have waited for a spell, at least until the next day, before giving her the brush? Did he have to be in such an infernal hurry?

  MacGovern crossed his sturdy arms over his chest and stood studying her with that keen-eyed look. When he finally spoke, it was with the gruff tone she had become accustomed to. But his words were not what she had expected.

  “What with all the excitement, Renny Magee, I might have forgotten to mention that we will expect you to accompany us to our new home.”

  The cold, hollow place inside Renny suddenly felt the sun. She swiped at the fringe of hair falling over her eyes and stared at him. “You…mean to take me with you?”

  “Of course, we’ll be taking you with us. As I recall, we had an agreement, did we not? That you would stay with us no less than six months in return for Aidan’s passage?”

  Renny nodded. “Aye, that’s so.”

  “And isn’t it only the decent, Christian thing, to keep your word, once a bargain is sealed?”

  Renny’s gaze locked with his. “ ’Tis.”

  “Then that is that, it seems to me.” He uncrossed his arms and hitched his thumbs in his belt. “Unless you can think of a good reason why you should not come along with us, that is.”

  “No!” Renny blurted out the word like a shot. “A bargain is a bargain. But—”

  “But what?” he said, his eyes narrowing.

  “You’re quite certain—there’s a place for me? There will be work for me, so that I can earn my keep, I mean? Vangie will still…need me?”

  “Sure, you’ve seen how it is with us. There is always work enough.” MacGovern regarded her with a long, thorough look. “You will be assisting me in the stables and on the grounds, as well as helping Vangie. You will not be idle, girl, I promise you that.”

  Renny pulled her most sober expression, as if to consider his words for another moment. “Then I will go with you,” she said, her tone as solemn as a banker’s pledge.

  “Well, now,” said MacGovern, his expression equally grave. “That is a great relief to us all, I am sure.”

  9

  WHEN HOPE AND FEAR COLLIDE

  Our feet on the torrent’s brink,

  Our eyes on the cloud afar,

  We fear the things we think,

  Instead of the things that are.

  JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY

  Early December

  Michael?”

  Michael straightened, tucking the lap robe more snugly about his legs. It was cold, even inside the carriage, though he had scarcely noticed until now. He’d been too absorbed in his thoughts about this evening’s rehearsal, the Christmas concert, Susanna…

  Most of all, Susanna.

  He turned slightly to face Paul, who sat across from him.

  “Michael, are you all right?”

  “Of course. I was just…thinking.”

  “You are still planning to stay in the city tonight, no? Since rehearsal will no doubt go longer than usual.”

  “No, I’ve changed my mind. I think we should go back tonight.”

  “But it
will be late. And even colder by then. Snowing, perhaps.”

  Michael could hear Paul’s resistance to the idea of taking the ferry twice on such a night. Paul hated the New York winters.

  “Tomorrow the MacGovern family will be arriving. I should be there. But you can stay at the hotel tonight, if you like.”

  After a long silence, Paul made a valiant reply. “No, I will go back with you.”

  “We have had this conversation before, Pauli. I can manage the ferry alone.”

  Paul muttered something, then started in on a different subject. “You’re very serious today, cugino. What occupies you so? Not the program, surely. It is going well. We will be ready in good time.”

  “No, I’m very satisfied. There was much improvement at last night’s rehearsal.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Michael delayed his reply just long enough that Paul answered for him. “Ah. Susanna. You are thinking of Susanna.”

  It was not a question. And there was no mistaking the note of smugness in Paul’s voice.

  Michael made no attempt to confirm or deny, but Paul was clearly not going to be put off by his silence. “So, I was right. It is Susanna.”

  Michael gave an exaggerated sigh, but he already knew it would take more than a show of impatience to stifle the other’s curiosity.

  Then, strictly on impulse, he surprised himself by shooting a question at Paul. “What does she look like?”

  When Paul hesitated, Michael prompted him. “Susanna—what does she look like?”

  “You have asked me this before.”

  “Then I am asking again.”

  “Hmm. But to describe Susanna is not such an easy thing.”

  Paul was obviously enjoying this.

  “You may spare me the dramatics, cugino.”

  “Sì. Well…Susanna is like…una principéssa!”

  “A princess? High praise,” Michael said dryly. “And exactly how is Susanna like a princess?”

  “She has a…stillness about her. The way she walks, holds her head, her every movement. She has…much grace. Even a kind of elegance.”

  Michael had actually sensed the grace, the “stillness” Paul referred to. For the first time in years, there was peace in his home. The kind of peace he had longed for—for himself, for Caterina, for his entire household.

  And Susanna had brought this peace.

  “As I have told you before,” Paul rambled on, “Susanna is very attractive. But hers is more a…quiet loveliness. There is no pretension about her.”

  “But she doesn’t know she’s attractive,” Michael said, more to himself than to Paul. “She thinks she is plain.”

  “Ah, but she is mistaken! Susanna is not plain. Not by any means.”

  Michael knew he was pressing, but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “So, then—Susanna is both pretty and poised,” he said, trying for a casual note.

  “It’s fortunate, I think, that you are a musician, cugino, for you are certainly no poet.”

  He leaned back against the seat. “What color is her hair?”

  “Ah, yes. Susanna’s hair. It is…the color of honey. Like honey, with streaks of the sun. And she has, what do you call them? The freckles. Freckles on her nose. Only a few. Perhaps four or five.”

  Something in this whimsical reply set Michael on edge. Paul had actually counted the freckles on Susanna’s nose? It seemed an unwarranted intimacy. Intrusive—presumptuous, even—for Paul to have studied Susanna so closely.

  When he could not…

  And then he recognized the scalding bilge that came crashing over him. He was jealous. Jealous of Paul.

  This wasn’t the first time he had wondered if his cousin might not have feelings for Susanna—or she for him. Nor was this the first time he had felt this same resentment at the thought. Paul could see Susanna, could look into her eyes, observe her movements, her reactions. Paul didn’t have to depend on some questionable sixth sense to interpret Susanna’s feelings. Paul was—

  Michael stopped himself. How could he be so childish as to resent Paul, whom he loved like a brother? He was being unreasonable, and he knew it. A jealous, petulant schoolboy spoiling for a fight.

  Overcome with self-disgust, Michael dragged one hand through his hair. He had thought himself finished with the ugly business of jealousy once and for all. He had battled it throughout most of his marriage. He would not—could not—allow it to shred his spirit again. And certainly not because of Paul. The bitter taste of self-reproach remained on his tongue.

  Paul was still reciting Susanna’s virtues. “What more can I say? She is lovely. Very lovely. But I think you are right, that she does not realize this. Always she makes less of herself. She…diminishes herself, even her music. I wonder why.”

  Before Michael could venture a reply, Paul offered his own. “Perhaps…because Deirdre seemed to cast such a bright light, Susanna became accustomed to walking in her sister’s shadow.”

  Michael swallowed against the knot in his throat.

  “I wonder, Michael—why do you always ask me about Susanna’s appearance? Why have you not looked at her for yourself by now?”

  The question, typical of Paul’s directness, caught Michael completely off guard. “With my hands?”

  “Sì. As you do with others.”

  “I suppose,” he said, searching for an answer, “because I’ve never felt quite free to do so. I’m not at all sure Susanna would be…comfortable with the idea. So I have not presumed.”

  But, oh, how he had wanted to! Wanted to take her face between his hands, to trace the line of her temples, her chin, touch her hair, to look at her and see her in the only way left to him—with his touch, and with his heart. Yet something had always stopped him.

  “I don’t believe you would be presuming, cugino. I believe you are mistaken about what Susanna wants.”

  Michael frowned. “Meaning, I suppose, that you do know what she wants.”

  “I know what I see.”

  And Michael could not see.

  Abruptly, he lifted a hand to put an end to the exchange. “I need to concentrate now on the music,” he said, turning toward the carriage door.

  But he couldn’t concentrate on the music. He could think only of Susanna, of his adolescent jealousy, of the revulsion engendered by his own pettiness.

  His life was spiraling out of control. And all because of Susanna.

  How had his feelings for her managed to engulf him so subtly, yet so completely? When, exactly, had he first begun to listen for the sound of that low, modulated voice, so thoroughly Irish despite the British overtones of her uncommon education?

  When had he come to recognize the moment she entered a room simply by the soft rustling of her skirts and her faint but unforgettable fragrance, like a dusting of rose petals?

  How had she slipped so quietly into his life, become such an essential part of him, stirring in him the beginnings of a desire—a need—to love again…and the incredible hope that he actually could?

  And what was he going to do about it, now that it had happened?

  If Paul was right about Susanna’s feelings, the impossible had suddenly become possible, and for an instant Michael was paralyzed by a need to protect himself. The memory of Deirdre’s betrayal came roaring in on him in all its stark, tearing ugliness, its soul-destroying anguish.

  How would he ever find the courage to open himself up to another person again, to risk another failure, another loss? His marriage to Deirdre had for years stripped him of his self-respect, his pride, his very manhood. Did he seriously believe that he was ready to try again, that he was even capable of trying again to love, to trust, to build a life together…with Deirdre’s sister?

  10

  NIGHT MUSIC

  The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard,

  The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky,

  Are music sent up to God.

  ROBERT BROWNING

  Susann
a had been restless all evening. Since dusk, an uncommon stillness had engulfed the house and the grounds. The air itself seemed hushed with expectation, as if waiting for something to happen.

  It was well after eleven when she felt the change settle over the night. She had let her hair down and sat brushing it in front of the vanity when the wind suddenly blew up with a wail like a wounded beast rising from the river. Almost immediately a volley of sleet followed, pounding against the house with a vengeance.

  She hurried to close the shutters, then went to secure the ones in Caterina’s bedroom as well. Gus, the wolfhound, lying at the foot of the bed, lifted his great head and looked at her. Susanna took a moment to rub his ears, then made certain that Caterina was well covered and sleeping soundly before returning to her own room.

  Moira Dempsey had warned her about the fierce winter storms that often whipped through the valley, but the ferocity of the wind never failed to put Susanna on edge. Tonight, the awareness that both Michael and Paul were gone made her feel even more anxious and isolated than usual.

  Not so long ago, she would have felt relieved knowing Michael was away.

  How quickly things could change…

  She was as fidgety as if she’d consumed an entire pot of tea and knew she might just as well give up all thought of sleep, at least until the storm passed. With a rueful glance at her nightclothes laid out on the bed, she put down her hairbrush, got up, and went to the window.

  There was nothing to be seen, of course—nothing but darkness and bits of icy filigree on the windowpane. She stood listening as the sleet went on beating against the house. The gutters babbled with melting ice—a sound she’d found soothing in her childhood. But tonight, that musical murmur was accompanied by the sharp percussion of tree limbs cracking in the wind, and the ferocity of the storm unnerved her.