American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  “You really cannot do anything more than you’re doing, Susanna,” he said after the MacBride girl exited the room again. “Andrew says the shock of losing the older son will most likely delay the physical healing.”

  Susanna sighed, pushing a piece of cheese around on her plate. “I keep thinking that if Vangie could only warm to the new baby, perhaps that would be the first step in healing her heart.”

  Michael nodded. “Sì, you may well be right. There is something about a child, a new baby—”

  Again he reached for her hand. “We’ve never talked very much about our own children, cara. What are your thoughts?”

  Susanna froze. Not now, she thought, struggling for a way to change the subject.

  She expelled a quick breath of relief when Rebecca returned to collect their cheese plates and proceeded to serve the main course—delicately herbed roast chicken and a bowl of small potatoes in a white sauce with parsley.

  “You do realize,” she said lightly after the MacBride girl was gone, “that you may have to roll me out of the room after this meal? I’m eating twice as much as I should.”

  “Good. Papa thinks you’re too thin.”

  Unreasonably irritated by this offhand remark, Susanna bit down a response. Lately it seemed that Michael’s father found quite a few traits in her that didn’t meet with his approval. She was too young to understand world events—and therefore Riccardo tended to ignore any comment she might offer on the subject. She spent too much time doing household chores—she should let the staff take care of the menial tasks so she could spend more time with Caterina. Her presence tended to divert Michael’s attention from his work—perhaps Paul’s assistance would be less distracting. On the other hand, she needed to spend more time developing her own musical gifts—so she could be of more assistance to Michael.

  And now she was too thin—as if she needed to have that particular fact pointed out.

  “Susanna? Papa meant nothing. Don’t be offended.”

  “I’m not,” she said too quickly.

  “You should know,” he went on, “that my mother was, shall we say, a substantial woman. Like Papa. He thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He is, perhaps, a somewhat old-fashioned Italian male in the respect that he appreciates, ah…ample-figured women.”

  “But your mother wasn’t Italian. She was Irish,” Susanna pointed out.

  “True, but they spent most of their time in Italy. Papa sometimes joked that the Tuscan sun had boiled most of the Irish out of her blood.”

  Susanna made no reply.

  “You are offended,” Michael said after a moment. “I shouldn’t have repeated his remark. I apologize.”

  “Really, Michael, don’t worry about it. It’s not as if your father isn’t right, after all,” she said, trying for a note of lightness. “Rosa has offered the same observation.”

  He stopped eating and raised his head with a look of displeasure. “I hope you will ignore both of them, then.” He smiled. “To me, you are perfect just as you are.”

  Again he paused. “We should change the subject. Why don’t we return to the pleasant topic of children? Our children.”

  Susanna looked at him, swallowed hard, but tried to keep her tone level. “I don’t think I’m…comfortable with that, Michael. We’re not married yet, after all.”

  She sounded priggish and artificial even to herself, but she was determined to deflect this conversation. She simply wasn’t ready for it, not yet. He would hear the unease in her voice and be disturbed, perhaps would even be impatient with her.

  “But we are betrothed.” He hesitated. “You don’t think it proper for us to discuss having children?”

  “It’s just that Rebecca will be in and out to continue serving, don’t you see? Wouldn’t it be better to wait for another time?”

  “Ah, sì.” Seemingly satisfied with her answer, he patted her hand. “Could we at least discuss the date for our wedding, then? Don’t you think it’s time we settled on it and announced it?”

  His expression, endearingly boyish, even eager, warmed Susanna’s heart. “I expect we should, but how on earth do I plan a wedding with everything else that’s going on right now?”

  “You don’t,” he said easily. “We let Rosa plan the wedding. She has already offered, no?”

  “She has, yes, but even with Rosa taking charge, I can’t possibly be ready before—fall, at least.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I was thinking of next month.”

  “Next month? Michael, you know very well that’s impossible! I couldn’t begin to—”

  A corner of his mouth turned up.

  “Oh! You’re teasing me again.”

  “Sì, but not altogether. I would marry you tomorrow if it were possible.” He leaned toward her, his intention to kiss her patently clear.

  Rebecca MacBride picked that moment to return, carrying a large plate of fruit and a smaller one of fruit tarts.

  Susanna warned Michael off by clearing her throat and saying, “Good heavens, Michael, how many courses are we to have?”

  He shrugged. “Papa and I might have gotten a little carried away.”

  “Well, I won’t fault you for it. Everything is wonderful.”

  “We’ll have our coffee in the drawing room,” he told Rebecca, adding under his breath for Susanna’s benefit, “where we will also discuss a date—in the near future—for our wedding.”

  15

  WITH THE WORLD SHUT OUT

  We two clung together—with the world shut out.

  ETHNA CARBERY

  They sat together on the drawing room sofa. Michael reluctantly kept a discreet distance between them, sensing that Susanna might shy away from any real closeness with him tonight.

  He found the thought particularly painful in light of his high hopes for the evening.

  She had been distant for days now. He hadn’t questioned her about it, instead had pretended he didn’t notice.

  But how could he not notice? It wasn’t so much that she was avoiding him, but more that when they were together she seemed, if not exactly reserved, then at the least preoccupied, as if she always had something on her mind.

  Something besides him.

  The truth was that her uncharacteristic remoteness had been part of the reason he’d planned a private supper for tonight. He’d hoped not only to secure her undivided attention and set a firm date for their wedding, but also to discover whatever might be responsible for the peculiar way she was acting.

  He realized it might be nothing more than the time she spent in caring for Caterina and looking after the many household and family affairs—including her efforts on behalf of Maylee and the MacGovern family. Not to mention the hours she spent each week helping him and Paul with his own music and the program music for the orchestra.

  Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more. He hoped it wasn’t his father. The remark about her being “too thin” had clearly annoyed her. He should never have mentioned it. But Susanna had been withdrawn for days, not merely tonight, so any thoughtless comments on his father’s part—or his own—couldn’t be entirely responsible.

  “Susanna? Before we discuss our wedding plans, there’s something I need to ask you. And I want you to be very honest with me.”

  Even before he ventured the question, he could almost feel her tense.

  “You seem—remote of late,” he said carefully. “I’m wondering if something is wrong? Have I done something?”

  There was just the slightest delay before she replied, only enough to let him know she was thinking about how to frame her answer.

  “No. No, of course, not, Michael. There’s nothing wrong.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Nothing, really. I…suppose I’ve just been busy.”

  Her voice was thin, less than convincing.

  “Susanna, I can’t help but think it might be more than that. Hm?”

  There was a long silence in which Mich
ael found himself holding his breath. Was she already regretting her decision to marry him? Questioning her feelings for him? Had he rushed her into a relationship she now regretted?

  He heard her sigh, and his chest tightened.

  When she finally spoke, she sounded hesitant and strained—even somewhat ill at ease, as if she were trying to avoid something unpleasant. “I don’t know exactly. I’m sorry if I haven’t been very good company. Perhaps I am preoccupied. Lately, there’s been so much to do. And there seems to be so much… unhappiness…all around us.”

  She paused. “With Maylee’s condition growing worse and all that’s happened to the poor MacGovern family, it’s difficult to be…lighthearted. But it has nothing to do with you, Michael. Truly, it doesn’t. I suppose it’s simply affected me more than I’d realized. I’m sorry if I haven’t been myself.”

  He let out an unsteady breath, unable to let himself completely relax, yet relieved to hear that he wasn’t the problem.

  “Don’t apologize,” he said. “I know it’s been a difficult time for you. And no doubt I’ve put too much on you. I’ve let you do more than you should.”

  “No, Michael! It’s not that. I do what I do because I want to, because I can’t… not do it. I suppose I’m just a little tired.”

  He heard her attempt to force a little more brightness into her voice and realized that perhaps she was simply overtired.

  “What can I do to make things easier for you, cara? I’ll hire more help—”

  “No, please don’t, Michael! It would only mean more people about the house, and I honestly don’t want that. Really, you’re making far too much of this. I’m perfectly fine. Don’t worry so.”

  He moved closer to her and took her hand. There was no response to his touch, but still he coaxed her closer. “It might be that we should at least consider hiring a nurse for Maylee. In the meantime, I’ll see if Andrew—or Dr. Cole, perhaps—can come more often. Not only for Maylee, but for Mrs. MacGovern and the infant as well.”

  He hesitated. “And, Susanna? Please don’t let Papa upset you. He means well, but he doesn’t always think before he speaks. He adores you—I know he does.”

  He felt her tense, but only for a moment. “And I’ve grown very fond of him, too, Michael. Really, I have. I’m just not quite used to his ways yet. He’s so… different from you.”

  He laughed a little. “Papa is different from anyone and everyone.”

  He took a deep breath, sensing that she’d begun to relax, at least a little. “So, then, you do still want to marry me?”

  “Michael! You know I do. Why would you ask me such a foolish question?”

  He drew her closer and pressed his lips against her temple, allowing himself to savor the warm softness of her skin, the sunny scent of her hair—Paul had told him it was the color of warm honey—the sheer happiness of holding her in his arms. “Then marry me soon, Susanna,” he whispered. “We can be married here at the house. A simple ceremony—you said that’s what you wanted, no? Nothing large or complicated. What do we really need, after all? Just you and me and our family.”

  He heard the smile in her voice. “A pastor, too, I think.”

  “Sì, all right. A pastor.”

  “And I’ll need a gown. Nothing elaborate. But even so, it will take time.”

  He feigned a groan. “How much time?”

  “Well, time for fittings, and the actual sewing—and alterations. It can’t be done overnight, Michael. You see? One can hardly rush a wedding. You’ll have to be patient.”

  He heard the note of teasing in her voice and felt something deep inside of him finally relax. She suddenly sounded happy—happier than he’d heard her for days.

  “How patient?”

  “Well…perhaps by late summer.”

  “That’s months away!” he groaned.

  A thought occurred to him. It would be just like her…

  “Susanna…cara? Are you quite certain that you really want a simple wedding—a small ceremony? You’re not just saying that because you believe it’s what I want? Because of my…earlier marriage?”

  She stiffened in his arms. “Your marriage to Deirdre has nothing to do with my wanting a small wedding, Michael,” she said. “I simply don’t want a large, showy ceremony with a lot of people. Only those closest to us.” She paused. “I thought we’d agreed on that.”

  “Sì, we did. I merely want to make certain. I want you always to tell me what you want, Susanna, so there will be no misunderstandings between us. More than anything else, I want your happiness. Your happiness and your love.”

  He felt her hesitate, but then she surprised him by slipping her arms around his neck and drawing his face down to hers. “You will always have my love, Michael,” she said softly. “And my happiness will be making you happy.”

  Michael thought his heart would explode. Gently, he framed her face with his hands, kissed her forehead, then found her lips. He kissed her and felt her breath quicken with his as he kissed her again, dizzy with the euphoria of her closeness.

  He wished he never had to stop, wished he could keep her this close…closer… always. Suddenly, she released him, pushed him away. In that instant he heard his father’s sharp voice and shot to his feet, bringing Susanna with him.

  “Michael! Some wonderful news! You must listen to this! Scusi, Susanna, but this is very important!”

  Shaken, Michael heard Susanna’s gasp and knew she was mortified by his father walking in on them, finding them in such an intimate embrace. He reached for her hand and found it trembling.

  He was both embarrassed for her and irritated with his father, who might have had the forethought to knock before bursting into the room.

  On the other hand, he realized with some self-consciousness, it was he, not his father, who had put Susanna in this awkward position.

  He felt Susanna try to tug free of his hand as if to flee the room, but he kept a firm grip. “No, stay,” he said, his voice low. “Please.”

  “Sì, sì, Susanna! You must stay and hear this, too!” His father sounded unaware that he’d interrupted a most private moment. Or if he did realize it, he didn’t seem in the least contrite.

  “Here, now—listen to this,” said his father. “From the newspapers. It seems that Giocomo Conti is planning a new production of Lucia di Lammermoor next fall. And this is what you must hear, Michael. In this interview, Conti states that he will settle for no lesser tenor in the part of Edgardo than ‘the legendary Michael Emmanuel’! Here, there’s more—listen to this: ‘I shall do everything in my power to coax the great Emmanuel out of his premature retirement. I mean to have him as Edgardo. No one else will do.’”

  Michael heard the rustle of pages as if his father were waving the paper about in the air.

  “You see, Michael? This is what I have been trying to tell you. Even the great Conti knows you are without equal. He refuses to allow you to waste your gift. You belong on the opera stage, and he does not intend to let you forget it!”

  Michael took a long breath, striving for patience. “Papa—I made my choice, and I have never regretted it. You know this. We have talked about it many times. I have no intention of going back to the opera. Not ever.”

  “You are not pleased that a musician of Conti’s stature would demand you for his own production of Lucia? Do you not understand the magnitude of such a compliment?”

  “Of course I understand, Papa. And I am honored that he thinks so highly of me. But I have no interest in doing this. It is no longer a part of my life.”

  Michael felt Susanna squeeze his hand and knew a quick rush of gratitude for her understanding. She, more than anyone else, grasped why he had left the world of opera and why he would never return.

  “Insensato!” his father exploded. “Foolish! God created you with a voice unlike any other. A voice of angels! And you throw it away as if it is nothing but filthy rags! I do not understand you, mio figlio! I do not understand you at all!”

  Mich
ael gripped Susanna’s hand even more tightly. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, Papa. But it’s not as if I haven’t tried to explain.”

  He could almost see his father shaking his head and waving a hand in the air.

  “Explain, explain! There is no explaining how you could so carelessly discard such an opportunity. Such a great gift!”

  And then he was gone, and Michael was left to feel an uncommon weight of guilt and anger. Guilt that he couldn’t be what his father wanted him to be. And anger that he should feel guilty for following God’s voice instead of his own.

  Susanna watched in astonishment and indignation as Riccardo Emmanuel whipped around and went stomping from the room, slapping the newspaper against the palm of one hand. How dare he treat Michael as if he were nothing more than an obstreperous child? It was bad enough that he had degraded both of them by charging into the room unannounced, coming upon them in a moment meant only for the two of them. But to excoriate Michael for taking a path not of Riccardo’s choosing, when Michael meant only to be obedient to God’s will for his life—that was outrageous.

  She fought to dismiss her own embarrassment. For Michael’s sake, she mustn’t let him know that his father had thoroughly humiliated her. But in truth, once again they had opened themselves to temptation by being alone so late, unchaperoned—and, admittedly, so in need of each other. Still, she wished it hadn’t taken Riccardo Emmanuel to point out their folly.

  “I’m sorry, Susanna,” Michael said, his voice hoarse. “I should never have put you in such an awkward position. This is entirely my fault. Papa—I doubt he understands how difficult it is for us, living under the same roof, loving each other, yet compelled to avoid any real…intimacy. It won’t happen again, I promise you.”

  Susanna reached to put a hand to his lips. “Don’t apologize, Michael. You weren’t alone in this, after all. I am just as responsible as you. I’m sorry for the way it must have looked to your father. If there’s any fault in our behavior, it falls to both of us.”