American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  Oh, Father, forgive me for allowing this situation to develop in the first place.

  She studied him, wondering if she should actually voice what she was thinking. “I’m far more concerned that he’s hurt you, Michael. This matter with the newspaper—he was just excited. I’m sure your father didn’t mean to denigrate your work. He’s very proud of you. You must make allowances. He doesn’t understand.”

  “He never has. I fear he never will. I’ve tried to explain, but he doesn’t hear me. He doesn’t want to hear me, I think.”

  “He is proud of you and your music, Michael—all that you’ve accomplished,” Susanna repeated gently. “But he’s also very proud of your voice. I think he’s even in awe of it, and I can understand that. So am I. But he hasn’t been here, to know what it’s like for you, and so it’s difficult for him to accept the choice you made. He’ll come around eventually. You’ll see.”

  He gave a short nod, but Susanna could tell he was still dubious.

  He drew her closer, clasping her shoulders. “Susanna, I am truly sorry that he embarrassed you. I apologize for that. But I won’t apologize for the way I feel about you, for wanting to be with you. I can’t help being impatient to make you my wife.”

  Susanna searched his face, saw the depth of his emotion—the love and the desire shadowing his strong features—and realized they mirrored her own. “And I’m impatient to be your wife, Michael,” she said softly. “But you have a child to consider. We have to guard our reputations, not only for ourselves, but for Caterina’s sake. We’ve known each other less than a year, after all, and Caterina’s mother was my own sister. In August, it will be a year since I came to Bantry Hill. I think we must wait at least until then to marry.”

  His expression and the long breath he expelled told her he was conceding. “I don’t like it, but I suppose you are right.” He dipped his head a little. “August, then. But no later.”

  “No later.”

  With one large hand, he cupped the back of her head, touching his lips to hers ever so gently, then brought his cheek to hers. “Susanna? Please understand—it isn’t just physical need that makes me coax you to marry me soon. It’s much more than that. I want to be with you. All the time. I want to know that you’re my wife, that we belong to each other. I want you beside me every moment, in everything I do. I’m so eager to begin our life together, to be a family…you and me and Caterina…and our children. You do understand, don’t you, cara?”

  Susanna moved back just enough to bring a hand to his bearded cheek. “Yes, Michael. I understand. And I want…what you want. I truly do.”

  Even children?

  For just a second, she felt the anxiety return to her in a flash of memory, an image of Vangie MacGovern in agony, a rush of fear and shame.

  Then her gaze went over his face, loving the strength, the nobility of his features, the faint lines that webbed from his eyes, the humor and kindness about his generous mouth. And in that moment she knew that she loved this man so deeply, so completely, she would spend a lifetime giving him whatever he wanted from her.

  Including a houseful of children, if that was his desire.

  16

  WITH CONCERN FOR THE GOOD

  Peace does not mean the end of all our striving.

  Joy does not mean the drying of our tears.

  G. A. STUDDERT KENNEDY

  Early the next afternoon, while Caterina was taking her nap, Susanna picked up the section of newspaper Michael’s father had discarded in the library the night before. Papa Emmanuel had left it folded open to the article he had found so exciting the night before. She merely scanned the piece, since she already knew its contents. In truth, it brought an unpleasant taste to her mouth as she recalled her embarrassment from the night before and the scene the article had prompted between Michael and his father.

  She opened the paper and flipped through another few pages until she found the editorial section and settled in to read the letters to the editor. She read this section regularly, in part because they were sometimes so foolish as to be amusing, but also because they pointed out legitimate issues that needed to be brought to public attention.

  By the time she neared the end of the first letter, however, and found the reference to the “shocking” association with a “female practitioner,” Susanna’s heart was pounding painfully against her rib cage.

  Surely she was jumping to conclusions. But was she? How many physicians in the city of New York worked in partnership with a woman?

  But the writer couldn’t be referring to Andrew Carmichael! How could anyone accuse him of such a horrible thing? Why, the Scottish physician was goodness itself. Next to Michael, Susanna had never met such a godly, kindhearted man.

  She stood there, her eyes locked on the appalling accusation. Even if it weren’t aimed at Andrew, weren’t readers likely to believe it was? Just look at how quickly she had latched on to the assumption.

  An accusation like this could be disastrous to a physician. It could ruin the man!

  She grabbed the paper and hurried out of the room in search of Michael, almost certain he knew nothing of this as yet. If he did, he would have told her. If he didn’t—and if indeed the letter was directed toward Andrew Carmichael—Michael needed to know. The two men had formed a close friendship over the preceding months.

  It was possible, of course, that Michael would likely think her foolish for suspecting the letter referred to Dr. Carmichael.

  And she fervently hoped he would be right.

  When at home, Michael made it a regular part of his daily routine to visit with Maylee early in the afternoon. He found the child wise beyond her years and her company a true pleasure.

  As was usually the case, her door was open. He rapped softly on the frame before entering.

  “Oh, Mr. Emmanuel—I’m here, by the window! I just saw Mr. MacGovern take the black stallion out for a run. Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “Mr. MacGovern or the black stallion?”

  Maylee giggled, and Michael walked the rest of the way into the room. He loved to make this child laugh. She had had so little reason for merriment in her brief, difficult life that to hear her break into genuine delight was a gift to his own heart.

  “Do you have time to sit with me, Mr. Emmanuel?”

  Michael felt for the chair across from her and sat down. “That’s why I came, my young friend. And how are you this afternoon?”

  He heard the slight delay before her reply. “I’m feeling very well, thank you.”

  Michael smiled a little. “Do you know, you always give me the same answer, Maylee? Now then, tell me—how do you really feel?”

  “I feel…happy, Mr. Emmanuel,” she said quietly. “Bantry Hill is so very beautiful, you see, and everyone has been so kind to me. It makes me happy just to be here.”

  Pleased, Michael leaned forward a little. “And it makes me very happy to hear you say that.”

  She was silent for a time, and Michael could almost hear her thinking.

  Then, “I’ve been wanting to ask you if it’s all right if I call you as others do—Maestro. ‘Mr. Emmanuel’ doesn’t seem to suit you, but you’re much too old for me to call you by your given name,” she said, her tone altogether serious. “It would be disrespectful, I think.”

  Michael smiled at her directness. “I am very old.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you’re very old—”

  Still smiling, Michael warded off her apology. “I’m teasing you. You may call me whatever is most comfortable for you, Maylee.”

  “All right, then. I’ll call you Maestro, although I’m not exactly sure what it means.”

  “It’s a word most often used for a conductor or a teacher, sometimes an expert in one of the arts, most especially music.”

  “That makes it sound just a little stuffy.”

  “Ah. Stuffy. That makes me feel even older, I think.”

  “But not as old as I, Maestro.”

  Michae
l winced at her soft reply. He extended his hand to her, and when he felt the small, fragile hand clasp his—the dryness of the skin, the fragility of the bones—he had to struggle to conceal the dismay that rose in him. “Is there anything I can do for you this afternoon, Maylee? Anything you need?”

  She didn’t answer right away. When she did, the brightness was back in her voice. “There is something.”

  “You’ve only to ask.”

  “Would you say a prayer for me? Like you did yesterday?”

  “But of course.” Michael leaned forward and extended his other hand to her. He was careful to apply only the slightest of pressure as she entrusted both her delicate hands to his much larger ones.

  So dainty, these small hands, so tiny and fragile. The hands of a child, yet with the frailty of the aged.

  Misericordia, Signore, misericordia. Mercy, Lord, mercy.

  “Gesu, Lord and Savior,” he prayed, “I thank You for my young friend, Maylee, for bringing her to us here, to our home, and for the inspiration of her faith, the light she has brought to Bantry Hill. Please may You wrap Your love around her and carry her through the hours of this day, close to your heart…warmed by Your grace. Let her heart sing with hope through the day—through all her days. Never may her spirit bow to anything but Your majesty and Your holiness, Gesu, and may her soul know no, ah…no boundaries save the fortress of Your love. Amen.”

  Maylee echoed her own amen, the sweetness of her voice warming Michael’s heart.

  After a moment, he pressed her hands ever so gently, then stood. “I must go to work now,” he said. “I hope you have a good day, Maylee. Is your friend Renny Magee coming to call?”

  “I think so. I hope so.”

  Michael started for the door, turning back when she said, “Mr. Emmanuel—Maestro?”

  “Sì?”

  “I—may I ask you a question?”

  “You may ask me anything.”

  “Can you…see—in your mind?”

  “In my mind?” Michael smiled and nodded. “Yes, I can.”

  “Well, then, what do you see when you pray?”

  Michael hesitated, momentarily confused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I wondered…can you see Jesus? When you pray, I mean. Can you see Him?

  “No one sees Jesus, Maylee, except for the Father,” Michael said, still puzzled. “Why do you ask this?”

  Her reply was slow in coming, her voice quiet. “Because when you pray, I can almost imagine that I see Jesus. That’s why I like it so much when you pray. It’s as if He’s right here, in the room with us.”

  Michael swallowed. “And so He is, child,” he said softly. “So He is.”

  Michael was at the piano in the music room when Susanna found him, working on a theme she recognized from one of the chorales in his American Anthem. She hesitated before entering the room, willing to postpone her unsettling errand for a moment to enjoy the music.

  Something was new about the piece, which Susanna and Paul had already notated several times. The motif was the same, both haunting and beguiling, but the harmonies were different. Richer, somehow. Susanna always marveled at how Michael could take a piece she believed was perfect and, with a little tinkering, make it even more wonderful.

  Papa Emmanuel was surely right that his son had a gift, a gift from God.

  What he couldn’t see was that Michael, far from squandering the gift, was working hard to offer it back to the Creator in the most faithful way possible.

  She gave a little sigh, but then the music ceased as Michael called out her name. Pushing back the bench and rising to his feet, he turned toward her with a smile. She sighed again as she went to him.

  Moments later, after listening to Susanna read the letter from the Herald, Michael stood with one hand on the mantel, the other kneading the back of his neck. His face was creased with concern, but he remained silent.

  “Michael? I’m sure I’m being foolish, thinking this could be directed at Dr. Carmichael.”

  When he still made no reply, Susanna went on, her words rushing out. “Since the two of you have become friends, I thought you needed to know about it, in the event that someone is trying to start some sort of trouble for him.”

  “I’m afraid it is about Andrew,” he said quietly, his profile hard and still.

  Stunned, Susanna stared at him. “What makes you think that?”

  With a deep sigh, he turned slightly toward her. “Andrew confided in me some months ago that there was something…regrettable in his past. Something of a most serious nature. I believe he was about to tell me the entire story. He seemed to think, since he and Dr. Cole have become not only Caterina’s physicians but ours as well, that we should know about…whatever it is. I told him it wasn’t necessary, that we needed to know nothing more than what we already did—that he was an excellent physician, and a friend, and that we trusted him as such.”

  He stopped, indicating that Susanna should sit.

  She sank down onto the chair by the fireplace. She suddenly felt as chilled as if a cold wind had swept the room.

  Michael remained standing, his voice heavy, as though burdened with a great weariness. “This is a very ugly thing, this letter. It would seem that Andrew has an enemy. A dangerous enemy.”

  “Whoever wrote this is insinuating that he’s an opium addict! Surely, you don’t believe that!”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe. But certainly I’d not believe anything in that letter unless Andrew were to tell me it was true. And I have no intention of asking him about it.”

  “As if he doesn’t have enough trouble, with that awful arthritis he suffers from. Bethany worries so about his health.”

  Michael didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, he seemed to be speaking to himself as much as to her. “I understand that his condition is exceedingly painful, at times even debilitating. I suppose there’s always a possibility that because of the pain—”

  He stopped, letting his thought drift off unfinished. “We can’t speculate about something so important. If there’s any truth to this letter—and I’m not saying I believe there is—but if there is, I know Andrew will explain it to us. Until then, we will say nothing of it to anyone else.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. But it’s impossible for me to imagine Andrew Carmichael indulging in such a vile habit! He’s such a fine man, Michael.”

  “He is indeed. On the other hand, none of us is so strong we cannot fall. But whatever is behind this, it’s clear that someone means to malign him. Even if this letter is nothing but lies, such accusations could destroy a physician’s career. We need to pray for him.”

  “I simply don’t understand why anyone would want to harm such a good man. I can’t believe that Andrew Carmichael has ever hurt another human being.”

  Michael shook his head. “Surely, you are not so naïve as that, Susanna. We both know that good men aren’t exempt from the effects of evil.”

  “No, of course not. But it seems so different when something like this happens to someone you know. And respect.”

  “Sì, that’s true. Well, Andrew and Dr. Cole will be here tomorrow evening. Perhaps he will want to discuss the matter with us.”

  “I can’t think what we’ll say to them,” Susanna said, getting to her feet.

  “We will simply let them know we care and want to help however we can. Susanna, before you go—”

  He reached out a hand, and Susanna went to him.

  “About last night,” he said. “There was no time this morning to talk with you. But I know you were deeply upset—”

  “Oh, Michael, please—forget about last night! I’m perfectly fine. It was you under your father’s gun, not I.”

  She saw him wince at her thoughtless choice of words. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s how it felt. But that’s not what kept me awake last night.”

  She looked at him more close
ly, seeing for the first time the evidence of sleeplessness—the dark shadows under his eyes, the faint pallor of his skin. “What, then?”

  “I think—no, I know I did you a disservice last night, and it bothers me very much.”

  “A dis—what are you talking about?”

  “I should never have put you in the position I did. Being alone with you, behaving as I did—it was wrong.” He inclined his head in a brief, formal bow. “I ask your forgiveness.”

  Susanna studied him, touched by the genuine contrition so obvious in his expression, his posture, his tone of voice. Sometimes she forgot just how gallant Michael could be. For all his worldwide travel and experience, and for all the renown and celebrity he had once enjoyed—and despite what his father and others might view as his “Americanization”—Michael was still very much of the Old World. At unexpected moments, he could display a courtly, even quaint, sense of propriety.

  Susanna loved him for it. She also knew it would be a mistake to take his apology lightly. He had in no way compromised her virtue. He had not, last night or at any other time, made the slightest attempt to seduce her or to lure her into an improper situation. There was no denying that she’d been embarrassed by his father’s unexpected and brash appearance. But being alone with Michael—and in his arms—had been as much her doing as Michael’s.

  Even so, she knew that his distress was real, that she should be careful in her reply. “It’s not necessary to apologize, Michael. But thank you for caring enough to be concerned.”

  He lifted her hand then and touched his lips to it, a gesture that never failed to make her legs go weak while endearing him just that much more to her.

  “I promise you can trust me to keep a closer guard on my feelings from now on,” he said solemnly, still holding her hand to his lips.

  Then he flashed that quick, boyish smile of his and added, “But only until August.”

  On that note, Susanna reclaimed her hand and hurried from the room, aware of the need to keep a close guard on her own feelings.