American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  But she wasn’t doing this because of Paul Santi. She was doing it for her mum—and for Baby Will. She knew it might not be the best idea in the world, but it was her only idea for the time being, and she was going to try it.

  Her mother was silent, and Nell Grace thought perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d feared. She was wrong.

  “I’m going to talk to your da about this, Nell Grace. I don’t think for a moment he’ll go along with your foolishness.”

  “I’ve already talked to Da. He said it’s all right.”

  Something flared in her mother’s eyes—something Nell Grace had not anticipated. She realized then that what she was seeing was fear. Her mother was actually afraid.

  But afraid of what?

  “I can’t—I can’t take care of the baby by myself,” her mother argued, not looking at her. “I’m not strong enough yet, Nell Grace. I can’t—manage alone.”

  “You won’t be alone, Mum. Besides, didn’t the doctor say that the more you do from day to day, the sooner you’ll get your strength back?”

  “He doesn’t know everything. What does a man know about having a baby? The birth was so hard…and after losing Aidan…”

  Her mother’s words drifted off, unfinished. She made a weak gesture with her hand and slumped back in the chair.

  She was actually whining.

  Vangie MacGovern whining—Nell Grace could scarcely believe it. Her mother had always been death on whining. The MacGovern children simply were not allowed to whimper or complain. If they did, they’d be taken to task as soon as word reached Mum’s ears.

  More to the point, the whining was working, and Nell Grace could feel herself about to relent. Any minute now she’d give in and say she was sorry and she wouldn’t go to work at the Big House after all.

  No! She wouldn’t give in. She couldn’t. If there was a chance at all of helping her mother and her wee baby brother, she had to take it. No matter how difficult Mum made it, she must stand up to her.

  “Well, Mum, we’ll work it out, I’m sure,” she said before her resolve failed her entirely. “I start tomorrow, so I’ll spend this afternoon tidying the house and cooking something ahead.”

  Before her mother could protest further, Nell Grace hurried out of the room and went in search of Renny Magee.

  “Are you clear, then, Renny? About what you’re to do—and what you’re not to do?”

  “Aye,” said Renny. She was clear about it all, she thought, except why exactly she was doing it—or not doing it, whichever the case might be.

  “Tell me again,” said Nell Grace. “Just to make certain we haven’t forgotten anything.”

  Renny dug at the floor with one foot. “I’m to keep the house clean and tidy and keep the kettle on at all times.”

  “And set the table as well, Renny. Don’t forget that. But I’ll be home in time to make supper in the evening. And I’ll fix extra to tide you over for the midday meal next day.”

  Renny nodded. Nell Grace ought to know by now she wasn’t no eejit. She could remember a few simple chores in the girl’s absence, now couldn’t she?

  “And what else, Renny?”

  “I’ll be feedin’ the chickens and emptyin’ the slops and carryin’ anything heavy in or out, should your da or the twins not be here to do it.” She grinned. “And make sure to keep the creepycrawlies away.”

  Nell Grace allowed herself a smile. Her mum’s fear of bugs was a constant source of amusement to Renny Magee, who found it hard to believe that such a strong woman could quail and quake at the sight of a spider or a cockroach. Renny had long ago appointed herself in charge of bug-busting in the MacGovern household and had dispatched many a creature to its reward—or captured it in a bottle and taken it up the hill to show Maylee. Nell Grace, being none too fond of crawling things herself, was happy for Renny to take care of such chores entirely.

  “Very good,” she told her. “Now tell me, what are you not to do?”

  Renny shot her a dubious look. “I’m not to take care of wee William. Even if Vangie should ask me to.”

  “That’s right. And that’s the most important thing of all, Renny, as I explained. Do you understand?”

  “Aye. But what if Vangie insists?”

  “You just keep telling her you can’t. Tell her you’re afraid, that you don’t know how to care for a baby and you simply can’t do it. And look…frightened if she tries to coax you.”

  Renny frowned. This was the part that had her worried.

  “Renny,” said Nell Grace. “I know you care deeply for Mum.”

  Renny looked up, reluctant to have her deepest feelings known even by Nell Grace.

  “I know you care about Mum, Renny,” she said again, “but don’t you see? That’s why we’re doing this. It’s to help her. She’s unhappy, Renny. She’s miserable. It’s not like her to ignore a babe—any babe, not just her own. More than anything else, she’s a mother. A good mother. The way she is now—it’s not natural for her! She’s just not herself, don’t you see? I know losing Aidan broke her heart. But she can’t go on ignoring Baby Will. He needs her.”

  Nell Grace stopped and took Renny by the shoulders. “I know I’m asking a lot of you, Renny. I’m putting more work on you—”

  “I don’t mind the work, Nell Grace.”

  “I know you don’t. And I know you hate saying no to Mum. But if this works, it won’t be for long. And then we can all get back to normal.” She paused. “So, you’ll do it then, just as we agreed?”

  Renny found it almost as hard to say no to Nell Grace as she did to Vangie. Especially when the girl insisted they were doing this to help Vangie.

  She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Thank you, Renny! And, by the way—”

  Renny had turned to go, but stopped, waiting.

  “Pray, Renny,” Nell Grace said, her gaze as intent and solemn as Renny had ever seen it. “Pray really, really hard. For Mum. And for Baby Will. For all of us.”

  Renny gave a nod. Nell Grace needn’t worry about that part of things. She’d be praying, all right. Amongst everything else, she’d be praying that Nell Grace knew what she was doing.

  For heaven help them all if she didn’t.

  23

  CHOICES

  The tissue of the life to be

  We weave with colors all our own,

  And in the field of destiny

  We reap as we have sown.

  JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

  Susanna was doing her best to keep the house quiet for the day.

  With Papa Emmanuel and Caterina away, she thought it should be relatively easy to give Michael and Paul several uninterrupted hours in which to work. She knew Michael was hoping to spend most of the afternoon on his American Anthem suite, once he and Paul ironed out a few items in the upcoming concert program. Later, she would go in and do whatever she could to help, although at this point he kept insisting he wanted to keep the finishing touches a surprise to her.

  She was in the drawing room, trying to mend a pull in one of the sofa’s antimacassars when she heard a crash in the music room and went running. She met Paul midway down the hall. His face was flushed, his eyeglasses riding low on his nose, the collar of his shirt slightly askew.

  The moment he saw her, he threw both arms in the air in a gesture of futility.

  “Paul? What’s wrong? What was that noise?”

  “That,” he said with marked emphasis, “was the sound of my genius cousin—and your usually good-natured betrothed—making a profound statement of dissatisfaction with his own work.” He stopped. “In other words, he barely missed my foot with one of those river rock paperweights from the mantel.”

  She stared at him. “Michael threw a paperweight at you?”

  He waved a hand. “No, no, not at me! He was aiming at the floor, I believe. My foot just happened to get in the way.”

  “Good heavens! Why was he throwing a paperweight?”

  Paul shrugged. “The
music is fighting him, he says.” He glanced around, then turned back and lowered his voice. “Between you and me, Susanna, I think it is Uncle Riccardo fighting him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t think Michael is concentrating so well these days. Uncle Riccardo keeps shooting these little darts at him, you know?”

  Susanna shook her head. “I don’t know. What are you talking about?”

  Again he glanced behind him to make sure Michael hadn’t come out of the music room. “He sometimes says things that disparage Michael’s music. He insinuates that Michael should be doing more…important work.”

  Anger swept over Susanna like a fever. For an instant she felt like throwing one of those paperweights herself. “And this is affecting Michael’s composing?”

  Paul lifted his shoulders. “Something is. He tries not to show his irritation with Uncle Riccardo, but I believe these remarks are hurtful—and discouraging to him. He’s, ah, stuck, he says, in the last movement. He says it’s going nowhere.” He stopped, looking at Susanna as if considering whether he should say what he was thinking.

  Apparently, he decided to risk it. “I’ve never before known Michael to be… temperamental.” Unexpectedly, he grinned at her. “He’s behaving like a musician.”

  Susanna was unable to manage a return smile. “Is there anything I can do?” she said. “Or perhaps you could speak with Michael’s father?”

  He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, eyes wide. “It is not my place, Susanna. And besides, it takes more than talk to change Uncle Riccardo’s opinion once he sets his mind to a thing.”

  That didn’t surprise Susanna. In the brief time Michael’s father had been with them, she had already learned that he could be frustratingly stubborn.

  She sighed, wondering how such a likable man—and she did like Riccardo Emmanuel—could also be so aggravating.

  “Well, I’ll at least go and talk with Michael.”

  “Keep your eye on the paperweight,” Paul said dryly.

  She found Michael slumped on the piano bench, one hand thumping idly on the keyboard. His hair was wild, his mouth set in a hard line. He looked for all the world like a great black bear with a thorn in its paw.

  In front of the fireplace, Gus the wolfhound, looking somewhat wary and at loose ends without Caterina to tend to, sat watching his owner. At Susanna’s entrance, his tail began to whop in a circle, but he remained where he was.

  Michael gave no indication that he heard her enter, which wasn’t like him at all. Usually he responded to her presence the moment she walked into a room.

  Susanna came up behind him and put a hand to his shoulder. “Michael?”

  After a slight hesitation, his only response was to reach back and cover her hand with his.

  “I heard a terrible crash. Paul said you dropped a paperweight.” She glanced around and spied the large piece of polished rock still on the floor.

  “Sì.”

  His tone was as petulant as his expression.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  He shook his head, then sighed and straightened a little. “No. But I should go and apologize to Pauli. He probably thinks I’m upset with him.”

  “What are you upset with?”

  “Myself,” he said flatly.

  She squeezed his shoulder. “The music isn’t going well?”

  “The music,” he said somewhat caustically, “is not going at all. It’s a dead thing, like an animal shot and skinned.”

  Susanna cringed at the analogy even as she fought to suppress a smile at his flair for the dramatic.

  “Your music is absolutely brilliant, Michael,” she said calmly. “Don’t you even think of belittling it. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really wrong?”

  Again he shook his head. “I’m getting nowhere. I knew the last movement would take much time, but this is ridiculous! And it’s not even because of the music itself. It’s because I’ve simply…stopped. I can’t seem to get past the point where I am now.”

  Struggling to find just the right words, Susanna clasped his shoulders with both hands. “I’ve heard what you’re doing, you know. Right up to this…stopping place. And it’s wonderful, Michael! Truly, it’s an incredible work. Surely you haven’t lost your passion for it?”

  When he didn’t answer, Susanna gripped his heavy shoulders a little more tightly. “Michael?”

  He startled her by shooting to his feet and whipping around to face her, practically flinging her hands off his shoulders. “It’s not so simple, Susanna! It’s—I don’t know what it is! What I do know is that at this rate, I’ll never have it ready for the Centennial concert.”

  “That’s still months away—”

  “And I’m still months away from completion,” he countered.

  He turned his back on her and paced over to the fireplace. Hurt, Susanna stayed where she was. She had never seen him like this. It was a good thing that Riccardo Emmanuel was out of the house. Had he been here, there was no telling what she might have said to him.

  “Well, then,” she said uncertainly, “I suppose I should leave you alone.”

  Before she could go, however, he turned back to her. “Susanna, I’m sorry,” he said, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to take my frustration out on you. Don’t go. Please.”

  Susanna watched him, still keeping her distance. “Michael, this has something to do with your father, doesn’t it?”

  A muscle near his eye jerked. “Of course not.”

  “I think it does. What has he been saying to you, about your music?”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. He stood with one arm propped on the mantel as if he couldn’t decide what, if anything, to tell her.

  Finally, though, he pushed away and came to stand closer to her. “You already know what he wants for me.”

  Irritation flared in Susanna again. “Yes, he wants you to return to the opera. But that’s not what you want.” She paused. “Is it?”

  He started to speak, then stopped, giving a slight shake of his head. “No, you know it’s not. But…what if he’s right and I’m wrong, cara? What if I am, as he seems to believe, wasting my gift?”

  Susanna studied him, then tugged at his hands and led him to the sofa, coaxing him to sit with her. “Michael, don’t you see what’s happening? Your father is trying to influence you. He’s attempting to change your mind about what direction your music should take. And I can’t help but wonder if it might be working.”

  He frowned. “Don’t be upset with him, Susanna. He genuinely believes I’m wrong. He means only to help me.”

  “But he’s not helping you,” Susanna pointed out. “In fact, he’s hurting you. I’ve no doubt that your father means well, Michael. He loves you dearly, and he believes wholeheartedly in your gift—your voice and your potential. But it isn’t right, what he’s doing. He’s confusing you. I think he’s actually making you question your decision to leave the opera. How can you let him do that?”

  She paused. “After everything you went through to make that decision, how could you be anything but convinced it was the right one, the choice God wanted you to make?”

  Silence, in which Susanna sensed he didn’t know what to say.

  “Think about this, Michael. Had you ever at any time, before your father came to visit, questioned your decision?”

  His response took some time in coming. But the shake of his head was firm and final. “No.”

  Susanna squeezed his hands. “Then it seems to me there’s only one reason for your questioning it now. Oh, Michael, I know it must be incredibly difficult to stand up to your father when you know he wants only what’s best for you! Papa Emmanuel genuinely believes that you might be squandering a God-given gift. And your former success in the opera world would even seem to confirm—to him, at least—that he’s right. But how many times have I heard you say that one’s success in a chosen field doesn’t necessarily mean God’s ble
ssing is on that choice—or the success?”

  He raised his face. “Sì. From my own experience, I know that to be true.”

  Susanna didn’t move, said nothing, and simply waited.

  He turned his head as if to ease the tension in his neck. “So, then, you’re saying that I’m allowing my father to divert me from what I know in my heart is right?”

  Susanna felt his hands tighten on hers. “I’m saying that you made your choice once, and I believe it’s still your choice. Michael…darling…it couldn’t be clearer. You must choose to please either your earthly father…or your heavenly Father.”

  With that, she felt she had said enough. She leaned toward him and very gently kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll leave you alone. I want to speak with Nell Grace before she leaves and see how her first day in the house went for her—especially how she and Moira got on together.”

  Even as she was still speaking, the wolfhound came to rest his head in Michael’s lap. The two were still sitting there, both quiet and seemingly contemplative, when Susanna left the room.

  24

  AN UNEASY SEARCH

  All day long, in unrest,

  To and fro, do I move.

  OWEN ROE MAC WARD (TRANSLATED BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN)

  The rain was already picking up again when Frank Donovan walked into the Women’s Clinic and Convalescence Center for the third time in a week.

  Try as he would, he couldn’t altogether ignore the snide voice—a voice remarkably like his own—that had taken to questioning the motivation behind these frequent visits. Then he reminded himself that the good name and even the very future of his closest friend might be riding on what he could learn from Mary Lambert.

  The very sight of Miss Savage—“the Matron from the Pit,” as he’d come to think of her—immediately soured his stomach and his mood. Even so, he wasn’t going to miss a chance to get under her skin as much as she got under his.

  “Ah, Miss Savage,” he said cheerily, doffing his rain-drenched hat and putting on the Irish, “Wasn’t I hopin’ you’d be here?”