After the happy ending of the wedding, she always skipped right over losing my father and her own dreams to her hopes for me: the lives she imagined in the endless possibilities of this wonderful, new country. Maybe a teacher, a fashionable dressmaker—even one of those beautiful ballet dancers.
“You’re an American girl, Ellen,” she said in her soft, still-accented voice. “You can be anyone you want to be if you work hard enough.”
The last thing I remember before we fell asleep was her kissing the top of my head and saying she loved me. I don’t remember if I said it to her. I tell myself that I did.
It was colder than usual when I woke before dawn, and it took only a few seconds for me to realize that it was because my mother’s arms were cold. I whispered “Mama,” but I think I probably knew she wasn’t going to wake. It didn’t matter. I did the only thing that made sense to a scared little girl in the dark. I cuddled up to her, and hoped she’d awaken when it was light.
That’s how my teacher found us.
Miss Wolff hadn’t seen me in more than a week, and decided to check on me on her way to the school. I woke again to her gently pulling me away from my limp and cold mother. I knew for sure then that Mama was gone, and at first, I wasn’t frightened, just relieved, because she looked so happy, not coughing or worrying any more.
The next several hours are a blur. There was a lot of wailing and crying from the neighbors, though Miss Wolff was very calm and quiet, and so was I. Someone wrapped me in a blanket; someone else made a bundle of the candleholders and the few scraps of clothing Mama and I weren’t wearing. Miss Wolff took me to the school, and settled me in the teachers’ room, where some very nice ladies fed me hot sweet tea and bread and butter while they tried to figure out what to do with me.
They told me my mother had gone to Heaven, and I didn’t bother correcting them. She’d gone to join my father—and for her, that was heaven.
By the end of that first cup of tea, the first sweet I’d tasted since a stray piece of Christmas candy months before, I was starting to wonder what would happen to me. I knew Miss Wolff could not take me home, and that I had nowhere else to go. The poorhouse and the orphanage were terrifying things to children in the tenements. We knew they were likely the only places in the world worse than where we were. Worse because our families weren’t there.
I didn’t have a family now. I supposed I belonged with the orphans.
One of the nice ladies told me it was all right to cry if I wanted to, saying I did not have to be brave for her. I knew she could not have been more wrong. I would have to be brave for myself now.
I was afraid to cry because I did not know what would happen if I stopped being brave.
The other children had gone home, and the teachers were whispering over my head, as the late afternoon light started to fade, when I really started to worry. I was wondering what they did with children at the orphanage, and how I would survive there, when Aunt Ellen swept into the room, demanding to see the poor little creature. I’d never seen her before, never even known she existed—this tall, sturdy, auburn-haired woman in serviceable black, glowing with the fire and determination of some kind of magical Irish being, who had come to rescue me. She took one look at me with eyes almost exactly like my own, scooped me up, and announced to the ladies that she was taking charge of Frank’s girl. Her namesake. And that was the end of that.
A Jewish charity made sure my mother had a proper funeral, with a rabbi, the next day, and Aunt Ellen and Tommy, already my protector, brought me. That was when I finally cried. And when I learned you can stop being brave for a while and then pick it up again.
Years later, Aunt Ellen gave me the letter my mother had sent her a few days before she died. Mama knew she didn’t have much time, and she hoped my father’s favorite sister would take me in for his sake, even though both families had cut all ties when they married.
“And, of course, little one,” she said as my own fresh tears joined my mother’s faint marks on the cheap paper, “I was happy to. Family is family, no matter how you talk to God.”
One of the many reasons I love my aunt Ellen.
In addition to the Sabbath ceremony, I also light candles for my parents. For my mother, a yahrzeit candle on the anniversary of her death and when I need to feel closer to her. For my father, a votive at the feet of one of the saints at Holy Innocents. I could probably light one for her at church, too, or one at home for him, but it doesn’t feel right.
On this particular Friday, I was grateful that Tommy and Father Michael were coaching a boxing tournament for some of the neighborhood boys. While candle lighting was usually warm and joyful, often with Tommy or any guests we might have, this week all of the upheaval associated with poor Frances Saint Aubyn and her cousin had left me in a sad, unsettled mood. It felt right to light my candles alone and think about things.
The main question for me was my responsibility. Had I done right by her? Had I done enough?
I had never heard of the problem Dr. Silver had mentioned, though I vaguely remembered hearing of that sickness of society women who outright starved themselves. It made no sense to me. This surely did not. I could not imagine why anyone might do such a thing, despite the doctor’s explanation that it had some kind of calming effect. It must be some kind of sickness of the wealthy, which, of course, I would never have recognized.
But that didn’t excuse me from knowing that Frances was in some kind of trouble. I should have seen something. At the very least, I should not have allowed my annoyance at her overacting and her disdain for my advice to blind me to the fact that she needed help.
I’m not a religious authority, but at least to my mother, her Jewish faith was about the way we live here, not winning mansions in some uncertain next world. She always told me that God cares much more about how we treat each other than about how and when we pray. On the holiest day, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, she would say, it’s not enough to apologize to God; you have to make it right with anyone you’ve harmed.
I could no longer make it right with Frances. Hopefully, though, I might give her family some consolation. At least the thought that it wasn’t intentional.
Father Michael would approve of that, even if his fire-and-brimstone superiors might not, I thought, remembering his comment about being kind.
My eyes got a little damp as I sat alone in the drawing room, with my Sabbath candles and the yahrzeit votive for my mother. Most days, I felt she would have been very proud of me and how I turned out. I didn’t know enough about my father to be sure . . . but based on how other Irishmen behave with their daughters, I would have expected him to be shouting from the rooftops about his girl the singer, and threatening to punch my stage-door Romeos in the nose.
That night, though, I wasn’t so sure. Mama would have been very unhappy that I let my dislike for someone get in the way of helping her. And she would surely tell me to do better.
“Miss?”
Rosa stood at the door on her way out. She and Mrs. G always carefully stayed clear of me if I lit candles alone. It was neither fear nor distaste; it was just an understanding that it was a very emotional time for me.
“Have a good night.” My voice came out a little thick as I brushed the corners of my eyes.
“Thank you, miss. Are you all right?”
“Just a bit tired, I suppose.” I managed a small smile for her.
“Well, maybe you can get a little rest while Mr. Tommy is out.” She smiled as she left, and I returned to my candles.
It was full dark, and the candles well burned down, when the boys appeared, a whirlwind of color and laughter. I walked out of the drawing room into the foyer, where they were refighting the tournament and planning the next one.
“Hello, gentlemen.”
“Heller.”
“Miss Ella.”
Tommy looked past me to the dark drawing room, and his eyes lingered on mine. Of course, he knew. “All of this nonsense with the duke’s cousin h
as upset you a little.”
I shrugged.
“If I may, Miss Ella, I’d say one loss brings up another. Or many others,” the priest said. “Not unusual at all.”
“Perhaps.”
“So tell him to go back to his castle and leave us out of it.” Tommy’s frown told me this was a definite mark against the duke in his book.
“You know we can’t do that.” I sighed. “She worked for us. We’re in it, whether we like it or not.”
“I know.” Tommy sighed, too. Because sighs are contagious among the Irish, Father Michael joined in as Tommy continued. “But try not to let it get you down, huh?”
“I won’t.” I did have something happy to offer. “Mrs. G was feeling ambitious this afternoon.”
“Oh?” they asked in unison.
“I believe she tried a new recipe for penuche fudge. It smelled—”
I didn’t get to finish the sentence, for they were already down the stairs. I followed them, a little more slowly. There are those who say fudge fixes everything. They probably are not entirely right . . . but it certainly does no harm.
Chapter 10
Madame Marie de l’Artois Plots Her Triumphant Return
Sunday midday, after Mass at Holy Innocents, I took a hansom cab over to Marie’s brownstone in Brooklyn, where we’d do a light rehearsal of our duet, and, most important, catch up on events. I was especially looking forward to seeing Joseph, who’d been just a scrunched-up ball in a blanket the last time I saw him, and his older sibs, who were among the best-behaved small people I’d ever met. Of course, that was with the exception of Anna and Louis’s son, the Morsel—real name, Morrie—who had the advantage of daily exposure to all manner of interesting people. The wee Winslows had a conventionally sheltered life, complete with nursery floor and nanny, thanks to their father’s comfortable legal practice, and, not incidentally, the impressive fees their mother commanded when she chose to sing.
Marie, the former Maisie Mazerosky of Poughkeepsie—American sopranos tend to use French or Italian stage names to make themselves sound more credible and exotic—was sitting at the piano in her drawing room when the maid showed me in.
“Watch out!” she called. “Joey!”
I looked down to see a tiny, downy-headed creature with bright brown eyes barreling toward my ankles. Whatever else we might say about Joseph Winslow, he was mobile. With a vengeance. “All right if I pick him up?”
Marie laughed. “If you’re fast enough, good luck.”
I scooped up the baby, who let out a surprised squeak, clearly considered howling, but then looked me right in the eyes, smiled and gurgled. Joseph Winslow also apparently liked company. “Nice to see you, Master Winslow.”
Master Winslow favored me with another gurgle and permitted me to carry him back to his mother. Sweet little kiddy.
Marie took him, gave him a quick cuddle and turned him loose again. “He’s been crawling in circles for weeks, and only managed to go straight yesterday. So now he’s exploring like mad. I’ll have Marya take him back upstairs, but he was having so much fun.”
“Not a problem. He’s wonderful.”
Marie gave me an appraising look. “Not too late to get one of your own, you know.”
“Ah, but you’ve already married the only man progressive enough to allow his wife to maintain a singing career, so I’m sadly out of luck.”
She smiled at the heavy truth behind that very light remark. “Well, when you finally find a man worth casting your eyes on, we’ll send him to Paul for lessons.”
“That could work.” I sat down on one of the settees as she cornered Joseph and motioned to the maid. “I’ve missed you, Marie.”
“I’ve missed you, too. And the stage. They don’t call it ‘confinement’ for nothing.”
“I gather not. The benefit will be a nice way to ease back to performing.”
She patted her waistline as she walked back over to me. “Yes, now that I’m at least relatively presentable.”
Marie is far more than presentable. Critics have described her as a jewel of a woman with a jewel of a voice, and they’re not wrong. Tiny, with the palest blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes, she looks like an angel, and sounds like one, too. On this particular day, she was wearing a robin’s egg blue dimity day dress with darker blue ribbon trim, perfectly chosen to emphasize her coloring.
We first met at an all-Mozart benefit show for a girls’ school. She was singing the Queen of the Night, and I was singing Cherubino. We became good friends over backstage books, conversation, and snacks. The Queen of the Night, by the way, is the secret to Marie’s magical ability to combine work and marriage. It’s a fiendishly difficult role, and only a few sopranos in the world can sing it well. So she and her high F’s can pretty much work whenever and wherever they like. She’s used this to become New York’s resident Queen of the Night, including several glorious runs at the Met. She also takes the occasional production in Boston, Washington or Philadelphia when her husband is trying cases or visiting family.
Marie doesn’t perform often enough to be a star in the same sense that I am, but she has the respect of her peers and a good home life, besides. It says a lot about our world that a woman has to have such a rare talent to be able to have both a career and a family, doesn’t it?
“You look wonderful,” I assured her with perfect truth; her waist was slim again and her face had lost the puffiness it had in the weeks before Joseph’s birth. “We really should do a limited run of the whole Capuleti sometime.”
She picked up the score. “You’re right. It would be a sensation, and do wonders for Polly’s college fund.”
“Not Jimmy’s?”
She scowled. “His grandparents have already put aside the money and talked to people at Harvard. Polly, they say, will not need college to be a good wife and mother.”
I sighed. “So much for the new century.”
“New century, same people.” Her husband Paul’s parents, who actually fancied themselves modern and open-minded, were not especially delighted by her continued singing, either. However, they had become far more amenable to it after their Opera Guild friends were impressed by her Queen of the Night during a family stay in Boston.
“Well, you check your calendar, and I’ll talk to Tommy about mine, and we’ll see what we can do. Up to you if you want to put the Winslows in the good seats.”
She chuckled. “I should’ve known you’d come up with something for me to do after the benefit.”
“Well, if the Met isn’t taking up all of your time . . .”
“They’d love to take up some of yours, you know. You don’t have to be on the road all the time.”
This was not a new conversation. Marie and the Met are much more the future of opera than traveling divas like me. And I’ve entertained more than one emissary from the Met. But Tommy and I have a very congenial life. I sighed. “Trust me, I don’t enjoy being on the road with the unreliable Juliet du jour. It’s going to be a long time before we take that on the circuit again.”
“Yes, that poor girl in New Haven.”
“Not so poor.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not public knowledge yet, but she seems to have been from a fancy English family. Ran off to pursue her singing career.”
“Imagine having to run away to be allowed to work.”
We laughed. If not for the gift of voices, I’d be cleaning or washing on the Lower East Side, and she’d be sewing in a shirtwaist factory in Poughkeepsie.
“Strange world we live in.”
“Surely is.” Marie studied me. “Weary of the road?”
“Not at all. We’ll just take a different opera next time.”
“You’ll still have to find a soprano.”
I sighed. “Yes, but maybe if she’s playing something other than Juliet . . .”
Marie looked down at the score and nodded. “There is something awful about happily dying for love every night.”
“W
hat? I die, too!”
“But you have some power. You duel, you choose Juliet and you decide to come back for her. All she gets to do is pick up that poison and dagger. It’s the only choice she has.”
“ ‘If all else fail, myself have power to die.’”
Marie nodded. “If you’re already a little desperate, for whatever reason, living in Juliet’s skin for a while might just push you over the edge.”
“Sad.” I took a breath. “I don’t know that I want to tell her cousin, the duke, that.”
Marie’s eyes gleamed. “A real Wicked Duke?”
“I’ve seen no evidence of wickedness so far.”
“Is there a Wicked Duchess?”
“There is no such thing as a duke with honorable intentions toward an opera singer.”
“Probably not.” She shrugged. “But mistressing is a time-honored tradition, and—”
“Marie!”
“Come now. I saw the way you looked at Joseph. You are lonely. You are thirty-f—”
“Stop.”
“Off stage, have you ever kissed a man?”
“I’ve never kissed a man on stage. I play boys, remember?”
“The question remains.”
I was blushing, exactly the way every good Irishwoman does at the mention of such matters. “Enough. You can meet him before the benefit if you like. He’s looking for insight into Juliet.”
She grinned. “I’d love to give him some insight into the poor girl. And perhaps Romeo, too.”
“Of course, you would.” I waved the score at her. “Come along. We have singing to do.”
“True. But let me tell you, as a married woman and a veteran of three childbeds, the body will not be denied, Ella.”
“Women choose to live unmarried every day, and they don’t explode or die, or whatever you may be suggesting.”
“Most of the women I know who’ve chosen not to marry don’t even acknowledge my children. You’re different.”
I sighed. “Can we practice now?”
“Of course. But it doesn’t hurt you to think about things while you still can, Ells.”
We ran our duet a few times; Marie felt the need for a little extra work because she’d been off the stage for a while. I couldn’t hear anything in her voice; but then, I would not have. The singer knows first and best. I was well aware from my last visit before the tour, and much-appreciated letters on the road, that she’d been vocalizing at least lightly since Joseph was three days old. Even though she was still in bed, she was working to return to form. But it would still have taken some time to recover her normal level of power and support.
A Fatal Finale Page 7
