Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  Then you’re a fool. Wealthy or not, you’re no Andrew Carnegie. You’ll soon lose everything if you don’t address such plebeian concerns. And what will happen to the opera company then?

  Sophia had accumulated a comfortable fortune, and she certainly had enough expensive gifts bestowed on her by Fritz as well as her many admirers—both male and female. But, if the theatre closed, the rest of the company, down to the lowliest cleaning girl, would certainly suffer.

  “In addition, I intend to attract more wealthy donors.”

  Do you intend to pull them out of a hat?

  She straightened in her chair. I need to try another approach. “Do you really think Chicago is ready for Die Walküre? It’s such a sophisticated opera.” She went for flattery. “Few people here have your discerning taste. Wagner is far above all but a few.”

  His pout smoothed out, and Warwick practically preened. “So right you are. Cultural opportunities, my dear Songbird. I’ll produce Wagner’s operas for the good of the populace. They must rise above their ignorance and learn to appreciate the literary and musical arts.

  Pompous ass! With effort, Sophia kept from scoffing aloud. Although to call him such is an insult to the hardworking, humble donkey.

  “Now—” Warwick leaned forward and rested his arms on the desk. “I’m also moving up the date of the opening night by a month.”

  Sophia jerked to her feet. “Impossible!”

  His expression took on the petulant look of a spoiled child. “Impossible?” he echoed. “Surely not!”

  “Warwick, I’ve only ever seen Die Walküre performed once when I was in Germany. I’m not familiar with the role of Brünnhilde, so I’ll be starting from scratch. And I doubt anyone in the company is any more familiar with the opera than I am. We’ll need far more rehearsal time.”

  He scowled. “Judith Deal informed me that she’ll be fully prepared by then. She’s your understudy. If she can do the job, you certainly should be able to. And that’s in addition to knowing her own role of Gerhilde.”

  “Judith Deal is German and already speaks the language. Deal is her stage name.” This time an edge crept into her tone. “And she might already be familiar with the role.”

  Warwick frowned but didn’t acknowledge the truth of her words.

  “Should you really fire our conductor James Ortolon?” she asked in a silky tone. “He actually spent time with Wagner and is familiar with Der Ring des Nibelungen.” James will fight for the proper rehearsal time, as well as ensure accurate and stirring performances.

  “The new conductor I bring on board will also know The Ring Cycle.”

  Sophia wandered to the window, looked down at a snarl of carriages, and pressed her lips together to keep her frustration hidden. Only after she’d wrestled her outrage into submission, did she return to her seat and send him a simpering smile. “Furthermore, Blythe Robbins and I have a commitment to perform in Montana in two weeks.” To jog Warwick’s memory and because her shy friend tended to fade into the woodwork, she added, “You also met Blythe at Arthur’s funeral. We were there together. She’s a wonderful harpist.”

  He waved a hand as if her words had no impact. “You’ll simply have to cancel.”

  How dare he force me to act unprofessionally! Sophia lost the pretense of smiling and strove to keep the worst of her rising ire from her tone. “I simply will not cancel,” she said crisply. “The company wasn’t supposed to start rehearsing for the season for another month. I gave my word, and I’ll stand by it.”

  “Blythe can go. Harpists are a dime a dozen.”

  “Harpists of Blythe’s caliber are rare, especially in Chicago,” Sophia said coldly, annoyed at the slight to her dearest friend. “However, if you just want a body to pluck harp strings, then, yes, you can find someone else to take her place. I’m sure Blythe will be glad of the opportunity to spend time with her fiancé in Montana. I wish I could stay more than a few days in the charming town of Sweetwater Springs.”

  “You call some frontier town in Montana charming?” Eyebrows high, Warwick straightened and shook his finger in her direction. “I can’t believe it. Nevertheless, you won’t be spending any time in the place. You’ll be here rehearsing.”

  Sophia let out a false trill of laughter, allowing the sound to make her point.

  “You won’t think the situation so funny if I give Judith the role of Brünnhilde.”

  That barb shot home. Her chest ached. She fisted her gloved hands.

  “Judith’s voice is as good as yours. Perhaps even better.”

  Another hit. Sophia hid her flinch. She didn’t want to perform Brünnhilde at this stage in her career. But she couldn’t allow her rival to take the role. “Judith certainly has a more mature voice,” she agreed in a sweet tone.

  As if sensing victory, Warwick again sat back, steepled his fingers, and smiled. “Of course, Judith doesn’t have your beauty and charm.”

  Does he expect an effusive compliment to change my mind?

  “Or my popularity,” she added, tilting her chin.

  “That, too,” he said drolly.

  Sophia elongated her spine and kept her chin raised. “I am going to Sweetwater Springs.” She enunciated each word. “I am performing at a wedding, visiting with my sister, and becoming acquainted with my baby niece.”

  “You’d put such trivial pursuits above preparing for Die Walküre?”

  “They are not trivial to me.”

  “Judith—”

  Sophia cut him off with a slashing gesture. “You expect an overflowing audience for a difficult opera—one that’s unknown to most in this city—with the premiere female lead being a singer who doesn’t have even half of my popularity nor my range?” You fool. The unsaid words lingered in the air between them.

  Warwick lost all pretense of affability. “Do you question my authority? My right to do as I see fit with my own theater?”

  I do. Sophia took a risk and tossed the dice. “Fine! Then let Judith have the role of Brünnhilde.”

  His startled expression eased some of the tightness in her chest. “You’d take the part of Gerhilde?”

  And be second to Judith? Never! “I wouldn’t take any part. After my visit to Sweetwater Springs, I have no reason to remain in Chicago. I’ve been asked to perform at La Scala,” she said, mentioning the venerated opera theater in Milan and praying Warwick wouldn’t call her bluff. Performing in Europe was a long-held dream, but not one she was ready for. There simply wasn’t enough time to set up such an undertaking for this season. “I turned them down, but I can change my mind. I’m sure they’d be glad to have me.”

  “Perhaps we can compromise,” Warwick said, as if biting into a sour lemon. “If you’d be willing to cut short your stay in Montana, two days, perhaps? I could see my way through to giving you Brünnhilde.”

  He calls that a compromise? “How about we stick to the original schedule and perform Le Nozze di Figaro? We can do Die Walküre next year when we have plenty of time to prepare.”

  His expression hardened. “I’m not changing my mind.”

  Sophia rose. “Neither am I.” She turned and, with a graceful kick, swept her skirts behind her before sailing toward the door and out of the office.

  * * *

  That night while waiting for her guests to arrive, Sophia strode up and down the hallway of her house, too agitated to keep still. Her heels clicked on the polished wood; her silken and lace skirt swished with every step. She took deep breaths of the rose-scented air rising from a crystal vase of white blooms set on a side table. She ignored the landscapes hanging on the wall that usually brought her pleasure when she stopped to survey them, which wasn’t often, for life kept her too busy to slow and admire paintings.

  Ever since her meeting with Warwick, Sophia had done nothing but ponder the dilemma of playing Brünnhilde. As much as she wanted to grasp the opportunity with both hands, her instincts shouted that her body and voice weren’t ready, and she certainly couldn’t prepare to
do her best in the short period of time Warwick had allotted.

  Thank goodness her dear friend and mentor, Fritz Von Braun, had returned to Chicago after being away in New York for the last month visiting his only son and was coming to dinner. She couldn’t wait to spill the story of the whole miserable situation with Warwick and hear Fritz’s advice. She relied heavily on him, and he’d never steered her wrong.

  Fritz was an opera aficionado and old friend of her father’s. When she was a young girl, he’d heard her sing and was so struck by her talent, he became instrumental in seeing she took formal music, voice, and language lessons—an education that went far beyond the usual curriculum for any well-bred young lady.

  He’d taken Sophia under his wing as soon as she grew old enough and fostered her career, introducing her to Arthur and insisting he audition her. He’d put his train car at her disposal whenever she needed to travel, draped her in jewels, and given her other gifts.

  Contrary to rumors surrounding them, the two were only close friends. Sophia allowed the gossip to persist, for the illusion kept away most other men who would seek to make the Songbird of Chicago their wife or mistress.

  But Fritz, of an age to be her grandfather, treated Sophia as the daughter he’d never had. He remained fiercely loyal to Adolphia, his beloved wife of fifty years, even though she’d become senile and no longer recognized him. Although he gave his wife every care and consideration possible, the lack of her active presence in his life caused him deep pain.

  When a knock sounded on the door, Sophia glanced through the window and then hurried to the entrance, not waiting for her butler to answer. She threw open the door and held out her hands. “My dear Fritz! Welcome back.”

  Fritz was a dapper man of medium height who sported a thick white mustache. Although obviously startled by her assuming the task of doorman, his blue eyes lit up, and he smiled with great warmth, took her hands, and gave them a gentle squeeze. “I’m so delighted to see you, Sophia.” But his pleased expression didn’t hide that his face looked almost gaunt and how frail he’d become. He released her to step inside.

  Sophia closed the door, striving to hide her shock at his changed appearance. With a nudge of fear and sadness in her heart, she realized Fritz was growing old. His vigor and zest for life had always made him seem far younger than his seventy-something years.

  He examined her face. “You grow more beautiful every time I see you.” He leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  Flattery, often in the form of effusive accolades, came her way so often, Sophia tended to let the words slide past. But the genuine caring in Fritz’s tone made her absorb his compliment. “I’ve missed you, my dear friend,” she said softly.

  “And I you.” He pulled a small box wrapped in gold paper and tied with a purple satin ribbon from the pocket of his coat and placed it into her hands. “Happy birthday. May this be the beginning of a splendid year for you.”

  “Thank you!” She thought of Warwick Canfield-Prendergast’s plans for the theatre company but didn’t let her smile falter. She kissed his cheek. “Cook has prepared your favorite meal.”

  “Wonderful. Although I’m not very hungry.”

  “Then eat to please me.” Sophia took his hat and coat and hung them on the hall tree. Linking her arm through his, she walked him down the hallway. “Papa and Emma should be here any minute.”

  “Good. I owe Chauncey a rematch of our last chess game. We’ll have to arrange a time. And I want to hear the latest on your sister’s nursing studies.”

  “Blythe stepped out for a bit to run a secret errand. But she’ll return soon. Would you like a drink before dinner?”

  He tilted his head as if thinking. “I haven’t had an appetite lately, but being with you makes me think I could manage a few sips of champagne in celebration of your birthday and later a little supper.”

  “Then a drink it is,” she said gaily, hiding her concern that he hadn’t been eating, and strolled down the hall to the parlor with her hand around his arm. She passed the butler and gave him a glance that said to have drinks brought to the parlor.

  Sophia hadn’t fashionably crammed her rooms with furniture and knickknacks, instead preferring an atmosphere of serenity and elegance. She’d used shades of silver and purples, from pale lilac to dark amethyst—because the hues showcased her well.

  She’d chosen the settee and chairs for their beauty and comfort and preferred real flowers in cut-glass vases rather than wax paper ones. She had plenty of knickknacks for her house—gifts from friends and admirers. When possible, Sophia sold the objects and gave the money to charity. The rest remained in a storeroom.

  Sometimes, before receiving visitors, she pulled out a specific item and displayed it in the parlor—the Ormolu clock, for example—a ghastly, ornate one given her by the Pattersons, wealthy theater patrons. When the couple came to dine, the butler would take the clock from storage and place it on the mantel in the parlor.

  Sophia settled Fritz onto the gray settee and tucked a pillow embroidered with irises behind him. “Comfortable?”

  “Don’t fuss.” He had a testy note in his voice, unusual for him. “I had enough of that from my son and his wife. I practically had to sneak away from New York because I was afraid they’d tie me to a chair and not let me return.”

  “Silly. They love you and want you to feel healthy. You’re looking a little…peaked, dearest.” Before, she could inquire further, Blythe drifted into the parlor.

  Her best friend wore one of her flowing pale gowns, this one in an silvery-gray color that matched her eyes. Her waist-length, white-blonde hair hung loose down her back.

  Blythe carried a bouquet of violets, which she handed to Sophia before leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “Happy birthday.”

  Smiling, Sophia took the flowers and sniffed their sweet scent. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”

  “I figured since you haven’t performed in a while, posies of these pretties might be scarce, and your vases sitting empty.”

  Sophia laughed, for her admirers tended to shower her with flowers after a performance, and vases of arrangements were usually placed around the house, as Blythe, who lived with her, knew very well. “You figured right.”

  She suppressed a pang, thinking of the coming months when her friend would leave her to marry a man in Sweetwater Springs, Montana, whom Blythe had met and become engaged to at Christmas.

  “Look in the middle,” Blythe prompted.

  Sophia gently parted the blooms, caught a whiff of violet, and saw a small purple glass bottle in the center. “My favorite perfume. I ran out a week ago.” She stood and hugged her friend.

  “I know. You told me, remember?” With a playful smile that brought animation to her pale face, Blythe moved past Sophia to greet Fritz with a smile and a kiss on his cheek.

  He patted the sofa next to him. “You’ll have to catch me up on everything. How’s that fiancé of yours? Have you set a wedding date?”

  As she sat, Blythe blushed. “We’ll choose a date after the opera season ends.”

  “Well, don’t wait too long. I already have my wedding gift picked out.”

  “Fritz, you haven’t!” Blythe exclaimed.

  He gave her a pleased smile. “Something practical—a thousand shares of my railroad stock. And something else, which I won’t tell you until we get closer to the ceremony.”

  Blythe’s eyes grew teary. She leaned to kiss him on the cheek again. “How generous you are. I thank you from the bottom of my heart!”

  “Well, I don’t have daughters or granddaughters, so you, Sophia, Emma, and Lily will just have to bear with my spoiling.”

  “Speaking on behalf of my two sisters….” Sophia kissed his other cheek. “We are so grateful to stand in as your granddaughters.”

  Never one to like attention lavished on him, Fritz made an impatient gesture toward Sophia. “My dear, what are you waiting for? Open your present.”

  Excited to see her gift, Sophia untied the bow
and slipped off the gold foil paper. Raising the lid, she saw a sapphire and diamond bracelet nestled in the cotton. “Oh, Fritz, this is beautiful!” She held up the piece for Blythe to admire.

  “Lovely!” her friend agreed. “Let me help you put it on.” She took the bracelet and clasped it around Sophia’s wrist.

  “You spoil me, indeed.” Sophia bent to kiss his cheek. “No grandfather could be more generous.”

  “Well,” he said. “Well, now.”

  Voices and footsteps sounded, and Sophia turned to greet her father and younger sister.

  Emma entered first. She had the same dark hair and violet eyes as her sisters, Sophia and Lily, although she was bigger-boned than either of them and moved with boisterous energy, which—in spite of the strictures from their former governess—she’d only barely learned to contain. Her sister had a gentle soul and from a young age had brought home every injured bird and animal she found and nursed the wounded creatures back to health.

  “Happy birthday, Sophia!” Emma rushed over to embrace her. “Now you’re seven years older than me.”

  “Little wretch.” Sophia hugged Emma back. “You watch out. Before you turn around, you’ll be twenty-five.”

  Emma wrinkled her nose. “Not for quite a while, and you’ll always be older.” She handed Sophia a small box wrapped in blue paper. “For my favorite sister.”

  “You’re only saying that because Lily’s not around,” Sophia teased, enjoying their repartee.

  “My favorite sister in Chicago,” Emma amended. “Lily’s my favorite in Sweetwater Springs.”

  Her father, Chauncey Maxwell entered, a flat box tucked under his arm. His air of sophistication belied his short stature. “Girls, are we to have this same discussion every year on Sophia’s birthday?” He affected a weary air, but the sparkle in his eyes—the same color he’d bequeathed to his daughters—gave him away.

  “Yes,” Emma answered pertly. “As we have on Lily’s birthday, too.” She pulled a face. “I guess we won’t be celebrating her birthday with her ever again.”

  “Of course we will.” Abruptly, Chauncey straightened. “Now that the baby has arrived, we’ll visit more often, and we’ll stay for so long that Lily and Tyler will throw us out.”